#out of all of them he's reek the most while oddly enough three-fingers is the most tolerable with his stank for some fucking reason

[cannibalcreepers]

Strange that One-eye is the softest of all the brothers but is HIGHLY capable of being so deranged and savage. Sweet but insane.

I find his softness is from how naïve and curious he is compared to his brothers, he's very capable of being viciously cruel but given an opportunity, can also be gentle. Why he was so willing to take food from the people who had trapped him and his brothers in a cage (WT4), along with why he was petting Carly (WT1) he's simply curious Doesn't mean he'll trust people straight away, or at all, he just doesn't think ahead and is more a simple-minded man that lives in the moment. Though out of his brothers, you'd have a much higher chance of manipulating him to like you enough to not kill straight away, you just need to be quick on your feet and confuse him enough.

[visual-explorxtion]

Scarlet Letter [Chris Redfield x Reader] - One Shot (NSFW)

Summary: In the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, your captain, Chris, leads your team to find the research of the latest virus. But, the operation was unsuccessful. 6 months later, you meet him again.

A/N: Coming out of my cage, and I’ve been doing just fine🙃 I’ve shat this out of my ass unfiltered brain and have little to none expectations. Was suppose to be around 2k words but somehow shat out 4k instead. So, please expect nothing but 5 am bad writings🥲

Warning: Explicit content, like, hardcore explicit content if you haven’t catch the drift from the title by now.

Word Count: 4.4k

The scent in the atmosphere reeks of damp and saltiness- stiffening the senses in your nostril. The flooring beneath your heavy boots sways left and right as the hollow hallways creaked and groaned travelling further down the extent. The repetitive flashings of door to door is already making you sick in this dusky labyrinth. It's been 30 minutes since you set foot in this abandoned ship.

Your mission objective: to retrieve documentation and possible samples of the new variant strain of the virus. As easy as a retrieval mission may sound, the location of this requisition is also a motile laboratory. Admittedly, this is a dexterous way to cover any signs of your tracks– especially if what you are making concerns the wellbeing of the world and stirring another biohazardous warfare. But, to you, the work of fighting in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean is not the most ideal place in the world.

Cautiously trekking through the vessel, you've reached an intersection with hallways splitting into three different directions. A sturdy arm extends in midair, bringing your group to a halt. You all listen attentively, a few faint footsteps and unnatural growling swirls in the air but you can't quite pinpoint its exact location. The limb drops from your vision, instead it turns to face you all. The man's face is ragged, not only from exhaustion but also from the things he has seen through time. And yet, the amber burning in his eyes remains gleaming with hope. Chris Redfield, the captain of this retrieval mission, and your sole mentor since you've been recruited by the BSAA.

Chris glanced over you all once then began to sign with his hands. He splits your group into pairs; one team going left side, your group to the right and himself pushing forward. You all nod in agreement and move out to each direction of the crossroad respectively. Weapons engaged in position, lagging a few steps behind your teammate and check your watch. 0327 hour. Well...for you, time is of the essence.

In search of any signs of evidence but nothing seems to resemble what you were sent out to find. Corpses laid dormant in several rooms, blood tarnished the metallic floor deck but it seems to be running dry on the outer edge. Meaning they've died for a good few hours ago, but you don't see any signs of struggle. No stab or gun wounds, nor were they hit by any blunt instruments. Just blood oozing out, like the body itself is rejecting the vital fluid and pushing it out of the pores. Just the sight of this is rippling a chill down your spine. If this is the new strain of the virus, then you need to speed up your search for the documents, with evidence like this proves its value.

Another two steps along, you both reached a door unlike the rest of the ones you've seen. This one appears to be more sturdy and with an electronic keypad built into it. A room with a lock tells you that things that are usually classified or kept away from the prying eyes are often kept in a locked room. Maybe this mission wouldn't be so difficult after all.

Your partner carefully grabs a hold on the door handle and swiftly gives it a twist. To both of your surprises, it was unlocked. But that leaves a pit in your stomach as you know things generally don't work so easily. You nod and he pushed it open. The room is dimly lit and the beacon attached to your gun isn't doing any better. From what little light sources you both have, you can just barely make it out that you are situated in a conference room. A long, clear glass table sits tightly in the middle of the suite, with a few cabinets on either side and a laptop oddly placed at the far end of the desk.

"There. You go see if you can find any information. I'll stand guard"

They nod, speed away towards his objective and begin its continuous tapping on the keyboard. You took several glances at them impatiently before returning to inspect your surroundings for any imminent danger. But in return, they left out a hefty breath and shook their head.

"Dead end. Can't find anything on here." they sigh.

"Go look through the cabinets. There must be something." you tip your head towards the cabinet as you respond. Peering at your watch again. 0335h. Time is running out.

As soon as their back is turned away in your direction– immediately slamming the door shut and the electronic keypad emitted a small beep with its activation. You frowned and took three shots until the electronic part fizzled and the light darkens. They tugged at the door in frustration, but it wouldn't budge. As they look up to the smug grin on your face, fist clenched and pounding as hard as they could but the door stays deadlocked. You shook your head slowly, seeing the confused look on his face as you reached into your back pouch. In your hand, a palm-sized device– caught in red and blue wires, roughly composed with a digital face sitting just on top showing the number 30 on it. The blood on their face drained as they realised what you were holding.

"I sincerely hope you can make it out alive before this reaches 0." you smile, pressing a button and leaving the device on the floor. You turn and leave them effortlessly lashing out at the door.

***

Every twist and turn of a corner, you toss a bomb as you make your way back to the crossroad, heading to the direction where Chris set off. You wonder just how much he knows about this virus, or better yet, if he had any idea of your true intentions. Nevertheless, you won't let him compromise your only mission.

In your peripheral vision, you see Chris just up ahead. You ran to him breathlessly, staggering a step or two before reaching him.

"Captain! Are you alright? I heard gunshots." you gulped.

"I'm okay. What happened to the others?"

"We got separated in the middle of our search, then I heard gunshots so I went to inspect. Have you found what we are looking for yet?"

He nodded. "Yes. It seems that the new strain of the virus is worse than we think. I'll radio the rest of the team and get HQ to pick us up."

Chris walks off just a few steps, clutching the SD card for a closer inspection. Your shoulder shifts slightly and your hand gradually reaching for the back pocket and grasp for something. As he turns to press onto his in-ear radio, you plunge a cylindrical tube into his neck and dosed him. Arm sideswipes towards you, making you tumble back but catching yourself gracefully landing on your own two feet. Chris falters on his knees, just barely managing to pull out the syringe from his artery with the SD card spinning out of his grasp.

"What did you do to me?" He managed to push out a few words.

You stare at your feet where the SD card sits shyly just next to it. Picking it up delicately with your fingers and sigh.

"You know...I went through so much trouble just for this tiny thing." you wave the chip about as you make your way around the room. "But, no thanks to you...Captain." you smiled.

Chris sinking lower towards the ground as his muscles shake uncontrollably to keep himself upright. You stroll and position yourself in front of him, meeting him eye to eye.

"Hm. Somehow, I thought you might be smarter than this. All these...role-playing...serving under you." Force grabbing his chin and you inspect his face once more. "Did you enjoy yourself? Honestly, I had fun. But, all good things must come to an end." you whispered in his ear and drew your lips gently onto his. The warm sensation fills you for a split second before parting yourself from it.

Chris's face remains expressionless from the side effect of the drug, but you see a slight hint of awe in his eyes. Now, this is getting even more humorous to you. Glancing at your watch once more, 0400h. You stand, shoving the document chip in your pocket and letting your hand rest there as you lean against the window sill.

"Oh, Captain," you hear the distant pairs of footsteps gaining closer to your direction. "I'd wish we had more time." You smirk, just as the rest of the team surrounds you, gun in hand pointing in your direction and creating a barrier between you and Chris Redfield. Lifting up your left hand, hoping to prove your innocence but really, what good would that do?

You took an exaggerated breath and rolled your eyes, any minute now. As the team inches closer and closer towards you, out of the blue, a deafening 'BOOM' went off and shook the room. Without missing a beat comes another one.

"I believe that's my cue." Before they could react, the flash grenade releases out of your hand and a shock of light hits. Blinded by the flash, they fall prone and helpless to your defence. You took a few steps back, and with a charged run, you leapt out of the window and swan dive into the cold, pitless ocean to the muffled sound of explosions.

***

6 months you've been on the run and back to working independently. News about you spread quickly as you soon become a wanted criminal by the BSAA, but you also received more work thanks to the flamboyant advertisement.

Unwinding at a corner cafe in the middle of Paris, the sun shines just enough to be blocked out by your lavish sun hat while flicking through the top news pages. 'Increasing number of outbreak cases in several countries' seems like this is just the beginning of your newly found virus, and more importantly, turning a new leaf for your career.

Sipping a glass of '82 Lafite, breathing in your surroundings and admiring the view. Observing. The bustling street of passersby, the wind waking of emerald green trees and the leisurely patrons sitting around and behind you in this cafe. Sooner or later, this place will be a shitshow and overthrown by the hands of human-induced monsters.

You slipped a couple of bills and grabbed your lighter off the table before sauntering away before somebody did recognize you, not the first time you've had a run-in with an agent or somebody just wanting that bounty on top of your pretty little head. In this neverending cat and mouse game, there's only one winner, but you're not going to be the one that gets caught.

Wandering aimlessly down the streets to the sound of mild chatter and heels clicking against the cobblestones. Strolling at a comfortable pace and casually tipping your sun hat to adjust to the warmth of the sun, you abruptly stopped.

"I believe it is a criminal offence to publically stalk somebody. Or, did you forget that already?" you tease. Looking from behind, he stood there, dressed in black from head to toe. A perfect contrast to your floral white one-piece. "Captain... Well, I guess it would be best to call you Chris now." you faintly smiled.

Chris did not answer right away. He loomed, with that familiar upright frame but even more of a worn-out look on his face than the last moment you saw him. His cheeks concave a little, his stubbles have grown out to almost form a full beard and the light behind his eyes has diminished to blackened ash. It pains you to see him like this.

"I'm here to take you back," he ordered.

"And, what good would that do?" you paused, picking out your cigarette case from one of your pockets, a row of orange and white strips arranged neatly one next to the other. You drew one out and let it sit comfortably in between your slender fingers, out of your other pocket, a gold plated zippo and with a flick the cigarette sparked.

"Taking me back so you can get your ass praised? I'd suggest you go back and be a good little captain before the world goes up in flames." pressing the narrow stick against your lips and taking a deep drag, the warmth swirls and fills your lungs all the way with a slight tingle. The smoke rolls out in between your mouth and veils your face as Chris watches intently.

"I'm not here to turn you in," he spoke firmly and his eyes never left yours.

"Oh! Interest..." you gawked. Taking another long breath in. The ember burns away more and more like the distance between you and him. Drawing you closer until there is no distance left.

***

Mind hazed in red, you stumble backwards into your apartment, hands still entangled between each other's embrace and the passionate kisses. With each touch, your senses grow more numb, filled with nothing but lust.

You made an attempt at kicking off your heels and successfully discarded one side but your frustration did not go unnoticed. He grabs the back of your knee in one swift motion, fingers gently run along the underside and tug your heel off to the corner of the room. Skimming the edge of your sun hat, with a flick of the wrist it comes off and lands somewhere. You broke off his sultry kiss, gasping for air, face flushed in rose as his face mirror's yours. The colour of his eyes now burns as brightly as you can remember– like amber melted and infused to become a part of him. Its beauty encapsulated in the door to his soul. Tempting and mesmerizing.

Chris kept a hold of his gaze on your mouth– now red and puffy from excessively sucking on it. He leans closer once more, hoping to feel the sensation of you again, but you stopped him with the slightest touch of your index finger. The pad of your finger grazes tenderly along his lower lip, you could feel the vertical creases engraved across the top. Irritated, he parted his lips just enough for him to taste you, drawing in and softly nibbling on your skin with his canine, salivating down the palm of your hand. You snap your finger back and he growls, impatient for his desire.

Snatching a fist full shirt, you lead him through the hallway and enter a cosier area. Nothing in the room speaks personality; a cream wooden drawer, soft brown desk by the window, an unkempt double bed situated in the middle and a full body mirror with a sheet draped over it. You gave a shove and he collapsed onto the bed with a grunt. Spreading his legs wide open with a kick as he props himself up on his elbow.

Hands and knees crawling towards the prone stud and stopping until you both are face to face. His eyes scanning every part of you, searching for the slightest change of your emotion– a change that might sway your mind, rejecting him. You both lock eyes for a moment– trying to sense what goes on in their mind– his eyes flicker from your left vision to your right, taking all of your facial features in, memorising them. You leaned in close, just shy of an inch away, hovering just above his mouth, feeling his presence. He attempts to lean in closer but you withdraw a little as his voice comes out quiet with a plea.

Giving him one last glance over, you parted your lips for him as his tongue enters per your invite. Compassionate and needy, his kiss became more demanding as if trying to devour you all at once, marking you as his own. His teeth nibble and softly sucking on your bottom lip, it becomes even more puff up and a few droplets of blood oozes out as he licks them away, tending for your wounds. Hands entangled onto each other clothing, tearing them off of each other's bodies with any difficulty and tosses aside.

Chris's palms roam freely from your shoulder blades and slither down, taking in two handfuls of your ass and flipping you on your backside whilst he towers you on top. His mouth leaves you with a feverish haze, running his tongue over the length of your jawline and tasting every section of your luscious chest and working a trail of kisses down your abdomen. A firm grip shift to your thighs– almost spilling out– as he parts your legs wide opening, welcoming him to take a mouthful of you. You gasped when he took you in, hands helplessly reaching for the sheets, he drinks you in and teases you playfully by grazing you with his teeth and sucking on the spot. His burning hot tongue runs down your length, protruding your entrance several times before slithering back up top again.

Deep marks imprinted on your lower lip, stifling any noise that threatens to escape your throat, but that soon was broken free by your beloved captain. A hiss slipped, reverberating in your eardrums, as two rigid fingers explored your walls which made you tense up from this unfamiliar feeling. The continuous prodding made you twist and squirm even more so, as the pace quickens, the heat in your belly grew with the flaming desire, burning you over the edge and tightening around him. Gently, he retrieves his hand as he looks down at them, spreading his fingers apart. The white silken fluid cascades down the length of his forearm– gleaming with the scent of you– he runs his tongue along his limb, tasting every ounce of you without missing a drop.

Breathlessly, you watch him attentively playing with your discharge, still strung around his long, harsh fingers, lustfully smearing it across your pillow lips before nudging them into your mouth, giving you a taste of yourself. A bitterness intertwined with a hint of saltiness of his digits, his hand caresses your cheek as his mouth crashes back down onto your, feeling the heat of his rising through to you. Tongue twirls on top of one another, a lick of his canine and piercing his lower lip until he grunts in pain, antagonizing his pleasure and taking back your dominance.

You smirk at the brilliance of your work, blood trickles down the corner of his mouth as he swipes away with a flick of his thumb. The annoyance painted on his face made you even giddier, but his desire for control will make you wish you never had triggered something within him. Chris gave a rough tug, sliding you closer to his peaked length, gripping your hip so mean, bruises are bound to surface the next day. He positioned himself just barely touching your opening, loosely slipping up and down tormenting your craving for him to insert his dick deep within. Taking this as a challenge, your legs wrapped and locked around his waist, seizing the means of his movement but forward. A fiery breath scatters across the dip of your neck, creating goosebumps around the area, now covered by the moisture of his saliva.

He gazes at you, cocking one-side of his eyebrow, leaving you in confusion about his ulterior motives. In your new confoundment, his teeth sink deep into the curvature of your delicate skin as he plunges all the way to the hilt. You scream, can't decide whether it's from the pain of his chomp, or him stretching and filling your abdomen to the brim. Muscles twitch in discomfort, the size of this thing is tearing your physicality and sanity apart, all thoughts scattered from your brain, only white noise occupies your mind. Subconsciously, you wiggle out of his grasp, but only for him to throw your legs over his broad shoulders, slamming back down his length, hitting all your sensitive spots again. Your back arches from the force of his retaliation and your sweet moan echoes around the room.

His hip stirs with each thrust he takes and earns a moan in return, rearranging and moulding your internal organs into the shape of his. Subtly moving across your stomach, a hand tracing every curve of your midriff and stopping just below your belly button, lingering over your skin for a few moments before putting a light pressure where a thin wall of muscles separates his cock. Your head threw back in ecstasy and toes digging deep into the mattress, hands desperately grasp for his arms for strength as you scream out his name. Bedpost banging against the wall with each bit of momentum that caused the silk sheet to fall, exposing the full-length mirror just facing you. The animalistic position that presents before your eyes startles you and makes you turn away out of embarrassment. He constrains your jaw and twists you back into view.

"Watch it," he commands. “Look at how I’m fucking you senselessly.”

You witness the part where you and he connect, devouring his member inch by inch, feeling all the ridges and veins brushing over and over your sensitive spot, pushing you closer to the edge. Nails delving deeper into his flesh, creating new scars mixed with his old bullet wounds, you inhale a sharp breath as you unravel onto him the second time, clenching rhythmically to your descend. As the waves of pleasure crash before you, Chris slowly subsides his movement to let you adjust to your coming down, your vision returning to his face that’s filled with compassion.

Stamina quickly replenishes and before he could react, your leg hooks around his knees and pulls, he tumbles backwards, landing abruptly onto the mattress with a slight jolt. You flipped your position with ease, riding on top with his body heat still connected deep within. He seemed impressed by your skilled manoeuvre as he got handsy with your ass again, groping the rounded meat a handful of times before bringing his hand up and slapped it. The pain made you welp and clenches him tighter which earned a raspy moan slipping out of his lips.

Hip rolled against his hard length– prodding further into you– earning you another erotic hiss from his pent-up breath. In this position, your insides are being stretched wider between pleasure and pain. Your hands made their way to his chest for support as you began sliding back out, and all at once, dropping all the way down. He groans, the combined movement is wearing him down as you can feel his dick pulsing rapidly to indicate that he is on the verge. Your arm reaches backwards, a finger trailing up along his inner thigh, teasing the shape of his bulge and drawing circles around it. To his surprise, you grasp the base of his shaft, restricting his means of climax. Chris fists the sheets and growls in disapproval.

"Not so fast." you giggled.

Twisting and fighting as his loaded passion is met by the pain you've conflicted on him, which brushed your ego to see him act like this. Your little captain, patriotic and stone-faced on the battlefield, now falls weak under you– pleading for a sweet release. You comply, quickening up your pace, rolling your hips in between the intervals of riding, you positioned yourself at an angle, letting the head stroke your delicate spot harder. The repetitive motion numbs your mind, waves of bliss building up again in your abdomen as the slapping sound resonate louder around the room.

Blood rushing up to your head, with the white noise filling up your ears and thoughts once more, your body spasmed as you came, eyes seeing stars from the immense heat. You release the grasp of his dick as he cries out and injects you with his thick load– thrusting intensely with each discharge. His cum fills you to the brim, spilling down your thighs still freshly warm. You scoop up a little until it covers the tip of your finger and traces it along with your tongue before swallowing– salty with a minor chewy texture.

Your legs eventually gave out, still twitching from the aftermath, you flopped on top of the now exhausted Chris. Both gasping desperately for air, you listened closely to the pounding of his heart until it subsides to a normal beat. How very strange, being alive.

You put an abrupt stop to your internal thoughts so you don't ruin a good moment, considering this might be the first and last you get to do this with him. Pushing yourself off him, you lay silently with his arm tucked under your head, you sigh, seeing him fastly sound asleep. Thumb softly caress his cheek and faintly tracing the bags under his eyes, a slight pang hits you, recalling your own mistakes that lead him to this. Your eyelids grew heavier– struggling to keep yourself awake– you kissed him once more and whispered before succumbing to the darkness.

“I’d wish we had more time.”

***

Arm in search of the body next to him, but the cold emptiness is left in his presence. Eyes shot wide open, the room still shrouded in blackness with the pale moonlight seeping in. Chris sat up, trying to put the puzzle pieces together, remembering where he is. He scans the room, looking for a hint of you, but you were nowhere to be found. He sighs, picking up his undergarment off the floor and trudging out of the bedroom. The rest of the house is dim, but the moonlight gives him comfort and company at this moment, he knew you were already gone.

Taking a closer inspection around, he never noticed the simple furniture placed around the apartment that already occupies the space when you arrived. The lack of liveliness proves that you weren't going to stay for long. Of course, Chris was one of the reasons. Recollecting his items of clothing around the house piece by piece, he spots a red note sitting on the edge of the counter. A symbolic fragment that's surrounded by the monochromatic landscape. He reads to himself and shakes his head, skimming the bottom of the note where your initials are printed on. Hesitantly, he pockets the notes as he exits the place, leaving him with the final message:

"See you around. x"

[katsukikitten]

Thirsty

A/N Please enjoy what I’ve been self indulging all week.  It was a cliche but fun concept to write! @bakugotrashpanda​ this is the fiction I was dming you about bb. Yall readers leave your thoughts pls bb enjoy~

Warnings: Aged Up/18+ AU, Vampire AU, blood, intense sex, mentions of marking.

He hasn't fed in days, no make that fucking weeks.

Months even although he has tried.

Hoping some stupid fool would venture out during this pandemic and now mandatory quarantine.

Not that the threat of the disease mattered to him, his body would correct whatever ailment in a matter of seconds.

And he needed to eat.

But as usual he has some shit luck. Not a single soul left on the once packed streets.

And there you sit all the temptation in the world, your sweet scent was already hard enough to endure during the few hours you were normally home. Causing the ash blonde to avoid any of the "community" spaces of the dingy shared apartment.

Only agreeing to have you move in since you has claimed you would hardly be home as you were too busy with work.

So busy in fact you could never come by to see the place in person. Further encouraging the angry recluse's decision.

But had you ever come in person he would have denied you, turned you away no matter the price you were willing to pay.

And especially so if you begged.

Because you fucking reeked.

So repulsively pungent that after just meeting you his throat closed up, eyes narrowing to slits as he felt a deep ache within him.

Going out that very night draining three people drops from dry.

Fuck, who was he fucking fooling?

He never liked liars and he was never good at lying either.

You were far from repulsive really.

You were fucking delectable, irresistible.

Sweet scent lingering in the apartment for hours, clinging to the fabric of the couch, the peeling wallpaper like the smoke of a cheap cigarette, clinging to his skin.

If he was that fucked up over your scent how heavenly would you be on his tongue?

He could imagine from what little he felt he could taste in the air during your full moon. Causing his vision to narrow on that steady strong pulse lying just beneath glowing skin.

He has to force himself to leave even if he's just fed, one whiff had him thirsty all over again. He'd turned full glutton from just the smell of you, draining a dozen at a time and yet no amount could please him.

His fangs poke his lower lip now, aching with the urge to sink into tender flesh from just the thought. His salvia already secreting that deadly addictive oxytocin that would bring euphoria to both parties.

He swallows hard but it does nothing to satiate his thirst.

His ever drying throat.

Scarlet eyes cut to the door as he hears the soft pad of your feet stop before the fragile wood that separates the beast from beauty. You rise your capable fist tapping the door gently.

"B..Bakugou..."Your voice is soft as you call through the thick oak. He smells salt in the air causing his stomach to twist.

Were you crying? His throat tightens, muscles screaming for him to move. That this moment, this vulnerability was a golden opportunity to wet those aching fangs. Blunt nails dig into heated palms as he hopes to wait you out but here you go again becoming wholly undeniable.

"Sorry to bother you." You say so softly he almost didn't catch it over the shuffling of your feet.

His heart breaks in two as he lunges for the door, biting back more than just his words.

"What, Y/LN?"

His eyes seem to glow blood red in the low light of the hall, causing you to step back.

There was an intensity to his gaze you could never quite place.

It was as if he hated you and wanted to consume you whole all at once.

Desire burns through your veins especially so when a soft caramel scent is wafted from his room.

You swallow thickly, red eyes dart down and fixate on your throat, a blush creeps over your skin from the obvious blooming bruises.

Why did you have to have your throat EXPOSED?!

Where were your normal oversized hoodies that hid away your sins that you now display openly?

Fading black bruises and pink teeth indents that drove him fucking wild.

Someone dared to mark you and a fucking weak mortal at that.

Bakugou didn't think you had a boyfriend or girlfriend for that matter but you had been smelling like the same male the past few times you ventured out only to return in the late hours of the night.

And long before this house arrest bullshit happened too.

He stares down, body rigid as he is almost fearful to move. One twitch of his finger could set him off, pouncing onto you to leave the markings of a true male.

Instead he grinds his teeth, canines scrapping the inside of his lip. All the while you begin to feel dumb for seeking comfort from a roommate who barely looked your way.

And when he did it set your skin ablaze. A cold sweat runs down your spine as you take a step back.

There wasn't a lot you were scared of in the world, what with being a hero and all.

But there was just something about your roommate that unsettled you.

Whatever it was it sat on the tip of your tongue and when the word was to tumble from your mouth you'd look into that heated gaze and the thought would combust into hot flames.

That licked over every inch of your body.

"I uh...." You stammer, dumbstruck for the first time in your life. Swallowing your pride almost choking on it as you half shout.

"I want to play a game or watch a fucking movie with someone. You can pick but..." He watches one arm cross beneath your breasts, pushing them up a tad, while the other hand covered your throat, making its way up to block your plush lips as you look away. He's noticed this about you in the past year of living with you.

Normally you hold your head high, voice boisterous ringing with confidence but you seemed to curl in on yourself when you spoke to him.

"But I just need someone right now." It comes out soft, borderline desperate as he watches your fingers punch harshly into the skin of your ribs.

He stares you down, fully taking in the bags beneath your eyes. The way your normally glowing skin is slightly lackluster and the red rims of your bottom eye lids.

He hasn't smelt you cook anything in the past few days and there weren't any snack for you to munch on in the house.

You can't stand how his red eyes slice through you like a scalpel. Blade so sharp you notice you're exposed much too late.

With an explosion of your limbs your hands are on your hips, teeth bared before you turn on your heel, yelling.

Fighting back angry, hurt tears.

"You know what, this was fucking stupid. Forget I ever..." A strong hand wraps around your bare bicep, warm to the touch.

"Quit being fucking dramatic and give a man a damn second to answer." He snarls, pulling back his hand as if he touched a burning stove, "I'll make something to eat."

"I'm not being dramatic!" You screech, wholly proving his point. His eyes narrow on the nape of your neck before watching your jaw clench and the quickening tick of that juicy artery.

Still you stomp to the living room, picking up voicing to the hologram to pull up the movie archive. Clearly picking for him.

There was no point in him making enough for two as eating never silenced the ever present growl in his belly or the ache in his teeth. For ever robbed the joy of eating, of cooking.

