#original: tw fanfic

[invisible-storyteller]

Mercenary's wolf

Hey, everyone! I just wanted to let you guys know that I'm participating in @teenwolfrarepairevents July event with the following pairings: Day 1: Braeden/Laura Day 2: Scott/Lydia Day 3: Kali/Julia (Jennifer) Day 4: Camden/Laura Day 5: Jordan/Sheriff Day 6: Hayden/Tracy Day 7: Nolan/Brett Day 8: Coach Finstock/Greenberg (in the future) I'm posting the first one (Braeden/Laura - role reversal) here as well, below the cut. You can check out my series for the event on AO3. Happy reading! *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

"Come on. Try it."

Curls of dark hair frame the creature's face where canine teeth shine white and threateningly sharp in the moonlight, and Laura twirls the combat knife idly around her finger before taking it firmly into hand. The creature's eyes assess the weapon with mild curiosity.

"Nice. But mine are better." Claws pop out at the words, and they would serve well as a warning if not for their owner looking at the ravine behind her with poorly hidden despair. Laura eyes the bleeding wound in the werewolf's calf and estimates her survival to be 10 minutes 'til the poison would ultimately overpower the creature's advanced healing. Running would still be futile, even if the creature had any escape routes available.

"My client wants you alive," Laura stresses, but like any other time, the other woman just wouldn't listen.

"You mean he wants to kill me with his own hands," Braeden corrects. 

Laura can't help the way her eyes trail over the claw marks running across the woman's neck - an impressing reminder from an alpha that he has claim over Braeden, no matter how far she ventures from home.

"What Deucalion plans to do with you isn't my concern," Laura frankly states, "But he might keep you alive if you are willing to cooperate."

"That man is anything but merciful," Braeden reiterates the same old argument while throwing a glance at the ravine as if to guess the distance below. "None of his mercenaries has succeeded before. What makes you think you're special?"

"I found you," Laura points out, eyes gleaming, "And now you have two options. Take a leap and hope you don't fall to your death... or fight me."

Braeden pretends to mull her options over, but Laura knows her better than to hope for sensibility. 

"The second one sounds fun," Braeden finally says and Laura smiles at her predictability.

She pounces with a swift slash of her knife but Braeden ducks from the attack, poison still hindering the werewolf if the pained grunt she lets out when jumping over the mercenary is anything to go by. Laura swings back on instinct and manages to cut the werewolf's palm who growls with the new doze of poison in her veins. Using Braeden's distracted state, Laura tugs on her hair and kneels the werewolf into the stomach before Braeden gathers her bearings and trips her over, smashing the mercenary's head hard into the ground. Laura's vision is blurry when Braeden makes a run towards the cliff, and strangely enough, Laura hopes that she makes the jump.

Braeden looks majestic as she soars over the deep crack in the ground and lands on the other side with a complacent smirk tossed over her shoulder. She's limping as she disappears into the dense forest, probably not as delusional to think she's gotten away for good. Laura fights past her swimming vision as she fishes her phone out of her jacket and types out a quick message, strands of hair gripped tight between her fingers.

Got her DNA. Your location spell better be worth its price.

•♥•

The darkness is hindering but Laura wouldn't be a professional mercenary if she couldn't discern her target's form in a dim abandoned warehouse. Braeden's kneeling in a circle of mountain ash with three hunters looming over her, cackling like some cheaply animated villains, as they take turns shooting wolfsbane-laced arrows into the were's tortured body. Laura is strictly here for business, but even she can admit to herself that she'll have fun gutting them all.

She approaches the scene with light steps, quiet like a predator on a hunt, and creeps up behind one of the hunters with a knife grazing his throat and making the man huff in his struggles. His accomplices finally tear their gaze away from Braeden's hunched form and one of them immediately drops the crossbow to pull a gun on Laura. She's quick to slice the man's throat then and she uses the makeshift shield to dodge the bullets from the hunter before tossing the body towards the gun-bearing man. She manages to duck away from the third hunter and grab the crossbow, aiming it at the man shrugging off his friend's corpse and piercing an arrow through his skull without hesitation. Laura then wrestles with the last standing woman until a direct blow to the head knocks her out, and finally buries a bullet between her eyes with the man's gun. Just to make sure there are no witnesses.

With the hunters eliminated, Laura retrieves the jar of wolfsbane from their bag and deposits it among her own gear. She needed to replenish her stock anyway. Next, she crosses the circle and lays Braeden's wavering body on the ground, ignoring the quiet growls that the werewolf so ungratefully addresses her with. Laura pulls out each arrow and burns the wolfsbane from the contaminated flesh, the sight infuriating enough that the hunter doesn't even relish in Braeden trashing helplessly under her hold. When the last trace of wolfsbane has been cleared from the werewolf's system, Laura stands up with a sigh and breaks the mountain ash circle on her way out.

"Didn't know mercenaries were this caring."

Laura wonders how Braeden is even capable of talking right now as she grabs her own supplies, already wondering where she could hide the bodies, and guesses that the other woman is simply fueled by spite.

"As I've said, I need you alive," Laura repeats, looking over her shoulder to where Braeden is slowly getting up to her feet.

"You didn't need to kill them."

"I hate it when others play with my toy."

Laura expects Braeden to growl at the implication of her being in anyone's possession, but surprisingly, Braeden just looks calculating and perhaps a bit satisfied as she recuperates. "Thanks."

"You have an hour headstart," Laura tells her in response, and Braeden scoffs in something akin to amusement before exiting the building.

Meanwhile, Laura takes a look at the bodies and prepares herself to dig.

•♥•

"He hurt you." It's more of a statement than a question. 

Braeden drags her eyes over the scars stretching across Laura's face, and for the first time, Laura feels self-conscious. 

"If you're worried about my safety, maybe you should finally let me take you to him," Laura remarks, even if her words have long lost their bite, "He's getting impatient."

For some nebulous reason, she decides that Braeden can't know that Deucalion has threatened to hunt down her family - well, what is left of it, anyhow. There's a chance Braeden will give herself up - you gather that much about someone after chasing them for half a year - and even the thought of that makes Laura's lunch want to resurface.

"Why are you still doing this?"

Braeden's eyes are filled with more concern than any werewolf should ever have for a hunter sent to deliver their pelt. Laura hates everything about this situation, but mostly, she feels betrayed by how fast her heart starts to beat all of a sudden.

"Girl's gotta eat."

"Yeah, but you gotta live first to do that." Braeden jibes, and her look of utter fear is not as new as Laura wants to make herself believe. It's been there for a while, and never for the werewolf's own sake. 

She raises a gun on Braeden without any intention to pull the trigger, and tries to recall when it all changed. The way Braeden's face crumbles is heartbreaking but necessary. It has to be.

"I don't want to hurt you," Braeden says, and it sounds a lot like a plea. 

The werewolf's eyes flash blue for a second, but it's not a threat, not anymore. It's a visceral reaction to the scars marring the mercenary's flesh, and after such an impossible realization, Laura can no longer hold control over what comes out of her mouth next.

"But you want to mark me." Laura's accusation is loud, bouncing off the walls of the empty subway tunnel. "Want to sink your teeth into me, isn't that right?"

Braeden bares her canines on instinct, eyes squinting in irritation, but Laura catches the way her nose flairs. Sometimes it's so easy to read her.

"You're the one with an obsession."

Laura doesn't even attempt to deny that. 

"I'll tell you a secret, Braeden. I actually like wolves." She's forcing her heartbeat to stay steady now as her feet carry her forward. "But now the only thing I see is prey."

There's a moment of silence that stretches on dangerously. In the end, Braeden's mouth twitches at the sides and Laura knows she's busted. 

"I'm not the one always running for my life."

"You run from me."

"I run for you," Braeden clarifies, daring to step forward and let the barrel of the gun bump against her chest, "I run so that I won't hurt you. And so that you get further away from him."

Laura feels weirdly trapped, and yet, she recognizes an opportunity when it's presented to her, even when wrapped in the shape of an impossibility offered blatantly and with undeserved kindness. Deep down, Laura knows that the woman offering salvation is one who would try to shelter her from the world as well as drench her claws in the blood of whoever sets out to hurt them. When Braeden wraps her hands around Laura's wrist, it feels like a finality.

"You've got enough money to ditch him," Braeden reasons, eyes mad with hope. Laura isn't sure if she should trust someone like that, but she's also aware that it's too late now. "He can't find you."

"He will send someone after me." 

It's a truth they both know from experience, but unlike Braeden, Laura can't lull herself into false security. That's why when Braeden's lips curl into a deadly smile, Laura doesn't understand how her heart can flutter so violently against all logic.

"I think some of his enemies would take great pleasure in hunting him down. Alongside us."

"Us?" And it's obvious wishfulness in her voice, but Laura has gone so long without a future to hang onto and there's something about Braeden that makes her feel like they can face anything together. 

All this time, and it's been Braeden poisoning Laura, not the other way around.

The werewolf guides Laura's hand lower until the gun is at her side with Braeden's fingers still warm on her wrist and eyebrows lifting in challenge. "Two women with wolfsbane-laced arrows who can kick ass? I say we have a shot against him." Braeden pauses for a second then, looks to the side and presses her touch deeper into Laura's skin. "I'll protect you." 

Braeden is promising much more than those few words would suggest, Laura knows that from the way the werewolf seeks out her pulse point - a primal urge for affirmation that her pack is safe. 

They are standing face to face in an abandoned subway tunnel and the glint in Braeden's eyes when she raises her questioning gaze at the mercenary is the most thrill Laura has felt in a while.

"What do you say?" Braeden leers around the tease of her fangs, "Wanna make a deal, mercenary?"

The grin Laura sends back is nothing short of wolfish.

[moondirti]

ANGEL OF SMALL DEATH [ john price x f! reader ]

: he sees you when his vices take hold. little love, invented. chimeric, he assumed - until you're not.

mdni. noncon; addiction (nicotine and alcohol); SSRIs; intoxication; breeding kink; daddy kink; hallucinations; kidnapping; drugging; objectification; slut-shaming; sexual harassment; violence; bondage; vomiting; guns; suicide, murder, pregnancy, spanking and branding mentions. 7k.

a/n: have yall seen ruby sparks? yeah imagine that but worse

John's always had his fixes.

He remembers the hysterics. Five and wet behind the ears, lungs scoured raw of anguish when his mum hadn't let him sup the vanilla extract. It's not what you'd expect, hun. But the child-sized idée fixe, destructive in its naivety, turned its head at the implication. He stuck his nose to the bottle's cap, got a whiff of it unfiltered, and revolted; how could it taste like anything but the ambrosia it promised?

Or, who was she to deny he try?

(His resistance to authority can be spoored there. A miasmic trail back to youth, stinking something foul. It had been a Sisyphean effort, pyrrhic, when he enlisted. Burnishing odour only to find, without it, there was nothing left for them to make use of.)

So – red-faced, tousled pyjamas at 2200, balanced atop a chair as his parents snored soundly on the couch – he snuck a teaspoon for himself.

It was foul, of course. A calcine irritation that clawed on its way down his throat, baring raw tissue in its wake. He hid his coughs behind his sleeves, vision cloudy with tears as he put everything back where it belonged – not disappointed so much as he was committed, he thinks. Because the very next night, he came back to try it again.

And again, and again.

Like clockwork, he tipped the small vial up onto his tongue and hoped it would pass into something different. Obsessive. Ruinous monomania. His dreams sprung into caliginous visions that detailed nothing but the phantom touch of it to his tongue; this taste, syrupy sweet like nothing he would find in comfits and puddings and pies.

(In hindsight, all it did was teach him how to embrace the burn.)

It only stopped when his mum woke to him voiding his guts in an old popcorn bowl. Poison control, buoyant levity clipped over the rotary phone, told her that it happens all the time. Kids go looking for a midnight snack and think vanilla will hit the spot. Our suggestion is to settle for alternatives until he's old enough to know better. Hydrate in the meanwhile.

– know better.

It's hard to say he does.

His wants still have wants, have asinine wants, that which keep him so late into the night that it's dawn before he falls comatose. Sunk into a leather wingback, the space of his parlour more smoke than it is air, contemplating keeping a warm body in these hinterlands. Helplessly soft, pretty. Fixated on that faceless something, burrowed beneath his sweet tooth again.

But on the wrong side of forty, he's honed prudence like a well-oiled firearm. Custom so things run smoothly, though not one he finds necessary if it weren't for convention. He knows his job would cut in on the upkeep, month long absences like a disease to whoever he manages to snare. It'll kill them, slowly, holed up in this home alone.

(When his parents did away with the extract, he tore the curtains and scribbled on their walls. A boy's green version of withdrawal, deprived of his favourite vice. He's never considered sobriety for that very reason – he's bad even with a maduro in hand.

And the thing about people, they're never so easy to replenish.)

Age besets everything. Counters them, grown as he is. Pragmatic.

Still. To say he knows better is... faulty, flawed. Not when he fists his cock to those fantasies and stirs on all the ways he can bring them to light. Early retirement (a prompt no; he's just as dependant on the field), or multiple little loves to keep each other company, his house turned an Arcadia of nymphs (though he tires to think of wrangling more than one, and the idea diffuses like sugar steeped in tea.)

It's on his fourth- fifth iteration that John starts to see it for what it really is. That this – a darling wife to curl between his legs – is like the imagined taste of vanilla extract. Too good to ever be made true. At least for a man of his ilk, whose bloody hands slip around nirvana. Unearned. Chained to purgatory so long as he weighs sins against the greater good. He wasn't meant for the finer things in life.

So he sticks to what he has. Old familiars. Noxious inhibitors, palmed for upwards of ten pounds, crafted for old dodgers like himself. Tobacco, dry whiskey. Nicotine to spout fire to his hindbrain. Cheap, easy accesses that sate the itch behind his eyes, so long as he lights another.

Ouroboros. It feeds itself and lasts.

(Until you come off the tail end that is, and sever the loop with your own, clever little hands.)

You pose a different kind of problem.

It starts after Serbia. Hounding across the Carpathian mountains for the better part of a winter has detrimental effects, see. And though he eventually locates the bunker Laswell's informants alerted them to, he comes out of it changed – head fixed the wrong way around, skin flaking over off a mulish swell of anger. Going back home is an ordeal when his body acclimatised to find warmth in the frost, talking to Stygian shadows like comrades. Necessitated madness revoked.

Because all of a sudden, everything is too comfortable. Vibrant. Nothing hurts enough to match the stress still ricocheting within him, and the imbalance threatens to capsize. The doctors prescribe SSRIs, tell him to keep it separate, Captain, when their eyes skim that part of his file that notes him as a habitual drinker – so he switches from bourbon to Canadian whiskey, like the ABV will make a difference.

(That inveterate defiance, rearing its ugly head once more.)

And really, he doesn't get what all the fuss is about.

The static in his head flatlines, white noise taking its slot. It's the greatest peace he's found since his bunkmate at boarding school stuck a joint between his teeth and told him to suck. Like fog wearing over a hill, his thoughts grow muddied, loose and abandoned once he can't tell which way is up or where the sky ends.

And the wants, the very same he's long since buried, come back with a vengeance. Unchanged, for the most part (he doubts they were ever dead in the first place) yet manifested differently, like they're privy to the scepticism that killed them last.

(Reveries no longer disembodied, shuddering old film onto the backs of his eyes, but projected into the dark corners of his house, instead.)

He hears your laugh, first. It is early March and easter endorsements already shade the telly in garish joie de vivre, corporations fighting for a foot in your spring celebrations! Buy an egg-dying kit and get one free, hurry before it's too late! John doesn't remember turning it on, can hardly feel the remote in his hands, but that acedia ebbs once the sound of it meets his ears. The sound of you–

Jingle-bell mischievous, he knows it has no place amidst the foolish ditties of spring. He turns the T.V. off, sitting upright in his chair, ears piqued in every direction as he waits for it again.

From the kitchen: another breathless titter, tapped from a chest too delicate to be mistaken for the howling winds outside. When he rises to inspect the source, he swipes the spare gun he uses to foot a broken table, trigger finger dangling bonelessly by the grip. Good to have it there, just in case, though he's confident he won't need to resort to such measures to neutralise you – not if you equal the Zephyr-like quality of your voice.

(Paranoia, it seems, is another effect of downing his meds with Crown Royal. Had he been less inebriated, he would have remembered that his doors are double bolted, and that there's no one out for miles.)

But what he expects to find, luminous between the birch cupboard rows, is not there. His kitchen is as empty as it's always been.

So, they might have warned him about it. He might have avoided this whole thing had he listened. But things snowball when he grasps what's happening. Calamitous uptake; it invades his dreams again, and his dreams invade reality.

(If he cannot have what he wants within the provident constrictions of life, then what's the harm in indulging himself, if only a little.)

Soon enough, he sees glimpses of you wherever he looks.

Sylphic figure come to haunt him. Light bounces through you, your flesh gossamer-like. Diaphanous. He thinks you cannot be crafted that way if not to accent the dark, wet rims of your eyes. The lightning-branched veins etched to all four extremities. Nipples like petals, touched alluringly to your breasts. He thinks you cannot be fictitious – he's never been an inventive man, and the impish flick of your lips reads as familiar, somehow. Dancing on the tip of his tongue, or a song he's heard once and never again. Like he's taken to it before–

His memory swishes like watered nectar in this state. It's impossible to place.

Still–

So long as you continue to appear as fine mist does, chasing the throttles of his high, John's a happy man. He need not tell you anything; you already know his name, what it is he likes. You sway to imagined tunes (later, he couples it to the erratic drumming of his heart) and jump nimbly around his legs, winding and tangling and falling right through them when he wishes to see you stumble.

You don't talk much, either. He has yet to whet the finer points of your being, work out what makes you tick or how you'd enunciate your words. It's an eggshell process. Fragile. Some nights, he'll imagine you with a cadence that doesn't quite fit, and you'll stutter like a faulty motor before shattering from view. To avoid disillusionment, he has to be careful. Extend a platter of properties for you to choose from, picky thing, and watch as you notch them on your tongue, testing.

You'll get this look on your face as you do. Contemplative, lips pursed for a moment before you shrug and slide down to decorate his feet, arms stretched across his ottoman like willow branches over a creek. It would put him off if it were anyone else, but he's eternally endeared to you.

The first time you speak, it's to call him out on that.

'Naturally.' You giggle, twirling your phantom fingers in the tufts of his leg hair. 'You have to like something in order for me to present it. Or is that not how it works?'

He doesn't think so.

"You tell me, little one. If that were the case, why disappear when I try something you aren't keen on, hm?" His words are slurred, strung together hastily, like his tongue hasn't the strength to articulate each in full. You understand him anyway, of course, scrunching your nose.

'I don't know.'

"Think, then."

You shuffle straighter on your knees.

'Maybe I want to be just right for you, daddy. Not all your ideas are great.'

John jerks his leg admonishingly, the joint of it passing right through you. It causes you to blink out of existence for a second, and his throat twists uncomfortably around the new darkness. Loneliness hurts more, harrows deeper, now that he's unused to it.

But you come back, straddling his hips this time. You always do

(So long as he keeps sipping, the glass in his hand sweating cool condensation into his skin. His cigar slowly smoulders away in a nearby ashtray, waiting for the uptake.)

"Mm, thought I lost ya." And if you were there – really there, he thinks – he'd wrap your hair in a fat fist and angle your head roughly down onto his. His arms lay flat to his sides, however. Restless.

