#pesky dust crack

[pesky--dust]

Season 3: I'M GOING TO KILL HIS WIFE AND STEPSON.

I mean— that's his way of flirting...

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 6

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a (!) player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, you get your very own samantha from her (2013) lol, time skips as a plot device!, this has an arc i promise, if anybody here plays disco elysium you’ll find that i took concepts of “the pale” as inspo at some points in this chapter lmao A/N: Oof this one’s a little longer than any of the previous chapters. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it! <3 (and just a heads up, this might be the last chapter I post before I kick it off for the holidays. advance happy holidays! if you guys celebrate that sort of thing.) 

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt 6

There’s a quiet stillness brought by the morning after that makes the problems of a heavier night seem like a fairly distant memory. 

For at least a few minutes past the moment you blink away the stubborn grit in your eyes—you don’t remember the last time you’ve been this well-rested in ages—you lie, listless, on the soft powder-blue bedding of your twin-size mattress, watching specks of dander and dust drift from the amber sunlight that filters through the cracked panes of the casement window. 

It floats aimlessly; unhurried. Much like you.

The echo of last night’s events return to you in sporadic flashes—fragmented and unsteady. The whispered exchanges, the playful banter between you and your unlikely conversation partner play back in your mind, like some half-finished supercut. 

And the more you recall, the more awake you feel, chipping away the last traces of daytime lethargy weighing you down. 

“So, what happens now?”

The sound of a car backfiring breaks through from the outside, like a starting pistol signalling the beginning of another day. A familiar, heavy weight presses against your side, and you thread your fingers through the scraggly fur of the purring feline who’s taken the empty space on your left, just above the covers. 

You breathe in deeply, closing your eyes. 

“I wish I had an answer—I’m still trying to figure that out myself.”

You realize how many questions still linger, a lot more left unanswered. Far more than what you were able to glean, at least. From what little you’ve learned, an entirely new moral dilemma emerges—one you never imagined you'd have to contend with. 

There’s a lot of things you’ve never expected to happen. Yet here you are. 

“Seems we’re at an impasse.” 

It’s an odd thing in itself. You keep waiting for the disbelief to catch up, for a shred of sanity to surface and make you reject the situation you’ve found yourself entangled in. You should be feeling the same, pesky feelings that pulled you sharply out of your flight of fancy last night; a sense of trepidation for what lies ahead in this tenuous game of two. 

But instead, you’re here. Now fully awake, and already looking forward to the day with wary acceptance. Looking forward to resuming where you’ve left off with that charming anomaly who’s upended your world, and left you suspended in an exhilarating limbo of uncertainty and excitement.

“...Indeed.”

You crave it—like the first stirrings of a neophyte druggie teetering on the edge of an irreversible habit. 

You need another hit. 

“Why the long face, little dove?”

Because if desire could manifest into being, it would’ve been Sylus. 

“We can figure this out together, can’t we?” 

You pick up your phone. 

––––

“You’re here? Make yourself at home.” 

You look at him, deadpan. He looks back at you serenely. 

Your voice takes on a dry monotone when you respond, “Keep talking like that, I’m about to cum.” 

There’s a shocked silence; then––

Sylus barks out a surprised laugh, immediately breaking character. 

You snort. “Good morning to you too, I guess.” 

He meets your gaze with a look of scandalized amusement, his smile wide enough to flash teeth. 

"Good morning, indeed."

––––

You two fall into a natural rhythm even before the day comes to a close. Perceptive as he is, Sylus hasn’t let you linger in the unease left over from last night any longer than necessary—which to say, should be left buried and forgotten, past its provenance. 

“So you could, like–hypothetically, top up my ascension materials… indefinitely?” There’s a manic shine to your eyes when you confront him back at the home screen, gleeful and triumphant after you boost almost all the 5-star cards you have of him up to max level. “Like an infinite glitch?” 

He’s content to just simply listen to your excited chatter from his languid perch on the seat, one palm resting against the side of his face as he watches you—half-lidded and relaxed. Utterly entertained by your antics.

The slight twitching of his mouth, the subtle tilt of his head… each minute shift in his expression makes a whole world of difference from the version you’ve known him longest—almost a lifetime ago. 

Now he acts so human, so alive, that it’s almost unreal. 

(It’s almost imperceptible, but you swear the air also feels different; like the pixelated space around him is bending, stretching, to accommodate this newer him.) 

“Sure,” he shrugs, lips quirking up into a half-smile as he notices the deep crease forming between your brows. 