Everything tasted either tasted like soggy cardboard, salted sawdust, or like ashes of the ghost that food once was.

That's what Bakugou had hated the most about this curse that was placed on him almost a century ago was how much it stole from him.

His sense of taste.

His family.

His friends.

Some days even his desire to live.

He rounds the peninsula of the kitchen with what he's deemed your favorite, placing it into surprised hands.

He must have been right as blush creeps on your cheeks. You take a few bites still scrolling while your thoughts slowly take over.

When was the last time you'd seen him eat? He always cooks but then leaves the containers in the fridge for you with a sticky note scrawled with his roughly neat scrawl.

"Y/N, Eat this before it goes bad dumbass."

You tap the fork to your lips pondering over the mystery that is Bakugo Katsuki.

"Why don't you ever eat what you cook?" Your curiosity slips out in the form of a question.  He side eyes you before nodding at your food silently demanding you finish eating.

"It’s never what I'm hungry for."

His voice sends goose flesh over your skin, hairs on your neck standing straight up before you swallow.

What the fuck was wrong with you?

Acting like this and in front of a guy you barely knew.

Well, that's partially a lie, you knew a little about him from observing him from time to time.

He'd stay up way too late and would come to the love seat only after he thought you were in deep sleep.

When he is really agitated his skin pops like little fireworks dancing along his forearms which usually only happened when someone named Deku called.

He'd do what he's doing now, despite the harsh look in his ever angry scarlet eyes he cooks for you.

Changes your laundry over when you forget with a scoff but most oddly he indulges you.

Like he is now, sitting squished on the love seat with you, legs spread just enough to avoid touching you.

You give him a glance and finish eating, finally selecting a movie as you're done.

His eyes widen for a moment as you select a movie that would have been considered old even in his time.  It stirs odd feelings in his stomach.

"Really, there's 3D movies and shit. And you wanna watch a movie that's not even in color?" He snorts, you would pick this one wouldn't you?

"We must always remember the classics." Is all you say, settling in. Fluffing the blanket over you both and even having the audacity to lean closer to him.  You notice his rigid muscles beneath you but you're so desperate for touch that leaning against this stiff board was far better than spending another night alone with your ever twisting mind.

Slowly he melts into your touch, gulping mouthfuls of your scent but enjoying you none the less.

Realizing that he too had been touch starved.

When was the last time he held someone in his arms?

Hell when was the last time he was this close to someone without feeding?

Ten, twenty years?

It didn't matter, he outlived them anyway so why bother getting attached.

Soon a comfortable quiet settles over the old apartment as it is painted in the soft tones of blacks and grays.

Voices mingling in the air as Bakugo silently agrees with some of the lines.

"Of all the gin joints, in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine."

He feels that way about you, of all the cheap apartments you could have looked at online you chose his. 

You with the smell like no other.

Sweet enough to somehow get him to watch this shitty movie again, he puts his head in his palm watching the old film play out.

How many times had he been forced to watch this in the common room of the dorms all those fucking years ago?

And then again in shared apartments when nothing else was on or when Bakugo would lose rock paper scissors.

"Remember, this gun is pointed right at your heart.”

"That’s my least vulnerable spot.” Bakugou grumbles in unison with the long gone actor.

Your ears perk, having never pegged him to like such a heart wrenching movie.  You giggle, earning a glare and a bark.

"What?"

"Its just I never would have dreamed you'd ever sit down and watch this movie willingly."

"You're right. I wouldnt. Shitty hair..." He clears his throat, "Kirishima, for whatever fucking reason, used to love this movie. Said it was manly and honorable or some shit like that."

"Used to?" Silence stretches between the two of you for a moment until he sees you fully engaged on him.

His heart twists as he looks down on you and he begins to wonder if your quirk is to pull out unsolicited emotions. His fangs don't ache nearly as much as his chest as he pushes through the feeling.

A feeling he hardly allows himself to have. Thinking of his best friend who so hurt by this curse he refused to feed on humans.

But animals couldn't suffice, their bodies needing something in human blood in order to maintain their peak form.

It took him twenty years before he stopped eating all together.

And when he neared the end, neared the point of starvation where instincts would take over he amplified his quirk until he turned to stone.

Oddly enough he's a shrine relic now.

"He passed recently." Five decades was recent to Bakugou.

Your heart stills in your chest as you see real emotion bloom on his face. Cheeks slightly flushed, eyes almost watery as the bitter nostalgia washes over you in waves.

Without thought you lunge for him, wrapping sturdy arms around his neck to pull him into the comfort of your body as your fingers rake through his hair. Pushing his face against your warm skin.

His nose is pressing into your throat as your sickeningly sweet smell floods his mouth but that isn't even the worst part. 

No the worst part is that he can feel your pulse against his lips.

It was like putting a starving dog in front of a steak and telling him not to eat.

Fuck.

His teeth grew on their own and he cannot stop himself as his strong arms wrap around you, pushing you ever closer before he sinks his aching canines into your tender flesh with a groan.

Oxytocin floods your system produced by both his body and your own.

He opens his mouth further, ready to suck in a mouthful of what he's been dying to taste. His pupils dilate and his pants grow tighter at the sound of your soft moan.

He is suffocating, drowning in the dizzying sweet smell that melds beautifully with that metallic tang he cannot get enough of.  He wants to savor this sinful high before he has a taste.

Meanwhile you body sears and freezes all at once as a tingling sensation spreads through your body starting at the nape of your neck.

As if a ghost traces its finger along your spine causing you to turn into putty.

"Fuuuuck, Katsuki." You groan. The sound of his name leaving your lips feels as if he's been plunged in a pool of cold water.

He jumps away from you, nails biting into his palms hard enough that half blood moons will surely litter his hands.

Panting as he tries to keep his tongue away from his canines that drip deliciously maddening red.

Fearful if he gets even just a drop on his tongue he'll kill you.

He'll drain you dry and leave you to rot in the already decaying apartment.

It takes your head a moment to fall down from the stratosphere before the small holes in your throat close seamlessly with a sharp bite.

You press your hand to the wound, only small specks of blood not yet dried paint your palm.

Shocked eyes rove over the muscular body as things start to slowly piece themselves together.

The explosive temper, ash blonde hair, piercing red eyes, an intensity unmatched and that popping quirk he used when extremely agitated.

Instantly the picture in the old text book pops into mind as you imagine the man before you with a black cowl.

The whole section about his story, about how he and  two other heroes had been attacked, bitten, by some immortal being. They shortly fell off the face of the Earth after that.

Mind going into overdrive as your memory floods with the text of files you've been assigned and the voice of the woman you just recently interviewed.

She was the same age as you. Later twenties, petite, long fire red hair with glossy eyes who was mysteriously left in front of the hospital. Suffering from severe blood loss but not a wound in sight.

Not even a fucking scratch.

And worst yet she wasn't the first one. There was one daily and dozens when it neared the ended of the month. Worst yet there was never any video of the perp, just a glitch in the frame before the victim is lying helplessly by the entrance.

Still her slurred words haunt you as you think of her response to your question.

"He was hot. Strong muscles, smelled sweet, like candy and nostalgia. He looked so familiar, like an old movie star or something...."

Or maybe she was thinking of an old hero.

"Ground Zero." The hero name sounds foreign to the panting blonde.

Shit when was the last time he heard that name?

The sound of his old alias brings up surging memories that fist fight with the smell of the blood on his fangs.

Of an overly arrogant boy who was so scared to fail he hardened his heart.

A heart that begin to break while he watched his idol fade away before his very eyes.

Slowly it was mended again from old misunderstood rivalries turned friendships and acquaintances turned family.

Only for them to age and crumple into dust as he stands witness with Father time.

All save one with emerald gems for eyes.

"When was the last time you ate?" It comes out harsh as you rack your brain for the name of that villain, the one that is said to still hide out in the outskirts of a run down city in the states.

You knew Bakugou wasn't that asshole who mutilated bodies after he fed. That much was apparent by his sheer will power to leave you be for the three months the two of you have been confined to these four walls.

But if it's been months like you think surely he cannot live that long with out eating right?

The slightest dark circles hang beneath those scarlet red eyes, cheeks a little paler than normal and his fangs.

Canines elongated, swelling up his gums a bit indicating his hunger, his thirst.

When he does not speak it confirms your theory and it lines up perfectly with the timeline of that woman.

His last meal much too long ago.

"Come, eat." You tap your throat with almost shaky fingers. Heart halfway breaking over the torture it must have been.

He snarls, unmoving ready to bolt for the door but worried he will give in to the ache in his teeth and throat.

Of gulping down every last drop your godly body had to fucking offer.

When he makes no move you grow impatient, allowing your quirk to shape shift your nails into claws.

"You fed me, I feed you. Now I'm telling you to eat." Your voice is commanding as you scratch deep grooves into your forearm followed by beads of dazzling red.

His eyes dilate unnaturally before he swallows thickly.

Getting just a small taste of your blood from his fangs before he is pressing you into the couch, forcing your arms behind your head as he licks a swipe up the wounds. A shudder runs through you both before you feel the skin pull taunt and close fully. 

Only for pain to settle in your wrists as one strong hand holds them there before his free hand tilts your head away. Exposing that damn neck you had to press him to. He bites into that blessed artery before pulling harshly at the skin, deeming your flow not fast enough.

You taste far better than you smell and he has to be careful with you for fear he won’t be able to stop. Especially so with each encouraging mewl that leaves those lips and reverberates in his mouth.

His grip turns tighter as you look over him, eyes savoring his sculpted body beneath his tight tee and that bulge that rests in his tight black joggers.

You knee it teasingly causing him to snap away from your neck.

"Careful." A guttural growl, causing you to clench around nothing, "Don't start what you can’t finish."

"Oh I always finish what I start." You free your hands quickly, tugging at his joggers more than needing the treat that lies beneath. He catches your wrist, eyes darkening.

"This isn't how I normally feed."

"Then it's time to try something new." Silence stretches between the two of you, he tries so hard to resist. To tell himself he's had enough at least for now but he finds himself gravitating towards you.

Being pulled back into the heat of your kiss as if the two of you were tragically magnetic.

You positive and him negative.

He rips your camisole from your body exposing your breasts to him. Your skin is marred with more dying bites than he'd like. He smirks to himself as he thinks of you, this strong, brash being and it is hard for him to imagine you to be so submissive 

To bend to the will of someone else.

He thinks he'd rather it just be for him.

You notice his smirk as he licks some blood from his lips, your stomach twists in anticipation. Not realizing how much you like those lips curved upward, even if it means he may devour you whole.

"What?" The smallest of blushes creeps along your skin as he leaves you exposed.

"Tch. You own yourself until you're in the bedroom and that's when you want to be marked." He presses kisses along your breasts and collar bone, biting over the fading hickies, "By the looks of these you went out not too long ago.  Naughty girl."

He bites causing you to moan as he laps at the blood before removing his mouth. This time allowing all of the little bite wounds to stay open for a few minutes. Little bruises dance beneath the puncture holes. His eyes rake over your body, drinking in every detail as a slight shudder runs through you.

His thumb swipes over a small pink bite mark on your hip. He isn't sure why he feels so jealous over the thought of you lying beneath another man.

Of you gazing up at them in anticipation as their hands sully your skin.

Of their mouth littering your perfect skin with their half assed love bites.

He knows he shouldn't feel this way, you were a grown ass woman who wasn’t his.

Yet he was tempted to call you his own.

"These are pathetic." He murmurs as you watch him lean forward to replace the bite with his own.

His breath is warm on the hip bone before he slides those damn teeth in, giving you another hit of that intoxicating drug.

"Then show me how it should be done. Mark me as yours." He looks up at you, mouth still attached to your gorgeous skin. You fight the urge for your eyes to flutter as you stare him down. He removes himself, blood dripping from his lip.

You swallow fear and choke on desire as he rises above you, hovering over you as he corners you into the couch.

"You wouldn't be able to handle a true marking." His voice is dark, threatening as he leans in to nibble at your lip. Tips of his fangs indenting your plush bottom lip but never piercing the skin. You pull back a bit to better hold his gaze.

"I can handle it." Your voice cuts hard but your eyes scream fuck me harder as you gaze up at him under long lashes.

"Are you sure you can handle it?" His hand slip between your thighs, that you happily spread, to find you soaking, his nimble fingers swirl over a needy clit as you fight from turning into putty in his hands.

You need to be in control for just a moment longer, for just long enough to convince him you won't break so he could go all out.

"I know I can." Your eyes flash serious before returning to that bedroom look causing him to sheath himself in a harsh thrust.

Your head rears back into the couch, biting back the moan hard enough you taste blood.

Only for Katsuki to lean in, pulling your bottom lip into his mouth. You watch his face contort before he shudders over top of you. You feel him twitch within you causing you to whimper, trying hard to get some sort of friction.

You never knew Bakugou Katsuki would like to play with his food.

"You're such a naughty slut aren't you, Princess?" He gives another harsh thrust, "Body begging to be fucked out."

How the fuck did he know you loved dirty talk?

"Can, can you read minds?" You pant and he laughs darkly. It's an oddly pleasant sound as it echoes back to you.

"No..." He leans in kissing you until you feel desperate for breath before he presses his forehead to yours, "When I feed I feel their strongest emotions temporarily. If I mark you, make you mine for all the world to fucking see I'll feel your most intense emotions and vice versa. Always or until the bond is broken."

He squeezes your ribs until they groan beneath his touch as he reads your expression.

Where you turned off, were you no longer wanting to be marked? You lean up to bite at his lower lip. Pulling as you ease back down.

"Then make me yours, Katsuki."

"Maybe." He kisses your throat, testing the waters with each thrust until he's set a brutal pace.

Causing a coil to quickly tighten in your stomach.

He plunges into you, wholly, figuratively, lapping at your throat before nipping in your ear as you moan loudly.

"You're taking my cock so well Princess." He praises causing you to clench around his length.  His own eyes threaten to roll in the back of his head and he wonders when the last time he has ever felt so in tune with some.

If he ever really has.

The couch hits into the half wall with sharp percussion as Bakugou pulls all but a scream from your lips, nails turning to claws ripping his shirt to threads before they scrape down his back.

He takes bites of you here and there as he thrusts into your throbbing cunt, hitting your clit with his pelvic bone as he bottoms out in you with each harsh snap of his hips.

"Fuuuuck. Katsuki." Is all you can say over and over as he brings you to your first high of the night.

A sweat prickles over your sensitive skin as the coil in your stomach snaps convulsing beneath him as your legs lift from his back.

Eyes fluttering, head thrown back and throat exposed to him as your pussy attempts to milk him dry, coaxing him ever closer to his own climax.

Shuddering as he feels yours in his own blood.

Red eyes drinking in the sight of you, messy sex hair, cheeks and lips red from the rush of blood, body spasming due to his thrusts.

He takes a hand and swirls across your puffy bud, tongue licking at your perked nipple send you into an over stimulated series of body rocking orgasms paired with the high you feel that drips from his fangs with each bite.

You pant heavily, body going limp after your sixth Earth shattering release, vision blurring and all you can see is red.

You can barely hold into his biceps, one hand trying so hard to pull at the ash blonde that sits at the nape of his neck.

He enjoys the sight of you fucked out, border line having your tongue stuck out as if you were making an aehego face.

And all of it just for him.

"What's wrong kitten? Can't finish what you started?" He asks cruelly teasing you ever close to yet another high. You smirk up at him weakly, trying so hard to respond without sounded totally exhausted.

"I can." You use the last of your energy to buck back into him a few more times before he presses his hands to your hips, leaning to growl in your ear.

"Save your energy Princess. I plan to make a round two. Can you last just a bit longer?" His voice softens near the end, fully sending you what you were fighting tooth and nail to avoid.

That ever dangerous subspace as you've fully opened your heart to someone whose true identity you just learned.

Hell, you guess that was better than doing it for someone whose name you didn’t even know as you've done before.

"Yes, Katsuki-sama." You gasp out causing an unexpected chill to run along his spine. He looks down at you in your radiant glory and decides right then.

He decides that he cannot stand the thought of anyone else causing you to look like this. For anyone else to cause your walls to crumple as you expose yourselves wholly.

Or the idea of anyone being able to taste you.

And with his mark not only will other vampires avoid you but anyone who is sexually attracted to you will feel his gaze even if he is not there.

His thrusts turn sloppy as he chooses to give you what they call a mate's mark.

This one will be even more intense than what he originally debating on doing.

He sinks his teeth into you, a groan echoes back to you competing with the sound of your drenched core being pounded into as blood fills his mouth.

He struggles to deposit the right amount of venom because if he puts too much you will be close to losing your free will.

Just as he pushes in the right amount you shatter beneath him, cunt becoming so tight he cannot stand it and he fills you to the brim with seed thrusts harsh to make sure you receive every last drop.

Your body vibrates and stills all at once as your eyes roll into the back of your head.

Voice going so high it becomes raw before you quiet beneath him.

He removes his teeth from your throat, lapping at the spilling blood hopeful that he has neither drank too much nor given you far too much venom.

He holds his breath with each passing heart beat fear seeps into his bones. Stilling him to his core, your eyes should be opening any second.

He repeats the mantra over and over fearing your pulse is getting weaker, eyes hardly fluttering.

He swallows, the bittersweet after taste of you settles on the back of his tongue, whispering what he always seems to forget.

That not everyone he's marked has woken up.

[mrneighbourlove]

Evil’s Bane: Ch 4. Dangerous Uncharted Territory

Once the portal was open, Black went through first to scout for any potential danger. After a few minutes, he gave the go ahead to come through. Oddly enough, the land was striking. It was full of life, unlike the opposite side of the mountains. There were trees and grass as far as the eye could see instead of a harsh and unforgiving desert or wasteland.

Hades was the next to go in, trotting about and keeping an eye out for danger. Finally, Leere walked in. The sun was bright, and the sky was blue. The air was more breathable than Omisha as well. She guessed they were still closer to the border than central Malus, because if she looked far enough, she could see mountains in the distance. The area they were in had many hills, with fields of grass and vibrant flowers around them. Taking a breath, she looked to Bonegrinder, honestly confused, but a little relieved. Finally, she settled on a little sarcasm. “Land of torment and lifeless death, eh?”

"Don't you start, you haven't seen the inner city." Bonegrinder poked her nose with his finger. "This old snake has a long time ago."

"The land has recovered in these areas, though I am skeptical of the areas closer to civilization." Black looked around, taking in his surroundings. He was adept at tracking and studying the lay of the earth since his job was to be as sneaky as possible. "It has remained untouched for quite some time."

“Well, let’s look around. Can’t find what we are looking for if we don’t start walking.”

"Don't wander off, stay close." Bonegrinder repeated to Leere. "You never know what could be watching. Or who could be watching."

Hades was on the lookout, when he suddenly heard a snap of the grass about 50ft away. In the distance, an insect creature ran out of the tall grass. Suddenly, a reptilian creature, a beast akin to a raptor, jumped on top of it. It tore the insect apart, using claws to tear off its shell, talons on its feet to hold it in place, and sharp teeth to tear into its flesh. As it was eating, it picked up on a sound Hades made repositioning himself. It appeared to have no eyes or nose, simply having two holes in the side of its head.

Leere was cautious, yet fascinated by the pale reptile. Still, she dared not move.

"Oh fucking hell, I forgot about those." Black whispered under his breath to the others. "Don't move. They hunt based off movement through the earth."

The Reptilmox looked around, focusing on the movement of Black speaking. When Black stopped talking, it slowly started to lose interest. Why put energy in finding more prey when it made a kill? Grabbing its meal, it dragged it back into the tall grass to devour.

Hades waited a little while, before feeling confident it was far enough away. “Everyone keep walking.”

"Watch your step." Black told the group as they slowly made their way through the tall grass.

"And your back." "If one of those saunters out again, we will do our best to avoid fighting it." Bonegrinder informed the others. "Draw less attention. However, if it detects you and comes at you... run."

As they walked through the tall grass, they found the first sign of civilization. It was a pointed road sign that read, “Go back to Heilogtum.”

Leere looked around their surroundings. The area still had beautiful grass lands, but was now mixing opening up into a valley pass.

"Now that... was put here recently. Look, the wood hasn't rotted a bit." Black looked at the sign. "It's obviously a warning... but for what?"

Hades looked around, and was the first to see the danger. A pack of the pale reptiles, all the size of him, were running around the valley corner. “Incoming! Hold your ground!”

Trouble was heading their way. If the group had to flee, Bonegrinder was not too worried about Hades. The Lynel was fast. Black could run for ages, yet, he could not surpass the speed of one of those damn reptiles. Leere was only human and there was no chance if the reptiles were too close. With a slight indication of his head, Bonegrinder motioned for Black to get on his coils. So the assassin grabbed Leere and held tight to the Anagari.

Leere was ready to fight if needed be, but being grabbed would be make it harder for her to help.

Splitting into pairs, the reptiles circled Bonegrinder and Hades respectively. Hades already started to run in the direction the sign pointed. As one of the reptiles jumped at him, he reared back, kicking it with the force of ten horses in the head. The creature was more disoriented then anything, fumbling about.

The pair chasing Bonegrinder made a jump at him, wanting to claw him and tiny figures apart.

Bonegrinder was trying to keep his magic use to a minimum. If the demons of Malus were anything like those he faced in the past, the fiends would sense it and try to find him. Though, just because he could use magic, didn't mean he could not use brute strength. He whacked one reptile in the head with his massive tail and coiled his body around the other's neck, snapping it.

The Reptilmox left fighting Bonegrinder hissed viscously. Opening its mouth, a thick tongue shot out to try and snare Black of Bonegrinder from a distance.

Black reacted rather swiftly, reaching into his belt and pulling out his blade. He sliced off the tongue and pushed Leere down to avoid the appendage.

Able to at least cast magic, Leere pointed a hand out, and a necrotic ball of shadow energy shot out. Hitting the creature, it screamed, the flesh on its face boiling off.

As two more were about to engage, there was a loud rumbling in the east. With a bark between them, they ran off, ignoring the prospect of food, fear taking its place.

Bonegrinder only uttered three words.

"Don't let go."

With that, he took off as fast as he could slither, Hades following behind him.

Leere did as she was told. She couldn’t see it, but she could hear the rumbling and feel the earth shake. In a mountainside, there was a cave with a sign pointing towards it. In the cave, a thick fog filled all its walls and area. When Hades approached it, he was the only one to feel a terrible effect on his body. He noticed one of the monsters veer away from the cave as well. It most likely would bring physical harm to monster kind. “Bonegrinder. You must flee here without me.”

"What?!" Bonegrinder was almost inside the cave when Hades' statement caught him off guard. He gestured for Black to stay with Leere while he slithered back to Hades. "This is the only place we have to hide right now. He cannot in good conscience leave you here alone!"

“I-I can’t explain it. I can’t enter.”

"Then he will stay with you to fight while Black guards Leere."

“No we-!!!”

“Oh dear god.” Leere muttered breathlessly.

Coming into view was a massive colossus. A construct of stone, earth, energy and a thick reek of flesh for a body. Turning a skull face with skin dangling from its mouth, it laid eyes on the group. Colossi Mata had the form of a massive tiger with the head of a dragon and the horns of a bull. Raising a hand slowly, it came down on an unfortunate Reptilmox, crushing it with the scale of an ant. Slowly, it turned its attention to the group. Despite looking like something that crawled out of hell, the Colossi was of balance and pure neutrality; it killed any creature it saw, be it monster, animal, human or demon so it might not escape Malus. Hades knew this was a flight situation, not fight. “No! Go through the cave! Now!” Without another word he started to run off. “I will find you later!”

"Kit, get back here!!!" Bonegrinder used the nickname he gave to the Lynel years ago, imploring him to move into the cave for safety. He tried to lunge at Hades, but the Lynel was too quick. He was off into the tall grass and the Anagari was forced to retreat into the cave.

The massive colossi turned its attention away from the group and onto the Lynel. The last Bonegrinder saw was a gigantic beam of light shoot from its horns and engulf all sight between the snake and Hades as it tried to eradicate the monster.

Leere held Bonegrinder’s hand as they ventured through the deep fog. She could feel the anguish almost radiate off Bonegrinder. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

"... he should be fine. He's been in worse situations than this." Bonegrinder tried to stay positive.

"It's funny to think that this old snake has known Hades since he was a small kitten."

"An angry cat, you mean." Black snorted.

“If you say he’ll be alright, I believe you.” Leere had no idea how deep they’d have to walk through this fog. Best they keep going with hopes high.

~

The heart of Malus was pumping hard as the Cults of Inferos double checked all their modifications on the Great Tower. For years now, a breakthrough was made that could harness untold cosmic and necrotic energies. If the tower could be modified, it could be used as a conductor for something truly horrific. The residents of Inferos were either horrified beyond belief of what was soon to come, or they ultimately resided to the future.

One man was checking symbols on an obelisk put in place, when a figure floated behind him.

“Are we certain preparations are working?”

The architect lowered his book, looking over his shoulder to look into the eyes of a being of shadow. The form flickered like static, glowing intense eyes not shy of radiating a deep sense of dread and evil. Even the most devoted cultists didn’t like to stare too long into those eyes. Looking back at the beacon, the architect answered. “All the Obelisks are set, and the engraving are set to the runes that have been instructed all down the tower.”

The architect then rubbed his brow, looking up at a sizzling worm hole not too far above his head. Ever since the Gods showed up, they gave gifts of sealed away knowledge. Most didn’t complain at first when they opened a gateway to a dimension of pure energy to siphon from, but then came all the undead that couldn’t be outright controlled… and all the visions that brought paranoia, madness, and anger to those who were ‘weak minded’. “I must ask, but why do we wait to use the tower? Is the energy source above us not enough?”

The shadow leaned closer, whispering from rotten lips into the Mortuus’ ears. “We need a summon forth an organism that would be powerful enough to be a connection between the dimension and the tower. And one that my master can trust.”

“Where is this organism?”

“Sealed away in the flesh and soul of a Mortuus woman.”

The architect once again wiped his brow, feeling sweat drip down his cheek. “Wait. That Mortuus?”

“Yes.”

“But she does not reside in Malus, let alone Inferos.”

“That is why your God has taken the time to bring about her long-awaited return to this monument to sin. Here, her purpose will at last be achieved.” The shadow growled happily into the man’s ear as a new sinister and deeper tone left its lips. “I have awaited a long, long time for this.”

________________________________________________________________

Previous Ch. https://mrneighbourlove.tumblr.com/post/625816338129207296/evils-bane-ch-3-onward-and-forward

Next Ch. https://mrneighbourlove.tumblr.com/post/626093697379008512/evils-bane-ch-5-belief-scattered

[platypanthewriter]

Up the fairy mountain, seeking

The Keg-King of Elfland’s Sword, Chapter three

with @neonlaynes​, for @ihni​

Billy’s horse shifted, as a wave thudded the ferry against the dock, and Harrington glanced over to meet his wide eyes.