'No.' You don't exhibit the same discretion. You smooth down his bare chest, ironing his scars until he feels brand new again. Whole as a kid. 'Haven't you heard? I have a tongue now, and all I wanna do is talk.'

"Is that right?" He hums, half-lidded eyes watch the space between your knees widen. Like Artemis in her waters, cursing Actaeon to the jowls of his dogs – you love teasing him when you know he cannot do anything about it, destined to be torn apart by his inborn desire.

'Well, what else is there?'

And if not for that one thing, John would be content to live like this forever.

(Two, if you count his prescription quickly running out.)

Routine lasts about a fortnight, if his taking of time is to be trusted.

Staged courting, you call it. A production of how typical romances go. When the sky bruises, opening up like the ripe flesh of a plum, he'll knock back two tablets using the last dregs of his afternoon whiskey and wait for you to come home to him. You look stunning when you arrive; naked, your body soft and creased and effulgent. And while it depends on how his day's been, more often than not, you'll imitate rubbing his feet as he tells you about everything – paperwork and the taskforce and state secrets (does confidentiality count towards figments of his high?) – before he's settled enough to cut to the chase.

Yet he runs out of patience for it as time hauls on. Avidity amasses, tumorigenic need cramping his chest. One day, he stops you from kneeling at all. 

"No need for that, sweet thing." He orders with a stiff grunt. There's no justification as to why, though it's clear you sense it already. The fraying strings of his sanity, that which you bat at like a playful kitten, have started to unravel dangerously close to what is holding it all together. "Just do what you do best, hm?"

(The best you can do–)

'Yes, daddy.'

Ever-dutiful, despite the monotony. There are no arguments with you, no taming and fights unless he's in a particularly aggressive mood. The only indication of your disappointment (not yours so much as it is his in himself) is the wet flutter of your lashes, the poking harlequin pout.

Both disappear from view when you turn your back to him and bend at the hip, small hands stretching to dig into your behind. His cock is out in no time – was practically tearing at his pant's seams, really – thrumming painfully hard, leaking onto his stomach when you pull apart either cheek like dough.

Your pussy spreads, glimmering under a matting of wiry hair. Arousal (feigned, imagined, projected–) webs your thighs together, swollen clit budding at the end of your mons. Apple of Eden; his jerks are awkward, uncoordinated, in comparison. Human. There's a twinge in his wrist from working himself almost daily.

His teeth taste like tobacco and spice, sleep clinging to the roof of his mouth. Would you eclipse it with your sweet-sour tang? He pictures taking you; stuffing his nose right below the tight rim of your ass so his tongue can lave over your slit. Working you open with his tongue. You'd soak the hair around his lips, and he'd press harder in response.

John spoils you rotten in his dreams. You know it, too, toes wiggling where you stand a few feet away. How cruel that he shouldn't get the chance to, then – that he has to consume his fixes to stop them from taunting him, and you're God's way of saying that he can't always get what he wants.

Carrot on a fucking stick. He's made an arse of. And worse yet–

He can't cum, no matter how enticingly you stand there. His palms are too calloused, nerves grown bored of their rough drag. Every jerk is a barely-there sensation. Surface level. Shallow. Like a rock skipping across a lake that never manages to sink.

(It never did amount to what you do to him in his head. But it seems as though his body has finally caught on to what the rest of him already knew.

That this – this tragic, autogenous slaking of carnal desire – can not continue on forever.)

He groans, paralysis needling painfully up his neck. It echoes like anger and holds none of the punch.

Breaking position, you twist to assess the newborn tension.

'Shhhh,' You coo. There's no judgement in your glassy eyes, none that can perceive (or wants to see). Rather, it's all pure love, a whisper of distress, and devotion. His little love, so perfect besides this one thing. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry.'

"Not your fault." Hoarse. Broken.

(Who has he become?)

'I'd help you if I could. Let you take whatever you wanted from me, you wouldn't even have to ask.'

He'd been the one to initiate it, but the prospect of his orgasm is long abandoned when you perch on the armrest, laying your head near his. He has nowhere else to put his hands, so he keeps them cupped between his thighs – and if he suspends utilitarianism for long enough, can almost believe that they're yours, instead.

"That's nice, little one."

He imagines your warmth, the soft comfort of your bosom, as sleep encroaches on his periphery. You'd cup the tired weight of his head and lay it on your lap, there to stay until he awakes to birdsong. There in the morning light.

Thus the minutes tick by in quiet melancholy. He's halfway layered in the pelts of hypnagogia before you speak again.

'You should visit town tomorrow. Mail something home for Mother's Day maybe, and stop by the grocer's for eggs. You're all out.'

He hasn't seen greater society for almost a month.

A wicked hangover splits his skull, worming its claws into the soft matter of his brain. John had initially set out to do as you bid him – find a nice present for his mum and stock up for the next few weeks' hibernation – but the throngs of people crowding home goods and the jewellers make his condition worse, so he resolves to call her on the day and heads straight to the market instead.

Eggs, you said. He needs a lot more than that. Water and red meat and perhaps something that leaks grease when fried. Cucumbers, yoghourt, granola, too. Milk or juice, never both because he can't commit to finishing them before their best-by date. Fruit. Cookies.

The list grows exponentially as he surveys the colourful aisles, under eyes tender to the touch. If it weren't for the cart carrying most of his weight, he would have toppled over already, his chest dipped over the handle, wheels barreling forward. The store's empty enough that he doesn't worry about clipping someone's ankles. For now, it's just him.

Always that. Just him, and–

"Ah!"

Fuck.

"Are you alright?" He defaults, lurching to pluck the rolling oranges off the floor. It necessitates far more exertion than he can handle at the moment. The woman he ran into catches what bowls from his reach.

"Oh, yes! So sorry, that one's on me." She laughs, nervous. The nature of it – gentle, shaky like the beat of a butterfly's wing – rouses a near Pavlovian response in him, pleasantries crystallising between his teeth, hard as pearls. He coasts a suspicious look up, but her head stays bowed as she piles everything into her basket, arched baseball cap obscuring her features. "I insist on carrying everything, see, then it gets too much for me and the baskets are the nearest thing, and you know how heavy those can get if you do some serious shopping, don't you?. Honestly, I never learn. How silly."

The wonder shatters. He cringes, eyelids pruning shut to gather his sore thoughts in the sudden clammer. Talks too much, too loud. He finds it hard to tolerate anything but singsong whispers these days.

(On him, he knows.)

Unceremonious, they both stand. John extends the final orange, appraising the products she tucks it between rather than look back up at her. Sugar, butter, eggs, flour. And a hefty heap of citrus, of course. Odd.

She seems to think the same, breaking the awkward lull first.

"Big family?" The question is clearly well-intentioned – posed to the stacked contents of his cart. No well-adjusted man would hoard as many perishables for himself, not with the grocer's as accessible as it is. But John is not well-adjusted in any sense of the word, especially in the past few months. All her prying does, then, is inflame the irritation dusting his throat, kneading salt into the wound.

How incredibly unfortunate timing.

"Gingivitis?" He clips back. His hangover makes regret a hard thing to reach, though given she doesn't take offence to his snipe.

"Ouch, okay." She laughs, more lighthearted than before. It reminds him of you (you, is anything its own thing anymore?) and John feels a fire light his heels. Agitation to get back home. "No, I'm making orange shortbread for the old folks at the nursing home. Needed to replenish a few things. I haven't baked in a while."

"How nice."

"'Tis the season! Erm– I mean. Y'know, with Mother's Day."

(Later, when he's staring at his fingers, sozzled like a cat on cream, he replays this conversation over in his head like he'll be able to change its outcome. Had he been alert, he'd have picked up on it by now. Christmas platitudes in spring – who else did he know with such transgressive peculiarities?

Captain Price wouldn't have missed it. Unfortunately for him, he left that intensity between powdered ice and silver firs.)

"Anyway." She coughs. He didn't realise he was expected to respond, stare lingering on the exit some distance away, keen to see this end. In his periphery, her cap tips down, supply list clutched in fidgety hands as she reads down the line of ingredients. He forces his attention back to the moment, training his eyes on the curve of her skull. "Just one thing left. Um, should be down hereeeee–"

Her head tilts up again, searching for the aisle markers overhead.

And it's–

Painful. Like the rip release of every organ seizes simultaneously, domino discharge down his spine. Ribs flush suddenly into the flaring muscle of his heart, which thrashes wildly against the corral, desperate to see itself out. To reach across this empty space and leech on to the delicate features that come into view. His brain – startled out of its judiciousness – blares I told you so's to the hot rush of blood behind his ears. Marrow melts to oil his joints, unmooring their structural integrity, and his breakfast threatens to disgorge and make for a foul first impression.

(John always thought revelations came kindly, that they blossomed in the neglected forks of life. Like a summer boscage, or the gentle, prying hands of a monarch escaping its cocoon. How can divulgence be anything but soft, and refined? How would the world grapple with them if otherwise?

He sees it now for what it is.

The world would have no choice.)

"Vanilla extract." You shake your list, smiling at him – a vivid, honest smile – before you brush right out of view.

He tells himself this doesn't change things. No matter how you like to argue the opposite.

'I don't see why not, daddy. Don't you want me, too?'

More than he'd like anything else in the world. But it's back again, that reaper of dreams poison control once foretold. Know better. He does, at least to the extent that bringing you here – tying you to his bed posts like he so desperately wants to do – is not the best idea. His age, his job, his incessant fucking wants, all pave their own desire paths; some more practical than others but less tempting as a result.

He knows how loneliness kills. At least he's built for it, but you?

"Work complicates things, little one."

John finds it all unfurling before him, the coffin housing his fears unhinged.

(You, dead by your own hands or worse, made vulnerable to the brutes he works against. Not a possibility when you're linked to him like this, hallucinatory, unreal, but you – the you he saw earlier today – aren't any of those things.)

'You don't really believe that, do you?'

You're never so argumentative. He sucks his teeth, waving a hand through your hips. And it must snub you so, for you disappear like smoke beneath a cloudburst of rain.

No matter. He doesn't need the temptation finding him.

(That is, until an answer finds him first.)

He phones home for Mother's Day, and she asks for updates for any lucky miss he would call his.

In the borders of his vision, you're hunched over the persian rug that was a gift from an associate for a job well done. Your feet cross over each other, fingers working idly at pretending to braid the fringed edge. The sight gets the better of him, adorable, and he briefly considers switching his answer from the usual – wish you'd stop fretting, it's not doing your health any favours – until sense catches on. He wouldn't know how to deal with the questions.

"No."

"What a shame. I know you're busy with that job and all, John," Because his mother never addresses the big risk to her son's life by name. "but you really should work on making me some grandbabies, before I pass on to the earth."

"Please, mum. Don't start with that nonsense–"

"No! It's any day now, you know it as well as I do." She tuts. He remembers her hands – tracing cool patterns onto his scalp that night, back when he was five and only concerned with the best taste his mouth could fathom. He remembers, and thinks of the wrinkled stretch of them now. "Take this as my last word of wisdom! Family will be the one thing you have when those milking tosser's decide to do away with you. Family, John!"

He chokes back a sigh.

"Yeah. So you've said."

Family. So bloody simple, isn't it?

Iron-wrought key, right under his nose this whole time.

His last two pills frown at him from behind their orange confines, two-toned and unassuming. He could get more if he so pleased, but the hope is that they won't be necessary after tonight.

Carried by the bourbon that blazes down his gullet, they go down smoothly. Soon enough, you appear, summoned, as he laces his boots.

"Does it hurt you, sweet thing?" He finally asks, punching an arm through his windbreaker's sleeve. April showers carry bracingly after dusk, weatherproof attire a functional choice. 

That is to say, the towel in his pocket isn’t for him. 

You gain that elvish look to your face, of the same variety he fell in love with when you first appeared to him. He often forgets how otherworldly you can be; radiant, inhuman vision. Your mirror isn't so... remarkable. Frizzy hair, fleshly, bleeding behind round cheeks. Perhaps that's the appeal.

'F'course not. It is me, after all.'

"Is it?" The front door clicks behind him, new-washed breeze pushing it into place. It feels final, like casting his decision in stone.

'Hmm,' You pretend to think for a long, long while, prancing a solid two paces behind no matter what speed he sets. A new moon blights the fields around his home, sparse raindrops reflecting only your glowing figure. It lights the way until he reaches the skirts of town, when street lamps bleed gold down onto him. Only then do you speak again. 'I should think so, yes. Take a left here.'

John does as you say.

'Though she won't be as receptive to it all. Right.'

He turns right.

'You’ll have to decide how to deal with that.'

"I'd appreciate a few pointers."

'What do you think I'm doing, daddy?' You murmur, materialising before him as he comes up on an avenue known for its nightlife. 'Take a right here and keep going.'

"And you?" He asks, though he already knows the answer.

'I'll be there.' 

You are. Though you’re not alone. 

Two cretins crowd you into a brick wall, lanky arms anchored by your head to form a flimsy aviary. John hears their badgering a block away; crowing voices, placatory promises they wouldn’t be able to uphold even if they knocked back a viagra each. The wind carries it, works their whispers into fine dust. Powder. Negligible. He’s seen this dance before – this dreadful caper, a little bit of force behind what is otherwise an insipid show – but he’s usually above such drama. The men he keeps know not to ask for what they want. Not when it hazards a bird flapping out of reach. 

You’ve got to clip their wings, first.

Though you look like you’d be indebted to any sort of hero. The hem of your dress rides up your thigh, snapping away from restive hands. Shortening what is already… He resolves to admonish you about it later, traipsing closer to the scene. Given your ornament, he can’t blame these men beyond covetous reason, but he won’t topple it onto you either. 

Everything flays out before him. Of the bunch, you demand the slyest hand.

“C’mon, love. It isn’t that far of a walk.”

“Yeah. You’re pissed out of yer mind a’ready. Can’t go home now, huh?” 

“Would be so cute between us both.” 

“The best. Look at those wide eyes.” 

“Busy checkin’ out the arse on her, but I’ll get to her eyes in a minute.” 

Your face crumbles in on itself. He’s closer now. Can make out the mascara painting black tracks down your cheeks, lips smeared by the rain – or, the alternative, pecking vultures having claimed them already. Either way, a green-eyed serpent seethes in the curls of his gut, blood imbued venom coursing. He feels it wind, poising for attack, strength compressed into a tight ball of anger. 

Then, when one of them – ginger, juvenile – snakes a hand between your legs, it strikes. 

He rips his gun from the inner lining of his coat. The other kid is shorter, more on edge, so John doesn’t worry about the force it’d take to daunt him. When the cold press of his muzzle fixes to his companion’s temple, he dashes away with a pathetic screech, tripping over the loose ends of his shoelaces. Par for the course. Weasel.

The ginger isn’t so lucky. 

“You get off on scaring defenceless girls, lad?” He barks into his ear, one hand gripping both floundering wrists. The boy cringes, fear rattling his throat. Any response he tries to shape turns out a nasally wheeze. 

“P-Please-”

“Shut your fucking trap. You’d have a better shot at mercy carving your little cock off.” 

“I w-wo– we were just-t having fun. No harm… harm done, right?” The pleas recourse to you. In his periphery, John registers your frown. Half-hearted. Scared still – of both the unfamiliar, violent men. He peels the commotion two steps back to show he means no harm. 

(To his narrow definitions, of course. His plans for you constitute harm in anyone else’s book. He’s sure that, if you were wise to them, you’d slip in the other direction.)

“She doesn’t seem to think so.”

“No! No, p-please, p–” He silences the boy with a pistol-whip, blunt end of the gun breaking skin off his jaw. The message couldn’t have been clearer – twice now, he’s demanded silence – but no one seems to listen. His cries peak, out-of-tune in the pitter-patter shower. Tortured, like a mangled cat.

“Here’s what you’re going to do, yeah?” The air flutters around you. He’s trained to tread carefully, like you’ll disappear at any moment. Better make this quick, then. “You’re going to go home, lock your windows, and try to sleep with an eye open tonight. The young lady’s welfare matters more than your fate, but I don’t forget. There will be a time where I come to break every finger off your hand. Enjoy them in the meanwhile.”

Perfunctory, he shoves him to the muddy floor. Blood joins the streams sluicing to the sewers, inky swirls of gore a welcome sight. He hasn’t felt this alive since–

Well, since Serbia.

And the boy must see the predatory gleam in his eyes. The dead, inbred callousness. Shark out of the water. Knows what’s good for him as the fin breaks the surface, rows of teeth just underneath, because he runs off before they can snap around his clumsy legs. 

(You, on the other hand, don’t have that instinct. Instead, you blubber, seal on a floating icecap. 

And dive headfirst into his jowls.)

“T-Thank you, I can’t thank you enough. I- My friends left me and I didn’t have a ride home and no one was picking up my calls so I thought it would be safe to ask them, but I couldn’t have predicted how nasty they’d be. Really, they seemed like nice guys–” 

John censures you with a stare. 

“You should know better than to be out at this time.” 

He’s gotten good at imagining your responses. He needn’t hear what you have to say next. Before you can even open your mouth, the chloroform-doused towel in his pocket is out and pasted to your pretty face. 

There’s a brief pause where he expects you to fall through to the floor. But your body slumps, ragdoll boneless, right into his arms.

That’s what brings him here. 

Here: cotton rope hitching your elbows together behind your back, a column of square-knots parallel to both arms. It was what he managed while you were unconscious. Could have managed more – so much more, tick off the beginnings on a cosmic index of all the things he wants to fucking do with you – if it weren’t for patchy effort. He went a little rabid, see. Clipped off the leash, chain to the doghouse broken. Saw the time better spent fondling your supple curves, your body lax beneath his. 

Weakened or willing, it doesn’t matter so much as you’re corporeal. That he can.

(A book he bought as a much younger man details seven different ways to harness a chest. If he had a grip, he would have seen to it – your breasts purpling, ensnared in a lattice of his own construction. It’s this new, foul fascination. How many ways can a body bend before it breaks? He’s never been mindful of the line before, on the field, but he’s got one to do with as he pleases, now.) 

Little one. New toy, fix. His wife.

You process it all in your own time, sleepy eyes peeling open to find that you’re no longer in some dingy alleyway. Though your hair has yet to dry, he’s made good work of paring the damp dress off your form, the steady warmth of a fireplace making for a gentle come-to. John takes it as encouragement when a tired yawn splits your mouth, lips quirking up. Smiling. 

“Look at you.” He hums, thumb working quicker over your clit. With legs notched apart, your cunt’s been made vulnerable, bared to every ministration he couldn’t wait to inflict until after you woke. Thus you’re already weeping a steady stream of slick, folds lacquered in arousal. Leaking down the line of your ass, too. Desperate thing. He scrutinises the sloppy mess of it, doughy and swollen and wet, shoulders flexing over the possessive swell in his throat.

It’s comical, the turnaround. Reality overruns your face, peaky infestation from his carcass to yours. Your eyes well with teary distress as you take him in. What a monster he must make; frothy longing turned savagery, held too long under the blighted mass of his tongue. Festered. Ugly. He sees it himself in the contrast of his skin and yours. Where you’re satin, all incandescent sweat-slicked stretch, he’s 60 grit sandpaper. Sun-hardened leather and crooked scars.

“Hnmphh!” 

But he can ignore that. Doesn’t have to concern himself with rejection, not when the bit gag between your teeth renders you mute. Simple knot sandwiched by your molars. Subtle. He doesn’t want it to hurt today – not any more than necessary, at least – but conversation has gotten old. There’s a reason he brought you home. Why thick fingers work your hole, breaking it to house something bigger. He isn’t interested in soft-soaping anymore.

(The two of you have had your honeymoon already.)

No. Purpose, he thinks. His mum laid it all out for him. A family to bear you company during those long weeks he isn’t home. Family, linchpin to making this all work. To crowd this house with not just one, or two, but multiple sweet things that’ll extinguish the lonely flame at its hearth. He celebrates it already – boisterous corners, crowded kitchens, the cable he pays for finally being put to use. 

And you–

“Promise I’ll suck that pretty pussy like I promised, little one. Just– fuck- daddy just has to do something first, yeah? You gonna be good for me?” John huffs, shucking his trousers to fish himself out of his pants. 

Your muffled protests launch into something else entirely, feral defiance compelling your limbs like electric shock. It’s fusillade, violent devastation. Your legs flail, unhinged, compensating for the lost mobility in your arms. He manages to slip his fingers out of your clutch and tuck a hand under either knee, but not before your heel connects to his jaw. As is true on the field, adrenaline primes a strong kick. Metallic warmth swathes the inside of his cheek, strength waning for a second.

And through it all, you have the audacity to cry. 

When he regains his bearings, anger has supplanted care. He hoists your thighs up onto your chest, calves upright in the air, and pushes a knee forcefully into the space exposed. It flattens your cunt with the pressure, clit crushing in on itself. Agony bulges fine lines at your temples, veins bloating as a miserable scream tears from your throat.  

“I’ll cane your ass raw if you keep up with this. Strike your hole until all you’ll feel for weeks is your punishment. That what you want, mm? Want the memory of our child’s conception to be filled with pain?” 

His nose fits to yours, beard tickling the canyon of your upper lip. It's intense, the proximity. Heat flush between you, sustained fire you can’t pull away from. John watches the hesitancy flit over your eyes, the reluctance of a burn, breaths erratic and shallow. You didn’t breathe, before. Didn’t need to. But he finds that he likes the new rhythm of it. Like watching the life drain from a quarry, game bleeding out into Serbian snow. He never thought he’d miss hunting for survival – not until he had you pressed to his side, lured from those other predators into something much worse. 

(And perhaps that’s what’s been absent, all along. You used to come too easy, allowed him to grow permissive and lazy. But this– 

His skin fits the moniker again. Captain, revitalised in his bones.)

You shake your head no, just as he rubs his cock along your entrance. 

The feeding is effortless. You practically draw him in, needy for it, walls conforming to the fat intrusion until his head nestles against a hard spot. Steel-wool pubes tangles in your own, scratching the sensitive hood of your clit as he adjusts to the balmy suffocation. Tight. So fucking tight, more so than he could have imagined, your struggle working against you as it contracts the muscles around the area. 

His teeth knock into yours, borderline bruising kiss closing the gap. Should he give it a moment’s breath, his lips would swell blue. But he keeps you to him, your reluctant mouth slow against his own – impeded by the gag and your own stubbornness, snivels sucked into his gluttonous abyss. It tastes like seawater and vanilla, the wires crossing in his brain. 

This, he thinks, is the taste he’s been searching for all his life.

This petty space separating you, a carpet of chest hair laid over our thighs. Breathing one another in, memorising the scars behind your cheeks. Pistoning into your cunt, making room for himself in the years and years to come. He’ll never get enough of you. You’ll never get enough of it – once you learn to embrace the pleasure wrought out of you. 

In due time.

He batters parallel to your cervix, plunging deep as he can go. You’re slippery with the effort, wet where you thrum fierce, depravity stringing the oscillating gap of your mons and his pelvis. Binds you to him like gauze on a day-old wound, sticky and raw, and you must be a masochist if the stiffening of your joints is anything to go by. Your pupils roll, stupid, to regard the back of your head. Fucked dumb. Nerves snapping, limbic system miswiring. 

“Can’t wait to see my seed take, have you grow round and glowing.” He growls, speaking into your cheek. The faint hints of your cologne, long faded under rain and sweat, cram temptingly into his synapses. It’s all he can do not to take a whole bite of you, now that he can. Wants to see the evidence of his ownership mark your skin; violent, a little bloody. Physical. Carnal. Imperfect presence honing in the fact that it is better than none at all. 

“Mmmmff,”  

“Yeah? Want me to keep you pumped full of my cum? Think that would be nice. Plugging you shut. Maybe suspending you upside down so it’s a sure process. How does that sound, sweet thing? Y’like it?” 

Your feet thump weakly on his back.

“Then cum. Go on, be a good girl f’me.” 

And with the orchestration of it all; your already tense pelvic floor, the rippling liquid of your eyes, the stifled voicing of your plight– 

John can’t tell whether or not you do. 

You tire yourself out, eventually. 

It’s much later; the rise of a new morning flooding his home in sheer blues, illuminating last night’s mess. Without the orange glow of firelight, it looks a lot less romantic. Torn clothes, cotton fibres. Body fluids matting the pelts he uses to break up the floors. He would have it in him to blanch at the forfeiture of his self-control, cringe a little for appearance sake. He’s grown, now. Should know better.

But there’s no one around. No one. Just him, christening a loveseat instead of his wingback, and– 

You, knocked out on his lap, rope burns raw up your arms.

(When you wake again, he’ll make it official. A passing of the torch, so to speak, from one fix to the next. He hasn’t a band, or really any certification to make it legal. But–

The lit end of his cigar should do. Touched, fittingly, to the proximal length of your ring finger.) 

John’s always had his fixes. 

He finds he’s finally had his fill when you cradle his child close to your breast, and reach out a hand for him, too.

i do not have a taglist. to be alerted when i post / update, please follow @moondirti-archive and turn on post notifs.

[spirk-trek]

Nightvisions Fanzine & Novel | Merle Decker, Signe Landon (1979)

Nightvisions, by Susan K. James and Carol A. Frisbie, is one of the first standalone k/s novels published in a zine. It can be read in full here!

[meiwritesyan]

- 001:: yandere idol -

ʚ ♡ ɞ summary: you absolutely loves the well-known idol that everyone usually talks about, including you. guess what? he obsessed over likes you too!

ʚ ⚠︎ ɞ warnings: yandere,obsessive behaviors,stalking behaviors, lowercase intended! do tell me if there is missing any other things that i should mention in warnings! i do not condone the action of yanderes irl!!

ʚïɞ pairing[s]: romantic yandere male idol x gn reader pt 2

ʚ ✉ ɞ wc: 0.2k

ʚ ˙ᵕ˙ ɞ request: ✗

ʚ ✦ ɞ intro | byf | masterlist

ʚ ☁︎ ɞ mei's note: this is sucks :( but i hope you like it! the flirt a bit weird to me idk likes n reblogs are very much appreciated!

ʚ ♥︎ ɞ yan idol who met you on one of his meet and greet. you are just so cute!

ʚ ♥︎ ɞ yan idol who actually suspicious of you when you gave him a small kitten plushie, he suspect you to put a camera or voice recorder to stalk his life secretly. surprisingly,when he check the plushie,theres no camera,or even voice recorder! now,he feel bad for destroying the handmade plushie you just made for him. he tries to fix it,but he just made it worst, damn it! it didnt even have the look of cute kitten anymore!

ʚ ♥︎ ɞ yan idol who start to trust you since the plushie incident. he is eager if theres any other event in your country,he really wants to meet you again!

ʚ ♥︎ ɞ yan idol who will learn your native language and will try to talk with your native language,trying to impress you(if your native language not the same as him)

ʚ ♥︎ ɞ yan idol who have ppl to stalk look over you,since his career + schedule wont let him see your adorable face everyday

ʚ ♥︎ ɞ yan idol who also gives you little gifts such as candy or chocolate bar secretly into your hands when you ask him to sign an autograph at his album etc

ʚ ♥︎ ɞ yan idol who winks at you when he sees you at one of his concert. your flustered face are so cute! if not for his career,he would explode by your cuteness right away! but of course,he needs to be professional

ʚ ♥︎ ɞ yan idol who will sends at your address a vip ticket,when he finally knew abt your address

ʚ ♥︎ ɞ yan idol who will wear a cute onesie of your fav animal at one of his live!

ʚ ♥︎ ɞ yan idol who will flirts only with you. you are so cute when you are blushing!

ʚ ♥︎ ɞ "hi cutie [nickname] ~! where should i sign my autograph? on our marriage certificate it is?"

@meiwritesyan all right reserved. do not copy,repost or claiming my work as your own!

[casuallyanidiot]

part 2 of yandere model please 🥺🙏

Tw. For mentions of sex, dubcon, and surveilance

Yandere model, known as Caspian to his fans and most of the modeling world, has been keeping you locked up in his luxury penthouse for god only knows how many days.

It wasn't too bad, in all honesty. Besides the whole being locked up part, you had free reign of his house, and even access to the internet. Though, it was heavily monitored and restricted as you quickly found out after you attempted to log into a social media account to ask for help. Caspian had sent a barrage of messages, the computer crashed, and you weren't allowed to leave your room for two or three days after that.

Something you noticed was the cameras that were set up in every crook and corner that you could possibly think of. You felt a coil of anxiety whenever you caught sight of a blinking light in the corner of your eye. It was even worse when you realized that there were at least five separate little lenses in the bathroom. You shuddered to think of what exactly he used the footage for. He would come to you everyday after work and tell you all about the shows, auditions, and meetings he attended with a small smile.

"I saw you ate that new flavor of yogurt I got you! Good job, honey. It's healthier for you than that old slop you used to have in your fridge," He laughed and stroked your hair as the two of you lounged in bed. "Oh, and I love that pair of panties on you. Can I see them? They looked so cute when I saw them on screen," He chuckled and kissed your cheek, his fingers playing with the loose elastic waistband of your sweatpants.

He was such a creep.

Another thing you came across was the fact that you never realized how much Caspian credited you for his career before this whole ordeal either. He had basically given you a bit of homework to do.

"Every day while I'm out, you need to watch at least three clips of me on the runway," He instructed, much to your confusion. It was just so odd of a request to make to what was essentially a captive. "I'll know if you haven't," He added quickly, an odd, giddy lilt filling his words. It was like he was excited to cause you discomfort, to know that you felt anything for him at all.

You watched him on screen daily. You studied his poses, his gait, and his facial features out of sheer boredom. When he would come home, Caspian would snuggle into your arms and chatter excitedly about the shows and commercials you'd seen.

"What did you think of my poses for the jewelry brand? Hm? You know honey, I was thinking of how you'd look in all those pretty gems. That's how I got so into the role there...Oh! And see how I was strutting in this one? How angry I looked? That's me thinking of how mad I would be if you ever tried to leave me haha! You're my muse (y/n)!"

You tried not to think about it too hard. You tried not to linger on the fact that it was like every move he made was part of some elaborate, hidden worship of your love and relationship that he had conjured up from nearly the moment you met. It was like he couldn't do what he did if he didn't have you.

Maybe the worst part about living with Caspian, if you could even call it that, was that he pretended like this was somehow normal. He bought you a slew of makeup products, all high quality and from luxury brands, and presented a basket of new products to you everyday.

"Here! For you to practice with!" He beamed and pushed another round of expensive goods that you could only dream of touching when you were a newer Makeup artist on the scene. You picked them up gingerly with narrowed eyes as if they would burn you if you held them too long. For Caspian, you doing makeup, either on him or yourself, was like a nostalgic, sweet callback to the first time the two of you met back at a less than respectable fashion show that the two of you had been paid pennies to work at.

At the time, the you were so fresh faced and eager to get any gigs you could. Maybe if you hadn't been so career hungry, you could've maybe questioned why you were being booked to high end events all of a sudden. Maybe you could've stepped back and noticed his hungry eyes on you, or the fact that you never seemed to get any jobs without him. That's why you knew he didn't actually care about your happiness.

If he cared, he wouldn't be chasing your admiration, approval and affection all while gifting you what was essentially a slap in the face.

Your job, your life, your individuality wasn't as important to him as owning you was, and you felt that every time you applied lipstick to his perfectly shaped mouth. He shuddered under your touch, and you always kept your gaze even. To him, everything you had done before he had pinned you down, kissed you, and knocked you out backstage at a show was just him allowing you to play and pretend at being free. At being successful. At ever being without him.

The realest you that you could be, according to Caspian, was in his lap, in his home, lavishing over his face exactly as you had when you first met.

[starry-bi-sky]

my body's aching like a knock-down drag-out

and my poor heart is an open wound A Childhood Friends Au snippet that very briefly delves into Danny's life post-accident. CW: Mild Mentions of Blood, Violence, VERY mild gore ig. Danny briefly recalls getting impaled during a fight.

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

What they don't tell you about being dead is that it hurts. That it can hurt. That it can hurt more than when you were alive. That when you die, the emotions you die with stick with you like a leech that just won't let go. That emotions are ugly little thorns that stick their barbs into you and grow beneath your skin; or, at least, whatever’s left of it. 

Danny is familiar with anger. It kept him warm in Gotham, when his parents weren't home from work and he and Jason were crowding Crime Alley with their presence. It kept him warm in Amity, when the fresh sting of moving was still needling into his heart and he wanted nothing more than to rip and tear into the closest person next to him.

He's familiar with violence. With fights. With death. He's seen people die in Crime Alley probably every day. From overdose, from gunshots, from stab wounds; anything that can kill, rest assured he's seen it. He's familiar with getting his own knuckles rough and bloody when other kids turn and bare their teeth at him and Jason; they're all just starving dogs stuck in a fighting pit, primed and ready to rip out each other's throats. 

Black eyes, stomped hands, bloody noses. You name it; he’s had it. Gotham is paved with the blood of her children, and Danny likes to imagine that when he was born, the doctors handed his mother a file and told her; “Take it. He’s going to need it for his teeth.” 

Danny’s mom (and dad, for that matter) was too busy trying to keep him and Jazz fed, so Danny stole the file from her drawer with Jazz’s help, and did it himself.  

He’s familiar with anger, he thought he was getting better at it these days. It doesn’t come to him as easily as it did before. Of course, that was before Jason died. 

Danny is less familiar with grief. Caring kills and Gotham kills the caring, so Danny cares very little about other people. Or he tries to. But grief hurts. His grief hurts. It hurts too much. It hurts like a bug trying to crawl out of his chest; like a rat chewing a hole through his heart. Some days he wants to dig his hands into his hair and split himself down the middle. Some days he just wants to scream. 

He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. 

He wants the whole city to hear him wailing, some days. It sticks itself in the back of his throat like bile, and Danny is one wrong retch away from letting it loose. It sticks in his lungs like all the tar he’s smoked in since he was nine. It pushes and aches at his temples, in his head, like his brain is trying to swell out of his skull. His thoughts becoming so loud they threaten to commandeer his tongue.  

He has no mouth, but he must scream. 

Something they don’t tell you about being dead is that it hurts. That it hurts more than when you were alive. Something they don’t tell you about being dead is that it’s violent. That it’s bloody. Or as bloody as it can be when everyone has no blood. 

Another thing they don’t tell you about being dead, is that it’s a lot like Gotham that way.

With no threat of death, Danny’s enemies forget death itself. Blood comes easy, like water, and teeth are encouraged. Bring your own fangs to the fight. Dying is something you can just walk off. 

Danny’s been dead for three months. He can’t say he’s been walking it off easy. He’s perfected the art of turning his nails into claws since his heart was still beating, but he can’t say he’s perfected fighting other ghosts. 

Scrappy is just not enough. 

He feels like he’s back in Gotham again. Back in her death-shroud alleyways, fighting someone bigger than him. But there’s no Jason to watch his back, and Danny has to get himself out of there alone. Or he might just not get up at all. 

Black eyes, busted lips. It’s familiar to him like an old scent, Danny isn’t quite sure that he’s missed it. It’s more familiar than his fights with Dash. 

But there’s no one else who can do it but him. Not Sam, not Tucker. He can’t lose them too. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t. His heart can’t take another break, he already feels like he’s going insane. 

With no threat of death, Danny’s enemies fight like death themself. He learns why when Technus puts a street sign through his stomach one day. It pins him to the asphalt like a moth pinned by its wings. 

Danny claws at the metal like how an animal caught in a trap chews off its leg, and every move is blinding pain. He thinks he was howling, but it’s hard to tell. He couldn’t recognize the sound of his voice. 

He bleeds green. It mixes in black with the pitch blackhole in his heart, which throbs and twists and cries in time with his reckless panic. The finger-choking terror of dying again strangles out the air he doesn’t need. His blood evaporates, only to reabsorb into him. It just bleeds out again, cycling like a snake eating its own tail. 

Danny breaks his nails clawing at the metal, and eventually gets it in his mind to pull it out. So he does, and the end drips ectoplasm green as he gets to his feet. In red-vision, Danny sends the sign back with snarling, vicious fervor. The pain is irrelevant in his rage.

Only after the fight does the hole the pole left start to close. Danny doesn’t shift human until it’s gone. Unlike other injuries, a scar stays behind. Ugly; mottled, it aches for a week with every twist and stretch his body makes. He hates it. 

Being dead is agony. 

Every part of him is in pain. Every step, every word he speaks, everything he does, it is prerequisite with pain. The body is temporary, but the soul is forever, and death has carved into it with its freezing green hands and left him with never-ending heartache. It has torn from him and stolen what of him it could, and in return it’s left him with sorrow. 

His pain is his grief, and he’s sobbed in the safety of his room more times than he can count. It’s still as fresh as the day he heard the news of Jason’s death. He knows, instinctively, that it will stay fresh forever. 

In his room, Danny shoves his hands over his mouth and shrieks in whatever, muffled way he can into his pillow. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. He needs to be louder. He needs to be heard. He refuses to be. 

Being dead hurts. 

[anlian-aishang]

Levi with an (Episodically) Depressed S/O

Tags: levi x reader, angst, hurt-comfort, gn!reader Word count: 900

Levi invites you to shower with him, making the obstacle less daunting and much more attractive. In his black robe, leaning on your bedroom door, two towels slung over his arm indicate the knowledge that you will say yes and accompany him. The way that he looks, the low plea in his voice, how could you say no? 

It would be more accurate to say that he was bathing you, but he does not phrase it that way. Instead, he is humble, letting his actions speak louder than words. He does not tell you that he will shampoo your matted hair, does not flaunt how deliberately he exfoliates your limbs, he just does them for you. Some days, even just tipping the bottle or pumping some soap into your hand can seem mountainous. On those days, he sees those activities not as tasks, but as privileges. It is his honor to be the one looking after you in your most dire time. He would always prefer someone to take care of rather than someone to miss. 

Showering together not only ensures that you stay clean, but his company prevents you from those timeless sessions sat on the tile floor. At the moment you look refreshed but before you become sleepy, he jerks the handle to the left and halts the devastatingly relaxing rain. 

Always, your clean clothes are already folded atop the bathroom counter, waiting for you. Some times, you fail to remember that you did not put them there. Other times, you notice the sign of his relentless consideration, but are artificially silenced from expressing your gratitude. No matter in his mind. You are clean, clothed, and out of bed, and that’s already better than you were before. 