He laughed. “The river comes down from the mountain,” he explained, pointing ahead to where Billy could see the peak rising through the fog, “—but the sea mixes with it.” He waved off into the mist. “One day, when I was a child, a wave took the old town. You can see the roofs, on clear days. Things swimming in and out of the windows.”

A shiver ran down Billy’s spine, and his horse whickered, shifting at his unease. He leaned to stroke its shoulder.

Once everyone else was aboard—Thomas and Perkins sitting with heads hanging over the water, and their knuckles clenched over the edge of the planks—Wheeler paid the ferrywoman for the use of her boat. She nodded, swallowing, and wished them luck.

Buckley and Harrington took oars. Billy moved to, sliding off his pony, but Wheeler stepped up beside him, crossing her arms.

“It would be wise for a human to carry iron,” she said, and he croaked out a laugh, waving away her gloved hand offering a nail. She raised her eyebrows, then drew them together. “...where did you say you were from? How long have you been here?”

“I-I—will be fine.” Billy took a step backwards, and his shoulderblades bumped against his horse.

“He touched mine.” Harrington’s voice came from the other side of Billy’s horse. “Last night.”

“He could’ve switched it,” Perkins yelled, then bent her head back over the side, and Thomas rubbed her back, watching Billy.

He forced a smile, and held his hand out for the nail.

She dropped it in his hand, watching his face, and he squeezed it, keeping his shoulders loose, feeling the edges bite into his hand as he smiled. It always helped that it was a slow, cramping ache.

She took a deep breath, rubbing her face. “I apologize. I am—we did—return with Barb, we—thought. But it was not—my friend. Not human. I am jumping at shadows.” She walked over to grab an oar, patting the horses she squeezed between.

“...Billy,” came Harrington’s voice, in a whisper, and Billy glanced up from his fistful of cold iron. “Come here, I’ll show you how to punt.”

Billy wandered over, nudging Harrington with his shoulder. “My given name?” he whispered back, grinning, then nearly yelped as Harrington’s fingers slid between his and took the nail. He didn’t say anything, and after a while watching him row, Billy took a deep breath.

“...you were going to teach me to—”

“Why are you lying?” Harrington whispered, his eyes on the river and the slowly surrounding fog. “Why don’t you want it?”

It’s a strain of hysteria, passed from my mother, Billy considered saying. She died in a sanatorium, claiming she was Morgan le Fay. Or maybe it was all true, and I am a mongrel. They say you see what the Fair Folk wish. It could be this face is fake, and I look like that monster last night. Or is it that I know what I truly am, and know it would expose my lies, strip away the pretty illusion and show the grasping monster I— “There may have been Fair Folk in my bloodline, somewhere,” he laughed, tilting his head so his eyes sparkled appealingly. “My mother was born here, you know? It’s probably my imagination, but I swear it makes my fingers go all pins and needles, as though I slept on my arm.”

Harrington laughed, nodding, and bit his lips. “Of course. That—that follows.” He glanced over, frowning, and Billy bent forward and leaned in to press their lips together. Maybe she was telling the truth, Billy’s father had told him. Maybe that’s why I didn’t look closely enough. People love you, after all, until they don’t.

As they neared the bank of fog, it whirled around the edges of the ferry, eddying around the shapes of Buckley and Wheeler rowing.

“Why are you here, Billy?” asked Max, and he jumped back, nearly overbalancing save for Harrington’s arm around his shoulders.

“Ignore the voices,” Harrington whispered. “They—they aren’t—”

“Give me the child,” said Will Byers, or rather his voice; and Billy squinted around, then looked down to see the silvery-gray eyes of a submerged horse, its long face floating an inch out of the water. He caught his breath.

“Don’t answer them,” Harrington breathed against the side of his head, and Billy nodded.

As they paddled closer, the waves began pushing them more off course towards the overarching jagged rock, and Thomas, and even Perkins, grabbed oars. The horses were starting to toss their heads, sidling restlessly, and Billy gathered their heads together, for once hoping he had some magic gift of the blarney. Their bridles were slippery with water from the heavy mist.

He took a slow breath, measuring out the size of the ferry in his head. It was smaller than his room at the inn. He didn’t want to think of the results of six horses, packed between their riders, panicking over deep cold water with rocks jutting up like knives.

Wheeler’s choice made sense, now, the stolid little beasts taking in the haunting calls and the wave-tossed ferry with barely a flicked ear. He grimaced, imagining the horses he trained even stepping aboard.

Clearing his throat, he started telling them the first story he thought of, about water. “Weeri and Walawidbit stole the water from the well,” he muttered, glad the horses wouldn’t expect it to make sense, and watching another water-horse breach, close to the cliffs. It had sharp teeth as long as his fingers, and the water from its mane stung his cheeks. “Weeri and Walawidbit stole the water from the well,” he whispered again, stroking the horses’ soft noses. “This was evil, as there were children, and babies, in the camp—but no rain had fallen, and they were selfish, and driven mad with thirst.” The horses sniffed at his arms and trousers, and he scratched their cheeks and ears, distracting himself as well. “It was very hot,” he whispered. “When the warriors woke, they said, ‘We will bring the water back. We will capture Weeri and Walawidbit, and return the water’,” he told one solemn face. It flicked an ear.

“There is water enough,” said Wheeler’s voice, from behind him, and he saw Wheeler herself nearly drop her oar.

“We have taken one town,” said Buckley’s, the effect somewhat ruined by the real Buckley swearing over it. “We can take another.”

“Give back the child,” said Max.

As they passed another lantern, on a pole in the rock, Billy wondered who lit them, or if they were some kind of fairy fire. The waterfalls were growing louder, adding to the mist, and the swells under them swirled a bright foamy green. The gray horse to Billy’s left tossed its head, its mane whipping across his ear.

“The warriors chased Weeri and Walawidbit, throwing spears,” he said under his breath, feeling useless. “They pierced the water-carrier—”

“Why do they want children?” Thomas asked, abruptly. “That seems—”

“Ellie said they’d done something,” Wheeler whispered, her voice still echoing oddly around, helped by a dissonant chorus. “They made her do something, she and some other children, before she fled. She didn’t know what, exactly, she—”

Her voice cut off as a gust of wind brushed away a swath of the fog, and the filtered sunlight danced over the Falls, plunging over a cliff most of the way up the mountain, through worn planes and windows in the rocks. It was red, over what looked like a churning sea of blood. As they neared it, rowing along the cliffside, the foam splashing around the edges of the ferry began to show a red tinge.

“The devil is that,” Perkins muttered, stepping up to lean against Buckley’s shoulder.

“Iron,” Wheeler choked out. “So much iron, it reddened the Falls.”

“What’d they do?” Harrington stopped rowing to stare at what looked like the mountain bleeding, gouting a ribbon that shone crimson in the sun. “Small wonder they’re furious—”

The ferry clunked against one of the rocks, tipping, and slapped back into the water. The horses started whinnying, and stomping, and Buckley yelled, “Row, bastards!”

“The water gushed from the water carrier as they ran,” Billy told the horses, and himself, patting necks and rubbing noses. “—and sprang up billabongs, and there was water—”

“To your left,” said Thomas, and then the real Thomas shouted, “No, right!” and Perkins and Harrington yelled, and pulled, and the rock merely scraped along the side.

“I am Nan Wheeler, daughter of Karen Wheeler, and we are almost there,” Wheeler yelled, and then started calling heave ho, heave ho. It would have been funny, except for the voices from the water.

When they got within a few feet of the shore, the horses all bumped against each other moving toward the stone ledge, and Billy barely had time to get his foot in a stirrup and swing onto one. The ferry tilted down, then back, as they surged onto the outcropping, and he scrambled to grab reins, then realized they were content to mill around, now they were on solid ground. Thomas, Perkins, and Buckley lurched off the ferry as Harrington moored it, and then he and Wheeler staggered onward.

“What possessed us to put horses on a boat,” Billy muttered, realizing he was astride Buckley’s ride and swinging down. She clapped his shoulder on the way by, and then Perkins and Thomas Hall leaned into him on either side, still reeking of rum. Perkins’ arm was bandaged where he’d nicked her arm the night before with his saber.

“Thanks for the story,” she said, grinning. “I’m a fair swimmer, but it’s treacherous, here—”

Thomas leaned in to say, “That what you did with Harrington, last night? Whisper in his ear?”

“Maybe you should have tried it, instead of watching him from the corners, slavering like a hungry dog,” Billy muttered back, and Thomas spun on his heel, raising his fists. Perkins grabbed him, glaring between them.

“We’re here for a reason,” she hissed.

Thomas looked like all the threats in his head were hitting a logjam in his mouth, and then came Wheeler’s voice, and Perkins and Thomas walked by, shoving him so he stumbled forward.

“Thank you for keeping the horses calm,” Antlers said, behind him, and when he turned it was actually her, and not a voice from the mist.

“Glad I could be of use.” He nodded, and watched her stalk by, and up the worn wet stone stairs.

“Thank you,” Harrington whispered into his hair, leaning against his back, and Billy felt a peculiar flush up his neck and cheeks as he leaned back into warm enfolding arms. “That—that may have saved our lives.”

Billy’s throat closed, and he cleared it. “Ha-hardly. I talked to them. I told you I was good with horses.”

“Thank you for coming,” Harrington said again, against his jaw and neck, and Billy leaned his head back for a kiss, forgetting their witnesses, and letting his eyes fall closed. Harrington stroked his hair, and Billy reminded himself, again, that a man who would take whatever he offered was unlikely to value it—but Harrington ran fingers through his hair, and cradled his face, and Billy swallowed back the urge to open his mouth and ask Harrington to keep his hands there forever. He pressed in for another kiss, turning to slide his arms around Harrington’s neck and lick into his warm mouth, salty from the wet spray drifting from the base of the Falls where they hit the seawater. Harrington’s cheeks were red and warm, and Billy pressed his thumbs to them, watching Harrington’s cautious smile and brown eyes.

“Everyone is waiting,” Harrington whispered, grabbing Billy’s hand, and kissing it.

“Of course.” Billy couldn’t help leaning in for another kiss, smiling, so if Harrington pushed him away, it would be a joke.

He didn’t.

They finally broke apart at a piercing whistle, and Billy stumbled away to frown up the slate steps at Robin Buckley, laughing as she took her fingers out of her mouth. Harrington pushed by to climb on his horse—held by Buckley—and Billy took a deep breath, trying not to wonder what he’d do, when the plan failed, and Steven Harrington knew.

Buckley waited for him, letting the rest wander on up the slope. “Why reel him in so fast?” she asked.

“...beg pardon?” Billy returned, his stomach clenching.

“He’s hooked,” she said, watching Harrington and Wheeler. “Thoroughly limed. Why not give him a little play in the line? Do you turn into a pumpkin at midnight? Why the rush reeling him in?”

Billy blinked back a horrible image of a metal hook in Harrington’s mouth, and slamming his head against the dock before gutting him like a fish. “I wouldn’t…” he started, and she raised her eyebrows. “I’m not sure how stupid Wheeler is,” he tried, and she snorted, “—she may…” he trailed off, watching Wheeler walk point-to-point across jagged boulders, and Harrington’s avid attention. “—I don’t—as soon as she snaps for his attention, he’s hers.”

“Hrm.” Without replying, she urged her horse onward.

He kept noticing glances, on the rocky path up the mountain—from Harrington, biting his lip, but returning his smiles; from Buckley, her gaze on one then the other of them—and from Thomas Hall, who narrowed his eyes, seeing Harrington’s eyes on Billy, and bared his teeth at Billy looking back. Wheeler was running up without a steed at all, and Billy opened his mouth to ask, when he saw her stop, and turn, and hold her hand out towards the trees. A white stag with red eyes stepped out between them, and she swung aboard, saddle-less. The conversation between Buckley and Harrington didn’t falter.

The path was steep, and worn deeply into the stone of the mountain, so the sides were an arm’s-length over Billy’s head, and his knees brushed the stones, sometimes on both sides. Sometimes only on one, and his other leg dangled in thin air over the crashing waters below. In places, the sides had given way in a rush of shale, or shone with slick moss where they crossed and re-crossed streams, but Wheeler’s horses were sure-footed and cheerful, and crossed stone bridges narrower than their own ribs with barely a flick of the tail. Billy was glad he’d swallowed back his urge to compare their hooves to snowshoes, or ask whether they had sheepdogs in their lineage. His own—he asked, and was introduced to her as Mairead—was dappled gray and cream, and when Harrington saw him trying to befriend her with flowers plucked from overhanging plants, he hung back to stage-whisper, “She’s named ‘Daisy’. It means ‘Daisy’.”

Billy eyed his handful of daisies, and offered them again. “Come on, girl, you know you’re secretly a cannibal,” he told her, and Harrington burst out laughing. She lipped politely at his fingers, flicking her tail, and he grabbed more. “I hope these aren’t her family,” he said, idly, to watch Harrington’s shoulders shake.

When the path widened out, he took the best bloom, rode up, and tucked it in the buttonhole of Harrington’s jacket. Harrington laughed, leaning down from the saddle in a long flexible stretch that made Billy feel thirst, grabbed a sprig of low-growing heather, and pulled his horse close to tuck it behind Billy’s ear. He leaned in for a clumsy horseback-kiss that was all jarring teeth.

Billy nearly grabbed at him when he pulled away. “Had enough?”

Harrington laughed, and licked his lips. “I—think I can wait until we’re on solid ground.”

Billy licked his teeth, grinning, and Harrington ducked his head, clicking his tongue to urge his horse forward and away. His neck was red.

“Coward move, Harrington!” Billy yelled, and got back a thumb rudely flicked off Harrington’s teeth.

By the time Billy’s stomach began to growl for a second meal, the path was turning from a clamber between boulders to a fairy bower. Massive branches draped with moss overhung the path, overladen with ferns and tiny flowers like the ones in Harrington’s crown the night before, and Wheeler yanked them down, weaving flower crowns as she talked. She tossed the first finished one over Buckley’s head. Buckley started throwing scones at everyone—they thudded into Billy’s hand, heavy like a rock—and she smirked, watching Billy’s expression, but when he bit in, they were sweet and chewy. He saluted her. Soon they all had flower crowns, and Harrington dropped back at the next wide bit of trail to brag about Wheeler again.

Billy listened grudgingly, touching his own, and Harrington leaned to straighten it, biting his lip.

“Keep it on,” he whispered, grabbing Billy’s hand, and squeezing it, ignoring the sticky crumbs of scone. “They have a magic to them. It’ll keep you safe.”

“...keep yours too, then,” Billy told him, kissing his hand before the trail narrowed again, and they were forced to single-file. “I’ll try not to die of jealousy.”

Harrington’s shoulders shook with laughter ahead of him. “Already? Are you always so jealous?”

“Never!” Billy called up. “It’s horrific, Harrington, I don’t know what to do! This will end terribly. I’ll wander the streets of your town, begging for stories of you as a child while you marry your lady fair.”

Harrington turned in the saddle to grin at him, pink-cheeked. “As soon as you hear them, your lovesickness will be cured.”

“That’s true enough,” Buckley called back, and Harrington hunched his shoulders, facing front, as Billy realized the man had actually forgotten the entire mountain could hear them.

When they finally reached something of a crest in the mountain, more jagged edges towered above, but a shining grassy expanse spread about them like a lushly carpeted landing in a staircase through the clouds.

The trees grew smaller, and scrubbier, blown crooked in the wind, giving way to gleaming grass and flowering heather. Mairead snatched a few glossy mouthfuls, and Billy patted her neck, looking out to sea on two sides, and below them clouds and the flyspeck of an eagle, soaring above the town of Hawkins. The noise of the waterfall rose again as they crossed the rolling downs.

As they drew closer, they could smell smoke, and taste iron down the backs of their throats. Wheeler yelled “Ha!”, and the stag began to run, stopping as they crested the next rise. Billy rode up alongside the others to see a towering, smoking shell of stonework on top of a blackened hole in the hill. Stained glass still hung in the arched windows in what remained of the walls at the top. The smoke was thick enough, still, to coat their insides as they breathed. There were overturned and shattered gravestones scattered around the cavernous black gape in the side of the hill. Arrayed before it were cannons. Mairead sidled uneasily, flicking her tail, and he stroked her flank, whispering nonsense.

Wheeler was breathing in pants, hands over her mouth, her whole body shaking. Perkins and Thomas urged their horses closer to the breach, and Buckley charged after. Harrington approached Wheeler, and Billy gritted his teeth, and shouted a loud “Gee-yup” to startle Mairead down the hill and leave the two of them to their discussion.

“How did they get those up here?” Buckley was saying, as he approached. She was crouching by one of the overturned cannons, holding what looked like a blackened human pelvis.

“Ellie said she stopped them,” Wheeler said, thickly, riding up with Harrington in tow. “She—she said she didn’t know what they wanted. They threatened the other children. They threatened her mother.”

“And we wondered what was causing the uproar,” Carol snorted, standing in her stirrups to peer into the featureless darkness of the open mound. She clicked her tongue, and trotted towards it.

“We—we’re going in?” Billy said, apparently aloud, because Thomas snorted, and Harrington nudged his horse close enough to reach out and squeeze his shoulder.

“You don’t need to—”

“No,” Billy laughed, clenching his hand on the reins. “You’ll—you’ll be glad you brought me. I’ll be of use.”

“Wait,” Wheeler said, and steepled her fingers over her face, drawing a slow breath. “No. Don’t—the—the way is broken. This breach—this is not a safe way between your home and mine. You could—you could be lost.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Hear that, Hargrove? You can head back, now, you’re useless.”

“Help,” whispered a woman’s voice, from the breach, and Wheeler spun her stag.

“Barbara?”

“Help,” came the voice, from the trees, then the ruins above the mound, then all around them.

“Barb!” Wheeler called, and Buckley grabbed her hand before she could ride off.

“We’ll check everywhere out here,” she said, and Wheeler nodded, wiping her nose and setting her shoulders before urging her stag toward the breach.

Harrington watched her go, biting his lips, and Billy clenched his hands on his saddlebow.

“How can I help?” His voice emerged husky, and Harrington visibly called his mind back from Wheeler’s dangerous journey, and blinked.

“Ah.” He frowned around. “—I think—that—”

“Robin,” Perkins called. “Steve. There are journals.” She waved a leatherbound book, kicking away a crumbling charcoaled ribcage. Thomas was kicking a skull around.

Billy swung down from the saddle and went to help Perkins—she absolved him of the name, running her elbow into his gut and issuing a direct order to call her Carol—and they searched through the wreckage, finding a captain’s logbook of sorts, and an unburned crate of biscuits. Their horses wandered, bumping noses, jumping and prancing around each other until Mairead was distracted by heather, and planted her hooves to yank mouthfuls.

Billy sat on a crate, half his attention on the smoking ruin of the hill and the exposed dark gulf within. He licked his thumb, and flipped through the logbook. “‘We hauled the cannons up with pulleys, and believe ourselves thus far undetected’,” he read aloud, accepting a biscuit. “‘Without favor shown by the notables of Hawkins, I nearly despaired of my goal, but the wheel of discovery rolls ever onwards, and their ancient magicks will soon be put to the test of gunpowder, iron, and human ingenuity.’”

“What a cock,” Carol put in, stuffing a biscuit in her face. “I’ve found his accounts. He notes down all the bribes he attempted. He never asked me.”

Billy snorted, choking on his biscuit, and continued. “‘The girl is becoming troublesome. She asks unending questions about the curse on her mother—I have nearly been caught out, more than once!—and it has forced my hand, more than I would like. She now believes wholly that her mother will die if she refuses me in any small favor—’” Billy raised his eyes to meet Carol’s, and she brought the heel of her boot down on the crumbling ribcage until all that remained were bone shards and char.

“Prattling cock,” she repeated, frowning around, then stomping what looked like a human femur.

“This is—the girl Harrington rescued?”

“I suppose,” she said, peering between the wreckage of the crates. “She would only answer to Will, but when she saw him on Steve’s horse, she let Robin pull her up. Barb helped them hide. When they blasted the hill open, everything in Faery would have been angered.” She grinned over at him. “They had a long few days of it.”

Thomas was following Harrington around. It looked like he was talking intently, but Billy shook his head, and set his jaw, reading on. “‘It is my belief that the girl can open a breach, into which we can fire the cannons, preventing them from barring our passage. After that, she is likely to become troublesome, despite concern for her friends.’” Billy grimaced. “Who is the girl? How is her mother?”

“Shite-a-bed sneaksbie,” Carol hissed. “He would have harmed her, after all that. Hopper is seeing to her, and her mother.”

Billy nodded, watching Thomas grab Harrington’s reins and pull him to a stop.

She followed his gaze. “...fast worker, aren’t you?”

“I—”

“Help me,” said the woman’s voice, just behind him, and he yelled, swinging around to see Carol holding her sword on what was mostly a woman, her naked skin lifted with the roots of the grass and heather where she stood. Rusty water poured freely from her mouth.

Carol’s voice shook, but her sword was steady. “I—if you are Barbara Holland, we—”

“Help,” the woman said, her voice bubbling, and her head slowly bending backwards as water gouted from under her eyelids, and out her nose. Her body collapsed, arcing backwards into the grass, and Carol stumbled backwards, shoving Billy behind her. Another gurgling “Help,” came from behind them, and he yanked his own sword free with a clumsy scrape. She grabbed his elbow and hauled him towards the ruins, just as Thomas, Harrington, and Buckley galloped back towards them.

“She’s not here,” Buckley shouted. “They’re just scaring us.”

“They aren’t doing anything.” Thomas rolled his eyes, steering his horse so it nearly crashed into Billy and Carol, and reared to avoid them, shaking its head with an earsplitting whinny.

Carol’s lips thinned, and she dropped Billy’s arm, stalking toward the ruin. She picked up a chunk of the broken femur, and hucked it after Thomas, and he dodged, laughing.

“She was visiting a grave,” Buckley said, glaring after Thomas, who was trying not to fall off his horse. “There might be some trace up there, at least.”

“Help,” came the voice, from between them, and Billy shuddered, wondering whether if they did find Barb, he’d be able to hear her voice without the skin spasming clear up his spine.

Their horses seemed fairly unafraid, milling around and munching the heather, but the humans drew sighs of relief as their feet touched stone, and the last of the creeping voices stayed back in the vegetation. Thomas leaned against a broken pillar, glowering at Billy. Carol found a pair of spectacles that obviously meant something to her, and Buckley squeezed her shoulder before doling out the remaining scones as they sat among the graveside statues, and then sat with Carol, looking out through the broken masonry to the sea.

Billy sat next to Harrington. For a long moment, he watched the scone crumble under Harrington’s nervous, fidgeting fingers. Then he leaned to bump shoulders.

“Are you making bird food?”

“What?” Harrington squinted at him, then frowned down at his handkerchief of crumbs. “...oh.”

“Oh, indeed.” Billy eyed the sun reflecting off the waves and clouds in the wide horizon, then crooked his leg up next to him on the sarcophagus he’d chosen for a seat, and turned to face Harrington. “Lady Wheeler knows what she’s doing,” he tried.

Harrington smiled, ducking his head. “She usually does.” The low, orangey light gilded his smile, and Billy stared, licking his lips, only to make an embarrassing creaky gasp back in his throat when Harrington leaned in to press their lips together. He yanked Billy close with an arm around his back, laughing against his mouth, his breath sending heat down to Billy’s dick.

He threw an arm around Harrington’s neck, scooting half into his lap and snickering at the avalanche of crumbs, kissing the early afternoon’s soft shadows on Harrington’s face, before staring into the dusky orange gleam of his eyes. “Harrington, what’s happening to the light—”

The floor tilted, collapsing sideways towards the gaping hole in the hill, and their horses screamed. Billy went deaf, and blind, choking on dust, his body shuddering with the impact of the stones flying around him. He landed in prickly heather, scrambling up to a crawl.

Wheeler’s voice screamed, “Nuckelavee! It’s the Nuckelavee, back—” and she rode out, holding herself upright on the stag with her legs. The broken wall of the graveyard crashed towards them, stones the size of coffins shaking the ground. The air went foul—Billy spat grit, coughing, and his eyes watered as he stumbled after his horse.

Mairead slowed for him—rearing in the shadowy dust cloud—and he calmed her enough to get his leg over, yanking the reins in a tight circle until she put all four hooves on the ground, turning gladly towards the path from the ferry. He saw Carol, running flat-out behind Thomas, reach for his hand as he swung astride their horse, but he spurred his beast onward. She nearly fell, screaming after him, when Buckley rode up next to her, holding an arm out to help her swing up to safety.

Billy stood in his stirrups, looking around for Harrington.

Wheeler’s stag shone white in the black gouts of breath the creature was spewing, circling the ruins. “Steve!” she yelled. “Where are you?!”

“Run!” came his voice, and something else, drowned out by a roar.

“Get out of there!” Wheeler yelled back.

Billy’s horse nearly lost its footing, scrambling on three legs in the scrubby heather as a gravestone crashed down next to them. Buckley’s horse charged by him, back towards the mound, her crossbow raised, Carol readying a flask of magic fire, and Billy stared, then followed. Wheeler was standing in her stirrups again, shooting arrow after arrow as the stag clambered around rolling stones and ruins, and Buckley filled the thing with iron bolts as Carol threw one of Byers’ bottles, then another. The flames lit a shape towering in the ruins, a head with a flame instead of an eye, and a giant mouth blowing black breath. An arm the size of a ship’s mast tossed aside a gravestone, and in the light of the next bottle, Billy saw Harrington scramble between its hooves, dragging his leg, and then curl under another pile of rubble.

“Run!” he yelled.

The huge shape swiped at him, then staggered and roared again as Wheeler shot it through the arm, and Carol set it on fire. It grabbed a handful of ruined wall nearly the size of Wheeler’s stag, and threw it at her, before swiping the arrows away from its legs. Its upper body and head were protected by the ruins.

“Harrington, get out of there—” Buckley yelled, running along the edge of the ruin, her horse barely dodging the thing’s grasping hands.

Billy’s horse stamped, ears flicking, and he swung down, patting its flank as he ran to crouch against some fallen statuary. He took a deep breath, eyeing the feathered ends of Wheeler’s arrows and yanking a broken shank of iron from a pile of rubble. He weighed it in his hand, flexing his fingers as they twitched and trembled with the burn of iron, and then sent up an apology to Max.