Without one complaint, Levi scoops your dampened towel and old clothes from the wet bathroom floor and drops them in the hamper for you. He has seen the piles that can amass, and if it were anyone else in any other circumstance, the clean freak would be quick to chastise, but any sight or thought of you disintegrates any instinct to discipline. You are sat in the living room, admiring the ivy that swirls around the balcony’s posts, thumbing the petals of the bouquet vased on the coffee table. White-gold rays move just a tad west to cast your figure in therapeutic light. You’re too tired to move away from the sun, and for once, Levi finds your fatigue favorable. As the morning temperature rises, he can see that your resting smile does as well. 

While you are entranced with the scenes of summer, Levi swiftly searches for and alleviates the areas you have left neglected. He dumps your sock drawer upside down and mends the pairs that you have discarded as singles. In your closet, he finds the clean pile and dirty pile and either folds it or washes it accordingly. Under your bed, on your nightstand, in your bedside drawer, he discovers the dirty dishes that have been missing the sink and returns them to their proper place. 

Between those tasks, he rolls his shoulders back or rubs the side of his neck and allows himself to sigh. It is difficult - not to bandage these tiny wounds - but to see the harsh bruises left by the illness. Sure, you were forgetful, and not quite as tidy as he was, but still - the mounds of laundry, hidden dirty dishes - this wasn’t like you. Levi lives for your joy - not the superficial smile, your peace - not the misleading silence. He lives for you - in sickness and in health. The times you forget your worth, that is when he whispers it in your ear. When the world is overwhelming you, he lets his touch communicate it. 

Once your space is in order, he can start to work on getting you to leave it. Rather than annoying reminders or obligations, he mindfully manipulates the steps of treatment into desirable invitations. Rather than Do you want to… or Would you like to…, his proposals are statements, taking the responsibility out of your hands. Concerts in the park this afternoon. Let’s go to the farmers market. Apple orchard just opened.

Or even less far away. 

Plants look thirsty, water them with me? Rain just cleared, read on the porch with me? Full moon tonight, stargaze with me?

To you, with me frames the activities, frames your presence as favors for him, and even in your lowest state, you are always keen to help him with anything. To Levi, it is no framing, your relationship is the greatest gift that fate has bestowed on him, and he treats you as such. It is in his selfless actions and his careful words, but it is more than that, traits you can’t quite categorize. The near flat, subtle smile you wake up to in the morning. The tight yet painless combs through your hair that leave you feeling divine. The low, calming timbre of his voice, decorated with a tender tone that he reserves for you. 

Even before the haze you’re in now, you’ve never been able to label those qualities of his, and instead settled: it’s just who he is. 

Like the sentiment that motivates his care: it’s what you deserve. 

// masterlist //

[ahgasegotarmy116]

He Doesn't Deserve You | A Jeon Jungkook Series | Chapter Eight

Summary: Jungkook shows you how you deserve to be loved but you're still doubting yourself Pairing: Noona reader x Jeon Jungkook (She's 28 and he's 22) Word Count: 3.1k~ Warnings: Smuuuuutttt and explicit language lol a/n: Sorry I edged ya'll for so long but I wrote all day just to get this out! That you for the people who sent me asks about the story because I definitely took a lot longer to update than I thought I had (I swear I either update too soon or wait wayyy too long) p.s. Barely edited so please have mercy on me lol Start from the beginning

"Lift your hips for me love" he says while caressing the outside of my thigh and I do as he says. He places a pillow under me, angling my hips just how he wants them, giving him a better angle this time. 

He takes time to study my body, almost as if he was committing it all to memory. 

"Stop doing that" I whine, getting embarrassed by his heated gaze and he chuckles dryly as I use one of my feet to push him away by his shoulder. "I'm sorry I can't help it, you're just so beautiful" he mumbles and I have to choke back a sound I would be embarrassed to let out as a reaction to his word alone. Not wanting to let him how much control he has over me and my body. 

"I want you" I say, sitting up and grabbing him by the neck to pull him down on top of me  to stop this waiting game. He responds with kisses laced with almost a sense of desperation, him now showing physical responses based off of my words. 

"You have no fucking idea how long I've been waiting for you to say that to me" he says against my lips and that same fluttering feeling stirs up inside me. I open my eyes as he's just resting his lips against mine and see that he's looking at me and I turn my face to the side but he pulls me back towards him and caresses my cheek.

"How long have you known I wanted you?" he asks and the air in my lungs disappears, not knowing how I'm supposed to respond to it. "A while" I choke out and he nods his head resting it against mine. "Thank you for not leading me on" he says and he doesn't give me a chance to respond as he's pressing his lips against mine and driving me crazy as his fingers start to toy with me again. 

"You sure you want to do this?" he says, pumping two fingers in and out of me before adding another one making me tense up at the stretch but soon I'm putty in his hands again. "Yes please fuck Jungkook please I want this I want you" I say, emphasizing the last part since I know it drove him crazy just moments ago. 

I hear him curse under his breath before he get off of me and takes off his shirt, flashing those jaw dropping abs I was sure he had. Nothing insane but just enough to show me how well he takes care of himself leaving me wracking my brain trying to figure out what I did to deserve a man like him. 

Once he takes off his jeans and boxers I know I'm done for, leaving me gulping at his size. 

"Don't worry, I won't hurt you" he says, taking note of my apprehension as he gets on top of me again. "But what if I want you to hurt me?" I question, testing the waters and seeing how far he would push me. "No none of that. At least not tonight. I don't want any of this to be brought back to him" he growls out, hating the fact that he's even mentioned him. 

"I want to show you what you actually deserve and I want you to know that I will never treat you like that" he says and goes back to playing with my entrance, drawing figure eights around my clit to help me loosen up for him. 

I whine and he laughs, knowing exactly how impatient I'm getting, "I know pretty, I know. I just don't wanna hurt you" he says and drags his middle finger against that spot I've been dying for him to get to all night. "Fuck right there" I groan, back arching off the mattress and he does it again making my breath hitch, knowing this is only the beginning. 

"So greedy. Just trying to get you ready for me and you can't even appreciate what I've already given you. Noona I thought you knew better than that" he taunts and I moan when he hits that spot again. "Does my Noona like being talked down to?" he asks and I let out a breathy yes, not being able to comprehend everything completely but knowing I'll love anything he'll give me. 

"Noted" he says under his breath, tucking that bit of information in the back of his mind to use later but knows he wants to treat me differently tonight. 

He rubs his cock head up and down my fold and I can't help but purr at the feeling, so addicted to him already and knowing that I'll never want anyone else but him. 

I watch him with his brows pinched together, concentrating and also getting lost in the feeling. The vision of his cock running through my folds is a mesmerizing scene that he hardly wants to stop but once I start to wiggle my hips in frustration he knows that he's toyed with me enough.

"You sure you want this?" he asks again, once last confirmation of my consent and although I'm glad that he's being careful I just need him inside me already. "Fuck yes Jungkook please" are the words that fall from my lips, accompanied by a moan as he's started to press himself into me right when they've left my mouth. 

My eyes squeeze shut as he inches inside of me and once his head is all the way in I let out a breath and he stops, resting his forehead against mine and waits for me to relax. "Can I keep going?" he groans out, holding back being so hard for him with the way I've been wrapped around him. 

"Yes just go slow" I breath out and he does as I say, something about this moment almost makes me feel like a virgin again. The sounds, the sensations, the way he touches me, it all feels too pure and so new, as if he was scared I might break. 

My breath hitches a few times as he continues to push in but once he's bottomed out and has hit that spot I let out a moan, feeling close to cumming already.

He gives me a few more seconds to adjust, his breathing even shakier than mine making me feel the need to check on him. 

"Jungkook what's wrong?" I ask, surprised as to how I can even speak with him buried this deep inside me but my want to take care of him stronger than any high I might be seeking. "N-nothing it's just been a while" he chuckles, muscles in his back contracting and I can tell how much he's been holding himself back.

"You can move" I breathe out, happy knowing that he hasn't been with someone in a while and also that he's putting my needs before his own.

"Shit Noona you feel so good" he says as he rocks back and forth into me. A deep and sensual rhythm rivaled to Tae's harsh and sharp one, making sure I enjoy it rather than hurrying to simply chase that high. 

"You're so perfect for me" he say, mumbling every little thought that comes to his head, praising  me and making me drunk off his words, bringing me closer and closer to release with every thrust. 

"Kiss me" I say, my moans and breathy gasps getting too embarrassing for me to listen to anymore. He obliges but only for a moment, kissing me breathless but pulling back again so he can watch as my face contorts with pleasure. 

"Fuck you're so pretty" he says, thrusting harder now, driving me up the wall and knocking the wind out of me as he picks up his pace. His eyes darken when I open mine and look at him, drunken lust written all over my face and with the pace he's drilling into me at I can't even pretend to hold back. 

I wrap my legs around his waist to tell him to keep going, my nails no doubt leaving red scratch marks on his back, in an unintentional response to the purple marks he had sucked into my skin. My neck, breasts and torso, covered in proof of the time and effort he put into worshiping every part of me. 

He rocks into me over and over again, the sound of him getting more and more vocal showing me that he's getting close as well, letting myself relax from trying to hold off my high as every little thing he's done has dragged me closer and closer to that edge. 

"S-so close" I choke out and he chuckles, kissing me before telling me to let go. "Go ahead, show me how pretty you look when you cum" he taunts and at that I'm soaring, moaning his name over and over, unintelligible words accompanying it making him drill into me harder, the knowledge of him fucking me dumb driving him wild. 

"Can't even remember your name can you Noona? Only thing in that pretty little head of yours is mine now" he growls and his hips stutter, leaving him biting onto my neck to muffle his voice as he cums inside me. 

He fucks himself though his high leaving me whining in overstimulation and he soon pulls out and looks at the mess we've made.

"So swollen" he says, playing with me and pushing his cum back inside. "Jungkook stop it hurts" I say pushing his hand away from me and he stops immediately and lays down on his back, pulling me on top of him as we catch our breaths. The only sounds in the room besides us being the clock that sits on the wall, time passing by and reminding me that if I don't play my cards right this could be the last time this happens. 

"Are you okay?" he asks after our breathing has calmed and we've been stuck in silence for what I'm sure might've been a little too long for him.

I hum in response, not really knowing how to feel. "Did I hurt you?" he asks, his heart rate picking up audible to me with how he has me rested on his chest, letting me know he's scared he's done something wrong. "No Jungkook I'm fine I just..." I trail off and he sits up making me do the same  and I sit there with my head down, not knowing how to voice my emotions. 

"Do you regret it?" he asks, tilting my chin up so I can look him in the eye but once I do I can see vulnerability written all over his face, praying that I'll say no but knowing that even if I do there's a small part of me that might be saying yes. 

"No I don't regret it I just don't know how to feel. I never thought that I would be the kind of person who would cheat on my husband" I voice and he hums in response, making moves to get off the bed but I grip onto his wrist. 

"Where are you going?" I ask and he gives me a sad smile, "I was going to get you a towel so you can clean up. I thought you might want a second to think before we actually talked about this since I can already tell that you might feel like this wasn't the best decision" he says but when I open my mouth to say something I can't come up with anything to combat what he's said. 

He nods his head and guides my hand off of him, kissing the back of it before letting it go, my arm falling limp onto the bed while the thoughts of me hurting him plaguing me with even more guilt than the fact that I cheated. 

I don't know what I'm supposed to say to make this right.

He comes out of the bathroom that we had been in at the start of all of this with a warm towel that he uses on me after he guides me to lay back down, apologizing when he's pressed a little too hard, forgetting for a second how swollen I had gotten. 

He throws the towel in the laundry basket in the bathroom and comes back to the bed and sits next to me, running his fingers through my hair, no doubt trying to help me relax instead of stressing about all of the emotions I'm feeling flooding though my mind. 

"Should I go home?" he asks and my eyes widen, knowing for a fact now that I really have hurt him enough for him to want to leave. "No, please stay with me. I'm sorry I just don't know what's going on" I say truthfully and he nods, leaning down to kiss me but instead of on my lips this time he places one on my forehead, withholding a sense of intimacy that I might not want to continue to have with him. 

He asks me where some fresh sheets are and tells me to go to the bathroom and he'll have the bed ready again once I get back, giving me another opportunity to think things through. 

I cheated on my husband, a man that for as far as I know has been cheating on me for years and now I cheated on him. What I did though wasn't out of spite but the need to be with someone who truly cares about me. Someone I desire and desires me but not just my body. Someone who wants me mind, body and soul. Or at least I think he does. 

Do I really deserves someone like him? Someone so pure and kind and selfless when all I've caused him is pain and heartbreak. I knew that he was falling for me and I entertained him anyways because he was kind and young and handsome but I never intended for things to go this far. 

Am I happy that things turned out the way the they did? I don't know. Do I want to be with him? Yes. But I don't think he deserves to take on someone with so much baggage. He's still young and already has so much on his plate and I don't want to be the person who adds more onto it. 

Would it be wrong to be selfish for once? Would it be wrong to fall for a man that's fallen for me even with all my doubts and flaws and hesitations? I don't know the answer to that but I want to. God I want him more than I ever thought I could want someone. 

He's shown me what it feels like to be loved. Does he love me? I don't know but his actions have shown me he cares about me more than someone should care about a friend. More than a man should care about a woman who he hardly knows. 

"Noona" I hear accompanied by a soft knock on the other side of the bathroom door. "Is everything okay?" he asks, concern truly laced through his tone and I rush to finish up, needing to be with him. I answer with a hurried 'yes' and then once I leave the bathroom I make certain to show him that he's done nothing wrong. 

"I'm fine, I promise" I say, and chance a kiss to which he melts into, the tension he had once felt dissipating. "I'm sorry. I just didn't know how to feel after everything that happened between Tae and I before you showed up and then after he saw you and then with everything that happened between us it just hit me all at once" I say and he nods his head, grabbing my hand and leading me back towards the bed where we both sit down. 

"Are you okay?" I finally ask, remembering the fact that I have yet to check up on him but already knowing the answer since his body language betrays him whenever he's with me. "I'm just worried that you might not want to see me again after this" he says his eyes turned down, not being able to meet my gaze but I rush to deny his claims. 

"I would never say that. I'm sorry I worried you but I want you, not just physically but I want you to stay with me. Stay by my side" I say and his shoulders slump. "But you don't want to be with me" he says and I shake my head. "I want to be with you Jungkook I really do but I can't put a label on this..." I says and motion between the two of us, "until I figure out things with Taehyung" I finish and he lifts his head, needing to know exactly what I mean by that. 

"You're still gonna leave him right?" he asks and I give him a sad smile before nodding again, reassuring him that I meant what I said to him back there. "Yes I promise, I just have to see what my options are in terms of divorce and the possible need for a restraining order since I know what type of man Taehyung is. I'm just afraid that you might regret trying to be with someone like me" I trail off and his brows pinch together in confusion. 

"What do you mean someone like you?" he asks, clearly not seeing the bigger picture here. "Someone who has drama and is literally trying to get out of an abusive marriage and about to have a psycho ex husband that I know will be hanging around for God know's how long. I just don't want you to bite off more than you can chew" I say and he nods his head, understanding now that my hesitation hasn't been just regret or doubt but also concern for him. 

"Contrary to what you'd like to think Noona I know what I'm doing. I knew from the start what getting involved with a married woman might entail but I was up for it anyway because it was you. Call me young and dumb but I knew that I wanted to be with you from the first moment I saw you" he says, looking at me with the biggest, brightest eyes full of the purest form of puppy love that I truly hope will never fade.

"Okay" I say and grab his hand while he brings his other one up to cup my face and pulls me closer into a soft kiss. One that started off as a mere peck but has slowly turned into more, a fire being lit between us and as we inch closer and closer to the flame all I can do is pray that we won't turn to ashes once everything is said and done. 

prev / next Series Masterlist

Taglist: @jkslipppiercing @trina864 @kaitieskidmore97 @goddesofimortality @coolbluedude @00frenchfries00 @bangtans-momma @coralmusicblaze @pastelpinkjoon @joonwater @marvelbun @j3nni-rs @evidive @beomieboi @forevrglow @jesssssmaybankk @teugiie @chaconnelatte @whoa-jo @snehal @xumyboo @mindurbuzznezz @diorh0seokie

Join my Taglist!

Feel free to fill out the form or just comment on any of my fics to be added :)

[midnightfire830]

SOOOOO TW for blood?

Had a fun conversation with the author of this fanfic that doesn’t get NEARLY enough attention in the comments. So I doodled a few ideas we mentioned!

😊

[jackson-imbecille]

Crushing an Egg

4k words, FFN AO3

Some description of gore, speculated and ectoplasmic.

Mr. Lancer goes back into the school during a ghost attack to rescue Daniel Fenton after realizing he did not evacuate with the rest of the school

When William Edward Lancer first started teaching at Casper High, he knew there was a risk of danger. It’s a horrible thing to think about, but there was a very real chance of an intruder, or even one of his students bringing a weapon with the intention to harm others. But never back then, had he thought the risk of harm to his students would be this large. 

Ever since the ghosts started appearing, the school had been subject to constant attacks. And now, the severity of the attacks had been steadily increasing. At first, it had just been pairs of humanoid ghosts, who were mostly uninterested in harming humans, using the school as their battleground. Then, every once in a while, the occasional low to mid-powered animal ghost would attack. But recently, more and more mid to high-powered animal ghosts had been seen rampaging the halls of Casper High. Trampling anyone in their path and blindly attacking anyone they deemed a threat, obstacle, or annoyance. 

Two students had already been hospitalized due to injuries received during one of these attacks. There was talk of installing a permanent ghost shield, replacing the temporary one already installed. Although it would use far more power than the school district could ever afford. 

At the moment, the best they could do was hope for the attacks to stop, and be ready for when they inevitably didn’t.

“Now, it’s important to view the story from all angles. It’s easy to understand the protagonist’s point of view, but what about the antagonist? Now, Nag and Nagaina planned to attack the family for the same reason Rikki destroyed their eggs: fear. Why do you think their actions were viewed as evil, while Rikki’s actions were viewed as good?” 

The class was silent. Some students stared blankly at his face, some out the windows, others at the clock behind him, counting down the minutes til the class ended. 

Edward sighed. “You don’t have to answer, I just want you all to really think about it.” He waited a couple seconds before moving on. “This story was written about a hundred years ago, but it can still relate-” He heard a sharp gasp and stopped in the middle of his sentence. Daniel Fenton was frantically scanning the classroom, as if he was searching for danger.

“Mr. Fenton, are you alright?”

His head snapped forward, and he visibly forced himself to relax. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine, but I really have to go.” He started anxiously tapping his fingers against his arm. “I, uh, forgot the, the, the book in my locker.” 

Edward looked to Daniel’s bag, trying to read the text on the book barely poking out. “I thought I saw the textbook on your desk a minute ago?”

Daniel reached over and zipped the bag closed. “Yeah, that was the science book. I grabbed the wrong one. They both say Pearson on the front, so I mixed them up. I’ll be quick, like, five minutes tops.” He started tapping his foot and quickly glancing between Edward and the door. Though it was very possible that Daniel had indeed grabbed the wrong book, he doubted it. But there was no use fighting against this. Even if he said no, Daniel would keep pestering him until he inevitably walked out without permission.

Edward sighed and ran his hand down his face before relenting. “Alright, please be quick.”

“I will, thank you.” Daniel grinned sheepishly and grabbed his bag before running out.