That done, he vaulted over the broken wall. Wheeler yelled something, and Buckley, but he ran up a fallen pillar to leap and grab at the highest arrow he could reach, stuck in the shoulder of the beast. He gripped one of the black veins protruding from its skinless, yellowy sinew, and stabbed the iron in with the other hand, and the creature screamed. Billy ignored it, trying to ignore the throbbing in his hand, and breathe. He kicked around to push himself up off another arrow, and reached to swing on knotted, seaweed-filled mane. It staggered, and he saw movement below, out of the corner of his eye.

“The hell are you doing,” Harrington yelled up, but Billy almost had it, and then he did, using the iron shank to anchor his upper body as he drew his sword, and stabbing it into the creature’s firey eye, and then letting himself fall to slide down a broken pillar into a pile of rubble. The impact shook him for a moment, and the Nuckelavee roared so loud everything went silent, just choking, swirling black breath and shuddering ground, and then Harrington found him, grabbing him close. They yanked each other to the side of the ruin, where Carol and Buckley could help drag Harrington across their horse. Wheeler caught up in moments, pulling Billy up behind her as they broke into a run, and the ground shook as stones fell around them. Mairead fell in with them as they fled, scattering gravel and then pounding across the downs, listening to the screams of the creature behind them.

“Only the Lady can control the Nuckelavee,” Wheeler shouted. “If it’s broken free, there—there might be others, anything—anything might come through—they can’t—we have to get to a bridge—” She took a deep breath, and Billy tried not to press too closely against her back, clenching his thighs to stay on without a saddle to grab, or a mane he could clench in his fingers.

“The first bridge isn’t far!” Buckley yelled. “Running water! It can’t cross running water!”

Once they had teetered back across the first arched stone bridge, their woolly-footed beasts sure across a crumbling granite span narrower than Billy’s thigh, he swung down to press his face against Mairead’s flank. She whuffed at his shoulder, and lipped at his hair, and he turned to embrace her head and take shaky breaths. As he lifted his head, he caught sight of the gleaming red flank of Buckley’s horse under Harrington’s crushed leg, and stumbled closer, only to feel his breath thick in his mouth with the coming of the Nuckelavee. Carol helped him take Harrington, clutching at Buckley as the sky blackened around them, and their horses reared at the shriek of the Nuckelavee.

“Onward!” Wheeler yelled, and led the way on her stag, a white beacon in the closing darkness.

It started raining as they scrambled back down the hill, making the stone bridges and shale-edged paths even more treacherous, and it wasn’t until they were back on the ferry, pushing away from the dock, that Harrington let Buckley and Billy help him down from the horse—Carol stood by, reaching out occasionally, and wringing the rain out of her shirt, and glared at Thomas, before crouching next to Buckley to look at Harrington’s leg. Blood pooled under him, and Buckley busied herself stuffing cloth under it, glancing around at the water, but Harrington kept staring up at Billy.

“Why’d you come back,” he asked, and Billy shook his head, laughing, before leaning in for a kiss.

Billy’s whole body was still trembling. “I did say I liked you,” he whispered back, and Harrington’s grin went wide and silly, so Billy dropped down next to him, kissing his cheeks, then his mouth, and shielding his body from most of the rain.

“You barely know me,” Harrington whispered back, leaning up for another kiss, and Billy tried not to feel too victorious.

“Don’t you believe in love at first sight?” he asked, watching Harrington’s cheeks flush.

[maandags]

Eidolon (Angel!Keith x Demon!reader) {part ii}

im still alive! yay!

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Summary: Keith is an angel, and he’s completed mission after mission for the Upper Hand, the organisation controlling all of the Above. He’s only failed a mission once: when he was assigned to kill you, a surprisingly charismatic demon. He roamed Earth–Middle Ground–for years before he was caught by the Upper Hand again, and things quickly go south.

Word count: 6.5K 

Genre: Angst -- CW: death mention, injuries, blood, hallucinations (?)

Notes: masterlist -- {previous} -- {next} -- yall........ hes trying his best ok

-- -- --

you did not break me  

i’m still fighting for peace

~ Elastic Heart, Sia

-- -- --

Keith bites his lower lip as he makes his way to your apartment. Every step sends a sharp jolt of pain up his right wing and he grimaces in pain, massaging his shoulder. The trip looked a lot shorter from where he'd been standing in the square, he thinks bitterly as he makes his way through the swirling crowd, shreds of conversation coming at him from all sides. He's actually surprised at how well he remembers the layout of the city–and how well he remembers the way to your home.

When he finally gets to the apartment building he hesitates for a moment. In the glass door he sees his reflection: black dirt coating every inch of his body, tear tracks streaking down his cheeks. His hair is an absolute mess, as if a particularly pissed-off fairy had tried to knot his hair in the most complicated ways. He tries to smooth the locks down, growling when it did nothing at all. His clothes are torn and crooked, and a wild–almost dangerous–light shines in his eyes, and he looked like he'd just escaped death itself. In a way, he had.

That's when he remembers his knife. A glance to his calf tells him everything he needs to know and he suddenly wants to cry again.

It's gone.

The knife he'd carried with him for so long, the knife that had saved him in many a sticky situation, one of the rare blades that could actually kill both angels and demons–and he'd lost it. Probably dropped it on the ground in the woods. The black straps he used to keep the knife concealed beneath his jeans served no purpose anymore. Keith bends down, ignoring the pain throbbing on his back and unclasps the sheath. Strangely, it's mostly undamaged, except for the dirt and mud that coat every inch of it. He holds it, weighing it in his hands. His leg feels oddly light without it.

Scrunching up his nose, he chucks it in the rubbish bin that stands beside the apartment entrance and pushes the door open.

He's slightly out of breath when he finally reaches your floor, cursing the weight of his wings under his breath, but his heart skips a beat when he finally arrives in front of your door.

He doesn't know what he'd expected, quite honestly. It was–well–a door. A plain white wooden door with a stainless steel doorknob and a number plate on the side; yours said 34. Bar that very number, it was completely identical to the other doors in the building. It didn't look very... well... demonic.

But then again, he hadn't really expected it to be. He takes a breath and knocks.

You open surprisingly quickly, and the sight of you makes Keith freeze up.

Your eyes are stormy and wild and widen only a fraction before they narrow down again, your lips pressing themselves into a thin line just shy of a snarl. The door is only just cracked open, and Keith can't see what's going on inside your apartment, but he forces himself to relax his muscles even though every nerve in his body is screaming at him about how wrong this is.

In the split second where no one said anything, Pidge's words of the previous day–had it really only been a day?–echoes in his ears: Is that why you need guarding every second of the day? Because you're a traitor to the Above? She would never know how right she had been, Keith thinks bitterly.

"No," you say, firmer than Keith had expected, and you cross your arms.

Keith blinks. "You don't even know what I was going to say–"

"I don't need to," you snap. "You look like you just spent a week running around in a jungle. You're probably in need of somewhere to stay. There's a shelter a couple of blocks away. You can take the underground."

"They'll find me there."

"Not my problem." You almost shut the door on him, and in a desperate attempt to keep your attention on him just a minute more he stumbles forward and slams his hand against the frame. You freeze and Keith notices how your muscles tense up–as if you were preparing yourself for a fight.

"Y/N."

You look at him now, eyes pools of swirling fire laced through with hatred, fear–but Keith also thinks he sees something like doubt, and he latches onto that with all his might.

"I need your help. Please." He takes a ragged breath. "I don't have anywhere else to go."

You close your eyes, fingers tightening around the doorknob. When you open them again, all sign of the doubt he'd seen before is gone, a grim determination having taken its place. "No."

That single word is enough to stun Keith into letting go of the doorframe, sending him swaying back. His thoughts are racing, emotions coursing through his body–most prominent of all the absolute terror of the fact that he was going to die. He was going to get found by the Upper hand, and they were going to kill him, and he was going to die. He'd just fucked up his last chance at staying alive a little bit longer.

He almost protests again, opens his mouth–then shuts it, and lets his head hang, sighing deeply. There's no point. You've made up your mind.

Your voice is quiet as you say it. If there had been a single other sound in the hallway, he most definitely would have missed it. But it's dead silent, and so he hears it: "Never ask a demon for help, Keith. You're only going to get yourself hurt."

His head snaps up, but the door is closed. It's like you've never been there at all.

He brings a hand to his face, turns and starts down the stairs again, every step sending a bolt of pain down his back. He flinches against the pain. Doesn't slow.

What was it again you said about a shelter?

The Kindness for All Adults and Children's shelter is a small organization located on the corner of a dark street, easy to miss if you don't know where to look. Except Keith did know where to look, so he found it just fine. He knocks on the glass door, is immediately let in by a short and stern-looking woman (but with kind eyes) and ten minutes later he's sitting on a stool (he's careful to avoid anything to rest his wings against, because even though he concealed them, they're still there) and a blanket puddled in his lap (again. Wings), sipping on a mug of hot tea.

Isabel–the woman who let him in–enters the room, frowning at Keith's dirty boots and overall grossness. "Honey, you'd better take those off. If you'd wait a bit, we have shower hour in just–" she glances at her wristwatch– "twenty-three minutes. We have a couple of other fellas here; hope you don't mind communal showers." She gives him a scrutinising look, and Keith has to fight the sudden urge to straighten his spine and salute. "You look like you need one."

Keith takes a long sip of his tea, rolling his shoulder. His stomach lurches at the mention of a shower. He does need one: he reeks of rotten plants and he's pretty sure he has multiple cuts on his legs and arms that probably need cleaning before they get infected. He didn't bother to check.

But staying here would only get these people in danger, and that was about the last thing he wants. The Upper hand was going to find out one way or another of his whereabouts. Now that he couldn't rely on your protection–he hadn't realised how much he'd just assumed you would take him in, no questions asked (stupid, stupid; he saw that now) to the point where he had no idea what his next move was going to be. He had made a huge mistake doing whatever it was that got him onto Middle Ground and he was paying the price for it now.

Besides–he couldn't fully hide his wings; not with the injury. He didn't want to have to think about what would happen if one of the other guys in the shelter saw a cut-up, bruised, dirty dude wash blood and earth off his body while water slid off a shape hovering above his back that looked suspiciously like wings.

"I won't be staying, Isabel," he finally mutters, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

The older woman frowns, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. "Are you sure?"

Keith nods, setting his mug down beside him and getting up from his chair, bunching the soft fabric of the blanket in his hands. "I'm sure. Thank you for your care."

"But–but where will you stay, then?" The edge of worry to Isabel's voice almost makes Keith smile. Humans... some of them were even more rotten than demons, but thankfully even more were better than the purest angel could ever be.

"I'll find a motel or something," he lies. He didn't have money. He didn't have anywhere to go. "I'll be fine." He sounds so convincing he almost believes it himself.

As he curls up on a particularly comfortable spot of hard concrete, Keith nibbles on a piece of bread he'd nicked from the nearest bakery. It hadn't even been hard. He probably should feel bad. He almost does. His stomach growls even after he'd scarfed down the bread. Angels shouldn't have to eat, he thinks bitterly. And in a sense, they didn't–but everyone had to bend to the rules of Middle ground to a certain extent. Having to eat and drink to, you know, live, is one of those rules.

A bottle of water sits beside him, half empty. It was the last gesture of kindness Isabel showed him before he'd exited the shelter and he knows he has to be careful with it and not drink it all at once, even though it was tempting. He also got to keep the blanket, and he wraps it around his shivering body now, and although it hadn't been designed for an angel and it's kind of small to fit both his body and his wings he made it work, and he's grateful for the warmth it provided in the chilly night, however little it may be.

The city buzzes around him, lights flashing and illuminating his surroundings every so often. He'd managed to find a building that looked pretty quiet and not the worst place to spend the night in–big, made mostly of concrete and red bricks, apparently abandoned years ago. It looks like it used to be a factory of some kind. Graffiti tags litter its walls, from stupid vulgarities to surprisingly intricate artworks Keith observes with a kind of admiration. They give him a strange sense of safety, somehow. You're not alone, the colourful letters seem to whisper in the dark. The wall he chose to make his hoe is decorated with a particularly interesting piece. It's different from the others, somehow–he doesn't exactly know what drew him to it, but with his back to the paint he feels a little better.

Now that he's sitting there, the outside noises faded into the background, he has time to think. Really think. Mostly about how he's going to survive the next... next what, exactly? Weeks? Months? Years, maybe, like last time?

He sets his jaw, huddling up even more in his blanket. No. He had to make sure this wouldn't be anything like last time, because he got caught last time. It wouldn't happen again.

The best way to avoid an angry and very powerful group of celestial beings was by constantly moving. Never spending more than a few nights in the same place. Changing the way you look, changing the name you go by. Hiding your wings (that one might be an issue). Not, under any circumstances, performing magic of any kind. And, most importantly, not standing out among the people.

If you want to hide among humans, you have to fool everyone into thinking you are one.

That was probably how you had made it so long, Keith reflects, ears perking up at the sound of water dripping onto a metal surface. It echoes around him. That, or you had managed to reconcile with the big guys from the Below. maybe you'd started doing missions again. Maybe that was why you couldn't take him in. You feared for your own safety.

Or maybe you just didn't want anything to do with him, Keith reminds himself. He screws his eyes shut, softly banging the back of his head on the wall behind him. How he had managed to hold onto the hope that a demon–a perfectly real demon–would be the one to save him was completely beyond him. He sees now how truly stupid he had been. There was no mistaking the fire he'd seen in your eyes for anything other than what it was: hatred. Pure and utter hatred. They're a demon, Keith mutters to himself like a mantra. They're a demon. A demon. It's his fault and his fault only that he's in the spot he's in. His fault.

And yet, he can't get the image of your eyes blazing up at him through that crack in the doorway out of his head. On the back of his eyelids, he sees the vision he had of you right before he'd exited the Above–your eyes had been swirling pools of and black devoid of any emotion, so different to what he'd seen earlier this evening.

Because there had been emotion in your eyes. It had been sort of a shock to him and he recalls how he'd flinched back at their glint. He doesn't know why your eyes affected him so much. They shouldn't have.

But the difference was so stark–and, in a way, almost unsettling–that he couldn't for the life of him banish the image from his mind.

– – –

You sag on your favourite bench, ripping pieces off a stale loaf of bread and chucking them into the pond for the ducks to eat with more force than necessary. You're in a foul mood this morning, you realise, and it's all you can do to scowl at the ducks and scream internally about how much of a moron Keith the Angel really is.

You'd called Allura. Of course you'd called Allura. You hadn't explained to her exactly what had gotten you worked up–maybe it wasn't the best idea to tell a human about the existence of angels and demons–but you'd asked her to meet you at the park. You hadn't needed to say where. Allura knew.

Here she comes, you think, and you drip even further down the bench when you spot the tall girl skipping towards you, her silver ponytail whipping in the wind. She holds two cups of what you recognise as coffee and a smile creeps up your face. Allura, Allura. I don't deserve Allura.

"Gimme." You stretch out an arm and sigh contently when Allura deposits a steaming cup of coffee into your open pal. "I love you and only you."

"I know, dear," Allura croons, graciously draping herself onto the bench next to you and sipping her own cup. "So what's got your panties in a twist today?"

If the question had been asked by anyone other than Allura you would probably have snarled at them to mind their business, but it hadn't, so you didn't. You sigh, handing the leftover bread to her. She starts cooing at the ducks, pitching pieces of bread to them surprisingly accurately. "It's just... I got a rather unexpected visitor yesterday."

Allura's eyes widen. "Greg from Accounting. I told you he's got a thing for you–"

You cut her off with a whack on the back of her head, but you can't hold back the giggles anymore. "No! No, you moron, not Greg from Accounting."

She pouts. "Who then?"

You bite your lip, taking a long sip of your coffee. It's then that you discover that the drink is actually hot chocolate, and you silently thank the Devil for the one good thing in your life as the warmth spreads through your entire system. Still, you hesitate if you should tell her. It'd only bring up more questions, and you don't know how you'll answer them because you have a ton of questions of your own.

"An old acquaintance of mine," you finally muse. You pause, frowning, unsure of how to continue. "I only vaguely know him." You don't know him, you remind yourself firmly. You don't know how he figured out where you live, too–but your questions had to wait, though you had a faint feeling you'd get the answer to them soon. It wouldn't surprise you if you were to run into him once more.

You look over at Allura. She raises an eyebrow, her coffee forgotten and her hand gone slightly slack. "... And you have no idea why he showed up at your door?"

You shake your head. But deep down you did know why he was there: he'd needed help. He was terrified and hurt and alone and he'd come to you for help. Even after you had told him to go away, the encounter had left you awake into the early hours of the morning as you rolled in your bed, getting your limbs tangled in the sheets.

You still don't know why you were so worked up over it. You were a demon, first of all–a rogue demon at that. You were busy trying to avoid the Below's own Managers ever since you'd failed one of their missions and decided that the average demon's life just wasn't for you, and you'd done a fine job of it so far. Taking an angel in could put all of that in jeopardy. Everything you'd worked for–it could all go up in smoke.

You have a life here, now. You have a job at the local animal shelter (not very demonic–but you'd noticed it was harder for Management to pick up your trail when you smelled of animals. Besides, you like the job). You even have a couple of friends: Allura was a prime example of that, and in a way she represented everything you could lose should you have chosen to help the confused Angel who had knocked on your door the day before.

"What'd he want?" she asks, and you start.

"I don't–I don't know," you lie, fingers curled around your practically-full cup of not-so-hot-anymore chocolate. "He didn't say."

Allura squints at you, pitching the last of the bread to the ducks. You watch as at least six of them frantically paddle towards the sinking bread, squawking as they try to get hold of at least a small part of it. Discomfort lodges in your chest when the bread is ripped to shreds in a flurry of flapping wings and spraying water. "I think you're lying to me."

Your eyes widen and you open your mouth, but Allura cuts you off. "It's okay. I know you don't like to talk about your past, and I'm not going to force you to do so," she says in between sips. "It's just–you've told me about how you cut off all ties with people you knew from before you came here. Would this dude have gone through all the trouble of finding out where you live, seeking you out in particular when he knows you don't want anything to do with him anymore if it wasn't serious?"

"I don't care, though," you say, pulling your sleeves down onto your hands. You sound like a whiny child throwing a temper tantrum. "I don't want to know what's got him here. Nothing can be so serious for him to come to me of all people. It makes no sense."

"All right, all right." There's a moment of silence as Allura drains the last of her coffee. "You have the week off, right?"

You nod, even though you plan on going to the shelter anyway. Better safe than sorry.

"There's a party in the old abandoned factory in two days. Wanna come?" The twinkle in Allura's eyes should have warned you that the night was going to get messy. But you'd never been one to deny yourself a bit of fun, and hey–maybe you could even throw up some graffiti on your wall while you were there. Allura knows she has you when you start to grin.

– – –

The cans in your duffel bag make clattering noises with the swaying of the underground. You grab onto a pole to stabilise yourself, sending a cautious look around you. This particular subway ride was quieter than you'd liked, with everyone either on their phone or staring out of the window, headphones on, but nobody seemed to hear the suspicious sounds coming from your bad. That, or they just plain didn't care.

The city was big, and there were a lot of factories around, but Allura hadn't had to specify which one, because it always was the same one. It had shut down years and years ago. No one knew why. No one knew what it used to be–the signs were all worn and unreadable. Most importantly, no one cared. There were lots of little rooms. A few big rooms with high ceilings. Clean, concrete walls perfect for graffiti. It hadn't been long before the young folk of the city had claimed it as their own.

You duck out of the subway as soon as the doors hiss open, jogging with your hands shoved in your hoodie pocket and your headphones hanging around your neck, making your way to the factory. You don't go in immediately, making sure to walk past it before you skirt back and sneak in through a hole in the fence at the back. Cheap trick, you know–but it had saved you many a times from getting spotted, because you were technically not allowed to go in there.

Allura waits for you a couple of rooms away from your wall. She's smiling, long red skirt billowing around her legs, and holds out an arm for you to take. She starts chattering before you've even properly entered the building, stepping over suspicious-looking stains and discarded beer cans. You'd asked her to come a bit earlier so you had time to at least make a start on a new design that you'd sketched out the same morning. Allura plops down onto a slab of stone (probably supposed to have become a bench) and props her chin onto her palm. "You have maybe an hour, babe." You give her a side-eyed glance as you set down your duffel, zipping it open.

You shake the can, cocking your head to visualise the piece on the wall. Your sketchbook is propped up against the wall, for reference. You stand there for a couple of minutes, shaking the can of red paint in an almost hypnotic motion before you take a step towards the wall and push the valve.

Slowly, the lines you put down start to take shape and form something more. The design is pretty simple, yet you work faster on this than you ever have on any other piece. It's as if you're racing against the clock, and you need to get it done or it'll disappear. The two silhouettes take shape: one white, one black, facing each other in a mirror image of themselves and red wings sprouting from their backs. You purposely approach the can of red paint to the wall to make drips. When you step back, it looks eerily like blood.

As you work, you try to banish the thoughts that worm themselves inside your mind. An angel. A demon. How much more obvious did you have to be? As much as you want to forget about him, you find that you just... couldn't. You feel sick in the stomach all of a sudden, but you bite your tongue and squint hard against the tears that threaten to fall, pressing down hard on the can.

You had already refused. It was done. You repeat those sentences over and over until you start to believe them.

When you're satisfied with the base layer, you check the time. You have maybe twenty minutes left. You shove the cans back into your duffel, grabbing the small paint container you always carry with you and the paintbrushes.

You like the way spray paint and regular paint look together in the same piece. It's the small thing that sets you apart from the other artist whose work cover the walls, the small details you add in with black paint that make your work really stand out. You get paint on your hands. You don't care.

It's weird how an hour can pass in ten minutes. Allura taps you on the arm. "It's starting." It is. Music drifts through the door-less doorway, closely followed by laughter and chatter. You nod, packing in the paint and the brush and taking off your mask. You were practically done anyway, and when you look over your shoulder one last time before following Allura to the party, you feel a burst of pride.

The warm feeling quickly disappears, though, when you notice something you hadn't seen before.

A grey blanket, stuffed into the far corner grabs your attention and you frown. The fingers around your bag's straps tightening, you walk to the corner and crouch down. There wasn't much else besides the blanket–yet it made you uncomfortable enough to pick it up and inspect it from closer.

Out of the blanket, two black feathers fluttered down.

Anyone else would merely have thought it weird, but wouldn't have thought much of it. They'd have laughed and moved on.

You, though, weren't just anyone else.

You'd recognise an angel's feathers anywhere.

You make a sound that's a mix between a sigh and a groan. You don't even try to pick up the feathers, knowing they'll turn to ashes if you try. Running a hand down your face, you consider your options–but you know that there really aren't any options to consider. If he's here, and he's found by the partygoers–he can't conceal his wings properly, you recall from a few days ago.

You heave a pained sigh. The risk is too big.

"Y/N?" Allura calls, irritation staining her voice. "You coming or what?"

You stand, clenching a hand around the blanket and stuffing it in your duffel without a second thought, sighing once more for good measure. "Sorry, Allura. I can't."

"What?" cries Allura, face falling and shoulders going slack. "Why?"

You shake your head, eyes scanning the room. If he heard you and Allura come (which he would have, with Allura's chattering echoing through the building), he couldn't have left through the main door, which meant he had to have gone through either the crack in the wall on your left or the big hole that you knew led to the empty staircase to the second level of the building. The bigger hole is probably your best bet, you reason.

"Sorry," you tell Allura, and you hope she understands that you really are sorry. "I'll explain later." But you flinched even as you said the words. Explain what, exactly? You feel yourself slipping back into your old skin: one tainted with memories of fighting, hunting, and betrayal.

When you turn around again, Allura is gone.

Setting your jaw, you duck into the hole and into the dark staircase.

– – –

Keith presses a hand against his side, panting and flinching against the pain.

Noise is coming from all around him. He hears music, people laughing, people talking, people screaming. It seems to come from the walls themselves, and grows louder with every passing second. He needs to move, but these last few days have been hard on him–his wing has gotten worse, to the point where he can't conceal them at all anymore. He's losing feathers, leaving a trail of them behind him wherever he goes.

His other cuts–the ones he dismissed as not being very dangerous–have grown red and swollen and hurt when he puts any type of pressure on them. Infection, the one part of his brain that still somewhat works whispers.

He hasn't eaten since that loaf of bread the first night, and his bottle of water is long since empty. In fact, he spends most of his time slipping in and out of consciousness, living and reliving horrible nightmares that have him jump awake and gasp for breath as he wipes tears from his cheeks that he doesn't remember shedding.

Even in his feverish state, he knows he has to keep moving. There has to be a place in this building where he can huddle up and wait for the people to go away. There has to be a spot where he can wait it out. He stumbles his way up the stairs, one hand gripping the railing as if it's the only thing keeping him upright. Sometimes he has to stop for a minute to catch his breath, clutching his stomach and coughing his lungs out.

He wanders through the upper level of the building. It's somehow cleaner than downstairs, with less graffiti staining the walls and less rubbish littering the floor. Guess it's not an ideal place to party, in plain view of the city, Keith thinks. He chooses a particularly comfortable-looking spot in a small room–too small to be an actual room, more likely a broom closet–to curl up on. Before his head hits the ground, he's asleep again.

– – –

You curse the angel's apparent stamina as you climb the apparently unending stairs, skipping one out of two steps as you race up them, your bag bouncing on your back. Every once in a while you glance down, looking for a feather. He was leaving a trail of them behind, a sign his condition was worsening.

"Swear–to Satan–" you mutter, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. It may not have been warm, but running up a set of stairs for ten minutes was bound to make anyone sweat like it's thirty degrees and the sun is beating down on you.

You get to the top level and groan.

This part of the factory is relatively untouched, you know, because it was so easily seen from other parts of the city and there had already been people who had gotten caught by the police. But what that means is lots and lots of rooms you didn't know to explore, looking for on single guy who could, if he wanted, avoid you until you gave up. All it would take is a better knowledge of the place.

So you get to work.

You search as quietly as possible, as to not give yourself away, tiptoeing from one room to the other, making sure to check each and every dark corner. You don't need a flashlight: the city's lights have turned on, and the moon shines brightly in the sky, casting a cool light on everything it can reach through the windows. You silently thank the obnoxious city lights.

After ten minutes of checking rooms, you start to grow impatient and slightly worried. What if you're wrong? What if the feathers are already days old, and he isn't here anymore? What if you do find him–but you're too late? You shake your head, not wanting to think about it.

And what if you find him and he needs help? Even more than when he initially came to you?

You haven't even fully thought about that. When you did find him, you couldn't do anything else than bring him home with you, could you? You hesitate, slowing your pace and carding a hand through your hair, scanning the walls as if looking for an answer there. It isn't too late to turn back, a voice in the back of your mind whispers.