Edward scanned the room. It didn’t look like much had changed, but he attempted to engage the class anyway. “So, how does the conflict between the animals in this story mirror the conflicts we see in our modern day human society?” Surprisingly, he saw a hand slowly raise to answer the question.

“Yes Kwan?”

The boy looked towards his friend, Dashiel Baxter, as if waiting for something. Mr. Baxter waved his hand in a ‘go on’ gesture, and Kwan began to speak. “Well, the snake and the mongoose are at each other’s throats. The snakes are dangerous to the humans, so the mongoose wants to kill them. But then he kills, uh, breaks the eggs, which haven’t done anything wrong. Like, they had potential to be dangerous like the other snakes, but they were completely innocent. So I guess it’s sort of like-” Before he finished his sentence he was cut off by a loud blaring alarm.

“Attention all students and staff, a level 7 animalistic ghost has entered the building. All students and staff are to evacuate immediately.”

The class was panicking. Students were grabbing their bags and crowding to the door, knocking down desks and tables, and pushing others down to get to the front.

Level seven was high. So far, the detection system had only alerted to a few level sevens, all of which were humanoid. A ghost with that much power could easily kill a student. And with it being animalistic, it wouldn’t likely think to avoid doing so.

“Okay everybody please line up single file, stay calm, don’t push or shove, and stay together.” Edward tried to take control of the situation, but the students’ fear far outweighed their reasoning. He followed them out the door, helping up students that had been pushed down, and tried to move to the front of the group. Luckily, his classroom wasn’t far from the nearest exit. It wasn’t long before they were all safely hidden underneath the bleachers next to the football field, along with several other classes taking refuge there from the danger.

He took a second to catch his breath before counting his students. None of them were absent that day, so he shouldn’t have been missing any. He counted one short. He recounted and got the same result. He went down the list alphabetically and stopped once he got to the Fs.

“Where’s Daniel?”

The class fell silent. Some students began to search nearby crowds for their classmate, and Elena, one of his more observant students, stepped forward. “He left to get a textbook, remember?”

Edward froze. His head started to heat up and it felt like a rat was frantically trying to claw its way out through his chest. He grabbed his walkie-talkie and brought it up to his mouth. “I’m missing a student, does anyone have Daniel Fenton with their class?”

A couple seconds went by. He didn’t move, he didn’t breathe, he didn’t even think. He just listened and stared back at the school building, as if willing his student to suddenly burst through the doors and run towards them. The shield started to materialize around the building, trapping whatever ghost that was there inside. Every class had already made it out.

The walkie-talkie buzzed to life and emitted the one sentence he was dreading to hear. 

“Nobody’s seen him.”

His stomach dropped. All of the students knew to stay with a group, any group, when there was an attack. The only reason a student would be completely missing is if they were cornered by the attacker, which could only mean one thing. “Gone with the Wind, he’s still in there.”

The Fentons were fast, but even they would need time to gather supplies and get to the location of the attack. And by then it might be too late. Daniel Fenton was not an athletic child, he didn’t stand a chance against whatever was in there with him. 

“Star, you’re in charge. I want you to bring the class over to Mr. Falluca. Tell him the situation and don’t let anyone separate from the group. I’m going back inside.”

Star reached over and grabbed Paulina’s hand before nodding. “Okay.”

Edward looked towards the school, gathered his breath, and ran. He ignored the confused and concerned shouts of the students and staff, he ignored the burning sensation in his legs, he ignored the fear rising up from the pits of his stomach and the back of his throat. He needed to do this. His student needed him.

He passed through the shield, feeling nothing but a slight buzz as he went through, and threw himself through the doors before stilling and holding his breath. He needed to be smart about this. He couldn’t just launch himself into danger, that wouldn’t fix anything. He needed to be calm, careful, and quiet.

He slinked through the halls, careful to not make a sound, and searched through every unlocked classroom he walked by. He could hear shrill squealing from every possible direction, but it was the ceiling that shook and shuddered. The ghost was above him.

He hastened his movements, whisper-calling his student’s name into the doorway of every room, hoping to find him before he himself was discovered. No one answered. He went to the basement floors, raising his voice slightly, and running from room to room. Nothing. Maybe Daniel had found his way out of the building and away from the threat. Maybe he was putting himself in danger for nothing. He grabbed his walkie-talkie and raised it to his mouth once again. 

“Does anyone have Daniel Fenton with them?” 

He heard loud booms and crashes from above, followed by shouts and animalistic screeching. The shouting sounded human, masculine and young.

The walkie-talkie buzzed. “None of us have him.”

He knew where Daniel was.

He ran to the stairs and scaled them as fast as he could, not caring whether or not he made noise. If he did, it would certainly be masked by the squeals and screeching of the ghost above him. 

He tripped halfway up the second flight, but continued scrambling his way up. He couldn’t waste any time, his student was in danger.

He made it to the top of the stairs and looked down the hallway. It was completely still, silent. If it weren’t for the cracked floor tiles and walls he could almost pretend there hadn’t been a ghost here at all. It felt wrong, but he couldn’t dwell on that. He had to find his student. 

He ran into an empty classroom and searched, but found nothing. He peered out the door but saw no sign of the ghost. He ran to search the next classroom, ignoring the trail of glowing green beneath his feet. Empty, just like the last one. 

What if he was too late? Daniel was by no means a particularly strong or brave child. The boy was terrified of ghosts and would likely be too overwhelmed with fear to try to think of an escape route if cornered. 

He searched the next classroom, still no sign of the boy. Suddenly the animal ghost burst through the walls of the classroom, barreling towards him and roaring with anger. He scrambled to hide behind one of the tables that had been knocked over and braced for impact, but it never came. 

He heard an ear-splitting screech of pain followed by a large thud and the scraping of hooves against tile. The scraping gradually faded off and Edward was left alone again.

He took in a deep breath and quickly began to hyperventilate. He could have been killed. God, he nearly was killed. Maybe he was the wrong person to do this. Maybe he should leave and let the Fentons handle this when they arrived. Maybe he should just hide and hope he isn’t discovered.

But if he did that, what would happen to Daniel? As a teacher he had two main responsibilities, to educate his students, and to protect them. To protect them even if that meant sacrificing his own life to save theirs. 

Daniel was his student, and he wasn’t going to sit back and let his student die.

Edward stood up and left the classroom to continue his search. He sped from room to room, trying to ignore the furious screeches threatening to split his skull open, trying not to think about what might happen to him if he was caught by the beast emitting them, trying not to think about what would happen if Daniel was caught.

Distressing images flashed through his head. Images of his student, abdomen ripped open and organs spilling out, mouth open, eyes vacant and clouded over. Worse, head crushed underneath hooves, skull fragments and teeth scattered across the floor, a leg detached from the rest of his body, being gnawed on by the beast as if it were a dog’s chew toy. He shook his head and tried to get rid of them, but they refused to leave. 

Thrown down a flight of stairs, neck broken and skull cracked from the impact. Head bitten off by powerful jaws. Pierced through the stomach and left to slowly bleed out. Eaten alive, still thrashing and screaming, begging to be let go- 

He heard the yelling again, Daniel wasn’t dead yet. If he followed the sound, he would find Daniel. And if he found Daniel, he’d be able to help him escape. He ran down the stairs and sprinted to the west side of the school, the shouts growing louder and louder, and the inhuman screeching growing along with them. He forced himself to ignore the screeches, he needed to protect his student, he couldn’t run away from danger this time. But right as he reached the source of the screaming, he froze. 

The ghost, a ginormous and terrifying boar with tusks sharp as daggers protruding from its jaws and a single spiral horn erupting from its forehead, and a small body pinned to the wall, pierced through the middle by its horn.

The screams hadn’t been coming from his student.

It had been another ghost.

The phantom.

He shouldn’t get involved. He should just leave. This was a dangerous situation. He needed to leave and find Daniel. But one glance at the smaller ghost’s eyes and he couldn’t. His hands were shaking, his heart was accelerating, his breathing was getting faster and faster. He grabbed the legs of a desk and, with a strength he didn’t know he had, struck the boar in the face with it.

The boar screamed and fell to the ground, releasing the boy from its hold. It attempted to stand back up, but Edward struck it again and again. His arms felt like they could fall off, but he continued to strike the boar. His legs felt like they could no longer support his weight, but he continued to strike the boar. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t think, but he continued to strike the boar. It wasn’t until his legs gave out and his arms refused to move the desk again that he realized that the boar wasn’t going to get up.

He knelt there, staring at the creature, breathing heavily and trying to understand what had just happened. The horn was broken off of its head and into two pieces, the core of it glowing green and sparking, yet gradually dimming as the seconds passed. The face was caved in, and there was ectoplasm everywhere. Had he really done that? The boar began to melt and bubble away, slowly simmering into nothingness.

“Are you alright?” Edward snapped his head towards the source of the question and winced when his eyes met the large wound in the phantom’s abdomen. It was larger than he had thought and gushing out ectoplasm.

“Shouldn't I be asking you that?” Edward replied. “Do you need help? I could get you a first aid kit if you’d like.” 

The phantom’s face scrunched up in thought. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be outside with everyone else? There was an evacuation, wasn't there?”

Edward jumped as he remembered what he was doing before. “I’m missing a student. He didn’t evacuate with all the others and I-”

“Daniel Fenton?” Phantom offered, then flinched slightly, as if he regretted saying anything.

“Yes. How did you know?” Edward looked at him curiously.

“I,” Phantom looked around the room, seemingly hesitant to give up the answer. “I helped him get out.”

Edward let out a relieved breath. “So he’s safe?”

Phantom looked down at his wound and paused before speaking. “Yes. he’s safe.”

It felt like a large weight was lifted off his shoulders. His student was alive. He looked back to the wound in Phantom’s abdomen and winced. “I’m going to go find a first aid kit so I can help fix your wounds. Don’t move from this spot, I’ll be right back.”

He ran out of the room and down the hall, quickly losing his breath. Now that the threat of imminent danger was gone, it seemed that his limits had been put back in place. He slowed to a halt and leaned against the wall next to him to catch his breath. He would have to walk.

He was almost to the nurse’s office when he began to hear hushed voices.

“...ectoplasmic readings…faded gradually… cut off like usual…could mean…not sure…”

He crept closer to the source of the sound, careful to not be heard, before realizing there was no danger in being observed. He began to walk normally, yet still relatively quietly towards the source of the sound, feeling rather silly for his earlier actions.

The voices soon became clear as he came closer, and before too long, he could see the familiar orange and teal jumpsuits of Jack and Madeline Fenton. “...Knew we should have brought the tracker.”

“There’s still an ecto-signature in the building. He has to be around here somewhere.”

Edward cleared his throat, causing the other two to jump and face him. “Drs. Fenton, might I ask what exactly you are doing here?”

Jack and Madeline both jumped before turning to face him, Jack looking confused and Madeline with a smile on her face. It was a sweet smile on the surface, he had seen this smile a million times on a million different faces. But rather than feeling warm and inviting like it usually would, it was cold, condescending. He felt insignificant under her gaze. “Oh, Mr. Lancer, we were alerted to an attack here. We just wanted to make sure everything was alright.”

Edward steeled himself and forced his emotions to remain hidden from her dissecting gaze. “And I do appreciate that. But, I do believe that the attack is over now. Am I correct?”

Her smile strained a bit, but she was quick to cover it up. “Yes, that ghost boy must have captured it. And we’ll be out of your hair as soon as we have him” Madeline attempted to step past him, but Edward moved to block her. Edward started to feel his temper slip and by the looks of things, the same could be said for both Jack and Maddie.

Edward crossed his arms and let out a breath to attempt to calm himself down. “I see, and is this ghost boy an immediate threat to the safety and wellbeing of the students?” 

“No, but he’s up to something,” Jack answered with fake enthusiasm. He was grinning from ear to ear, but somehow it seemed more like a baring of teeth. “We just know it. We need to capture and interrogate him, maybe do a bit of ripping apart if we can, and figure out what he’s up to, right Madds?”

“Exactly. We’re so close to figuring this out, and now we have him cornered. This might be our only chance for months. So if you would please excuse us-” She forcefully pushed Edward out of the way and along with her husband, began to march down the hall towards the room where he had left Phantom in.

“Mr. and Mrs. Fenton, I-”

Madeline turned her head to face him, the same perfectly condescending smile on her face. “Doctor Fenton.” She corrected.

“I’ll call you whatever I damn well please.” Edward nearly shouted. Every shred of subtlety was stripped from his demeanor. The pair froze in their steps and whipped around to face him. “The agreement here was that you lend aid when needed. That you help when a ghost attack threatens the lives of our students and staff and leave when the threat has passed. The agreement was not that you use this school as a trap to corner and shoot down children based on a hunch. You have no authority here, the only reason you are able to hunt the ghosts that attack here is because we allow you.”

Madeline’s entire face turned red with fury while Jack stared down to the ground, barely suppressed rage clear on his face. Madeline marched forward towards Edward and spat out her retort like venom on her tongue.

“The reason we are able to hunt the ghosts who attack here is because we are the world's leading experts in ectoplasmic behaviour, biology, and most importantly for this case, extermination. It is not just a hunch. You’ve seen firsthand what he’s capable of and yet, he still has you fooled. Though with what I’ve seen of your intelligence, that shouldn’t come as much of a surprise. That thing is extremely dangerous and could turn on us at any moment. Can’t you see, he’s using all of us for his sick-”

“That’s enough.” Edward cut her off, face deliberately cold and expressionless. He looked down at her with the intent to instill the same feeling of insignificance she had given him.

She stomped her foot, seeming like a stick of dynamite with a fire almost to the base of the fuse. “No, I don’t want to hear any of your-”

“Please exit the building. If you don’t in the next five minutes I will contact the authorities. The same goes for if I see you lurking in the parking lot or circling the building.” 

And just like that, the flame sputtered before finally going out. She glared at him with a look that could break the bravest of men, turned around, and marched towards the entrance, followed shortly behind by her husband.

He watched as they passed through the door, entered their abomination of a vehicle, and left before he let out a relieved breath of air. If it were up to him, those two wouldn’t be allowed to enter school grounds, ghost attack or not. But now wasn’t the time to dwell on that. He continued on his way to the nurse’s office, grabbed a roll of gauze, disinfectant, and whatever else seemed useful, and made his way back to the classroom he left the phantom in.

He just couldn’t understand some people. Yes, it was good to be cautious, but never to this extent. To attack a child for a crime you have no proof he will commit, it was the coward’s way out. There had only been two instances where the phantom had been reported doing anything immoral, and both had been proven to be falsely incriminating. The Fenton’s had even confirmed this, however reluctantly they were to do so. It was extremely unjust, not to mention selfish, to attack Amity Park’s greatest ghost defence on nothing but baseless accusations and prejudice.

Edward forced himself to calm down. There was no use in getting so upset, especially now that the cause of the frustration had left. He reached the door of the room he had left Phantom in, took a deep breath, and opened it.

Phantom was nowhere to be seen.

He stood there for a minute, frozen, unsure what to do, before calmly looking around the room for the missing ghost. All he found in his search however was a sheet of notebook paper, torn at the edge with just two words written on it.

Thank you. 

He supposed he should have expected this. After all, he had never heard of anyone before ever getting that close to the phantom without capturing him first. It would make sense that he would flee to take care of his own wounds rather than stay to accept help. 

He left the medical supplies in the room. Just in case.

[skylerskyhigh]

Cut Yourself On My Glass Plate

The Henituse twins. They have switched places. Instead of the younger one holding the sword to the enemy’s throat, it is the older one taking control. 

It is Rok Soo that is sitting atop the beast of death. It is the elder twin that is taking the position of the aggressor. 

He does not look like the feeble young master Silver Shield.

He looks exactly like the demon that people call his younger twin.

They are nearly indistinguishable.

Identical.

-Chapter 242

With the fic nearing it's final chapter, the epilogue, I drew this just as a final hurrah. I tried a new way to shade and it was fun. This came out better than I thought.

Close ups

[gldrushsblog]

SUGAR AND SIN | JK

🧁✧ ˚. TITLE: Sugar and Sin.

🧁✧ ˚. PAIRING: Mafia boss! Jungkook x female oc

🧁✧ ˚. BLURB: Aurora Beckett had simple plans for the night: clean up the counter, finish boxing up the last batch of strawberry cupcakes, and maybe catch up on her favorite drama. Until the click of a gun spoiled the tiles of her bakery and her plans.

🧁✧ ˚. GENRE: Mafia au, grumpy x sunshine, forced proximity, slow burn, dark romance, crime/thriller.

🧁✧ ˚. WARNINGS: This chapter contains a violent scene involving murder, as well as mentions of nausea and a character passing out.

🧁✧ ˚. TAGS: oc is traumatized and on the verge of throwing up but she's also a little weird, jk is having fun cosplaying as a satanic entity for the night

🧁✧ ˚. A/N: This chapter's a lot shorter than the average word count I write but I hope it's intriguing enough for people to keep reading. Also please don't hesitate to type out your comments and opinions. I love to read them and stay informed with what clicks for you and for doesn't.

🧁✧ ˚. TAG LIST: @scuzmunkie ... (Please do let me know if any of you want to be added too.)

CHAPTER 1: AURORA

Aurora had two problems tonight.

Her frayed nerves that showed no sign of settling down any time soon, and the blood on the once-pristine white tiles of her bakery floor, which were sometimes grazed with flour and all that.

The latter and former both caused by a group of tall and dark figures of men that barged inside the dim lighted interior of her bakery that she was just about to pack up like they were out to hunt. From what she could see from the corner of the counter she was hiding behind and trying to squeeze herself further away into the darkness, the prey in question was another stumbling man who fell his way before them, backing on his palms as he slid on the floor, a messy trail of blood following right after him as the group of men loomed forward with a errie calmness. She visibly winced at that before taking advantage of the soft darkness and lifting her gaze up and instantly retreating back.

Gods, she had never regretted turning down Lia's offer to drop her home more than she did now. But no, she wanted to finish baking one last batch, just to get ahead for tomorrow.

Now she was hiding from men who looked like they made up the gateway of hell.

 

Clad up in all black with their forms blended into the shadows, save for the luminosity of moon light spilling through the window. They could’ve been anyone, anyone except the customers who regularly graced her small bakery. Definitely not the kind who ordered pastries.

She should have been afraid for her life. She was, in part. But another part of her was horrified at the blood—so much blood—coating the clean floor where she spent her days baking treats. A morbid thought crossed her mind: it was going to take forever to scrub that out.

She tried to shake off the absurdity of the thought and focused on the bigger issue that screamed that she was going to be the next one on their hit list. She doubted her capability to hide here, to hide her frantic heartbeat from all of them because it was all she could hear, until that changed too like her mundane nights.

"Done running?" A deep gravelly voice echoed louder than her heartbeat in the small space that was her bakery, followed with clear thumps of footsteps against the floor. And that's when her eyes took in the sight of a man who was probably what waited you inside that gateway.

He was wearing black too, of course, but somehow he stood out, and when he walked further, the other men looked nothing but mere shadows surrounding this larger unexplainable force.

"It was getting really fun." He drawled as if murder was a game, and the man cowering on the floor was just another player who had lost. It took all her might not to dig a hole somewhere here and hide further. It seemed to have the same effect on the cowering and trembling man on the floor as well that whimpered pleads for mercy which were unheard by lucifer himself and her as well because the sound of conflict in her head was louder.