You can just go back downstairs, join the party. Make up some bullshit excuse to Allura as to why you left so suddenly.

You almost do. The thought of just leaving it–letting everything run its course normally without you interfering–is so tempting...

But then you hear a string of coughs coming from the room on your right and your legs carry you there before you can protest. When you see the shape on the floor, all you can say is "Oh shit."

It's him, all right. Unconscious, lying face down on the dirty floor of an abandoned factory, all curled up like a little newborn angel. He's shivering, you notice when you crouch down by his side. You put a trembling hand on his forehead and hiss through your teeth. He's burning up, the skin slick with sweat and his hair sticking to his forehead in a tangled mess.

"Okay," you whisper, getting on your knees and covering your face with your hands, taking a deep breath. "Okay, all right."

His chest rises and falls, though irregularly and barely noticeable–but he's breathing. He's still alive. You frown at his wings (they're all dirty and dusty and it makes you icky–it's a known fact that the state of your wings reflect your health) and wonder about how in the name of the Below you're going to get him out of there unnoticed. He's not exactly inconspicuous. You'll probably have to carry him.

You tap his cheek. He groans. You keep tapping until he cracks open an eye, and even then you have to coerce him into opening both eyes. They're unfocused and murky and filled with confusion and fear, but he's awake.

"Hey. Do you think you can sit up?" you ask softly.

He tries–you can tell he puts all the strength left in him to push himself up, inch by painful inch. You try to help him as best as you can, but even then he's panting with his eyes closed as he rests his head against the wall.

Then you remember your water bottle. Scrambling for your bag, you yank it out and unscrew the cap, slowly tipping it into his mouth. "Careful, careful," you mutter when he tries to take the bottle from your hands and starts taking bigger gulps, a bit of strength seeping into his system with every drop. "It's not good to drink so much after days of dehydration."

His eyes finally seem to focus on your face, and he frowns. "Y-Y/N?"

You only smile tightly in response. He blinks sluggishly. “But you–”

“I know, I know,” you mutter, running a hand across your face. “I’m probably going to regret this a lot. But I just…” You cast him a tired look. “I couldn’t just let you die.”

“Huh,” he whispers sheepishly, a ghost of a smile pulling at his lips. The small gesture is so strangely out of place that you just gape at him for a few seconds, only shaken out of your stupor when he doubles over and proceeds to hack a lung out coughing. You start, grabbing hold of his shoulders to steady him and whisper encouragement as he takes a few ragged breaths.

“Hey. I’m gonna get you out of here, all right? But you need to be able to conceal your wings. I can carry you, but you have to be able to do that for me, okay?” You speak to him in a low, rushed tone, only able to hope that he can grasp how important it is for the two of you to not be spotted all the way to your apartment. He sets his jaw and nods, weakly grabbing at your shoulders for support as he tries to hoist himself up.

“Okay, all right.” He’s standing now, still woozy and swaying slightly, but he’s standing. “There we go. Hide your wings.”

He closes his eyes. His brow furrows in concentration, beads of sweat beading on his forehead. His wings flicker in and out of sight twice before completely disappearing. “Okay, awesome. You’re doing great.”

You awkwardly lead him down the stairs, one arm around his chest and under his armpits as he steadies himself on the railing, muttering encouragement every couple of steps. His wings flickered twice more, and every time you almost had a heart attack–if he couldn’t keep them hidden when you were in the city, in full view of hundreds of people… you didn’t want to think about it.

When you reach the building entrance, you debate briefly in your head what your options are. You could walk back to your apartment, but that would take over forty-five minutes and you weren’t sure if the angel could keep his wings concealed for that long. But the other option would be to take the subway and risk someone seeing you and starting to ask questions.

Then again–it was almost midnight. Most people wouldn’t be out on the streets right now, and it was dark, and the ones who would be out would be exhausted and only wanting to get back to their own homes. With a little luck, you could find an empty subway cart. The ride home would be seven minutes long.

“C’mon,” you say quietly, tugging on the angel’s sleeve. He’s leaning heavily against you–but he’s walking on his own and that’s better than you could have hoped for. “The station is that way.”

The cart is almost empty, bar a teenager with bags under their eyes the colour of charcoal. They barely give you a glance as you stumble into the cart with the angel, only pulling up their hood and crossing their arms, pointedly looking out of the window. You don’t mind in the slightest. They probably think the angel is just shitfaced drunk, you think as you set him down on a seat–maybe a little rougher than necessary. He flinches. You feel only a bit sorry.

You had given him your sweatshirt before you left the factory, and now you rub your own arms up and down against the chill biting at the skin. You scowl, sinking down into the seat, wondering what in the name of all that is demonic was wrong with you to have made the choices that you did. Taking the angel in could very well be the cause of your capture. Hiding a demon amongst humans wasn’t so hard, but a demon and an angel… That would prove to be a challenge.

But then again, you think as you cast a sideways glance at the angel who passed out as soon as his butt had hit the subway seat (he looks strangely serene in the flimsy yellow light cast upon the seats–you could almost believe he’s merely asleep), you had never been one to turn down a challenge.

[sugar-petals]

Rude Boy (M) — Teaser

pairing: sub!tom holland x dom!reader

genre › smut, crack | one shot

➯ your gymnast neighbour tom cranks up his music so much that it starts a house feud. you decide to put an end to this by showing up at his flat. but tom opens the door in a way that takes you by surprise.

:: a/n › don’t let the title deceive you, we’re headed for a subby tom fic! 💕with some mcu characters mixed in for the fun of it. rude boy’s past 13k words & I love to spoil you rotten so this teaser is at scenario length. enjoy! 

Now that became perfectly obvious to you: This guy was rude.

As if the plastering on the wall alongside the apartment corridor wasn’t porous enough— the hammering bass from flat #89 made it seem like the entire house was bound to corrode in a song or two.

“Hey, you! Turn the damn music down!”

Knocking at the plain door sporting a scraggly ‘Holland, T.’ sign only elicits a faint reply between beats. The voice sounds entirely out of breath. Its pitch is surprisingly high, too.

“Hello? Is this Mister Stank?”

“Who?!”

Almost an eternity passes. Footsteps follow. The door first clicks, then buckles. One second later, a babyface framed by curls peeks through the opening. Slathered in what appears to be a layer of sweat and— oddly, a white layer of powder.

Cocaine?

You’re completely stiff at the sight. So that’s Mister ‘Holland, T.’, then.

“Tony Stank! He’s been knocking here earlier. You’re not Tony, though?”

The babyface looks even more innocent than it already was by now. If he wouldn’t be all drenched and smelling like a crowded Olympic hall, the gaze would be easy to fall for. All big and hazel.

But you remain solid in your spot and feel no less irritated.

“He’s called Stark! Not Stank!”

Babyface looks confused.

“Stark? I just heard him mumbling something and things. Was busy with the weights so I couldn’t open the door.”

You place your arms akimbo.

“Tony lives in apartment #90! You know what that means?”

He shakes his head, which loosens some curls into his face.

“Um, no idea?”

You point down the corner of the hallway with more insistence.

“He lives right next you!”

“And?”

The guy’s voice goes up in pitch once again. Clearly, he didn’t catch his breath so far either. Lifting weights, he said. Poor Tony. 

In fact, poor everyone in the radius of ten miles. 

At least you know that whatever white powder is on his face—

Has to be magnesium carbonate powder.

He’s not even on drugs and acting like that.

How much worse can it get.

“Your music was so loud this morning that Tony did the same thing I’m doing right now, bloody idiot!”

“N—no need to be rude!”

“You’re the rude one! I’m from apartment #88!”

“Oh?”

Sweaty Holland gazes toward the other side of the corridor, seemingly surprised realizing that there looms the precise door you just came from. Apartment #88 in its full actual lack of splendour.

You feel like you’re about to burst any second.

“Yes?! I’m studying for exams and you’re blasting Rihanna! Since 10:30!”

Blank face. The guy really got you to a point where you roll your eyes like a preschooler. He looks disoriented more than anything, rubbing his powdery hands through his hair making it almost look strangely grey for his age. Something does seem to sway his confused features.

“Damn, shit... Wait a minute,” he says. “Tom, by the way. Sorry.”

The curly head disappears before you can say anything else. While you hear him walking away, the door ever so slowly falls open, revealing an almost loft-like building. You’d be very much at home in your casual clothing right now, but the thought of magnesium and the repugnant smell of athleticism has already ruined the sight.

Umbrella just keeps playing in the other part of the flat. Tom audibly rummages with some sort of dumbbells around the corner. They land and roll on the floor dull, making Tony’s words from yesterday all too present in your mind once more.

‘Bloke’s a gym rat! 20-fucking-something, sexually frustrated, IQ of a toast! Walking, cocky mess’, furious Stark in his blue designer shades had ranted meeting you on the way down in the elevator, recalling how he saw Tom moving in the other day.

Given how babyface still seems to be busy with his makeshift gym, you wish he never did.

This was one of the most crowded neighbourhoods.

“Will you please shut the goddamn stereo down!” you tap your foot more than once, still having to put up with Jay-Z’s intro rap droning from the speakers in the flat.

“Um! Searching for the remote!” Tom replies, but you’re already stepping into his training room, ready to either phone the police or take the bumping stereo out of service yourself.

But you can hardly believe your eyes. Looking into the area, framed by high shelves where towels and isotonic drinks are stacked.

Tom stands there without a single piece of clothing covering him.

No tank top. No boxers, not even socks. His arms serve as a less than adequate shield for his front.

“Shit!”

Looking all browbeaten head to toe, Tom mumbles something all panicked that gets drowned out by Rihanna’s catchy chorus. By now, the entire city of London probably knows his taste in music. And you: Just about every buff inch of him.

Fuck.

Time to get out of here.

You stumble backwards. Then, almost fall over, stepping on something squarish on the ground. Out of nowhere, the music stalls.

Silence.

You look down and realize that you’re standing on the tiny remote.

“Was getting ready for the shower! I’m sorry!” Tom repeats now that the stereo is off, covering himself with a scruffy towel in the meantime. Thank god that there are shelves around. But you have hardly gathered yourself by now.

“And... that’s how you opened the door?”

You know the answer given how Tom’s face changes from pale to crimson red, even visible through the layer of magnesium that not just his face is plastered into. It makes you wonder which odd parts of a body one can work out with.

“Was only peeking my head out! I didn’t know someone would come at this time of the day.”

Tom hurriedly tries to wrap the towel around his hips properly by now, but realizes it won’t cover enough of his backside. He hunches before you more frozen than ever. 

You sigh out. This lad indeed is akin to a toast.

“But it’s the afternoon?”

“I was only trying to prepare for the shower!” he repeats, wilding pointing about. “I’m so sorry, I—”

You pick up the remote and lay it down on the shelf to your right hoping your glare would suffice for him not to lay a finger on it anytime soon.

All this shower talk.

“Exactly where you’ll go now. Fucking twat.”

“T-twat?”

Tom’s jaw hangs loose. He’s still flushed like a ripe tomato.

“The entire corridor smells like gym. And get yourself some headphones for Rihanna, thanks.”

Enough seen, enough talk. Nobody down this very avenue could be grumpier. You bury either hand in your hoodie’s muff and turn. But Tom doesn’t look like he’s heading for the bathroom.

“Hey, wait! We didn’t even finish to introduce ourselves!”

“Do I look like I care? You’re wearing a towel! That’s past introductions. Fuck your politeness. Dickhead.”

For the sake of the other apartments and the plastering on the walls, you don’t opt for the now-you-know-how-it-feels-door-slam, but make sure to shut your own flat off from the sweaty stench in the corridor lightning fast.

Hoping that the barricade would at least block out that, if Tom wouldn’t put on Unapologetic the next hour. Who knows, you already see it coming. ‘Holland, T.’ arguably was the rudest neighbour you could possibly have. You regret doing as much as step one foot into his reeking apartment.

The silver kettle bleeps— you pour up your tea. Needs to sit for eight minutes, the fancy ‘Ayurvedic Relaxation‘ label of the bag says.

You close down the window of your unloved study notes on the laptop, alongside some other worksheets, digital drafts, presentations, and forms that need signatures from what seems to be the entire university. And then— sigh out, click the Youtube icon in the bookmarked pages. Eventually, you get comfortable in your hammock chair.

Perfect.

While the tea steams off, a soothing voice starts to play in a colourful intro. You alter the volume by three bars for better tingles. Finally: Your favourite. Mantis Chiropractic Medicine. Emotional Relief, ASMR, and life advice. Only the best cracks! And good-looking clients, too. What a dream. Atmospheric music with flutes and harps begins to chime after the intro jingle right away, making you sink into the hammock all slack.

Soft-spoken and polite as ever, Doctor Mantis begins to explain common side effects of sitting too much and how to remedy them that you stir in your tea, checking the watch: Only six minutes left of Ayurvedic Relaxation. Fair enough.

In the hallway, you hear a door closing while Mantis demonstrates a few carpal tunnel exercises. It’s from the direction of apartment #85. Likely Mister Rhodes returning from the Met Office. It’s 7PM. Punctual as ever. 

Mantis keeps on speaking gently on your laptop, showing her client how to correct his posture while typing.

You have to remind yourself not to get distracted because the notes and presentation are nowhere near finished. One video and you promise yourself to return to at least the mock exam questions. Again, you lean back into the hammock’s sturdy fabric and let the flutes carry you to another place and time.

Mantis, with her flowing black hair tied neatly into a ponytail, situated in the office with her immaculate white gown, already proceeds to diagnose a client on the screen with careful spine taps that a fast knock makes you jerk up. It’s not a sound coming from the video.

“Uh— Hello? Are you there?”

More knocks follow.

It’s Tom’s annoying voice.

“Please go away! I’m busy studying!” you shout, closing down the diagnosis video to remedy not your back, but conscience.

“Aren’t you watching a vlog or something?”

Too late.

Three bars on the volume button were a bit too loud. Damn it. Your entire Ayurvedic Relaxation is ruined.

“That’s a, a lecture video!”

You even catch yourself stuttering.

“Are you a med student or something?”

The voice remains persistent at the door.

“Tom. Fuck off into your gym, will you.”

To your anger, he actually knocks again.

“Please! At least come to the door! I don’t want to yell. You don’t have to open. Please. Please...”

You rub your eyes.

He has a point. Tony is still working during that time of the day anyways. Not to mention Rhodes. Yeah, Rhodes for sure. You close your laptop fast, slip out of the hammock, grab your teacup for emotional backing— and trot out of the bedroom with a grim feeling in your stomach.

“So what is it?” you grit, now inches away from Tom, but somewhat gladly, with the odour barricade still in place. Ten elephants and a pack of lions couldn’t move you to open that door.

“Y/N. I’m sorry for the music today,” Tom half whispers, half murmurs, now much more deferential.

He’s read your name on the door label. You sigh.

“The better apology’s leaving me alone. Can’t concentrate.”

A deep sip from your tea won’t make your annoyance go away either, but you still try and almost burn your tongue.

“With all due respect. If I would listen to lecture videos that loud my ears would be reeling, too...”

You could stomp the parquet below you to pieces on this very spot. Mister Stark was more than right about Tom. He was the cockiest mess.

“Look who’s talking! Rihanna’s bass line was peeling off our carpets this morning!”

You don’t want to know what janitor Rogers thinks about that.

“Y/N, please don’t yell,” Tom muffles from the other side repeatedly, tone more sympathetic. “I made enough noise myself today.”

“Oh, really? Never knew.”

“And, I’ve been using my earphones. Or did you hear anything Rihanna play?“

Mentally and physically, you give up your Ayurvedic Relaxation once for all and put the mug down on the next best birchwood cupboard. He does have not one, but two points. Maybe he’s not a toast, at least that. Still a bloody idiot, but you have to begrudgingly admit that he makes sense and didn’t touch the remote. 

Just in case— You peep through the fish-eye of the door and see Tom wandering about, not topless as far as you can trust your tired eyes. When he turns to the door, you try to read his face. He looks innocent. Sad, even.

“Please, Y/N. I just wanted to apologize for being rude. I’m still new here. And now that you’re playing something loud yourse—”

Ugh.

It’s a tie.

Click goes the door. And there you see him stand, in his striped Hello Kitty PJs that are way too tight at the arms, with tiny hearts printed all over them. He’s visibly scrubbed down, smelling like he’s used four shampoos at once. His curly hair looks kind of bouncy in the brutal light of the hallway.

“Nice to see you dressed for once, Holland.”

“Sorry, I probably look ridiculous.”

You open the door wider.

“Come on in rascal, still have some water in the kettle.”

© 2017-2019 submissive-bangtan. All rights reserved. Do not repost, translate, or modify my work.

[milkboxing]

STRIKING GOLD ↯ txt

SUMMARY ⋮ your somewhat notoriously influential high school garage band urgently needs a replacement to their keyboardist whose arm is broken and you happen to be, at the precise instant they find you, free-styling the tomato song on the antediluvian piano found in the music room.

GENRE ⋮ humour, rock band!au, high school!au

ZAK’S NOTE ⋮ guitarist!beomgyu kept darting from one corner of my mind to the other and i just couldn’t help but write this shit.

i.

Committing irreparable mistakes was one of the few things that Huening Kai was known to be good at by all, and even if he knew the repercussions that his broken arm due reckless biking would have on his band and the performance they were supposed to give for the upcoming school festival, the chances of him wearing his elbow pads would most likely be one in a million. He was nevertheless the happy-go-lucky and sickly optimistic boy he was and despite the fright he gave to his elder band mates, they chose to overlook his misconduct after a few inevitable reproaches. However, as much as they wish they did not have to race against the time that was quickly catching up with them, they could not let down the school, their local audience and all the threatening fingers pointed at them. Precisely. Like that of the vice student council onto whose frail shoulders the accountability of preparing for that event of capital importance reposed. Rumour had it that she was planning the murder of Soobin, the band’s leader who was also her prime partner as the previous student council but the latter was so taken up by rehearsals that he was bound to ditch the poor girl.

“For the last time Soobin,” she hissed, poking the tall boy’s chest, a visible crease between her eyebrows, “I have painstakingly managed to deal with everything encompassing the festival so far, if you plan on calling it quits with your band, you better be giving me a helping hand. . .” She was unable to complete her sentence as he heaved out an exasperated sighed. “I’m sorry,” he softly let out, running a hand through his hair, avoiding all eye contact with her, “I’d gladly do that but the dean is counting on us and he firmly believes that with or without Kai we should be in a position to perform. He says that we’re his meal ticket, whatever that is supposed to mean.” The girl frowned and Soobin’s pupils were then shaking a little. “I can’t put my hand on someone to replace Kai yet,” he added, “I’m sorry once again, Eunji. Once our lives are back to normal I’ll treat you to tteokbokki or any food you like and you have my word this time!” Soobin left with fast steps after patting her on her shoulder, picking up his pace as he spotted his classmate and best friend, whom you believed to be named Choi Something, at the other end of the corridor. Eunji turned and with battered puppy eyes, watched his back as it shrunk and muttered under her breath, “Screw you and those convincingly cute dimple of yours.”

You didn’t mean to but you happened to hear that part and you subtly reared your head, enough to peek at Eunji behind the door of your locker, her shoulders drooping like withered flowers and her braided hair unfortunately resembling a fringed mayhem. A pat on the shoulder? you mentally sympathised with her, she must have reached the peak of being friend-zoned. Banging the aperture of your locker shut, you readjusted your duffel bag on your shoulder and checked your watch, incognisant to the fact that the obnoxious noise you had produced snapped the elder girl out of her morose rêverie. Undecisive about what you would do of all the time you had to kill, you roamed around the busy school hallways where students were darting to and fro with boxes, boxes, desks and more boxes but none of the classrooms you passed by was fully empty. Somehow, while your conscience was swimming among the waves of Antlantis, your steps led you to the music room which reeked of mildew and the air was so heavy — especially when the greasy, brownish curtains gave the eerie impression of drawing the four walls closer together, as if the room was gradually shrivelling while the obscurity was lurking around, waiting to seize the opportunity of gobbling you up — that you had to suffocate a gulp in your throat.

Without losing any more time, you casted off your bag and dumped it on a chair, grateful enough that the abandoned desks, despite catching enough dust to permanently change of colours, were not covered in bird or lizard shit as you expected it. You pulled apart the curtains, strenuously opened the rusty windows, the hinges of which categorically refused to move due to rust, turned on the fan and instantly regretted it as the dust started swirling and chaotically flying around the room, making of you a Reindeer Rudolf who could not stop sneezing. To top up the whole thing, you stubbed your foot against the piano bench while you were blindly reaching out for the button to switch off the fan, your eyes stinging. Five minutes later, the dust had stabilised, the room was well aerated, the odour had either dissipated or been assimilated by your complex organism to such an extent that you couldn’t smell it the same way anymore, and your fingers were lazily gliding along the keys of the old piano. Loud footsteps and muffled voices that you knew belonged to the members of your somewhat notoriously influential school band could be heard in the corridor but you couldn’t care less.

Suddenly, an idea struck your head and you would have sworn that if your life was a cartoon, a light bulb would have popped up above your head at that very instant. Using your limited knowledge of whatever you had picked at the piano tuitions you had attended for six years and recently quit, you started skittering your fingers along the keys of the piano, your touch leaving whitened fingerprints everywhere. What seemed much better in your mind to be the melody of the nastily catchy and annoying tomato song, a famous nursery rhyme, escaped from the musical instrument and after a few more tries and unusual determination that you find hard to show for your studies, you managed to upgrade it to the most resembling version of the original song. You were, unluckily, too busy having an intense and sensational performance for your imaginary public, fervently tapping on the keys while humming to the lyrics that you missed to realise that the hallway had grown oddly silent and the door creaked open to reveal a few curious heads, piled one onto the other.

“LUMPY AND GORGEOUS FIGURE DRESSED IN RED—” yelled a voice that you failed to recognise because of how strained it sounded, but that nevertheless called you back to earth and drove you into ending the song with a sinister piano version of a keyboard smash. “—SWEET AND SOUR FLAVOUR, FASHIONABLE TOMATOES!” sang the oldest boy of the bunch, showing up with a seemingly dyed silver hair (unless you were right to think his hair turned grey, from all the stress he bore.) You stared at him, an inevitably judgemental expression adorning your face as the other boys projected either revulsion or amusement on their faces. Except Taehyun, this boy could withstand anything with an intimidating poker face but somewhere you could sense his confusion. “Yeonjun-hyung— hyung—” called out Beomgyu, a sophomore student whom you knew to be the lead guitarist of the band. He was a likeable guy, cheerful and a little irksome with his crazy loud laughter at times but based on what you’ve learnt he didn’t have many friends from his grade and hence hung out with your classmates Huening Kai and Taehyun all the time. “That’s enough hyung, yOU CAN SHUT UP NOW!” he yelled, calling the elder boy back to reason. Thankfully that sufficed, you were ready to fling your bag at the grey haired dude’s face. The two of them winged up bickering while the three others boys turned their faces to you (and that sucks because you had mentally planned on tiptoeing to the door while they were distracted), eerily in synchronisation, their lips stretching into mysterious smiles. Oh fuck, you cursed under your breath, they want something from me.

ii.

“To quote Hamlet,” you exasperatedly explained, slowly and emphasising on each word, “act three, scene three, line ninety-two, NO.” The boys’ faces fell, apart from Kai’s. He didn’t know how to give up and you could definitely tell that from the way his hazel eyes scrutinised you, that he was not going to give you the heave-ho so soon. Kai was a tough cookie — come hell or high water, he would neither avert his firm gaze from you, nor allow you to take the french leave and even less erase that fucking aweless rictus from his mouth. In other words, you were trapped like an artless little rabbit in a den of wolves. “Come on, please. . . [name]. . .? That’s your name, right?” trailed off Soobin, his glances endlessly shifting from his teammates to you, making sure to obtain nods and other responses of approbation. You couldn’t help but remark that despite his eminent presence, he was not especially self-assured for a leader. “Yeah, and no. The festival is tomorrow and there’s no way I could play a fucking keyboard for you. I won’t even be able to memorise the song lyrics,” your eyes widened as you added, “actually scratch that, i don’t even know how to sing!”

“Hey, calm down,” reassured Kai, snaking his arm around your shoulders, “We’re not asking you to be Mozart or Maria Carey. The melody is short and pretty repetitive so just being in tune will do. As for the singing. . . Simply try not to sound too much like a dying whale.” You gave him a sarcastic smile as he dumbly responded with a giddy one. Slapping away his arm, you replied on a passive aggressive tone, “First of all, don’t touch me unless you want to lose the other arm as well and secondly,” you turned to the rest of the boys, “I’d rather keep a low profile, if I ridiculise myself tomorrow I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get over the embarrassment of it. . .” The room suddenly fell tragically silent, the tense atmosphere weighing like a heavy load on everyone’s shoulders. “You won’t make a fool of yourself,” spoke up Taehyun. Your eyes met his and he firmly stared back, without showing any sign of emotion, like he usually does and you were reminded of his forgotten presence. “We’re not expecting you to be perfect [name]. There are times when the microphones decide to betray us in the middle of a performance, or a wrong guitar chord, a minimal voice crack that can seem to put it at stake. . . We don’t give perfect stages because we are only here to have the blast of our lives. My point is that, it’s human to make mistakes but that shouldn’t stop you from going forward,” he lectured in the most Taehyun-ish style ever. He had always been the voice of reason, as far as you remembered. “I mean, they usually make mistakes,” he pointed at his members, “not I.” Involuntarily, a giggle left your throat as the four other boys scoffed and wailed disapprovingly.

After five long minutes of debating your inner self and considering all the pros and cons to their proposition of being the substitute of Kai for the festival, you decided to simply say fuck it and gave in. “I’ll do it—” Your sentence was cut short by the band members’ relieved sighs and exclamations. (You were persuaded that the one who cried out for his mum was the grey haired dude.) “—but on one condition!” The boys exchanged confused glances with each other and some of them obviously gulped, fearing that you might want from them something that they could hardly afford. “What is it?” asked Soobin but more boldly than before. “Well, don’t ask me to put on some winged eyeliner, smoky makeup, a leather jacket and Doc Martens or I’m going to turn into the Hulk, crack my fucking shirt open and step on your necks; then run back home to wear a comfy pair of PJ’s!” The oldest of them all replied with a strangled chortle, “Don’t worry about that. As the person in charge of outfits here, I’ve made sure our Lumberzacks theme will be on point.”

“That’s even worse, goodness,” you sighed, “I quit.”

“I’m Yeonjun, by the way,” he introduced himself, coming forward to shake your hand, “Senior year, previous ace of the basketball team and top student. I’m pretty sure you know me already though.” You winced. You didn’t. “Not really but you have a nicer name than I would have thought. I had mentally named you Grandpa, because of your grey hair, you know?” you patted Yeonjun on the shoulder, “No offence though, I love the colouring. Besides, as our dear friend Kang Taehyun, right here, would say; there’s no shame in growing old—” His aura turned from charming kitty to growling dog in a matter of seconds. “If you really sing like a dying whale out there, you’ll be a depilated bitch after the performance.”

“Oh yes, snatch my wig bud.”

iii.

Two hours before the opening of the embellished hall, you were sitting on the cold parquet, amidst the mess of cables and under the colourful projector lights, eating a pizza with Beomgyu and Kai. Newspapers were glued to the windows and the curtains were closed, with only a few glow-in-the-dark stickers in form of spaceships, planets and other celestial bodies glimmering dimly in the atrociously dark hall. The decor was breathtaking; there were painted balls of all sizes hanging at the edge of the stage and ovnis and rocks made of papier mâché surrounded the musical instruments and a marmalade orange and yellowish tie-and-dye bedsheet was hung behind them, portraying a sunset or what the boys believed to be in some way, the atmosphere on planet Mars. Having arduously practised with them and with the generous assistance that Kai brought to you, despite his little piques and the other things he does, rubbing you the wrong way, you felt like you were ready to give an otherworldly show.

Yeonjun approached the three of you, with a hanger, a black sweater dangling from it and the name of their band, TXT, written somewhere on it. He stole the last part of the pizza before handing you the piece of clothing (more like throwing it in your direction.) You heaved out a sigh of relief. It was not like you actually believed he would pull out a pink checkered shirt and an axe for you but for your defence, he sounded strangely convincing when he brought up the Lumberzacks concept, the previous day. “You can keep it,” he said, while taking a seat in your circle, “Mm, this pizza is so good! I’m seriously starving right now.” Kai reached out for a can of Sprite but after a few failed attempts of plucking the tab in order to open it, you had to do it for him. That was when, out of the blue, it hit you. “Hey Kai,” you made direct eye contact with him, “you don’t need your arms to sing, do you?” The boy choked, soda threatening to precipitate down his nostrils as you disgustedly passed a tissue paper to him. “I— I don’t but. . .” he gulped, “you’re not thinking of. . .”

“Yup. I’m definitely thinking of getting you a sweater, a microphone and a damn chair,” you stated, to which he retorted: “Look at how aesthetically appealing the stage is, you don’t wanna drag a chair in the middle and have me in my plastered arm sing in front of the whole school—” You tutted, interrupting him, totally unwilling to hear him whine lamer excuses. “Fuck the aesthetic Ning,” you claimed, “I’m dragging your ass onto that stage whether you like it or not.” He was bound to surrender when Beomgyu added, his cheeks filled with food, “Datsh right bruh shtahp bein ah pushy! (That’s right bro, stop being a pussy!)”

At four, the hall had turned into a hive of activity and three quarter of the whole student body at school was present, their mobile phones as well as a ton of snacks in hand. It was soon filled to the brim, and in the middle of the tumult, you spotted Eunji, strenuously hopping and snaking among the sweaty bodies of the cantankerous students while murmuring “excuse me” nonstop. She was carrying a huge pack of water bottles and you realised that they were for the band but you were internally worried about her visible dark circles and her trembling hands, fearing that she might collapse at any instant. On seeing her approaching the door of the dressing room, you stepped forward so as to receive her. All of a sudden, Eunji tripped over someone’s bag and would have heavily fallen to the ground if Soobin had not bolted at the speed of light to catch her. Some of the water bottles had left the pack and you hastily picked them up from the ground but before entering the changing room again, you slightly peeked at the two oblivious lovebirds. “This festival is not worth you losing sleep over it,” reassured Soobin, grabbing the girl by the shoulder while leading her to a free place (where he had intentionally placed his belongings before) in the front row, “you’ve done a great job and it’s thanks to you if today’s event is a success. Sorry again for being such a dick but if it’s not too much to ask, would you like to stay. . .?” A sparse blush highlighted the tall boy’s porcelain cheeks and a smile made its apparition on his brightened face when Eunji accepted his proposal.

“See you later, then.” He awkwardly waved at her.

“Sure. Good luck Soobin!”

The enthusiasm in the hall was electric. The cheers were deafening and the flashes of the camera would have blinded you if you did not focus on fixing the keys of the keyboard instead of staring at the crowd, in the obscurity, dancing and a particular little group of them screaming along the lyrics. You exchanged complicit, overjoyed glances and smiles with the other members of the band. Soobin’s singing lines, as you had guessed, were mostly dedicated to the vice student council, you concluded as you caught him several times, glancing in her direction. When Beomgyu’s solo part came, the projector lights all focused on him and he went hardcore, passionately plucking on the strings of his beloved guitar, his neck veins popping and sweat dripping down his cheeks. For the split of a second, you felt your own heart skip a beat. Goodness, you soared, he indeed is a ladies’ man. What was at first a performance that you dreaded with everything you had, prolonged with an unexpected encore and eventually ended up metamorphosing into a free-styling concert. At that very moment, you realised that your euphoric self was for the first time in so long, in seventh heaven.

💌 MASTERLIST

[autofoebia]

works in progress

1) (something like) an operation - memoir

2) bitterness and black mold - fiction

1

A dentist I’ve known my entire life leaned over me with a pair of pliers in hand and said, “Tell me if it hurts,” before shoving his hands into my mouth. I was too numb to even register the brush of latex against my teeth. I lay there, tiny mouth forced open by a cheek retractor, my fingers in a death grip on my mother’s wrist, and I remember wondering how I would tell him it hurt. How would I even be able to buck up against him with the nurse’s arm across my chest? A mouth full of fingers really knows how to keep one from screaming out in agony. Perhaps the dentist was aware of that and was merely required to calm my nerves. Maybe he was playing a cruel joke on me. I considered there, on the pale blue chair with my chin tipped up and my eyes screwed shut, if pain ceased to exist under the blanket of novocaine.

The tapping of metal against bone rattled my skull. I closed my eyes tight enough to see streaks of illusionary light behind my eyelids and squeezed my mother hard enough to earn a pinch on the back of my hand. This was entirely her decision. In the summer of 2016, they found two impacted wisdom teeth on my bottom jaw. Me, a freshly graduated teenager with my head buried in Pokemon Go, expected and secretly wished for an easy operation. I had never gone under, never really understood all the pretty prose about surgeries I’d read, and somewhere, deep down, I was curious to experience going down into darkness, or waking into light. Things I had never truly considered before, I wished to experience and understand it all.

Suffice to say, when the dentist recommended I simply come in on my off day and get the two teeth out via novocaine-numbed-just-barely-a-surgery-surgery.

He pulled on my gums, my head snapping after his strength. The nurse pulled me back down again and I squeezed my mother’s wrist again, leaving crescent marks in the thin skin. The dentist twisted his wrist. I could feel the coldness of the forceps against my cheek but I couldn’t feel what it was grabbing, and then I heard a crack in the back of my throat. The taste, dulled by my useless tongue, of my own shattered tooth permeated the chill of the numbing agent. I am shaken and, oddly, intrigued. The clinical air, just as clean as the counters to my right and the sink to my left, was shot through with the coppery reek of blood. My mother made a sickened noise behind my head,

“You got it?” She asked. I could tell she wanted to go wait in the other room. Something heavy dripped down my chin and I kept my eyes shut tight as if I were afraid of whatever it was. I couldn’t help but think it was my tongue, cut free from the back of my throat. 

“Got it. I’ll do the next one too.” The dentist said. He pulled his hands back and shook out his wrists, and I opened my eyes in time to see the smearing of gore on his gloves, on his tools. He looked like Dr. Frankenstein himself, hidden behind a surgical mask and a hair net and a pair of thick-framed glasses, all smudged by the faintest mist of red. He loomed over me, the monster, ready to finish the job.

---

2

Mara came a week before the fall season started in a tiny lime-colored car. She pulled into the driveway, still overgrown with roots and brown needles and caked-down mud, stepped out of that little car, and stared up at the wilting walls of 356 Upper Mountain Road. That house, a two-floor Victorian which had laid dormant for the past thirty years, stared back with all the interest of a decayed corpse. Three weeks ago, Mara had seen it while driving to her classes at the local university. Then, a “For Rent” sign leaned against one of the pine trees on the front lawn. A week after that initial discovery, she contacted the owner. Another week and she was there, on the front lawn, surrounded by grass grown high enough to swallow her feet and trees so heavy with age they hung down to caress the top of her head with their needles. If she were a more optimistic person, she may have thought those small touches were enthusiastic hellos from that old house. Greetings, like that of a new roommate. ‘It’s so nice to meet you. I hope we can get along.’

One should consider the house when thinking of haunted houses. Ghosts are different always, with backstories of pain and rage and sadness and murder and love. Houses, though. The houses are usually concrete in their construction, in their own backstories. They are built on graveyards or cursed lands, constructed with awful angles and horrendous hidden rooms that welcome creeping darkness akin to a living, breathing beast. 356 was nothing like those haunted houses. 356 was built in the 70s, lived in by fairly happy families, and then left alone to rot until the landowner accepted the first call she received about a renter. No ghosts haunted 356. Not a soul had been in its gaping halls longer than an hour until Mara showed up with her tiny suitcase and her tiny colorful furniture. When she entered through the front door she felt no chill, no eyes on her back, heard no scratches from the basement or attic. When she investigated the old dusty rooms she found no footprints, no shadows in the covered mirrors as she uncovered them. There were no strange smells, no odd angles, nothing but empty, stagnant air and sunlight streaming through the windows. What haunts a house if nothing has died there, nothing has come and gone there for years? What haunts a house if not a ghost? Well, one should consider the house.

“You sure know how to pick ‘em, Mars,” Lydia, Mara’s younger sister, said as she helped her settle her mattress against the wall of the master bedroom. Her weary gaze took in the square, sturdy walls, covered in a blue wallpaper that may have depicted bundles of flowers once but was now too faded to even have a texture. She scrutinized the dust-gray shag carpet, which Mara had probably deep cleaned only a night or two ago, and the ceiling, which held a weepy fan and enough wrinkles in the white paint to warrant a plastic surgeon. The grand window to the left of them, which was in need of polishing, was perhaps the most beautiful thing about the room, with its curling ornamentation and balcony access. Mara, despite her sister’s obvious worries, still grinned as she stepped into the center of the wide, sunny floor, arms spread wide. She said,

“Don’t I? This place is great, Lydia, trust me, and mom said she’d cover rent until I graduate too.” 

“Lucky break,” Lydia leaned against the wall, pulling two cigarettes from her back pocket. She offered the extra to Mara, who reached over and took it between two fingers.

“Didn’t you quit?” She asked as she lit up and threw her lighter back over to Lydia.

“Thought about it. Didn’t have the guts,” Lydia sighed out a cloud of spicy smoke, “I’ve decided I’m fine with my teeth falling out by the time I’m thirty. Besides, it makes me look sexy.”

“So you think, you baby,” Mara said, “When’re you and mom driving down?”

“Next Friday,” Lydia stared down at her fingernails and found infallible interest in her cuticles, “I’ll miss you, you know.”

“Well, you’re the one who wanted an out of state school,” Mara said, “But I’ll miss you too, I guess.” She smirked and wandered over to the window, dragged her fingers through her hair, and watched as the sun began to sink behind the Jersey suburbs and trees far beyond her and her sister and her empty rented house. Lydia stared at her back. Anything the sisters wished to share, anything left unsaid, remained unsaid. The house felt it too and bided its time. A seed, it thought, has been planted.

Mara was a senior at Montclair University, just up the road from 356. Her commute, which had been a near half house drive from Lyndhurst, was now a mere five-minute scoot from her driveway to the overstuffed parking lot outside the business building. She spent most of her week cooped up in front of a computer, or in the back of her fashion and business courses, popping nicotine gum against the roof of her mouth and texting the ever populated group chat. Her conversations at school usually consisted of monotonous recollections of previous discussions, retellings of stories everyone had already heard before, and, currently, a room-by-room explanation of her new rented home. The audience of other fashion business majors, a gaggle of messy buns and Greek noses and perfectly manicured hands, listened with varying degrees of interest. At the mention of an overgrown but roomy backyard, one of the messy buns who Mara thought was named Cindy let out a happy gasp and said,

“You should throw a party.” 

“What?” Mara responded, unable to fight off a smile of interest.

“A party, dude. Housewarming, you know,” Cindy said, “Drinks and gifts and shit. And if you’ve got as much room as you say you do you can probably host like, half the school.”

“Oh, I’m not sure,” Mara said.

[seashanties-and-tales-blog]

I loved how you wrote my alpha Tamaki request 💓💓 I have another one if that's ok. Alpha Tamaki's omega getting badly hurt by a villian and he is finally able to get to her and hold her close trying to protect her while maybe letting out a snarl at the villian letting his alpha side really show. Bonus points if Kirishima shows up to help out his sempai and his sempai's omega. Sorry if its really specific ^^; I adore your writing so much!

Ahhh thank you, thank you !  I’m so happy you liked it ♥ This ended up being the typical “hey buddy let me smash your girl” “no i must protect my girl!”, so rather than a villain the antagonists ended up being some asshole drunks. I hope this is still okay, haha I feel like I didn’t follow the ask well enough - feel free to request again if that’s the case !! ;_;

Youralpha is a strange case. He isn’t intimidating, he isn’t super masculine, andthe scent that he gives off is usually not one that wards off potentialthreats. You had even been surprised when you first found out your mate is an alpha, since your first assumption was that he is infact a beta or even an omega like yourself.

However, it became apparent that the reason for this is becausehe suppresses his alpha instincts and nature. The smell, the actions, the voice- all because he doesn’t want any more attention on him than necessary. 

You don’t want an alpha that’s ready to snap at any other malethat comes your way anyways, and it quickly became apparent that he shows hisalpha side in various subtle ways. It’s through small things, mostly. Sometimeshe feels a dire need to mark you, usually when it seems any claims topossession have faded. Other times he finds ways to very sneakily scent youjust to lay claim. Then there are his ruts, which really show his alpha nature.

But until now, you’ve never seen him angry. Never heard himgrowl, never experienced what it’s like to be around an alpha that will doanything to protect their omega and what they care about. Now that you’reexperiencing it, you realize how lucky, scared, and oddly turned on you are.

You two went on a regular night out, hitting up a ramen place onone of the busier streets where Fatgum’s office is located. Kirishima, Tamaki’skouhai as well as a younger male that didn’t pose much of a threat to him -Kirishima looks up to his senpai too much to try anything on you anyways. Thenightlife here is pretty wild but, usually, it’s calm. Tonight just happened tobe one of those nights were life proves to be unpredictable. 

After you finished your food and began walking around, a typicalvillain and two of his friends approached you from behind and, not getting anysense that you’re already mated or out with two alphas, grabbed you frombehind. Kirishima was the first to react, saying ‘Hey, don’t touch her!’,but that’s because Tamaki almost couldn’t believe what had just happened andwas still reeling. Is his presence really so weak that they didn’t even noticeyou’re with your alpha?

Something about that and seeing anyone touching you this way,his omega shrieking and struggling to get out of the cocky male’s grasp, setTamaki off.

“What’re you so mad about? She’s not mated is she? Even if sheis, it doesn’t look like her mate’s around.” Clearly this man and his twobuddies don’t care about Kirishima and Tamaki, not until now. “Now c’mon,we’ve been looking for an omega like you all night.” The alcohol on his breathreaches your nose, making you wince and look away.

“He-he’s my mate! Let me go!” You pushed at the unwanted male’schest but it was Tamaki who finally got you away by grabbing his wrist andpulling his hand off of you. Then he stepped between the two of you to distanceyou from he aggressors. You notice how he’s standing taller than he usually does,as opposed to his usual slouch. 

“You’re her mate? No wonder she’s so desperate,showing herself off like she is. How about I show you a real alpha, huh?” Helooks past Tamaki and then to you, and when Kirishima is about to speak up,Tamaki does first. Louder than Kirishima would have. 

“Apologize to her and then get out of here.” It sounds more likea threat than anything else, and there’s a dangerous look in his eyes. 

“Huh, apologize? You’re a dumbass if you think I’m apologizing.She wouldn’t be walking around like that if she didn’t want some attention.”

It’s hard to tell exactly how things escalated from there andwhy. At one point you’re standing behind Tamaki, hoping the situation isresolved quickly and the next you’re clutching your face  as you’re layingon the ground in shock and pain. One of the villains, he had some sort of quirksimilar to super strength. Things got more heated and the moment you attemptedto get in between the situation to sate it, he had thrown a punch to both getyou away as well as provoke Tamaki.

Blood ran down your from face both your nose and forehead, andwhen you recoiled back from the attack you hit your back and head rather hardagainst the wall. 

At that point, Tamaki wasn’t holding back anymore. The fear ofbeing watched by the crowd now surrounding the situation (Frustratinglypreferring to just watch instead of help), went away. Right now, all he canthink about is you. You, who was just attacked and are now writhing in pain andthe three assholes who are now as good as dead.

Unfortunatelyhe can’t actuallykill them though, and he knows this, but he can use his quirk. Tamaki extended five giant octopustentacles from his fingers, wrapping them around the two aggressors while oneof them was able to escape and run over to you, trying to grab you and use youas leverage against Tamaki. Seeing this, Tamaki swings the two he has in hisgrasp and hits the last with them, knocking all three to the ground with hisoversized tentacles. A low angry growl came from his throat as he stalked over,and when he released his tentacles from the now pained villains, he realizedhow weak they are. It seems sometimes the alphas that do the most talking havethe least to back up their words.

Not even Kirishima had been fast enough on his feet to act,since everything happened so fast, but he ran over to one of the males andpunched him straight in the jaw, immediately knocking him out. “(Y/N), areyou okay?!” He’s happy to be able to do somethingto help – he cares about his senpai and his senpai’s omega, and seeing you hurtreally doesn’t sit right with him.

Tamaki’s rare expression of pure and unadulterated angersoftened the instant he saw you, immediately switching to a caring andoverprotective mode. However, one of the villains was still able to move, andfrom the corner of his eye Tamaki saw him make a move. Without a secondthought, Tamaki is in front of him and grabbing him by the collar. “Don’t eventhink about getting up!” He snarls, shaking the weaker male. His voice isunlike anything you’d heard it sound like before. It’s loud and abrasive andthere’s a threatening alpha growl in the back of his throat that’s sure to makeanyone around you shake in their boots. Tamaki’s expression if filled with rageyet again, and the veins in his forearms are pronounced as he cocks his armback and knocks the man out with a punch that was perhaps even stronger thanKirishima’s.

By this point, Kirishima had gone to your side, however he didn’tdare touch you in case he caught Tamaki’s wrath. This isn’t a side Tamaki likesto show but seeing you hurt just set him off completely. The moment he turnedhis head and saw you, everyone still crowded around and watching (Surely one ofthem has called the police by now), Tamaki felt more at ease knowing allthreats are dealt with.

Before you know it you’re in your alpha’s safe arms, which areholding you around your waist with a grasp that’s torn between wanting tosqueeze you and or treat you like you’re a fragile relic. You whimper, clingingto Tamaki’s shirt and burying your still stinging and bleeding face against hisshoulder. You reek of fear, and that tears him apart.

As for Tamaki, he’s never smelled so masculine before,terrifying and safe all at the same time. He never let go of you and he didn’tsay anything for a while either, instead just letting you know that he’s here,that you’re safe, and that he won’tlet anything else happen to you.

By the time the cops arrive, Kirishima handles talking to themas the three drunk males are courted away to jail. Tamaki, a pro-hero intraining, of course went unpunished and even received praise for what he did. Feelingoverwhelmed with said praise, Tamaki was quick to shrink away from the eyes ofeveryone around him. He never once let you out of his sight for the rest of thenight, though he was quick to take you to the ER just to get treated for your injuries– a broken nose, concussion, and black eye, as well as a bruised rib.

You’d never doubted Tamaki before, never seen him as weak butsimply an alpha that is so strong that he doesn’t have to show off to others.However if there is anyone who’s ever doubted him before, they sure were provenwrong tonight.

[turnsoutnoonewasexaggerating]

Part 13 of The Sam Diaries

Summary: Meet Sam, a sweet confused unfit demisexual, as he encounters his celebrity crush Andrew Minyard time and time again despite, or perhaps because of the fact that he doesn’t actually like Exy all that much. (That or because his girlfriend owns the ice-cream place Andrew’s obsessed with. One or the other.)

Chapter summary: Sam's origin story, or, at least, the origin of his friendships

Read on Ao3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10507836/chapters/28723324

“Well you know what, fuck you guys, because that makes three of us!” Nicky exclaims, to everyone’s confusion. A second ago Neil was sure Nicky was about to cry at Andrew’s (for him) heartfelt thanks, and now he looked a second from tearing his hair out.

Neil and Erik shared a look. Sometimes he hated being part of this family.

“I had to find out from fucking YouTube that you’d been outed to the press, you little asshole.” Nicky continues, pointing a finger at Andrew accusingly. “And, you!” Nicky shouts, now stabbing the finger at Aaron, who doesn’t back down on his glare at Andrew but somehow still manages to look sheepish. Erik and Neil both slowly edge out of the car, and Katelyn also attempts to sneak away from the trio, but Aaron won’t let go of her hand so she settles for sending pleading looks Neil’s way instead. “You got engaged?! MONTHS AGO?!” Neil’s slightly worried Nicky’s going to strain his shoulder with how sharply he’s gesticulating. He looks around for Erik, his main support here, but Erik’s talking to what he assumes is one of their co-workers, smiling a bit forcefully and trying to turn their attention away from his angry husband. “So if a fucking family intervention is what I had to stage to get the two of you to fucking talk to me that’s what I fucking did! Fuck you!” He frowns. “It’s been a while since I’ve spoken English. I feel like that was too many fucks.”

“You’ve always given too many fucks.” Andrew deadpans, with a hint of the double-edged sense of humour that sends thrills down Neil’s spine, at the same time that Aaron says, “Why are you dressed as a pilot?”

Nicky makes an inarticulate noise of frustration, throws his hands in the air, and stalks off to Erik, which is ten times more dramatic because of the sequined vampire cloak he’s currently supporting.

Andrew is still in the car.

When Sam Goldsmith had arrived at university, he’d been quiet. Quiet, scared but sweet had been most people’s first impressions of him. At first, his roommate had thought Sam was just socially awkward, but after politely but firmly being turned down repetitively to go out to a party, he figured Sam might just be really into his studying.

Everyone liked Sam well enough; he kept his room clean, he took out the bins when it was his turn, he didn’t smoke weed in his room and despite his thick Southern accent he didn’t appear to harbour any racist or homophobic beliefs that everyone attributed to the south. Nobody knew Sam; perhaps if pressed they could recall he had a fairly standard home-life, expressed no interest in exercise and liked Harry Potter enough that he knew what house he’d be sorted into (Hufflepuff, obviously) but generally he was unremarkable.

There was a boy two floors above Sam’s that gave him smiles and Christmas presents after Sam had helped him build a shelf. There was a girl who spent most of her time in the library being sexiled that always shared her crisps with him after Sam had run up three flights of stairs to get her inhaler for her (thankfully it wasn’t in the room she’d been sexiled from). There was even a professor who awkwardly smiled at him every time they passed each other on campus because Sam read to their mother once a week at the old people’s home down the road, and it always made the lady’s day.

And then there was Yasmin.

Katelyn soon-to-be-Minyard is an incredible doctor. She can keep calm and collected even during the most panicked life-or-death moments (and none of her colleagues believe that it’s from years of Cheer practice (possibly because it’s not entirely from that; but trying to explain her almost brother-in-law’s slightly knife-happy tendencies without making him sound insane is mostly impossible)), but for some reason, standing in a parking lot, freezing her tits off in her ‘sexy Doctor’ costume that she likes to make fun of and likes how Aaron always eyes her thighs in, with her fiancé who’s locked in a stare-down with his brother that she, even after all these years, still doesn’t know whether it’s mostly just to rile up Nicky, makes her blurt out the first thing that comes into her head.

Andrew on-bad-days-still-sometimes-forgets-his-last-name-is-now-Minyard, hasn’t wanted to kill his brother’s partner for years (Katelyn may be unsure about that but Andrew’s not. He’d never be unsure about something that concerned Aaron’s safety). And yet, as soon as he registers the words that Katelyn has just spoken, he has a split second of longing for a present where he’d just done away with her all those years ago (a feeling Neil would mock him for and say was ‘regret’ but Andrew doesn’t believe in it), but finds it difficult to put into practice when he is still in the fucking car and can’t leave until one of the people who own keys for the vehicle comes back to lock it up (he doesn’t think Nicky lives in a particularly bad neighbourhood but it’s not like he was concerned enough to Google it before he came so who knows. Maybe German bad neighbourhoods look really fancy).

Aaron on-bad-days-still-wishes-his-name-wasn’t-Minyard, loves Katelyn very much. So much, in fact, that her words make him break his stare-down with Andrew to stare at her in confused delight (not that he hasn’t wanted to be staring at her for the past five minutes anyway, because if possible he’d like to live in a world where his eyes would never have to leave hers, but glaring at Andrew has become as ritualistic as fist-bumping Nicky nowadays).

“You really missed an opportunity to come as skeletwins.”

Sam didn’t like parties. He didn’t like clubs. But he wasn’t completely averse to alcohol (no-one except him had twigged that he was averse to crowded places filled with sex and no escape seeing as that was most freshman’s dream come true) which is how he managed to be at the pub (a sensible mile from campus) at the same time as Yasmin Harris, who, among other things, was stoned out of her mind.

“We should fuck.” Is what Yasmin says to him, sitting down next to him at the bar like that’s a normal greeting. Sam shoots a mournful look to his roommate who’s chatting up the girl on his other side and resigns himself to having to deal with this. He glances at Yasmin and finds himself blinking slightly in surprise. He’s been at university, away from his family, for more than a semester now, and he’d thought he’d seen just about every version of whacky looks possible. Yasmin Harris might be about to take the cake however. She’s tall, unusually tall for a girl, like a good head and shoulders taller than him and he’s not exactly short. She has a very sharp face (Sam finds himself comparing her to Draco Malfoy before he can stop himself), bright purple contacts that absolutely do not match her sunshine yellow hair that is so bright it almost hurts to look at. She also has a fairly impressive burn scar on one side of her face that she’s drawn round in black sharpie, to show it off. It mars one of her nostrils oddly, and twists the left corner of her mouth into a grimace. He meets her eyes eventually and when he does she snorts, and he doesn’t understand why.