She felt guilty and all kinds of words related to it because she was a present presence here, watching a man on the verge of getting killed in her property, doing nothing. She tried to fumble for her phone in the pocket of her apron as quietly as she could, but to her unfortune, it was on the far end of the countertop - a distance that felt like a mile now. She didn’t dare move, and the moral lecture she had rehearsed in her head earlier evaporated when she heard the sound of a gun clicking as well as her will scattering.

Her wide eyes that were going anywhere but the scene unfolding in front of her stopped at two inky voids like black ink splashed across a page, who found her before she could and was staring straight at her, penetrating through her very being as he too was crouching down on the floor, making a surge of panic run through her as the idea of her being seen settled in.

He saw her.

Her heart stopped.

Yet when she saw him stay blank and unamused as ever, even when he caught on an unexpected presence, she chose to second thought her plan to scream and run. Or she was forced to do so because his eyes had her frozen and stiff, unable to breathe.

Her heartbeat even came to a pause if that was possible, and then before she knew it was resuming that violent pace when she saw his lips moving. 

"Close your eyes."

Despite the pounding in her heart, she caught the words.

Yet she didn't obey, and that was the second time she felt regret flooding in the night when a quick click of the bullet leaving his cocked gun echoed around. The relief she felt for one moment when she wasn't on the receiving end of his chilling gaze washed away the moment the prey of a guy's brain spilled on the floor.

Blood. Blood. Blood. That was all in her line of sight as the man collapsed dead on the floor. Blood. Pooling around him. Blood. Everywhere. 

Aurora felt her throat work, her stomach twisted, a nauseous feeling overtaking her before she gathered whatever self preservation was left in her and forced her palm tightly against her mouth to not let out the sound of horror that was bubbling. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run. But all she could do was press her back harder against the counter, eyes glued to the body now lying lifeless on the bakery floor.

Her eyes, unblinking, slid up to the man who had penetrated the life out of a once alive being. The man stood over the corpse, expression unreadable. The gun hung loosely in his gloved hand, as though the life he had just taken was of no consequence to him. As if this was routine.

It didn't suprise her but horrified her further.

Would she be the next on the floor with life draining out of her as well as her blood, begging for his non existing mercy?

Her answer was his eyes stopping at her quivering and crouched figure again from the corner.  Her vision had blurred over the time he was turned toward her after barking orders at his men—orders she couldn’t hear over the deafening roar of her heartbeat. She barely registered the sound of footsteps until they were close—too close.

And then, darkness.

With a last prayer to gods above, her body shut out with the last thing she saw before her eyes blacked out, being the devil coming for her.

To be continued...

[petrova121]

leave all your worries at door…please and thank you!

"Don't trust a lion"

-lately I have been obsessed with moulin rouge and cabaret so here you guys go.

-Part 1 -Part 2

°:. *₊ ° . ° .•

Song- I put a spell on you by Nina Simone

warnings- threats, death, blood, fighting, fluff, smut (it will be in later chapters)

enemies to lovers

≈☆≈

Klaus needs help getting a witch on his side for Wolfsbane, which is running low. The best idea coming to mind is bringing along Elijah as ... a form of reinforcement. but things always take their turns 

★・・・・・・★

New Orleans is known for its wide variety of performances and shows and for its interesting people, to say the least. On the small side of town, one building lit up, the lights blinding if you stared too long. The two men walked strides with purpose until they reached the entrance. Posters were all over the walls of all the shows that had been performed and it was messy, maybe a bit unclassic for Elijah's taste. The unpleasant look on his face spoke volumes looking at each poster. 

“Are you sure you will..find what you need from here?” Elijah said coolly looking at the sign above “Le solitaire” What a fitting name. “Oh trust me we will and we’ll get a show while we're at it,” Klaus said smirking opening the door to what was a dimly lit room. The walls were painted dark red and blue. The smell was in between a disgusting odor of cigarettes, alcohol, and sweat. Then a smell of a sweet almost vanilla-like perfume clouded the air. It was packed, to say the least, and a lot of what seemed to be a mix of humans and vampires. Tables were full but one in the front all the way in the corner.

“It still hasn’t changed, just how I like it,” Klaus said walking over to a table and waving the waiter over as Elijah sat down. The seats creaked a little as they settled down. 

“What can I get you two gentlemen?” The waiter said, taking out his notepad which was wrinkled. “Two glasses of whisky,” Klaus said with a smirk plastered on his face. 

“Your finest whiskey,” Elijah said a bit sharper than he was intending to say. if he was here at least let the drinks be good. “Alright that's all?” the waiter asked, both brothers could tell he didn't know what was going on.

After what seemed like a long wait, the lights dimmed down to it just being a black room. There were mummers and chatters and the spotlight was targeted towards an empty stage. Then the sound of heels tapping the wood was heard and the audience could see a solute of a lady as she appeared from the shadows with a bright smile, clearly practiced. Her lips were a shade of dark maroon color. The Jazz band started softly playing in the background as she spoke. “Ladies and…gentlemen,” She said slowly, smiling. She walked to the center of the stage where she was more visible. Elijah's eyes slowly widened taking in the lady before his eyes. She most certainly had everyone's attention, especially his. She was wearing a striking navy blue dress that was laced up by a corset. On her head a sort of hat, a top hat if you had made it miniature. “And that's our leading lady for all our problems” Klaus whispered to Elijah.  His eyes lit up with a mischievous glint in his eye. “That's the lady we came here for?” Elijah said back quietly. 

“Yes, what did you think I brought you here to watch some old hag?”  “The way you were speaking about her made me think she was a century old,” Elijah said, the sarcasm in his voice evident. It brought Klaus to a low chuckle, shaking his head as he took a sip of his whiskey. Elijah glanced and caught eye contact with the women and he didn't intend to break it. 

She kept a smile while talking or singing but always her gaze would land on Elijah to her he was the mysterious man in a nice suit. She knew that there was something off with him and the man next to him. Once she finished her performance it was time for the next lady to come up. She quickly gave a bow and a wink to the coward and disappeared off. 

Y/n walked back to the hallway where some of the dancers were. She could hear groaning coming from the main dressing room which made her roll her eyes annoyed. Y/n walked over to the mirror on one of the walls to check her appearance. Rory, a redhead, blue-eyed bitch in y/n’s mind.   “Oh come on, no going down to the guests tonight? Have you gone soft?” Rory teased y/n because it was used to her being a total flirt with the crowd, gaining an extra couple of bucks if she could. Unfortunately, tonight wasn't the night for her especially after that strange man gave the worst but best feeling in her gut “No….. wasn’t feeling up to it… and anyways I’ll leave some for the rest of you” She answered fixing her hair in the back hallway.  “Heard there are two money machines down there, blonde and the guy in the suit,” Rory said, lighting up a cigarette leaning on the wall opposite from y/n. Then she got that bad feeling in her gut again. “Yeah I saw, the guy in the suit has a big staring problem,” She said reapplying her lipstick. She sounded annoyed, Rory could tell, and handed her a cig, which she took and waved her hand over the end and lit it up. The dancers close to the stage gave them both dirty stares as the smoke clouded the little hallway but they both could be less bothered. 

“Well if you're not going to make a move I will,” Rory said smirking  “Tell me how that works out for you” Y/n scoffed knowing Rory wasn't the brightest in the bunch there and she was most certainly not going to be able to pull a stunt like that. “Stop acting like you're better, any of us here can do exactly what you can,” Rory said.

Her eyes narrowed.  “I'm not better, I just have comprehension, I know when to back off a member of the audience you DON’T,” Y/n said bitterly. “Self-centered bitch” Rory mumbled. Rory was on her third strike with the owner one more and she would be out. Y/n prayed for the day that would happen

»--•--«

After an hour or maybe even two. The crowd was getting rowdy and so was the music. Losing its taste. That's how you would know the show was soon to be over.

The show was over to Y/n’s relief and she rushed to her dressing room waiting for Smith to come unlock it. Smith was the owner and had a very strange rule 15 minutes before show time every performer needed to be out of their dressing room or else they would be locked in there. No performance and no money for the night. “Smith will you hurry” She called from her door as he was taking his sweet time turning the corner. Then he came and opened the door. “Be patient will ya?” Smith said annoyed with a toothpick in his mouth. He was an old guy, wearing a worn-out leather jacket, and a worn-out hat. Everything about him was worn out. Y/n went into her dressing room and shut the door sinking into her couch. She let out a sigh of relief for

a brief moment until her senses were going ballistic on her. All she could hear was

Run, run and run! 

Don’t trust the lion

She absolutely hated the ancestors and their horrid timing when warning her, she didn't know what. scratch that she knew exactly why. Her mind went back to the two men in the front corner. “Shit” she mumbled to herself, undressing and putting on a silky one-piece that went to her thighs and a long sheer robe. Her heart was quickly pounding as the voices kept repeating. She took off her jewelry and her palms were sweating. She almost dropped her necklace and caught it just in time to hear a knock on her door. Her head snapped to look at the door. Two more knocks followed. She felt a lump beginning to form in her throat. 

“Who is?” she called out as normal as she could proceeding to stand straight. “Open up love. We’re not here to cause any harm…..” Klaus said smirking, she could hear a threatening undertone to his call. Elijah was by his side as they waited for the door to open up. The door slowly opened and enough for them to see the young lady with a neutral look on her face. 

“What do I owe the pleasure of you two gentlemen?” She said with a tight smile, the voices finally stopped as if they had left it up to fate if she were to die or live.

“Mind if we come inside? Looks like a lovely room you have in there” Klaus said, his voice dripping with false innocence that any smart being could tell it was all an act. “I’m not supposed to let people, especially strangers,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him. 

Klaus realized it would be a little harder to get her to let them in. “I’m Klaus, Klaus Mikaelson,” Klaus said. A smirk quickly grew on his face as he saw the color slightly drain from her face. 

“And here is my dear brother Elijah,” Klaus said, taking a step at her door and his hand gesturing to Elijah. “Hello,” Elijah said, finally speaking. Stepping along with his brother. 

“What do you people want from me?” she asked. She had now come into contact with the originals themselves, and two of the worst. “Let us in and we’ll have a quaint little chat,” Eijah said leaning on the door frame causing her to open the door more they got a peak of the dressing room. Even though she didn’t want to, she knew the other girls would be out soon and it wouldn’t be a good look for her if there were two attractive and wealthy men at the doorstep of dressing rooms. She could hear the rumors already. “Come in” Y/n mumbled stepping aside as both of them stepped inside. Her room was a bit messy, there were bottles of bourbon, wine, and whiskey on the coffee table, some opened, some closed. Few dirty shot cups, and one singular cup of wine. A long wide couch on either side of the room.The one on the left-hand had dresses thrown on it and lingerie.

The right had books piled on top of it, along with a basket of herbs and other assortments. Both brothers looked at each other, both thinking the same. She was a very messy witch. She could see the judgment through both of them. “Forgive me, if I knew I had… visitors I would have cleaned up better,” She said acting sorry, but she wasn’t. She’d be damned if it was her dressing room, she could do whatever the hell she wanted. Elijah could sense her false remorse and if he was being honest as stunning as she was he wasn’t totally in the mood.  “You don’t have to put on your theatrics with us here tonight, trust me the last thing we need from you is lies. We know you're a witch so we will be getting to the point  I think I've spent just enough time in this god-awful place ” Elijah said, the distaste in his mouth clear. She got annoyed crossing her arms and leaning on her vanity letting out a deep breath. This man and his audacity” she thought to herself. Klaus was already sitting on the couch to the right, making himself comfortable moving things around as if this was his own room. “Well you know I'm a witch, what a great thing to come in and say I really am glad my dark little secret is out to the world Mr.Mikaelson,” She said sarcastically as she lit up a cigarette. “Well, I'll be quite forward with you, I know you have access to Wolfsbane,” Klaus said, looking her up and down. 

“And I'm looking to get it,” he said, picking up a jar of herbs. Her heart sped up, great another thing she hated, was wolfsbane. Known for its ability to be lethal to the werewolf kind, she knew exactly why he needed it. She had heard rumors of the hybrid coming back to New Orleans and taking down Marcel, giving a lot of the witches the power to practice magic freely but knew about the loophole he created by getting a werewolf pregnant. 

“Because you want to control the werewolves, why? There already out of New Orleans Marcel drove them out years ago” she said quietly trying to play dumb for now. “Well let me inform you now, I'm back and I'm here to stay, and let's just say the werewolves have made their comebacks. Especially with the mother of my child…. I need to take necessary precautions to keep them in line in case” Klaus said explaining and Y/n kept her eyes to the ground every now and then staring at Elijah's very nice shoes. Her eyes slowly drifted up looking at him from his feet to his eyes. He was already staring which caused shivers to go down her spine 

“And if I refuse?” she asked her eyes drifting to Elijah and Klaus knowing the answer. 

“You die,” Klaus said, shrugging. He said it as if it was nothing. To him, her life was nothing, he could always find another witch anytime he wanted and she wished he did. 

“Help me and you are promised safety. A newfound place in my little kingdom” Klaus said, lacing his deal with false promises, sweet words. 

“Don't trust the lion,” she remembered in her head. Klaus was clearly the lion, with blonde hair, devilish eyes, and stalking his prey as such.  her eyes darted to Elijah. If she couldn’t trust the lion then could she really trust his brother? But she, as any other, heard the tales of the nobleman. The most common story is the nobleman and his word. He didn’t break it, never broke it. Elijah prided himself on that.

“I want your word,” she blurted out. Klaus raised his eyebrows in surprise. Elijah had a smirk, small but noticeable, filled a small portion of his face. “For what exactly?” He asked taking a singular step closer. “That I won't die or get fucking double-crossed,” She said, trying to not sound nervous.  “You two fuckers can’t walk into my dressing room threaten me to take my life and then give me false promises!” She said finally getting a little angry more than scared. Klaus had an amused look and got up and walked up to his brother. “Deal with it,” Klaus said simply and left. The door clicked shut. Now it was just her and Elijah. 

“Are you sure you want to negotiate with me? It is really unheard of” Elijah said, straightening the cuffs of his suit. “Here I thought you were better than that tyrant” she muttered. Elijah just got more amused, “I am, or I’m not it depends on who you ask. But why was my word? My brothers not enough for you?” Elijah asked. She took a deep breath. 

“First your brother is widely known for double-crossing and well his heinous acts of murder,” she said uncrossing her arms. “You on the other hand while I know you two aren’t too different you have more honor than him, you keep your word you try not to harm people,” she said plainly walking one step closer. 

“ Ancestors do talk, don’t they? I will say I am flattered that good things are said” Elijah said smiling. His accent was thick, she couldn’t help but like that. “Don’t be cocky too soon I’ve heard just as bad about you” she said distasteful. Her eyes look at the posters around the walls of past shows. It didn’t wipe the smile off Elijah’s face just yet. “Well, how about this? Do you actually have wolfsbane?” Elijah asked, there was a part of him that was a bit suspicious of her. Witches weren’t always reliable. He learned that through the thousand years, he was alive. Either you had to compel them to make sure they stepped out or simply just had to kill them. But he could smell Verveine coming off y/n and her blood. So no use trying to compel her.  She went to a little drawer pulled out a little glass bottle filled with a little sample and threw it over to him. He caught it quite sharply. He popped the lid off and he could already smell it. 

“I suppose you, are not a fraud,” Elijah said, putting the small vile in his suit pocket

“Well?” She said still waiting for his word 

What?” He said. His smile turned into a smirk. If he was being honest, he was getting a little kick out of this. Playing dumb was a bit fun he did have to admit it himself 

“Don’t play dumb” she spat out annoyed. Her belt to her robe fell down and her robe was open. Elijah looked, and looked away. “Have some shame” he told himself in his head to stay in control. 

“You have my word, Miss…?” Elijah said bit of a questioning tone trying to figure out her last name.He raised an eyebrow waiting for her to speak

“Y/L/n” she said quietly. She was relieved she had his word.

“Miss Y/L/n that no harm will come to you ... .as long as you keep your end of the bargain supply us with what we need for the amount of time we need it” Elijah said standing now right in front of her. 

“I suppose we have a deal,” she said, lifting her head to meet his gaze. He was immortal and quite perfect. His face was sculpted amazingly and his eyes looked like they could suck anyone in.  Y/n never understood vampirism and never wanted to. She knew enough to make her dislike them. She took a long deep breath of her cigarette and let out a very long puff. The smoke went all over both their faces. Even then she could see him stare and the stupid smirking on his face she could only wish to wipe off.

might be a slow burn;)

-part 1-

[rainbowsuitcase]

"actual writers"

everyone who writes is a writer. that is the literal definition of the word. whether you write original stories or fanfiction or drabbles or headcanons, you're a writer. people who make comics are writers. you spend your time stringing words together into sentences? congratulations, you're a writer!

[genyawritesshizz]

A Hum of Time. Toshinori Yagi x Reader

Part 5

Summary: An innocent relationship between two workaholics could not possibly be that eventful. Just two individuals finding comfort within each other's company and the occasional cup of coffee. What happens when a secret that could ruin both of their careers brings the whole thing crashing down? In a heart wrenching decision, you must do what is best for all three of you and brave the future alone. Will you ever tell the truth? You might not have a choice.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

8081-word count

It's happier I promise :)

It has been six years since the incident. Any blog or post related to you had long ago been swept away into the ever-changing sea of media, buried far below, never to resurface. The name Siren was long forgotten.

Following being discharged after over two months of recovery you had changed your names and moved to the opposing coast. The opportunity for another fresh start alighted new found hope for the future. The saved money from your time as a hero and life insurance payout David had carefully pulled allowed the two of you the luxury of ease and into a mundane title of stay at home mom. 

Despite everything that happened, every sacrifice made, and every sleepless night it was all well worth their price at being present to watch your boy grow. You loved him more than you had ever thought possible. A mother’s love is a force of nature, boundless and unconditional. 

Even if he could be a pain at times. 

Admittedly handling a four-year-old who’s temper tantrums could burst your eardrums had been one of your toughest battles. Thankful that he had inherited something of yours but also woeful for both yourself and the neighbors; He had manifested your vocal quirk.

After many replaced windows, pitiable apologize, and endless pep talks he had finally learned to somewhat control it. With his quirk and gaining of maturity came questions. He could faintly remember you as a hero all those years ago, fortunately however not much. Just that you wore an ‘awesome’ costume and got hurt. 

You never told him the truth. Instead opting to lie whenever his bubbling curiosity peaked. Stating that back in the day you were simply a sidekick to some one off low tier hero. Nothing special. Just scratching the surface of heroism, that you had thrown in the towel after getting hurt all those years ago. 

Not a complete lie. 

Yet far from the whole truth. 

This still fascinated him. 

Late at night as you tucked the restless child to bed, he would beg for stories, pictures, anything from back then. Occasionally after seemingly endless hours of impetration you’d buckle to his demands, telling a watered down tale of the past. Even as you regaled the simplest of petty robberies, he looked to you like you had hung the stars in the night sky, as if you were the reason that rain fell. Big blue fascinated eyes with a wide smile filled with astonishment chanted your praises in complete and utter admiration.

“Momma is the coolest!” “Momma is the best hero!” “Momma is my hero!”

‘Momma is my hero.’

Oh, how your heart melted at his words. The giddy childlike wonder pushed any nightmarish trauma to the back recesses of your mind. Though, that did not mean it disappeared. 