“You reek of virgin kid.” Sam’s brother had said that to him, at Thanksgiving Christmas dinner. Then he’d showed off a hickey he’d got (apparently) off some leather-clad biker dude that ‘reeked of Derek Hale almost as much as you reek of virgin’ and Sam had pretended to not be hurt by the way his mother had been absolutely scandalised at the ‘sinful’ gay activity but not at how Sage was being a dick. Sam also didn’t know what to do with the information that his brother is apparently still watching Teen Wolf, or began to watch it in the first place. Sam’s hoping this girl isn’t going to go down the same route. “My name’s Yasmin Harris. You’re Sam Goldsmith, the nice kid who’s even nice to fucking wheezy Winter.” Sam narrows his eyes.

“No-one calls her wheezy Winter.” Yasmin shrugs, and then grins, her tongue lolling slightly out of her mouth like a dog’s. “I don’t want to have sex with you.” He adds.

“But,” Yasmin says, and pokes one ridiculously long talon-like fingernail into his chest, “Do you want to have sex with anybody?” Sam feels his chest seize slightly and forces himself to relax. He’s a freak, but he’s not a liar.

“Not particularly.” He says, eventually.

“If you stop reeking of virgin I’m going to have to kick someone’s ass now, aren’t I?” Yasmin sighs, looking worn down all of a sudden. Sam blinks.

“What?”

“Because we’re friends now, dickhead.” Sam thinks with longing about the next day, where presumably Yasmin is going to completely forget this happened and Sam can go back to being quiet, scared and sweet.

  Surprisingly, or not, Andrew doesn’t kill Katelyn. It is only, as he’ll admit to Neil later, 50% because he’s still stuck in the car. Instead, Erik comes back to lock the car up with a grumpy Nicky standing very pointedly off to the side and eventually they all go into the party.

“I’m expecting an apology. From both of you. And an explanation.” Nicky finally says, sniffing, and Andrew and Aaron share an conspiratorial look of smugness that Nicky cracked before they did. Both of them pretend like these looks never happen.

“I wanted to tell you in person.” Aaron says, when Andrew doesn’t speak.

“I didn’t even know you were thinking about it!” Nicky huffed, grabbing Katelyn’s hand to look at the ring. He introduces his family to a co-worker who taps him on the shoulder in German, barely even looking at her. When he looks back up from Katelyn’s hand he’s a bit teary and Aaron thunks his head on the table in defeat.

“I am not drunk enough to deal with you being sappy.”

“It’s not my fault I’m already on edge from Andrew’s fucking speech in the car.” Nicky says, more than a little choked.

“Why’d you make him cry?” Aaron says, frowning at his twin, disapproving. Andrew shrugs.

“Just said thanks. Not even to him.” Andrew huffs, the words partially muffled in his whiskey glass as he drains it.

“Neil’s been holding out on an Andrew who’s actually nice and has emotions.” Nicky stage-whispers. Aaron raises an eyebrow, disbelieving.

“Nicky I am never going to thank you again.” Andrew deadpans.

“How about an apology?”

“I don’t do apologies.” Nicky glares at him. “Neither does Neil.” Andrew argues confidently. Neil winces a little beside him, but when Andrew turns to look Neil’s looking at Aaron of all people. “What?” Andrew snaps.

“That’s not quite true.” Neil hedges, still looking at Aaron.

Yasmin doesn’t forget in the morning.

Instead, she turns up at Sam’s door in a very tinted pair of sunglasses and a bikini, with a cocktail in one hand and Winter White in the other. Winter White is the girl Sam has been sharing crisps with in the library, and apparently he’s just found the roommate that’s always sexiling her. She’s waves to him, sheepishly, and Sam’s roommate groans at him to close the door because it’s letting in the light from where he’s lying face down in bed.

Sam obediently moves into the corridor. If Sage’s mysterious hickey-giver had been Derek Hale then Winter is the female version of Stiles Stilinski, all lean and freckled and nerdy, with geek glasses that frame warm brown eyes and very fidgety hands. Sam doesn’t know why he’s still thinking about Teen Wolf.

“Wheezy here’s all hung up on that guy who couldn’t get a shelf up on his first week here. And don’t worry, I’ve already warned her all about if he can’t get a shelf up there might be other things he can’t get up too but she’s adamant that he’s the one and apparently you know him. Jesus. I think I’m the only one with balls around here. Anyway, you’re going to introduce them because god knows I owe Wheezy a few nights of shagging and she’s pretty much the sweetest so if you try and get out of this I will cut off your non-existent balls.” Sam thinks about this.

“Stop calling her wheezy.” He offers back, and Yasmin does that grin again, where Sam’s kind of wondering if she’s only been smiled at by dogs before because no human being smiles like that.

“I know you were a sweetheart. Here’s the deal; you go help this darling with her romantic troubles and then the four of us are going to be A Group. Like a clique. It’s going to be a thing.”

“What if Anders already has friends?” Winter points out, quietly. ‘Anders’ is referring to the guy who couldn’t fix a shelf, who goes by his last name ‘Anderson’ and has so far refused to tell anyone what his first name is.

“He doesn’t.” Sam and Yasmin say in unison. Yasmin holds her hand up for a fist bump and Sam is already bumping her fist before he realises he’s moving his arm.

“How do you know?” Winter argues.

“No-one knows what his first name is.” Sam points out. “Which means no-one knows him well enough to ask.”

“Shrewd, Sherlock.” Winter concedes, with a small smile. Sam wonders whether he might have had a friend this whole time and just hadn’t realised. When he thinks about Anders, upstairs, and the exchanged Christmas presents and the smiles, he feels heat rising in his face.

Yasmin makes a noise like she’s physically pained. “Ugh. Can we keep him? Please?” She stage-whispers to Winter. “He hasn’t even asked about my face yet.”

“How strange. Not asking people personal questions as soon as you meet them.” Winter deadpans, and how did Sam not know she was sarcastic? Yasmin scoffs, unoffended.

“In my defence, I was high as a kite.”

“When are you not?”

“Now who’s asking personal questions?”

“Anders?” Sam cuts in, when their banter doesn’t subside. Winter immediately starts trying to back down the hallway but Yasmin’s got her scary nails wrapped round Winter’s wrist before she’s taken two steps.

“I’m in A Group with cowards.” Yasmin sniffs. “Sam barely leaves his room, Winter’s been crushing on a guy for like High-School long without saying anything and this Anders guy can’t even tell people his first name.”

“I leave my room.” Sam mutters, affronted.

“Yeah, barely.” Yasmin snaps right back, and Sam feels sort of like he should be taking offence at this woman who he’s only known the best part of twelve hours judging him but she’s not exactly wrong.

So much for quiet, scared and sweet. Looks like he’s going to have to settle for slightly social instead.

“Matt’s out.” Is what Aaron says as soon as he opens the door to Neil’s knock, already preparing to close it.

“Cool. I came here to talk to you though.” Aaron’s face immediately pinches tight with worry.

“What’s happened to Andrew?” He demands, opening the door wider.

“Nothing. As far as I know.” Neil brushes past Aaron into his old dorm, ignoring the fact that Aaron didn’t invite him in. “He’s in class.” Before Aaron can ask what the Hell Neil is doing, Neil’s looking at his Biology notes with a weird blend of queasiness and interest. The notes are spread out all over the floor because Andrew might have an eidetic memory but Aaron didn’t get that particular blessing/curse, and he has midterms he actually cares about unlike apparently everyone else on this sodding team.

“What?” He snaps, when Neil doesn’t explain why he’s staring at his notes like it’s a particularly disgusting museum display.

“I remember having to learn all the different arteries and veins, how close they were to the surface, all that stuff.” Despite himself, Aaron’s a little intrigued; he genuinely loves Biology and it doesn’t take much to get his interest.

“Did you do Biology at Milport or something?” Neil looks startled.

“Ah, no. I got taught this stuff by Lola. When I was eight.”

“Not in this level of detail.” Aaron argues, slightly affronted. Neil’s expression lifts, become more humoured.

“No. Didn’t need to know how the circulatory system worked just how to sever it with a particularly sharp knife.” His voice is for a second distant yet hard, and then he blinks and his normal closed-off expression is back. “Anyway. I came here to talk to you about this.” Neil gestures between the two of them with a grimace.

“There is no this.” Aaron scoffs. For some reason this startles a laugh out of Neil.

“You really are twins.” He muses.

“What?”

“That’s what Andrew says whenever I refer to our relationship.” Neil says, almost fondly. Aaron narrows his eyes at him.

“You’ve been… Dating for what, a year now? And Andrew refuses to acknowledge you have a relationship?” Neil frowns.

“Not like that he just. Doesn’t do it verbally. It doesn’t matter.” Aaron really thinks it does matter but he’s learning to ask before he asserts his own judgements. He’ll bring it up next time they go to see Bee. He knows what it’s like to be called nothing. To some extent, he even knows what it’s like to be called nothing by Andrew. He knew now, in some capacity, Andrew had done and had been doing more to protect Aaron than he ever knew at the time, but that didn’t change how little he’d valued Aaron’s opinions or existence in general. It wasn’t so much that Andrew had not lived up to Aaron’s expectations as subverted them completely. While Aaron doesn’t like Neil and he definitely doesn’t trust him, he also doesn’t want Andrew to drive Neil away because of stubbornness when Neil’s clearly the only person who Andrew can stand for long periods of time.

“Hurry up Josten I need to get back to studying.”

“I wanted to apologise.” Neil says, eventually. Aaron was expecting a gun to his head more than he was expecting this. “Except I’m kind of shit at that. So I thought maybe I could teach you how to drive as an apology instead.”

“An apology for what?” Aaron asks, baffled. Neil pulls a face.

“Are you going to make me list it?” When Aaron just continues to stare blankly at him, Neil sighs. “For throwing Tilda in your face, for interfering in your relationship with Katelyn, for lying, for endangering everyone on this team, for persuading Andrew to go to the Hemmicks, for not talking to you much afterwards and for stealing one of your shots last week. Did I about cover it?” He asks, sarcastically.

“The shot was the real grievance.” Aaron shoots back, unimpressed. “You don’t have a car. How are you going to teach me to drive?”

“I bought Andrew’s car. I get a key.” Aaron’s eyes widen.

“You bought Andrew’s car? What the fuck Neil?” Neil shrugs sheepishly.

“I thought I was going to die at the end of the year so I didn’t need the money anymore.”

“Andrew doesn’t accept gifts that aren’t food related.” Aaron disagrees. Neil, if possible, looks even more sheepish.

“I traded him for not taking cracker dust anymore. Wanted to limit his addictions.”

“Why didn’t you take him off cigarettes they’ll kill him much faster.” Aaron complains. “Bastard.” He adds, almost as an afterthought.

“It’d ruin his aesthetic.” At that, Neil Josten succeeds in the previously impossible and makes Aaron laugh.

“Oh thank fuck you also think the all black is a little much sometimes. You know he wore a skull cap to meet the team on our first day here?”

“What’s a skull cap?” Aaron sits down by his laptop and does a quick image search for him. The vindication he feels when Neil I-am-physically-repelled-away-from-fashionable-clothing Josten looks horrified is the most satisfying feeling he’s had all day. “I don’t think I’d wear that even if I had no other clothes.”

“I would if only because everyone would think I was Andrew.” Aaron admits. “I’ve bought the same tie as him for this year’s Christmas banquet just so I can pretend I’m him if anyone tries to talk to me.”

“Can you even do a good Andrew impression?” Neil asks, not convinced. Aaron does his best to shut down all his facial expressions and stare blankly at the wall in front of him. “Oh my goodness! It’s almost like you’re tw-”

“Don’t.” Aaron cuts him off, unamused. Well, maybe a little amused but Josten doesn’t need to know that. “Is Andrew ok with me learning to drive in his car?” He asks, suspicious.

“When I asked he said I’d never convince you so it didn’t matter what he thought.”

“Are you any good at driving?” Neil’s hand goes to the side of his stomach for a second, rubbing at the skin there.

“I’m better than Nicky and obey more traffic rules than Andrew.” Neil offers.

“Good enough.”

  Almost two semesters later and Sam’s not entirely sure he remembers what it was like to not be in A Group. Anders’ (who still goes by Anders to everyone except Winter, who he lets call him ‘Tal’ but all of them at least know what his first name is) parents have lent him their apartment for a couple of weeks while they join in on some sort of pilgrimage (Anders hadn’t explained and only Yasmin had asked, only to be shut down) so Anders had invited the three of them up to stay with him. It was nice, because Anders could have just invited Winter but he was as invested in their Group as much as Yasmin was, as much as all of them were to be honest.

Sam was more comfortable being around them than he was anywhere else, but he was still an introvert at heart. Which meant he got up early and went for a walk by himself round the city every day, just to clear his head. He went a different way every time, because for some reason he was falling more and more in love with this city (city? Town?) every time he discovered something new about it, and he wanted to explore it all.

There was a café he found, after about half an hour of walking, which he was about to go in to until he saw a sign for what looked like an ice-cream parlour round the corner. Sam felt the way the sweat was beading on his forehead in the heat and his stomach concurred with an emphatic grumble so he went there instead, pushing his way through the door eagerly.

Inside was bright and colourful, with tables and chairs that looked slightly rickety but very homely. Even though this town was pretty large, it was clear this place was the kind of place that had regulars and meant something to the community. There were so many homely vibes coming from the whole place. Sam loves it immediately.

“Hi there! Can I help you?” Sam stops taking the place in and looks behind the counter. There’s a young woman stood there, around his age, her hair held back by a simple headband instead of the hairnets he usually associates with people dealing with food. There’s something about the dark circles under her eyes and the weary slant of her posture but real, genuine smile that makes Sam want to draw.

He’s not sure even his Group knows about his drawings. It’s not something he was encouraged to do; his father was sure it was going to lead him into being ‘one of those prissy little gay boys’ so it’s become something he does only when the need to draw overcomes the weird lingering bad feeling he gets whenever he does.

He blushes, realising he’s been staring for slightly too long and shuffles closer to the counter. Luckily there’s only a couple of other people in the store to witness his embarrassment, and they seem far too interested in shoving their tongues down each other’s throats to care about him. “Um, do you have a recommendation?” Sam manages to stutter out, gesturing at the ice-creams on display.

The woman sucks her bottom lip into her mouth thoughtfully, looking him up and down. Sam thinks the heat must be getting to her too, if the way the back of her neck is going splotchy is any indication. “You look like the kind of person who’s into vanilla-ry things, right?” She smiles at him again and then her expression blanks before he can return it, looking mortified. “Oh my goodness I’m so sorry I meant in terms of ice cream I wasn’t trying to- Shit.”

“What else would it be in terms of?” Sam asks, bewildered. The woman buries her face in her hands, her hair sweeping past her shoulders at the bottom to help. She peeks at him through her fingers and then waggles her eyebrows, comically enough that Sam finds himself laughing even before he’s made the connection between that and the looks Anders and Winter give each other when they think no-one’s looking.

“I promise I wasn’t trying to be creepy.” The woman says, laughing a little with him but still looking embarrassed as hell. Sam thinks it’s adorable. Now he’s closer to her he can see the pretty impressive muscles she’s got in her arms, that he doesn’t think are just from scooping ice-cream, and the freckles that dot all over her visible skin.

“Don’t worry.” Sam assures. The woman bites her lip again.

“So, ice-cream? I think you’d like something classic, like Honeycomb or maybe the white chocolate and raspberry?”

“They both sound good.” Sam admits. “Can I have a scoop of each?” The woman rings up the order and then freezes.

“Ugh I meant to not charge you for this-”

“It’s fine.” Sam says firmly. The woman seems unsure.

“Can I at least buy you a coffee sometime? To apologise?” Sam smiles shyly at her.

“Can I have a name to go with that coffee?” He replies, as she scoops out his ice cream, and Sam is more than a little impressed by the way her muscles ripple as she does.

“Eunoia.”

“Sam.” He offers back. She hands him the ice cream, but doesn’t quite let go of it yet.

“Sam.” She says, testing the name. “It suits you.” Sam doesn’t know whether that’s a compliment or not. “You free now?” Sam blinks at her, perplexed.

“Are you?” He says, pointedly looking at the counter separating them.

“I’ll be done by the time you finish your ice cream.” Sam wonders what weird shifts they have going on at this place but doesn’t question it, finding himself excited to get to know someone, for quite possibly the first time in his life.

And if he spends most of the time that he’s supposed to be eating the ice cream doodling Eunoia in his sketchbook, well, only the two of them are going to know.

And maybe that couple in the corner if they’d stopped to disengage their mouths.

“You actually taught Aaron how to drive?” Andrew says, a little bit stunned and trying not to show it.

“You said I could.” Neil says quickly and Andrew nods, but sends him a look that clearly says ‘I didn’t know though’. “We had the same free blocks on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Plus Aaron’s a fast learner. We just took the car out when you were in class. I figured you knew.” Andrew narrowed his eyes at Aaron.

“You could drive for our last two years? Why was I stuck driving you everywhere?”

“You didn’t?” Aaron replies, frowning. “The only time you drove me places was to go to practice or to Eden’s.”

“Yes but if you could drive why would you still come to Eden’s with us?” Andrew says, genuinely confused and not liking being so. Even Neil looks like he knows the answer and Andrew’s being particularly dense.

“Because I wanted to.” Aaron answers, shortly, and Neil and Nicky and Katelyn all grin at each other because; progress!

“It doesn’t feel complete without Kevin here too.” Nicky says after a moment where Andrew’s still glaring at his glass like it’s offended him as he tries to wrap his head round this new information.

“Maybe next time you scheme us all into a surprise reunion you can get him too.” Aaron says sarcastically. At Nicky’s excited expression Aaron points his finger in Nicky’s face. “No, nope that was not an idea-” Nicky’s already bounding off to talk to Erik, shouting something about ‘Weihnachten’. “Fuck.” Aaron says, thunking his head on the table again. Katelyn runs a hand through his hair comfortingly, although it’s shaking slightly because of how much she’s laughing.

“We’re having Christmas this year.” Andrew says, in the same tone of voice one might deliver the news of a death, and everyone on the table looks at him in surprise. “Can you come?”

“Does coming mean I have to do Christmas next year?” Aaron says, shrewdly.

“It’s Wymack’s next year.” Neil assures.

“Has it really been another five years since we beat the shitty prick already?” Aaron muses. “They always say you get fonder of dead people as time passes but…”

“Yeah no Riko’s still a massive asshole.” Neil agrees, and how in holy hell did Andrew not notice his brother doesn’t hate Neil anymore?

Christ, he’s getting old.

[insearchofgatherings-blog]

Full Brightness

One

I always took the train to London.

I made up excuses to my many friends with an affinity for swiftness by air. The train took you to the centre, not to Gatwick. Once you factor in the airport bus, it’s probably faster than flying. I like having a table, not a flimsy piece of plastic. Babies don’t scream from decompression. And even the most absurdly hypocritical (for myself), but would always strike a nerve with my environmentally obsessed peers – “the train is electric; flying is one of the biggest consumers of fossil fuels”. I was never one to truly put the environment above my convenience, but I loved how that one shut them up.

But the real reason was one of my few irrationalities – I just have a romantic connection to rail. I love the sound, the views, the ability to wander around, the automated machine coffee that they serve to you in a little paper bag as if it compensates for the taste. Flying is clinical and cold. Airports are places of fear and anxiety; train stations are places of long farewells and slow departures.

They say that for important people, time is everything, and commuting must be as quick as possible. It can’t cut into their important meeting time or their important coffee time or their important phone call time. But glancing around Coach F I can see more men in suits and women with short hair on phone calls than any 50 quid Manchester to London RyanAir flight.

I liked to imagine that they were CEOs and COOs and Chairmen and Chairwomen and that my irrationalities of train travel were also found in highly successful people. I bet Vice would write an article about that. These 10 Weird Habits of CEOs Will Amaze You. Probably more Buzzfeed than Vice. I don’t really read any of that, but the headlines pop up in my feeds against my will on an almost daily basis. A morbid curiosity into which of my friends like them has kept me from blocking the sites completely. But in reality, Phil sitting next to me is just an underling, a scrapper.

He’s set up in the most bizarre way, with one of those tablet-come-laptops propped on the table, wired into the solitary mains plug between our seats. It has a small fold-out keyboard, one that looks like a fake child’s play-toy, without even tangible buttons to press, just marked out character zones to tap on. But despite taking a six or seven-minute interval to retrieve all of this, he’s responding to his emails by phone, the tablet-laptop left unattended as he single-fingers his way through family summons and requests for documents.

A few years back I had made wearing sunglasses at all times part of my core existence. I think it originally started as a joke, but they quickly became something I was uncomfortable without, to the point where I collected three or four pairs of £2 Primark trash lenses just in case I couldn’t locate them when leaving the house. It had nothing to do with the sun, or even general aesthetics. And to this day, I’m not convinced that anyone else has those reasons either. Sunglasses hide your soul, and they allow you to look into the souls of others. It almost feels like a superpower - the ability to look at people, to see every nuance of their movement, expression and emotion, whilst never intruding them with the uncomfortable insecurity of knowing you are watched.

I had been reading Phil’s emails and texts for nearly an hour now, and he was none the wiser. What first caught my eye was the rather absurd signature on his phone emails – “Sent from My Phil’s iPhone X”. I liked to imagine it was a power move. A subtle humblebrag about how busy he is, and that yes, he did have time to respond to your enquiry, but only on his phone and with minimal effort given to email formalities.

I had the window seat. Forward-facing, with a table. The trifecta, as I called it. Trains aren’t like airlines, who charge you out the nose for any sort of upgrade in comfort. If you book it far enough in advance, all you have to do is check the boxes and more often than not you’ll get it. Occasionally, if it was one of the trains that came through from Inverness or Aberdeen beforehand, there would be someone in my window. I took no pride in booting them out, but it was a necessary evil to be able to endure the tough stretch between Peterborough and London when the carriage that began at 20% capacity now stretches to over 100.

I found that as long as you tuck a bag of necessities underneath the seat and go to the toilet beforehand, the four and a half hours is more than tolerable without being able to move. And spreading out while there are no coinhabitants in your compartment detracts fellow spreaders from joining you, only those with few possessions dare sit next to me when I’m at full spread. Still, I do look forward to the return journey, when the carriage capacity inverts, and the final stretch north of Newcastle is completed in a near-empty space with ample room to fire books across the full four-seater and go for exploratory wanders to the closing café car.

I had my laptop out, full brightness. I liked to believe that other people were as nosy as I was, and were constantly looking at what I was working on. I worked best in these environments – cafes, trains, even libraries. My personal penchant for procrastination seemed to disappear as soon as someone else could see what I was working on. It was a touch pathetic, no doubt, but I reasoned that as long as it worked for helping productivity, I was fine with the superficial reasoning.

I always wanted to seem more important and more busy and more creative than I actually was. No scrolling through social media, no films or TV, no reading the news. Just work, or perhaps something that looks mysteriously creative. I wanted the person next to me to think I was a genius or a savant or something above my natural ability. I had dozens of excel spreadsheets that looked like chaotic labyrinths of formulae, and despite their true use being quite simple, the look is all that mattered.

I had opened one that I wasn’t even going to work on today. It had several columns involving a calculation of individual standard deviations, which always requires several formula-heavy helper columns, packing it right out with numbers and increasing its aura of complexity. In reality, it was a spreadsheet that compared cafés across towns in England. Manchester was still winning.

It had been open for about 20 minutes, and I hadn’t touched it, nor even come up with a plan of what I was attempting to do. It was there as a placeholder for other, less sophisticated forms of computer-based procrastination.

I liked to remind myself occasionally that it was okay to shelve productivity and just look out the window for a while because otherwise, my obsession with the forward-facing window was almost pointless. The passing of a train through countryside is oddly captivating, and you can find yourself getting lost in the never-ending flow of towns and farms and animals and power plants and small stations that pass too quickly for your eyes to register the name on the sign. The East Coast Main Line was my regular, but occasionally if I could justify the extra hour, or if the advance ticket turned out cheaper, I’d take a West Coast train just for a change of scenery.

Sophie wasn’t happy that I was taking the train, but I refused to budge. Arriving in at Heathrow at 0500 this morning, a first-thing flight meant I could meet her there, at the airport, at around 7 or 8. A train meant I’d be in at midday at the earliest, and at King’s Cross, not Heathrow. I’m only there for two days, she insisted. Come on, gotta make the most of it. I told her I had already booked. A lie.

I hadn’t seen Sophie in nearly two years, since she vanished to Australia in search of some lost youth. There’s a special visa that they give for ‘young people’ to ‘experience the world’ that lasts for two years. I seem to recall that her haste to leave was brought about by the realisation that, at 29, she was about to miss the cut-off for eligibility.

Her long-awaited return to the UK being only two days told us more than enough about her trip away. She didn’t want it to end or couldn’t go back to England or some endless combination of clichés that seems to possess those who go outside their comfort zone ten years too late. Summoning the girls for a girls’ weekend epitomized this neo, post-crisis Sophie perfectly, because a quick glance at the group of six invited (and three further declined) showed a list of people that had probably never all been in the same room at the same time. I knew all of them to varying degrees, but none as closely as Sophie, and I’d wager the majority of the party felt similar.

It all made sense when Emma mentioned that there was a man now. My mind went off at this news. If I wasn’t already interested in this ‘girls weekend’ for general anthropological reasons, the news that the biggest misandrist and most publicly gay member of the group of queers that ‘the girls’ seemed to be loosely constructed from had now straightened up and got a man was so tantalizing I could taste it.

It also, less importantly, explained the brevity of the weekend. All the couldn’t stand going homes and man, fuck Englands and other clichés are normally abandoned when people return home and realise they don’t have much choice, but the talk on the channels is that this man is Portuguese, and that is where they’re leaving Australia for, London just being a stopover.

Everything about this seemed so hilariously, laughably, unbearably straight. I had always known that Sophie’s publicly overt lesbianism was a cover for something more complex and further along the spectrum, but she would never be seen dead admitting to sleeping with men in her university years, let alone running off to some country she’d never been to with one. Even the notion that this group ever was the girls and ever did things like girls' nights is nonsense. It reeked of something she’d spun her new man, trying to pass as a regular old straight who didn’t attend protests fortnightly just for the thrill of breaking the law.

I hadn’t even given a single thought about what Sophie might have planned for us. Emma, who no doubt had individually messaged everyone else in the entire group with the man gossip, spun off a list that I promptly ignored. I didn’t like going into events like this with expectations. I wanted the drama to slap me in the face, to take it head-on. And boy I needed some of that drama.

[radioactivedelorean]

Human Sample #3

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7

Chapter 3: Change of scenery

Ford squinted at the poster on the glass. It must have been put up while he was asleep last night. He couldn’t read a word it said. Not only was the writing foreign and alien, it was mirrored. He could see a photo of himself just below a large bold title, so he assumed it had something to do with him. What that was, exactly, he didn’t know.

“You’re being paranoid,” he muttered to himself. “It’s probably just an informative article about humans.”

Shrugging, Ford walked back over to the pond and sat down, drawing figure-of-eights in the water with his finger. Something was oddly therapeutic about the way the water rippled and swirled around his touch. It reminded him of the times he and his brother used to go swimming in the sea near their home, or when their mother had once taken them to the local swimming pool. Ford had ended up being an object of ridicule there, being jeered at kids in the changing rooms, and had refused to go back there. Since then, they’d only ever gone swimming in the summer when the cold seawater was much more bearable. Sure, more often than not they’d come home reeking of saltwater and with the odd bit of seaweed stuck to them, but at least that way Ford hadn’t been picked on. That was another thing he and Stanley couldn’t enjoy - the simple pleasure of swimming in a heated, clean public pool.

The man leant forward and looked at his reflection in the rippling water. He stopped swirling his fingers around for a minute and removed his glasses. Squinting to get his eyes focus, Ford stared into his reflection’s eyes. Through his blurred vision, he almost saw his brother staring back up at him with the same disappointed expression. Scowling, Ford slapped his hand across the surface of the water, sending droplets flying. He couldn’t even look at himself without seeing his brother. Sure, they weren’t as identical as they had been when they were kids, but it was still obvious that they were duplicates of each other. Apart from Ford’s extra digit and his glasses, he reckoned nobody would be able to tell the pair apart.

Ford flopped back into the grass, tugging out the individual purple blades with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. It gave him something to do. It was quite remarkably boring in this enclosure. He had nothing to read, nothing to build and nothing to do. Sure, he had his daily exercise routine, but that wasn’t enough to keep him occupied. He couldn’t spend the whole day working out or he would be reduced to just muscle and bone within two weeks. He was already burning more calories than he was taking in. He was doing at least ten Earth hours of exercise a week and was taking in barely any food. Three meals a day - one in the morning, one around midday and one in the evening - were barely enough to sustain him even if he had been inactive.

The sound of the gate to his enclosure opening caught his attention. Ford quickly put his glasses back on and sat bolt upright, adrenaline instantly rushing into his bloodstream. The last time the keepers had come in here, he’d been sedated. He didn’t know what they had done to him while he was unconscious, but considering his body hadn’t been altered in any way, they obviously hadn’t done any sort of behavioural-adjustment surgery on him. He’d woken up twelve hours later, back in his enclosure like nothing had happened, feeling a lot less nauseous. The food poisoning he’d been suffering from must have been cured by whatever sort of drug they’d given him.

Ford got to his feet and backed away as a keeper approached. Strangely, there was just the one. Usually there were two at least - one extra to sedate him if necessary. The keeper was holding a snare, the loop of which was pointing towards the human. Ford’s eyes widened. He was getting taken somewhere else, wasn’t he? He lifted his hands up in front of him, continuing to back away from the keeper. He reckoned, if he bolted, he could make it to the gate before the keeper caught him. Crouching down, Ford waited for the keeper to get a little closer before he pressed down with his feet and took off running.

He’d barely gone three feet before the keeper had the snare around his neck and Ford was tugged painfully to a halt, collapsing on the ground. He let out a sharp cry, feeling the rough material choke him. He got to his feet, tugging at the cable around his throat. The keeper loosened it ever so slightly - just enough to allow Ford to breathe - before leading him out of the enclosure. Ford glanced back over his shoulder. He’d left his jacket in there and, while it was torn, old and blood-stained, he wasn’t willing to part with it. He made a futile attempt to resist the keeper’s force, but gave up as he saw a second keeper collect his jacket and follow after the first.

Ford was led across the park to another enclosure. The keeper carrying Ford’s coat opened the side gate to the outside area of the enclosure and let Ford through. The other keeper removed the snare from around Ford’s neck, stepping rather quickly away from him. Its companion threw the jacket over to Ford, before the gate was shut and locked. They walked off, leaving Ford alone in the new enclosure.

This one was significantly larger than his old one - at least twice the size, with a much larger pond at the far end. The main difference about this one was that it was divided into two separate areas. Half of the enclosure was outdoors, with a wire fence running around its perimeter. A large open doorway led to the other half, an area Ford could only describe as a very large, empty garage with a straw-lined floor. Inside, he found that he could access half of the building. In the corner, against the back wall, there was another shack, slightly larger than the one in the first enclosure and better constructed. It was made of bricks, this time, rather than dark orange wood. The door to this shack was considerably bigger than the little one on the shed in his old place. He pushed it open.

Inside, the first thing he noticed was that there was a light embedded in the ceiling. At least in here, he would be able to see during the night. The whole room was roughly the size of the downstairs bathroom back at home. The back third of the room was sectioned off by a brick wall with another door set into it. Pushing the door open (there was no handle), Ford found a small bathroom. It wasn’t anything like he’d had in his house back in Gravity Falls, but it was by far better than what he’d had in his old enclosure. Opposite the toilet, there was a proper sink. The man could have cried. It had been years since he’d had access to a proper, human bathroom. He knew he shouldn’t be so happy over a toilet, of all things, but he’d been here for almost six months now and hadn’t had anything like this. The floor in the other two thirds of the room was padded with straw, but at least this time the straw was clean. The stuff he’d been sleeping on in his old enclosure had started to smell and Ford hadn’t once seen the keepers change it.

Stepping out of the shack, Ford looked around. To his right, the building was made up of brickwork roughly ten to eleven feet in height - not the sort of thing he’d be able to climb, by any means. The ceiling was made up of planks of wood, supported by beams jutting out from the wall. He couldn’t see the light from outside through the gaps in the wood and he assumed the roof must be tiled. There were lights built into the ceiling, too, illuminating the area below. Opposite the wall, there was a shoulder-height fence made of the same type of dark orange wood he’d seen before, running through the middle of the room. Between the top of the fence and the ceiling, there was more of the wire netting, preventing Ford from simply climbing over the fence and escaping. A second fence stood six inches behind the first, blocking anyone on the other side from reaching him properly. The floor inside the building was loosely coated in straw, patches of cement tiles showing through here and there. On the other side of the fence was a pathway, and the other brick wall of the building on the far side. Posters were plastered all over the wall, some of them with informations about and diagrams of humans on them, others that appeared to advertise other areas in the zoo. The path led from a set of double doors, across the building and around the corner. Ford could only assume that it allowed visitors to walk past to get a much better look at the human.

The man looked over as he heard a door open round the corner, excitable chatter echoing down the hall. He still couldn’t understand what they were saying, but by the sheer number of different voices he could make out, Ford assumed it was a tour group. His assumption was proved right as a keeper walked around the corner, talking to a large group of creatures, most of which were holding cameras of varying shapes and sizes. Once they rounded the corner, at least ten of the group started taking photos of Ford, the flashes from their cameras making him wince. He threw his arms up to shield his eyes from the light. A mixture of coloured spots danced in his vision and his head spun. He shut his eyes tightly, turning his back to the group.

Once his eyes had recovered from the sudden exposure to bright light, Ford turned back around. A few of the smaller creatures were standing at the fence, holding thing out to him in the palms of their hands. The tour guide didn’t seem to have any objection to this. The objects the kids were holding out looked like crackers. Ford’s stomach growled hungrily and he carefully walked over to them, studying the offerings carefully. He wasn’t entirely happy to accept food from strange creatures, especially when he had no idea what it was or where they’d been. Standing in front of the youngest creature, judging by its size, Ford looked from the creature to the biscuit in its hand. The creature waved the biscuit at him enthusiastically and said something in its foreign language. Hesitantly, Ford took the biscuit from its hand and looked closely at it.

It was just a cracker.

Ford put the corner of the cracker in his mouth and bit down, taking a small chunk off and chewing it carefully. It was slightly salty, with a faint black pepper taste to it. It was surprisingly more pleasant than he’d anticipated. He didn’t taste any sort of poison on it, so he shrugged and tossed the whole thing into his mouth. The child clapped and grinned happily, evidently pleased by the fact that Ford had accepted its gift. The other children moved closer to Ford, all waving their crackers at him. Ford took them one by one, smiling at each kid as he did so, before holding the crackers in his hands. He nibbled at them one at a time. He definitely preferred this enclosure to his old one.

The tour guide talked for a moment (Ford guessed it was about both himself and humans in general, as the guide kept gesturing towards the human) before leading the group out of the building via other set of double doors. Ford sat cross-legged in the straw, still nibbling his way through the crackers. They were a little dry, but they weren’t bad, all things considered. Once he’d finished them, he got up and walked back over to the shed. He went into the bathroom and turned the cold tap on, before bending down and sticking his mouth under the flow of water. The water from the tap had a very slight metallic tang to it but it was still infinitely better than the semi-stagnant water from the dish in the corner of his old living quarters.

Ford wiped his mouth on his sleeve and sighed. He was still clueless as to how to get out of this place. Maybe there was some way of escaping in the outside area of his enclosure. He left the room and walked across the building, ignoring the few lingering visitors by the fence, and headed out into the sunlight. The air out here was much more fresh than it had been in his old enclosure. The area outside was covered in lively grass (Ford still had yet to figure out the nature behind its unusual colouration, but chalked it up to simply be different genetics to what he was used to on Earth) and there was a large, dark orange tree on one side. The leaves of the tree were black, providing a decent area of shade underneath its canopy. There was some sort of wooden structure beside the tree - an arrangement of logs and planks, leading up to a wooden platform built onto the side of the tree. Ford was reminded of the climbing frames he’d seen at the playground as a kid, and the similar types of structures he’d seen in big cat enclosures in Earth zoos. Hanging down from the platform was a thick knotted rope.

Looking further up, his heart sank. Just above the tree hung a net, covering the top of the enclosure and preventing him from climbing over the top of the fence. That ruled out any escape via the top of his enclosure. Maybe he could dig his way underneath the fence again? Over a hill to the east, Ford could see the far edge of the zoo - the entrance gates where numerous creatures were driving in and out in strange, almost spherical vehicles. The exit! If he could just get out and around to this side of the enclosure, he’d be able to run across the grass and climb the fence. He could finally be free!

Ford’s mind was already buzzing. He finally had a halfway decent shot at getting the hell out of here. He’d finally be able to continue his research on Bill and be able to take him down! He’d already wasted six whole months of valuable time - he couldn’t afford to wait much longer. He decided he would try and get out when night fell and the keepers left for the evening. He’d be able to dig his way underneath the fence and escape.

Hands shaking and mind racing, he went back inside. Another group of visitors was already at the fence and began taking photos of him as soon as he was in view. More kids held crackers through the bars towards him, shaking them around to try and gain his attention. Ford didn’t have anything better to do until it got dark, so he gratefully took them from the kids and started eating. A moment later, a keeper opened the gate in the fence inside the building and walked in, carrying a small bucket. He set a plastic tray down in the straw before reaching into the bucket, pulling out a handful of salad leaves and a piece of meat. It was still raw, Ford was disappointed to see, but at least he was still being fed the regular meals. Once the keeper had locked the gate behind them, Ford went over to the tray and sat down beside it, pulling it into his lap.

Placing the crackers at the side of the tray, Ford picked up the lump of meat and gave it a sniff. After his last bout of food poisoning, he was going to be more careful with what he ate. It smelled perfectly fine, so he sunk his teeth into it and tore a piece off, a few small drops of blood dripping down his chin. The slightly rough, chewy texture of the meat was all too familiar by now. He had almost forgotten what normal Earth meats like chicken and pork tasted like, since it had been ten years since he’d had any. Taking another mouthful and putting the rest down, Ford picked up a couple of salad leaves, folding them up and eating them whole. The salad was less pleasant than the meat but he made himself eat it anyway. He was all too aware of the risks of not eating enough vegetables. He was surprised he didn’t have scurvy by now - whatever he’d been eating for the past ten years must have had some sort of source of vitamin C in it somewhere. He was still terribly malnourished. He made a resolution to himself for when he eventually got home to eat as many sweet things as he could within the first week.

Once he had finished his meal, he left the tray by the gate and got up. Heading back outside, Ford looked up at the platform in the tree, the rope beneath it swinging in the gentle breeze. It looked as though it gave a good view of the rest of the park and he was curious to find out what other creatures were being imprisoned in this place. He put his foot on the plank beside him and reached up to grab the rope. He jumped up and wrapped his ankles around the knot at the bottom, before he began to climb. Over the ten years he’d been on the run, he had built up plenty of upper-body strength, so climbing up this rope was easy. It took less than a minute for him to climb up the whole length of the rope and sit on the wooden platform. It was surprisingly more sturdy than what he’d expected - from the ground, it looked as though one wrong step would send him falling to the ground. He sat with his legs out in front of him, leaning back slightly with his hands by his hips. The view from the platform was remarkable. It looked over the exit of the zoo to a large, bustling city beyond. Lights twinkled in the windows of skyscrapers and large ships flew overhead. The whole scene looked like something out of a sci-fi movie.

When the suns began to set, Ford climbed back down the rope and headed inside. There were still visitors lingering around by the fence, obviously waiting for the human to show up so they could get pictures of him. Ford ignored them for the most part, but one creature (he recognized the species to be a Gromflomite) standing at the edge of the group was regarding him with particular interest. He resembled something halfway between a fly and a person, with large, compound eyes and green-grey skin. Ford couldn’t shake off the feeling that the guy wasn’t just visiting the zoo - he was here for a particular reason.

That particular reason being Ford himself.

Ford looked away from the Gromflomite slowly, heading over to sit by the shed in the corner of the building. He saw a keeper come into the building - obviously to get the remaining visitors to leave, as they all soon headed out. The Gromflomite took one last, long look at Ford before following the others out. The keeper left another piece of meat and some more salad on Ford’s tray, before locking the gate again and leaving the building. The sound of the doors being locked indicated to the human that access to his enclosure was now blocked. He got up and retrieved the food, sitting and eating it quietly. Once again, he left the tray beside the gate when he’d finished.

Ford went into the bathroom in the shed, relieved himself, washed his hands and face at the sink before sitting down on the pile of straw. As he lay there, he still couldn’t shake the feeling he had about that Gromflomite. He felt like he recognised its face from somewhere (then again, Gromflomites were practically identical to each other), but he couldn’t put any of his twelve fingers on it. He shrugged slightly. He was bound to get visitors like that - he was in a zoo, after all. Maybe the guy was just a Biology teacher with a particular interest in humans as a species, the same way humans have particular interests in orangutans, snakes, whales and virtually every other species on Earth. Ford was sure that, if he was a visitor to a zoo and saw a Gromflomite within an enclosure, he’d be fascinated too.

He shook the thought off as simple paranoia and sat amongst the straw, waiting for it to get dark enough for him to be able to dig his way underneath the fence. He waited another two Earth hours before he determined that it was sufficiently dark outside. Getting to his feet, he headed out of the shack and made his way across the building to the door leading outside. Before he could get there, however, he halted in his tracks as a bright green disk appeared on the brick wall beside him. The same Gromflomite from earlier leapt out and immediately grabbed Ford in a headlock.

“Hey! What the hell is your problem?!” Ford shouted, struggling furiously. The Gromflomite stuck something into one of the veins in Ford’s neck. Before Ford could react, they had down the plunger on the syringe, fully injecting the sedative into the human’s system. Ford felt himself go weak, his struggles becoming slower and less powerful. Eventually, he stopped fighting altogether, collapsing onto the ground. The Gromflomite tied Ford’s ankles together, his wrists together behind his back and gagged him. As Ford passed out, the Gromflomite shot something at the wall, where another green disk opened up, before it took the human and disappeared.

---------

Based off @looloolalalol  ‘s post

AO3

[exper-i]

original content wtf

this is a rather cliche horror story thats trying to disguise itself as a humorous telling in the beginning, but i had fun and thats what matters

Most plants, as a rule, are fairly good things to have around. They create oxygen, they’re a nice green colour, they have pretty flowers on occasion. They grow along the back fence so I don’t have to talk to my back neighbour who decides that every time he locks eyes with me he has to enter a long-winded conversation on his kids, whom I really do not care about in the slightest. Keeping me from having to see him is really one of the nicer things plants have ever done for me. Some plants produce things you can eat. The ones that produce poison are generally pretty avoidable-- you don’t eat them, they won’t make you puke. You don’t touch poison ivy, it won’t make you itch. Pretty straightforward.

Suffice to say, plants are, if not pretty good, neutral at minimum. I like plants.

There is one plant, however, that I do not like. If a plant could be evil, this is one I would give as example.

It sits, squat and unpleasant, on the left-hand corner of the tiny front yard my house possesses. Other than this plant, my yard is very pleasant. I’ve cultivated its tiny space carefully with bushes, flowering plants near the door, and even a maple tree I’ve managed to squish into the right-hand corner. (I did most of this under the impression I could put enough non-grass plants down in order to prevent having to mow. It did, but in exchange I have to trim them and I’m no longer entirely sure which is more of an ordeal.) The yard is perfectly presented in order to balance being pretty with being manageable. Most people think it’s nice.

The goddamn palm is the only thing I cannot control.

It was there when I moved in, and judging from how it resists every single attempt I make to kill it, it will be there when I move out. Or die. Probably it’ll outlive me. And I could respect that resilience, leave the plant to its own devices, were it not such a pain in the ass.

It’s ugly, first of all, and completely unkillable. Short of hiring an excavator to remove it, I have done everything imaginable to kill it. I have poured bottles of plant killer on that thing’s roots. I have cut its leaves to the point that any less annoying plant would have given up and wilted on the spot. But this one? This plant stays exactly where it is, regenerating after anything I do to it as fast as any plant can possibly grow.

I don’t know what it is, actually. I’ve checked books, searched online, posted pictures of it in botanist’s forums, and all I’ve ever gotten was a shrug. It looks like some kind of sago palm, but not quite. It sits on a massive, fat trunk, with the triangular layers of bark palms have coming off in oddly thick spikes. The trunk is too big for me to theoretically get my arms around-- if I wanted to do something like that, God forbid-- but short, only coming about three feet up. It’s oblong with a bulge in the middle, a little like an egg. The leaves at the top are almost exactly similar to your average palm leaves, but they’re a bit too spiky too. Especially around the base. The tips are sharp and the base of the leaves has protrusions that have actually drawn blood before, gotten shoved into my hand when I try to prune the tree. Getting them out is awful-- and they’ve made me bleed even while I was wearing work gloves. There’s more spiky protrusions around the top of the trunk, in between leaves. It’s weirdly oily when I touch it; even if the gloves weren’t necessary to prevent getting stabbed, I’d wear them so as to not have to touch it directly. I’ve never gotten a rash or anything from the plant, but I’d rather not risk it.

Here’s the thing, though.

So it’s July, right? Hot as hell out, middle of summer, drought, all that. It hasn’t rained in weeks. Everything in the yard looks terrible. I feel bad for it, but I’m not one of the guys that waters their lawns in the middle of a drought warning because I’m your general law-obeying citizen and winning some hypothetical lawn contest really is not that important. Everything’s looking pretty brown, or at least sad, except the palm. Of course. In fact, it’s looking better than ever, the trunk getting even bigger and rounder.

I know desert plants are adapted to deal with drought, but even the hardiest of cacti show that they suffer with astronomical heat and no rain for three months.

I guess it’s better to have something healthy than nothing healthy.

When I go out to prune it, the dog, Hestia, bothers to come with me for once. She usually just gambols around the front yard and enjoys her lack of responsibilities while I do yard-work, but I guess she’s curious. She watches as I grab one of the palm’s leaves, careful to avoid the pointy spots, and inspect it. It’s been leaning down, looking as if it were wilting, though without losing any of the green colour. Hestia stays a decent distance from it, behind me and with her stubby ears pricked in fixated attention.

The frond is drier than usual, lacking the slightly-sticky texture the plant usually has. Must be because of the drought. So the stupid thing is suffering. Good.

I give it a sharp tug, just to see what happens. What happens is the leaf starts to pull away from the trunk, but the second the base separates, it lets out this nasty, pungent smell. I drop the branch immediately to cover my mouth and cough. Even Hestia back off, scrunching her nose in distaste and chuffing, and dogs are never ones to avoid things that smell as putrid as possible. It smells like rot-- not the earthy kind of plant rot, not the kind you smell when you come across a decomposing tree. It’s flesh-rot, something putrid that’s been sitting in a damp corner and decomposing for a few days. It’s maggots and miasma and madid.

The plant must have caught something and started rotting internally.

If nothing else it makes getting rid of it much more of a priority. Out of something-- curiosity, determination to finish a job, masochism, I don’t know-- I grab the leaf and yank as hard as I can. It pops off reluctantly, another wave of the putrid smell following after it. I drop the leaf to the ground in favour of bending over and coughing, trying my best not to gag. After a minute or so, the smell lessens. I rub at my nose with a forearm and stand up once my head isn’t solely consumed with the stench of rot.

Hestia’s there, sniffing hesitantly at the leaf, her big Rottweiler body all bunched up as if she’s prepared to make the fight or flight decision at any second.

“Pretty fuckin’ weird, huh, Hes?” I cough out at the dog. She glances up at me if to agree, then resumes her sniffing. “Don’t roll in that,” I add on as an afterthought. That’d be even worse than the time I had to de-skunk her. She shows no indication of listening to me, so I’ll just cross my fingers.

This is a problem, more so than just if my dog’s going to smell like a charnelhouse for a week. There’s not many ways to get this plant out of the yard. I don’t have the money to call a landscaper and I don’t have any friends who own backhoes who could dig the stupid thing out. If it’s rotted, with that smell the plant must be sick, and I don’t want it giving whatever nasty infection its got to anything else in my yard, if it’s not too late for that.

The problem ets considered for about ten minutes as i stand, hands on my hips, glaring at the plant as if that would make it understand and regret what an absolute inconvenience it’s been to me.

Glaring at it does not make it grow feet and walk, pinnate leaves bowed in shame. Guess it’s all up to me. My neighbour has a chainsaw, I think. I can work with this.

Thirty minutes and one social interaction with the guy next door later, I’m equipped and ready. Nate did, in fact, have a chainsaw. Couple that with my work gloves and I’m ready. The rotting smell probably is going to be even worse as I cut the tree down, so while I don’t have a gas mask or anything, I do have a facemask left over from painting. That and some Vicks smeared under my nose should be fine. It’s no plague mask or air freshener, but I’ll take menthol over decomposition any day.

When I walk out in the yard, warfare gear equipped and ready, something’s different. I can’t immediately tell what it is, but something’s not right. I order Hestia to stay near the driveway to avoid an animal getting close to a running chainsaw, and she obediently plops down in the middle, watching me attentively. The thing that’s wrong with the yard is immediately obvious once I get closer to the tree.

The leaf is gone. The one I pulled out. It’s just completely not there anymore. What sits in its place is a pile of brown, sludgy goop. The smell pervades my paint mask protection, but it’s tolerable. The urge to poke the pile of goop is strong, but squashed with the thought that I might have to throw out my sneakers if I can’t get the smell out.

There are things to attend to that are probably nastier, anyways.

Getting the palm down comes first, then I can experiment with poking tree sludge.

The chainsaw takes a bit to rev up, but after a couple tries it’s running healthily in my arms. I glance back at Hestia to ensure she’s in place, still, no danger, and she is. Her hackles are starting to raise distrustfully, but she’s in place. It’s fine, I don’t like the noise much either, and I’m the one with earplugs in.

I hoist up the chainsaw, angle it to what I think is proper, and set it to the palm.

The blades bite in slowly and with effort. I feel it’s making a noise more laborious than most chainsaws would, but my knowledge on them is limited. A couple wood chips fly off the tree’s bark, and what’s underneath is white and fibrous, paler than any tree I’ve ever seen. It reeks. It’s the same contaminated smell the leaf gave, only it’s more subdued than the leaf. There’s little doubt it’ll get worse the deeper in I cut.

I frown, resolute and preparing to squash my retch reflex, and re-angle the chainsaw to make a v-shaped cut.

There’s a very small noise, just barely audible over the chainsaw’s grinding.

A pop where three things immediately follow.

The chainsaw’s grind changes, like it’s suddenly experiencing less resistance.

Hestia starts barking furiously.

Something thin and pointy reaches from inside the tree to bend over the chainsaw blade.

The third one takes my immediate focus. I lean forward, squinting a little. The chainsaw’s still running, but held completely still now. Another little brown thing pokes its way out of the tree, also balancing delicately against the flat of the chainsaw blade.

“What the hell?” I ask it.

There’s a pause where the world seems to quiet down entirely as I notice a thin crack spreading up the length of the palm’s trunk. My mouth opens to ask something, I don’t even know what, and then the crack bursts open.

A cloud of putrescent white bursts out from the trunk. I drop the chainsaw on instinct, just barely avoiding vomiting into the mask. Teeth gritted, I back away, not even minding the chainsaw still running on the grass. Hestia continues her furious barking and I hear her rush over to me. I try to tell her to back off though the coughing and tearing up, but she ignores me. There’s shapes in the dust, growing clearer as it settles, and I reach for the chainsaw. I don’t know what anything is, but I’ll feel much better against a troupe of amorphous collie-size masses with a chainsaw in my hands. Coughing furiously and squinting, I reach out. Hestia stops barking, settling instead for the muffled growl meaning something’s in her mouth.

I lay a hand on the handle of the tool, and something spindly and pointy presses down on the back of my hand.

I look up as the dust settles. A greenish spider the side of a medium dog scuttles towards my arm. The scream is involuntary, loud enough to be heard down the street, and I immediately fling my arm back and move over backwards as fast as I can, still screaming. A seemingly endless amount of the giant spiders are swarming out of the palm tree, scattering in all directions as I glance to a way I can get away from them. Scuttling backwards only makes me trip over my own foot, landing heavily on my back only a few feet away from the palm. I curl up, trying to put my arms over my head to protect my face if nothing else, screaming. I feel Hestia stand over me, fearless in protection, and the tiny spider-feet I’d felt beginning to crawl up my leg are plucked off in her jaws.

My screeching is joined by someone else’s alarm-- probably Nate’s, checking on me. Whoever it is, they get pleaded at to come help me, save me, pull out a flamethrower or something.

I don’t know what he does.

I don’t know what anyone does.

All I know is that I wake up a couple hours later in a hospital room, Hestia sitting next to me, and with nothing in their IV drip that can make me stop hyperventilating.

I hold onto the dog and tell anyone who comes in to see me that I’m not going back to the house.

They tell me that’s fine, but I need to calm down.

Once I get out of the psych ward and get cleared to go to a hotel without supervision, they tell me my house has been fumigated and put on the market for me. About ten other people on the street have also put their houses up for sale at nicely discounted rates.

For a real estate manager who’s good at spin, it’s a blessing. For me, I move to an apartment.