Haunting memories of the past always found a way to resurface.

As he grew older, near the age of six, he discovered how to use the home computer. Spending hours watching videos online of other heroes, it was only a matter of time until he inevitably stumbled upon a video of All Might. Despite your parental controls blocking the tag. Where there's a will there's a way, this kid was stubborn. Since the discovery he could not stop watching, completely enamored. The daunting words “I am here” blaring from the computer's speakers echoed with your son's delightful laughter bounced off the walls of your shared home.

Over and over. 

Taunting. 

Mocking. 

It stung the deepest depths of your faulty heart to hear his voice day in and day out. 

To watch your son fall in love with a man who too used to hold your heart… 

Yet you did not have the heart nor the courage to demand he turn it off.

A particular moment replayed in your mind.

You had just come home from a quick trip to the market. Nearing the age of elven you entrusted him to stay home alone for short periods of time especially when, if provoked, he could scream loud enough for anyone clear across the city to hear. Yet when he did not meet you at the door or answer your call your stomach dropped. As you began to call for him again your words suctioned themselves to the back of your throat. A cold sweat of fear beaded on your brow. 

The bathroom door was open, the light on, and a shadow moved from the door frame. The figure almost too tall to be completely seen. The shape of it alone made you shiver. 

Two long strands of hair sticking up in an iconic V shape shadowed onto the hallway wall.

“All Might?” your voice quivered, graveled and raw. Foreboding dread balled into a tight knot threatening to suck you into dissociation, as if at any moment you would melt into the floor. Slowly wobbly legs moved, approaching just enough to allow a peak over in. 

“That is right! FOR I AM HERE!” Your son stood atop of the bathroom counter, his fist raised and a triumphant snaggle toothed smile stretched across red blushing cheeks. A bottle of hair gel spilled out on the counter and an old relic of the past wrapped around his shoulders. The overhead light casted a deceiving shadow. 

“I…” Trailing off a wide range of emotions spanning from solace to fear hinted disappointment flooded all at once. Eyes watered, yet never spilled over. The breath you held deflated.

“Don’t I look cool mom?! I look just like him! I look just like All Might!” He beamed. Turning back to the mirror to flex his small arms, striking another one of All Might's signature poses. “I can’t believe you have this! Is this really his?” His hands gripped at the fabric of the cape. The material swallowed him completely, flowing from his tiny shoulders to the floor. You had not seen it in years, not since the move. 

“You...” Swallowing the lump in your throat and blinking away unshed tears, you approached. Standing behind him, your heart pounded against your chest, ragged and unsteady beats. Struggling to find words, mouth opening and closing yet no sound escaped. Voice cutting out, crackling into a depressing croak. 

An everlasting symptom of that treacherous day reared its head once more. When overly emotional or speaking for too long strain on the scarred vocal cords caused them to lock up, trapping words within. Akeno’s brows furrowed, joy faltering.

“Momma?”  Seeing his shifting mood sour hands quickly adjusted, signing in boisterous movements

 ‘You look so totally awesome, Akeno!’ His eyes stared at the signs reflected in the mirror before going wide with exhilaration, smile returning brighter than before. In one swoop your arms wrapped around his tiny waist in a tight hug. The little boy giggled in delight. With what little strength you retained you held him off of the counter, flying him around the air. Despite the burn of strain inside your abdomen and the sting within your decaying forearm muscles; you could not help but laugh with him. 

After laying him to bed for the night you quickly checked under your bed for a certain set of boxes. Thankfully only one had been disturbed. Looking inside the now empty package you could still smell a faint hint of Toshinori’s cologne stained into the cardboard. 

You did not have the heart to throw nor give away his cape once realizing it had accidentally been packed in your hasty retreat. The tears you had wiped away earlier returned, unabashedly spilling as stifled nostalgic memories resurfaced. 

“Sorry I’m late dear. You know how it is.” Shuffled footsteps trudged through a darkened bedroom. Flipping over your met with the silhouetted figure of Toshinori, thinned fingers unclasping his cape before, In vain reaching for the zipper. Losing it in the folds of loose fabric. A small chuckle roused from your drowsy form.

“Here, let me get it.” Moving to the edge of your shared bed he turned, allowing you to unzip and undress the hefty costume from his thinning frame. Warm hands roamed the now exposed skin of his back, massaging the taught muscles beneath. Letting an exasperated groan his stiffened shoulder relaxed under nimble fingers.

“Thank you.” Humming in response digits curved upward, smoothing over protruding bones of his ribs, noting his subtle weight loss. Leaning forward to rest your forehead into the center of his back, the delectable scent of cologne still lingered on sweat slicked skin. If you had an ounce more of energy you’d fuss for him to shower, however as he turned to face you, and a hand delicately held your face within its palm all thoughts of reprimanding faded. His calloused thumb stroked at your cheek. 

“Let’s go to bed.” 

Together the two lovers laid within each other's arms.

‘ Maybe, 

maybe I should tell him that I’m- No. 

This… this was the only way. 

It was the right choice. For both of them.’ 

Yearning for something that could never be again you stuffed the thoughts away, curling into yourself alone atop frigid sheets the phrase repeating itself.

‘This was the right choice.’

Yet it offered no reassurance.

You lied once more when your son awoke. Telling him that the cape unfortunately was not actually one of All Might’s. Instead, it was a surprise birthday gift you had bought him from a local shop. That he could keep playing with it if he was good. A bit disappointed that it was not real, Akeno still loved it, promising to be on his best behavior. He even slept with it like a blanket. Never questioning the fact that his birthday was over four months away. 

Now nearing the age of fifteen Akeno had blossomed into such a handsome young man. Though, the older he became the more of him appeared. From the moment he was born with an almost translucent tuft of blonde hair you knew he would lean towards resembling his father. However, as he aged, face thinning over prominent cheekbones and jawline defining; he became the spitting image of Toshinori. A deep void of melancholy, yet also strangely a bit of pride surfaced at this realization.

As the years passed it was clear, he had chosen his path.

Just as his father and you had chosen, your child too dreamed of becoming a hero. 

It scared you. 

Terrified you even. 

You were not the first nor would you be the last to be ‘killed’ in action. He saw the scars. How your voice crackled into stained tones, disappearing into nothingness. The endless hours of futile rehabilitation therapy. The way your body thinned from lack of fully functioning organs. 

He saw the possible dangers, yet still dreamed of it.

And if this is what he truly wanted you would support him no matter what. 

‘It’s what good mothers do.’  

So, when on the verge of graduating middle school, and he came to you with a flyer from an all too familiar school you had to swallow your fear and agree to let him at least try. 

“I like this kid's style. Just like me when I was that age!” Present Mic gushed, watching as this year's group of contestants fought through the first wave of robotic opponents. Only five minutes into the entrance exam and already Akeno had hit the ground running. Screeching his way through metallic foes in hopes of scoring enough points, he had already landed himself on the leaderboard.

All Might watched from his swivel chair, remaining silent, focused on his own protege. His new coworkers banter lost on inattentive ears. 

“Looks like Mic’s got a favorite already.” Midnight laughed, her hands held up and over her head as she too watched. “He’s doing well so far, may even have a shot at passing. Though not sure any of us could handle two screaming blondes.” Now this snagged a bit of the symbol's attention. 

His eyes flitted away from Midoriya’s screen, glancing to the other. Watching with bated interest until a small spark of familiarity struck within him. 

‘Odd.’ He could not quite put his finger on it nor shake the sensation. ‘Have we met before? Perhaps on the train or maybe at a grocery store?’ No no, it was not that. If not that then where? What was it about this boy that stuck out to him?

Maybe it was the vibrant blond hair? It was not an uncommon thing, in fact some of the other contestants had wildly outlandish colored hair. Had he saved him before? Had he met him at a meet and greet?

He would have to ponder this another time. For now, his main concern was Midoriya’s lack of points. Retreating to refocus on his successor the test continued. 

In the end your son had placed fairly high on the exam, landing him a guaranteed spot at UA. The decision was final.

You are going back to Japan. 

“I’m not a child anymore mom.” 

“I know I know, you're a perfectly capable young man. But I'm not about to let you move across the world by yourself.” Finished packing the last of your boxes, now awaiting for the international movers to arrive. Akeno leaned against the doorframe. “Besides, you’ll be living in student housing, so you’ll have plenty of alone time.” Turning to the disgruntled boy and bringing a hand up, you ruffled the top of his head. “But remember, I’ll always be just a short drive away!”

He sighed in defeat, eyes turned away from your hopeful smile. It’s not that he did not want you there, but that he needed to be sure his boundaries were set. He needed space to grow.  

The entire flight you could not help but fidget with the hemline of your sleeved shirt. It’s been fifteen years since you’ve been back… 

Would people recognize you? 

You were in a different neighborhood, far away from your old house and even farther than the shared apartment. Yet Japan was only so big, hence the move in the first place, but surely after so long you would have nothing to worry about. Last time you were here you were in your mid twenties, now you are on the doorstep of fifty. With patches of gray, new wrinkles, more than a few scars, and gaunt thinning your appearance had become almost unrecognizable. But wha-

“Are you excited to be back?” Akeno had noticed your nervous movements, nothing lost to such attentive eyes. Taking out one of his headphones he turned to you. “I know it’s been a while.”

“Yes of course I am.” reaching a hand over, you placed it over his atop the armrest, squeezing the larger palm. 

“Care if I listen too?” You could hear the cello thump as the beginning of Madame Butterfly chimed through his headphones. He smiled back, even if he could sense the unwavering unease and the blatant fake smile, he said nothing, handing over the removed bud. 

The two of you hummed quietly to music until the moon overtook the sun. His head lolled down atop your shoulder as sleep overtook him.

No matter how old he got or how grown up he was he would always be your sweet boy. 

“There, this should last you the week.” Packing the last of the homemade bento boxes into the fridge you had made sure to wrap each one in your signature bunny eared bow. A significant downscale compared to your usual outlandishly adorable packaging. “I made your favorite.”

“You do know that they have a cafeteria, right?” Scoffing at Akeno’s remark and standing from bent within the refrigerator your eyes steeled.

“Oh, so you don’t like your mothers cooking anymore huh? Guess I’ll have to eat this all myself.” Reaching back, you began taking the packages out. 

“NO! Please! I was kidding! I love your cooking mom. Please leave it.” Panicked eyes widened and a bottom lip quivered in a desperate plea. A hardy laugh pushed through teasingly smirked lips. 

“I suppose I’ll let you keep it.”

“Thank you!” Your son's voice returned to its natural cheery tone. Though higher in pitch, alighted with excitement. “Mom there’s something I have to tell you” 

Your eyebrows rouse, quickly leave the small kitchenette to join him on the couch. His eyes locked onto yours, swimming with childlike admiration.

“All Might is going to be one of my teachers!” He beamed a wide toothy grin, almost a mirror of the aforementioned hero. You mentally felt yourself deflate like a popped balloon, exhaling as if all the wind had been knocked free. “ Isn’t that awesome?! ” He let out a boisterous laugh. 

The smile, the laugh, the hair and those big blue eyes. He truly was the spitting image of that man. You felt weak, hands wet and clammy, stomach turning with queasiness, heart thumping against your chest.

“Mom? Are you okay?” Snapping out of your daze you quickly put on a brave face once again, taking a deep breath and nodding. 

“Of course I am! I’m so happy for you ho-'' Your voice chipped and shattered, becoming a harsh croak. Moving to sign the remaining. ‘I am very happy for you! Tell the big man I said hi!’ His eyes tracked each symbol, smile never faltering, used to the use of sign language throughout the years he rejoiced at your admiration with a laugh. Joining him in his laughter, even though yours was nothing more than rushed air and out of nervousness. 

“I’m finally going to meet him!” 

Today was the day. Akeno's first day of school. Though you weren't there to see him off you made sure to send him a lengthy text of encouragement.

Mom: Have an amazing first day of school my baby! High school is a journey filled with excitement, challenges, and countless opportunities. Please remember no matter what happens I’ll always be here for you! Remember to be yourself and have fun! Send me pictures in uniform!

In response all he had sent back was a thumbs up.

All Might stood behind a corner of a building, watching the first year students endure Mr. Aizawa’s quirk assessment test. Again, fearing for young Midoriya, he knew the boy had little to know control of the quirk he had bestowed upon him. Yet he remained hopeful.

What he had not expected was to find himself staring at another boy from the class. 

It was the screeching kid that Mic and Midnight made comments about during the entrance exam that once again nagged at his curiosity.  He felt something indescribable when looking at the boy. The familiar feeling from before returned with a vengeance. Scrambling through hazed memories, he again tried to place the boy within the vast archive. 

“Akeno, it’s your turn.” Aizawa instructed the class to throw the ball as far as they could using their quirks. Simple enough, several other students had already gone, one even managed to score an infinite. Picking it up, Akeno wound his arm back and launched it. Quite average in all sense of the word, yet midair at its peak his mouth opened, and the sheer wind power behind his yell propelled the ball soaring through the air; Higher and higher until the sound waves could no longer carry it. 

��Oh’…

A shiver ran cold down his wide muscular back. The pitch entered his ears yet sank like a rock in his stomach. 

‘Just like her.’

God Damit he could not do this right now. 

These ridiculous thoughts brought him nothing but heartache and were quickly shoved into the overflowing filing cabinets inside his mind. Hopefully lost within the jumbled mess forever. It had taken the better half of three years to finally put a lid on the pandora's box that once was you. To backslide now was out of the question. 

Rationalize.

Quickly erasing the correlation from his mind with the same cold hard truth he had to continually tell himself anytime a memory of you resurfaced; You were dead . 

‘Vocal quirks are not a rare occurrence. This boy was not you. In fact, he looks more like…OH! Stop it Toshinori’ He mentally slapped himself. ‘Focus.’

It was Izuku’s turn to throw the ball. A perfect distraction and an opportunity for his ludicrous mind to get a grip. 

Amazed by his pupils' success, the threat of his psyche collapsing was stabilized.

Lunch time had finally arrived, overworked and exhausted from their first half of the day each kid flooded the bustling halls. The first week finally reaching its midpoint.

“Can I sit with you guys?” Akeno stood before the trio, bento box in hand, admittedly he was a bit bashful at the thought of his classmates seeing the cutesy bow tied cloth covering yet his need for socializing trumped all. 

“Yeah, for sure!”

“Absolutely!” Midoriya and Ururaka ever the kind and social souls smiled, scooting over to allow him to sit. Iida smiled and greeted his classmate from across the table. 

The group made small talk, the main three discussing the woes of upcoming exams and the prompts of Mr. Present Mics writing assignments. Proclaiming that it was far too early to be assigning such tasks. Being the kind soul Akeno had grown into, he offered his assistance with the English class. Seeing as he was exempt from taking it due to already being fluent. 

“Oh yeah, I almost forgot that you are an exchange student, your Japanese is almost perfect!” Uraraka proclaimed, eyes gleaming with curiosity. 

“Yeah! For only living here for less than a month, your Japanese is amazing. I can barely even hear an ascent!” Izuku added, praising his friend. Questions of the states filled his mind. His mentor had made his debut in America, based all of his costumes and merchandise around their flag and even named all of his moves after its states. He too dreamed of one day traveling and experiencing its wonders. Storing his curiosity, he made a mental note to ask later.

“Well, my mom is originally from Japan. She’s been teaching me Japanese since I first started talking. It’s like second nature.” Akeno chuckled, a shy hand brushing down the spiky blond tips on his neck. Refocused on the topic of travel the group buzzed with excitement. 

However as soon as Akeno unwrapped the ribbon and unboxed his bento the conversation steered in a much different direction. A mouth watering scent filled the surrounding area.

“That's so cute! Did you make it yourself? It smells so good! How did you get the fruit into such perfect stars?” Uraraka gushed at the culinary work of art that was her new friend's lunch. Even the grandeur that was offered via the cafeteria paled in comparison, nothing could beat a mother's love.

Again, you had toned down the cuteness of his lunches considerably since he was a child. However, that did not stop you from arranging it with as much passion as you could. It was simple, yet had protein, light carbs, healthy sugars and lots of veggies! 

Akeno felt his cheeks redden. Not that he was ashamed, he was grateful to have a mother so caring however he’s a grown man now! And grown men don’t need bows or ribbons or star shaped fruit.

“My mom made it for me.” He mumbled, shying away from their surely scrutinizing gaze, they’ll think he's a sniffling little ‘mommas' boy.’

“Truly moving to see such a loving display!” Iida’s chest swelled with pride for his fellow classmate. 

“Maybe your mom could make me one of those!” Uraraka laughed along with Midoriya

“She’s right, it does look amazing!” He agreed. Shocked, Akeno took note of his new friend's approval. He may have to ask a favor of you later. 

 Akeno loved each day of class, he thrived and excelled. His passion growing stronger yet. With the announcement of the UA sports festival on the horizon he readied himself to go beyond, ‘ plus ultra ’ as his idle, now teacher, would say. As the bell rang and Mr. Aizawa dismissed the class, he gathered his belongings and waited for his friend.

Himself, Iida, Uraraka, and Izuku had grown quite close. Always sticking together when it came to field exercises, study sessions and relaxing at lunch. Your son always came home boasting about how amazing each and every one of his friends were. It brought your motherly heart such joy to see him thriving. 

As the halls emptied due to the final bell chiming the group chatted in a more serious tone. Uraraka had confessed that she wanted to be a hero for profit. Initially seeming slightly selfish, as she delved deeper into the reasoning the notion was rectified. Quickly reassuring her that she was noble for wanting to help her family, the group divulged their own causes. 

“What about you Akeno, why do you want to be a hero?” Midoriya asked, curious as ever.

“My mom was almost killed by a villain; she was a hero too. I don’t remember much since I was just a little kid, but I know the pain she went through. The years of suffering she had to endure. It’s my life mission to never allow something like that to happen to anyone else!” The young man wore a face of pure determination, his chest swelled with righteousness and a smile stretched across his face. 

“That’s an amazing reason Akeno!” Uraraka beamed, her cheeks swelled with pink, and eyes shined with admiration.

“Truly an exceptional motive, you have my commendation!” Iida bowed, truly inspired. Proud to be the class representative of such a dedicated and selfless individual. Izuku simply stared as the blond laughed and kicked out a thumbs up. Green eyes widening at the action. 

“When you do that face you kind of look like All Might!” Uraraka chuckled, taking the words straight from Izuku’s imagination. Inside her mind images of the two blondes striking various poses together managed to tint her cheeks darker. ‘So cute!’

“She’s right! Could’ve fooled me” Midoriya laughed, though a hint of nervousness laced the chuckle. The more he looked at his friend the more he could see his mentor in him. A flitting image sparked in his mind, though was overshadowed. ‘Strange.’

Akeno simply laughed with them, happy to be compared to his idol.

“Today we will be practicing search and rescue to prepare you for your visit to the USJ simulation. Just the basics as we’ve discussed over the week.” The under enthused tone of Mr. Aizawa droned to the antsy group of young heroes before him. Laid out before them was a near perfect replica of Jaku City. However, the once proud standing skyscraper lay in disarray. Debris and rubble littered the streets. “Scattered around the city you will find several victims; your goal is to safely remove them from the situation without traumatizing them.” shooting a glare toward his most bain student the simulation commenced.

Racing into the disaster the trainees began implementing their teachings. All without a hitch until a young boy was discovered. Screaming and flailing away from any physical contact he laid inconsolable.

“Hey little guy, it's okay. Everything will be fine, com-” As Deku attempted to approach he again cried out slinking away as a gloved hand reached for him.

“I don’t know what's wrong, he won't respond to anything we say.” Confused and afraid of failing, Momo began to panic. Running to the group, Akeno assessed the situation. 

While inspecting the child from a distance his eyes landed on his hands. Small nubbed pointer fingers extended and repeatedly jabbed together. Recognition flashed through his mind. Crouching before the boy, making no attempt to touch him, he waved. Red puffy eyes looked at him and again fingers jabbed together. Akeno’s gloved hand raised, his pointer finger zig zagged in the air and replicated the child’s jabbing motion, ‘where does it hurt?’ Recognizing the signs the boy pointed to his leg. With one palm flat and the other in a thumbs up position atop it Akeno moved it towards the child, ‘let me help you.’ Sucking up his sniffles the child nodded,  arms extended out, allowing the hero to pick him up. 

His fellow classmates watched in confused awe.

“What was that?” Ururaka inquired as the bell chimed, signaling the end of the simulation.

“He was signing ‘pain’. I just asked him where he was hurt and that I wanted to help him.” 

“You know sign language too?” 

“Ha yeah, another thing my mom taught me.” 

The young man had a surprise for his friends. 

You had agreed to make them lunch! How could you resist such an offer?

‘It's what a good mom would do.’  

Though it came at a cost. Defiantly holding the bundle of boxes above your head your face held determination.

“If you want it, make me give it to you.”

“Mom! You know I'm not good at this”

“Only way you're going to get better is if you practice, ya know it took me years to perfect it!” You countered, if he had inherited your quirk, it was almost for certain he too could use ‘the command’. Just had to concentrate. Besides, if he truly did not want to try, he towered over you, making it easy to simply take it. 

Staring at the bag he focused, breathing in deeply his first attempt a near whisper. 

“Did you even activate your quirk? Try again.” 

“ Hand me the bag .” Loud sound waves nearly had you dropping it, not out of command but from sheer force pummeling your ear canal as he screamed it.

“Nuh uh, that's cheating. Look at me, focus. Take in the surroundings, feel the air move through your vocal cords, find the right pitch and push the sound into my ears. Again.”

“ Hand me th e bag” Fog overtook your vision for a few seconds, regaining full consciousness you saw both hands extended towards him. Yet the bag still remained firmly in your grip. 

“Close enough! Good job Akeno” Dropping the package into expecting hands the boy scurried off. One day he’d master the ability, just needed time and practice.

As the lunch bell rang Akeno called out to the trio, having the group gather around his desk. Reaching into his backpack he pulled out the treasure.

“NO WAY!” Uraraka held her own personalized bento box in hand, your son had mentioned her favor of pink, and you couldn’t help but run with it. An adorable checkered pink fabric covered the box with an elegantly tied bow. 

“Thank you so much, please tell your mom I said thank you!” Midoriya’s was of course wrapped in green. 

“From me as well!” Iida’s was a beautiful shade of blue.

As the group happily strolled to the cafeteria a looming figure waited before pouncing out from behind a corner. 

“Young Midoriya! Would you like to have lunch with me?”

“Uh well, thank you All Might but I-” A firm punch to his arm cut the nervous boy off. Akeno stared at his friend, an eyebrow raised and eyes wide.

“You cannot pass up an opportunity to have lunch with All Might!” He forcefully whispered.

“But your mom-”

“Don’t worry about it!” Sighing in dejection he agreed before rushing to his mentor's side and waving goodbye to his friends. He’d have to properly apologize for missing such a special lunch afterwards.

Sitting across from his pupil All Might skeptically eyed the elegantly tied box. As Midoriya began unwrapping it Toshinori felt a deep pang of nostalgia. From the layout to the smell, even to the encouraging message on the sticky note it felt all too familiar. 

“Hey! You forgot your lunch, so I thought I’d swing by to drop it off.” Standing in the doorway of your once shared office with a wrapped box of bento you stared over the mountainous stacks of paper to your beloved blond. “I was wondering if you’d like to share it with me?”

Darkened hues glanced up from their sheet, only for a few seconds before returning to his work.

“Thank you, but I’m a little busy right now.”  Not yet defeated, you approached the desk.

“I could help you out if you want, I don’t mind.”

“No, it’s fine. Besides I think Mei is all caught up with your work, no need to stay here all day.” Mei, a name you had come to regard with disdain. The woman he had hired to help ‘ease your workload’ brought a bitter taste to your tongue. 

“I could wait until you’re done.”

“I won’t be done for a while, please go back home love. I’ll be back later tonight.” 

With lips drawn tight and eyes swimming with animosity you exited, not another word shared.

An agonizing growl of hunger hours later finally forced himself away from the still looming stack. Opening the box and bristling in delight at its aroma he scarfed down as much as his decayed stomach could hold. Placing the lid back atop the container his heart ached at seeing the message scribed sticky note attached.

‘Don’t work too hard! I love you! ’ 

Truth be told Toshinori did not want you to leave, longing for nothing more than to enjoy the meal together. Yet the ever surging rate of crime due to his limited time left him breakless, charging full steam ahead into his work. Darring a glance to his computer's clock, more time than he had anticipated flew by, 11:42pm.

‘I’ll make it up to her.’

He never was able to.

“Where did you get that?” His voice low and graveled, baritone edging into a bass. Shadows darkening overhead, concealing steeled blue.

 He knew it was foolish to relish in such nostalgia however, if he must be plagued, he was at least grateful it is of happier times.

“Oh, Akeno’s mom made it for me. She made all of us lunch!”

‘Akeno’s mom?’ The older man pondered. ‘ Who is she? What does Midoriya know about this woman? What is her name? W- STOP. This is pathetic. It’s just a bento box. Anyone can cook katsu.’ Clearing his throat he nodded.

“That was nice of her.” 

Folding a freshly dried pile of clothes you sat within your living room, absentmindedly listening to the local news reporter drone on about the most recent activity within the city. However, the flash and sudden switch to a different reporter piqued your interest. Placing the shirt down and adjusting the volume, pure horror sparked as realization of the man’s words took hold.

“Breaking News: There is said to be an active villain attack at UA’s training facility the U.S.J, Class 1-A students are trapped inside!” 

Teleported via warp gate Akeno found himself plummeting into the ocean biome. With only a brief second to grasp the situation he inhaled and braced for impact before diving into the treacherous waters. 

The sting of salt blurred his vision yet through the blur he managed to catch the movement of a finned fist, miraculously dodging he struggled to notate his surroundings. Spotting a green blob floating just below, he hoped his assumptions were correct on who it was. Propelled by sound waves he pushes the foe away and himself closer to his classmate. Grabbing ahold of him Akeno releases another shriek thrusting them further away from the swarming thugs.

 He cannot keep this up. 

Lack of oxygen was beginning to take hold; dots spotted his vision. Despite the burn within his chest, he pushed himself to go further. Finally reaching something solid and using the last gusts of air within his lungs he again propelled them. Rushing upward, they broke the water's surface.

Crashing down onto the hardwood deck Akeno hacked, choking on air, desperate to soothe the burn deep within his chest. However, the gurgle of trapped water prevented any mediation. Even with air all around him, It felt as though he was drowning. His chest felt encumbered. Panicked Midoriya gripped his shoulders and turned his friend onto his side. Rubbing and pounding at his back, finally liquid sputtered out with each cough. 

“Is he okay?” Tsuyu emerged from the water, leaping onto the ship, tongue wrapped around a squirming Mineta. 

“We need to get out of here, he needs a doctor.” Listening to his friends' short shallow breaths sent Izuku’s mind ablaze. Though he had successfully forced most of the water out, residual liquid still crackled within. 

Scared for not only his but also his friends' lives, they needed a plan.

“The pros will save us! Right? They’ll come and beat these guys up and we’ll all be safe.” Mineta panicked, the weight of the situation finally dawning on the perverse trainee. Conversing over exactly what had been said during the initial attack coupled with the situation, Tsu and Deku both knew waiting for the pro’s was not an option.

“We have to stop whatever these bad guys are planning!” 

Realizing the flaw in the villain's thwarted plan Midoriya formulated a course of action. Wrapped within Tsu’s tongue and flung through the air via the force of Midoriya’s flick, the group managed to fool and evade the attackers. 

Following the shore to avoid the peering eyes of foes swimming closer to the main plaza the exit was within sight. Akeno’s body trembled within his classmate's grasp, struggling to stand, and barely holding onto consciousness. Mr. Aizawa’s battle raged on, their teachers' struggle growing louder as the group approached. 

How much longer would he hold out? 

A sickening crunch echoed as a monstrous beast's fists crashed down onto their teacher's defeated body, his arms twisting into splintered fractures. Fear spiraled down their spines as the young students could do nothing but observe. 

“I can't watch this anymore.” Tears streamed down Mineta’s face as he clutched both hands over his mouth, trying not to puke at the gruesome sight. “We should be getting out of here super fast shouldn’t we?”

Horrified Midoriya glanced from his beaten teacher to his half conscious friend. The once confident persona adopted for escaping the ship now shattered. Internal conflict had him paralyzed. 

‘To be a hero you have to put others above yourself.’  

The mantra repeated itself over and over within his head. Though, what was he to do now? Two people needed him: Akeno and Mr. Aizawa. They were both in life threatening condition.

Yet… he could not bring himself to choose which one to try to save. 

“Oh, before we leave. Let's make sure the symbol of peace is broken.” In an instant the main villain lunged, barreling straight towards their group. “Let's make this hurt! You look too much like him, disgusting. Don’t worry I can fix that.” With a palm extended he advanced, mere centimeters away from Akeno’s face. The group's breaths stalled within their chest, unable to move...

Yet, he stopped, halting dead in his tracks. 

His once hate filled eyes glossed over, the red hue now dull and empty.

Mouth agape in shock Midoriya looked to the boy that clung to him.

Akeno’s head was up, his eyes staring towards the villain, mouth moving yet the words inaudible. 

“Leave us alone.”

Hushed whispers rushed through the air, directly to their target. Forced in and demanding obedience the command took hold. 

Backing away the villain retreated, up the stairs in a disconnected stupor until reuniting with the warp gate. 

“What the hell was that!” As Shigaraki’s senses returned, anger boiled within his voice, eyes wide and fingers digging into the skin of his throat. Nails raked over the bloodied irritated skin. “No, no,no,n-”  The slam of once sealed doors drew his attention away. 

The man they had been waiting for finally arrived. 

“Have no fear students. Why? Because I Am Here.”

Faster than the puny thugs could process, All Might swung into action. At last, the young heroes' fears came to rest as they watched the world symbol of peace dispatch of each and every evil doer within his path. Crossing the battle field within seconds he swiftly scooped a beaten Aizawa within his arms and grabbed the group of frightened children. The jarring motion of being flung around sent Akeno into a fit of hacking. His body heaved against the muscular arm, blood splattering against the white button up. 

Seeing his colleague and student so injured fueled Toshinori’s already raging inferno. Gritted into a tight frown, his teeth ground together. 

  ‘I should have been here; I should have protected them.’

“Everybody back to the entrance, take Aizawa and Akeno with you. They don’t have much time.” Again, plagued by indecision Izuku again looked between the injured men then back to his mentor. His intuition screamed for him to stay and help All Might, to fight by his side. Based on what Thirteen had indicated before training All Might must be near his limit, leaving him vulnerable. Yet his heart yearned to get them to safety. 

Once again, the decision was left in his hands, who does he try to save? Taking notice of his prodigy's indecision, All Might addressed him.

“Young Midoriya! I got this!” 

“Right.” At his master's words, Izuku tightened his grip around his classmate while Tsu held Mr. Aizawa, they ran away. Not fully assured the nagging thought of being the soul bearer of All Might’s limit and the danger truly at hand made up his mind. Seeing other classmates racing down to the exit he laid Akeno down.

“Tsu and Mineta, take Mr. Aizawa and Akeno to the entrance, I have to go back.”

“What? Are you crazy? We can't hold both of them! Besides All Might has this handled, we have to go!” Before the grape themed trainees' words even registered, Deku ran past them and back to the ensuing fight. 

The battle with the monstrous ‘Nomu’ had the man exhausted. Barely clinging onto his mighty form, All Might’s body trembled in exhaustion. All he had to do was stall and keep up the mirage.

Shots firing and the overly jovial voice of principal Nezu signaled his relief had finally arrived.

“I'm sorry ma’am but I can't let you in. The school is under strict lockdown procedures!” The police standing guard in front of the gates had attempted several times to reassure the grief stricken woman into leaving. Yet you refused. 

‘You have to! My son was in the attack! He could be hurt.’ hands quickly signed, yet they could not understand nor make an attempt to. Growing agitated they ordered you to back away. Even when attempting to mouth words of reason their resolve stood firm. 

The crackle of a speaker and flicker of a screen caught their attention. A small mouse-like creature's face lit the device. Principal Nezu’s beady eyes and smile stared down to them. His paws placed one over the other, a steaming cup of tea sat atop his desk. Analyzing the situation with a sip of his beverage, he addressed them.

“You must be Akeno’s mother. Please come in.” Metal unlocked and the screech of a singular entrance opening rattled through the once impenetrable wall of steel, an elderly woman stood within its threshold. Her wrinkled features offered a warm smile, as she ushered you in. Despite her cheery attitude the cloud of despair that formulated upon hearing the news refused to dissipate.

You needed to see him, to know that he was okay. 

“Right this way dear,” Leading you down the winding corridors, her syringe shaped cane clacked against the tiled floor. Its steady rhythm a direct contrast to the thunderous beat of your heart. Stopping just outside a door labeled as the infirmary your anxiety overflowed. Eyes watered as tears gathered on the rims and a few slipping by. 

Gesturing for you to wait she sighed, “I healed him as much as I could, but the boy needs rest. He almost drowned today.” Wiping away the tears you nodded, attempting a brave face yet your mind swam with regrets. 

‘He almost drowned? Almost died?! … We've been here less than two months and already he's had a brush with death. Was allowing him to come here truly for the best? What kind of mother am I for willingly putting him in danger? I knew the risks. How could I allow this? How could I…’

“Come.” 

Half of the room had been sectioned off by drawn curtains, blocking the other patients from view. Light whispers shared between the two males fell silent once you had entered. 

Upon seeing Akeno false bravery slid away and tears fell once more. 

Rimmed with darkness his eyes remained closed with heavy breaths as he slept within the white sheeted hospital bed. 

‘My baby’

Toshinori and Izuku laid beyond the thin curtain wall, both watching as the silhouetted woman stood before her son. 

A shadowed hand reached for the boy, tenderly stroking his cheek before her head bowed to rest against his. Rushed breaths and sniffles indicated her distress as she wept.

An endless pit of anguish at both the situation and himself opened within the older man's heart. Sighing he looked away from the scene, up towards the white ceiling, and an unbandaged arm fell over his eyes. Afflicted by guilt any curiosity regarding the young man's mother vanquished, weighed down with the burden of responsibility.

“I should have been there sooner.” His voice barely above a breathed whisper, more so a taunt to himself. Yet within the otherwise silent room it carried through. 

Your sobs stalled for a mere millisecond as recognition sparked fear into your aching heart. 

You could recognize Toshinori’s voice anywhere.

‘Not here. Please not here. He can't be here. Not now.’ 

Trying to muffle the ragged sobs your body struggled to stand. Hunched and breaking you held your son's hand, squeezing it tightly to stay grounded. Heartaching for both the man beyond the curtain and your beloved child, your mind felt hazy, far too many emotions swarmed within.

“Ma’am?” An unfamiliar voice called out to you. 

Peeking his head out from behind the curtain walls, Izuku had forgone Recovery Girl’s orders. Saddened and riddled with his own guilt he felt compelled to speak to the grieving woman. Your back remained turned towards him, yet your head lifted slightly in acknowledgment. “Akeno saved my life. He protected me and our classmates. You should be proud of him.”

‘Proud that my son almost got himself killed? Proud that I allowed him into this lethal field? Proud that my son… saved people?’

For a split second your head turned, facing the boy. ‘Akeno risked his life to save him?’ A bittersweet smile splayed across quivering lips. Izuku’s eyes widened, recollection though brief flashed within his mind. 

You looked familiar… 

Mouthing the words ‘Thank you.’ you turned back. 

“I thought I said rest!” Recovery Girl had returned. Infuriated to see her patient in direct violation of her orders, her cane raised ready to wallop. Slinging the curtain back into place Izuku rushed back into his bed, though his mind swirled in confusion at what he had seen, or at least what he thought he saw. Recalling his stockpile of memories in an attempt to place exactly where he recognized that woman from, However, the after effects of Recovery Girl's quirk had his eyelids heavy. Dropping down, mind clouded and unclear sleep took hold before he could reminisce further.

Sitting beside your son's bed you awaited his awakening despite the ever looming presence of a man you had vowed to forsaken mere feet away. Azure eyes opened, hazed and confused they glanced around the unfamiliar room before locking onto you. His mouth opened yet only strained groans escaped. Blond brows furrowed as he continued to struggle, croaking crackled words. Quickly raising your hand you signed; 

‘Don’t speak, you’re hurt.’ Nodding his own hands rose from under the sheets.

‘Did we win?’ A silent airy laugh escaped your lips, tears long since dried out. Rubbing his forearm with a soothing hand you comforted him with a nod. 

Though the lighthearted mood soon turned stern.

‘You almost died, Akeno.’ Eyes downdrawn he stared at the white bedding. Hands fidgeting for a few moments, desperately trying to find the right words, until they steadied. Blond brows furrowed and lips drew into a tight line. 

‘I did what I had to. To protect my friends.’ Sighing, you bent down, kissing the top of his forehead and ruffling a hand through his wild blond locks. Wrapping his arms around his mother the two embraced. 

‘I know and I’m proud of you.’

[ohburgee]

Valerie, a peaceful human, fell in love with an omniscient eldritch deity, becoming his eternal lover.

She was sitting at the back of her house watching the ocean she contemplated her life, letting the eldritch deity fall in love with her, recalling she was, his eternal love, perfect vessel, and devoted human...

She heard a footstep coming closer to her and she looked up to see him and turned her head back to watch the ocean again.

"Ocean comforts you?" he asked and she nodded "I see," he said standing behind you "Those sounds of waves made my entire mind peace," she said "Maybe one day I face death i want to touch the ocean water and feel the cold breeze and the sound of waves till my time ends" she added she has been thinking if one day she will be dead.

She heard a movement and she turned her head and saw him walking in front of her, "Why would you say that" he said sounding mad about it "I don't want you to be dead, I won't let that happen" he added looking at her with the desire of not letting you go.

"If the death themself took you I will punish them with an eternity of dread and I will defy them you don't remember I'm the eldritch god I'm the Ruler of Chaos and Creations the existence of reality is in my hands".

"If that happens I will bring you back and make you immortal and keep you with me in the abyss of void, outside of reality" he said and he kneeled in front of her and took her hands slowly caressing with his finger up and down to her arms.

He took both of her hands and reached them to his lips and kissed them looking at her with a full desire of love then tentacles wrapped around both of her arms, "You are mine you are my eternity love, and I'll never let you away from me" slowly kissing her hands the tentacles wrap tightly around her arms.

"Remember that darling"