He knows the question you’re about to ask—curious thing that you are.

“How, though? Like, what are ‘materials’ to you?” You make air quotes with your fingers, making you appear all the more endearing to him look at, in your process to make sense of a world that’s unfamiliar to you.

“Think of it as upgrades,” Sylus explains patiently. “You place the order to modify the equipment I use, in whichever situation calls for it.”

“And Memory Cards?”

“... A video reel, maybe. Or a restricted case file—locked until you’ve got enough to trade for the information you want.”

“And I suppose the dealer in question here is you?”

He arches an eyebrow. “Who else?”

“Huh,” you say, considering. “So, Deepspace Trials. That’s something you do on the daily? Because I… make you?”

“More or less.”

“And you never thought to question that?” 

“Mm, maybe I’ll start charging for my services this time around.”

You roll your eyes, already accepting his analogy for what it is. “Oh, please. With the amount of money I’ve spent on this game, consider yourself paid in full.” 

––––

You were right about your earlier prediction—this new Sylus in combat mode is something else. 

For starters, he’s a lot chattier.

“Ouch, kitten– don’t charge in like that.”

“Why are you using a sword? Don’t you like the guns I’ve given you specifically for this?” 

“What are you waiting for? Make her resonate with me now.” 

And, instead of sticking to his lines and responding to whatever the MC’s programmed to say during battle, he focuses on whatever you’re fussing over—no matter how… moronic it is.

“Ah, fuck! I hate that spinning thing!” 

“Move, then. Let me handle it.” 

“Block it, block it!”

“I would, if you weren’t halfway across the field. Stick closer to your partner next time, yeah?” 

He doesn’t say any of his usual lines. Nothing from his scripted prompts. When all Wanderers are defeated, there’s no post-battle banter between him and the MC. 

“Goddamn, you’re strong!” You whoop giddily, completely energized by straight winning almost twelve Orbit trials in a row. I guess that’s what a fully awakened Solar pair gets you, huh? 

Sylus lets out a chuckle, infected by your enthusiasm. He doesn’t sound the least bit winded, despite all the damned fighting you’ve put him through.

“We make a good team,” he allows. And because he likes the little nose scrunch you do when you’re annoyed— “Although your dodging really needs more practice, sweetie.” 

Before you could think of a comeback, the pop-up window for the next stage comes up. Ass.

––––

Come Monday morning and you’re once again swamped with work. 

You barely have enough time to scrounge something up for lunch—if it weren’t for the persistent reminders from Sylus, chiming in every five minutes once the digital clock on your phone had hit eleven-thirty, you’d probably skip eating altogether.

And make something else than just boiling a pot of instant ramen, sweetheart. You’re on track for an early grave at this rate. 

“I could… add an egg?” You suggest, unsure. “Maybe cut up some tofu, make it gourmet?”  

He doesn’t even dignify the egg suggestion with a response. Tofu’s a good start. Now, what else do you have in your pantry that has nutritional value? 

“I despise that,” you mutter, but start rifling through the cupboards anyway. 

After amassing enough ingredients—or what looks more like a sad pile—that might, with some effort, turn into something healthier than your usual go-to fix, you start Googling recipes online.

‘tofu easy lunch recipe’

‘10 mins tofu recipes’   

‘begginer recipe using tofu frozen dory mixed veg—’ Ping!

… Really, kitten? 

You don’t even have to see him to know he’s giving you that look, the one that’s practically dripping with judgment over your dubious life choices. 

(You know it all too well. Personally, in fact. You see it on some relatives' faces at the family get-togethers you’re always required to attend.) 

Great. Heat creeps up your face as you mumble defensively, “Stop. Not everyone’s a culinary genius, okay?”

After that, he lets you be – something you’re thankful for, really. He’s being too distracting anyway. 

Swallowing down the–stubborn and suffocating–embarrassment that's now stuck in your throat, you keep scrolling through Tasty dot co, praying you can whip up something edible with what (little) you have. You’re fully aware that you’re a grown-ass woman who can’t manage a basic life skill and that you’re probably about to burn down your kitchen—

Another notification pops up.

Pull up your tabs, sweetie. I think you’ll find something there that we could put together easily.

Confused, you do as he says. Sure enough, four tofu-related recipes are neatly grouped together in your Chrome browser, ready to be tried and tested.  

Your eyes widen. “Wait—you did this? How?”

He doesn’t answer your question. He does, however, offer: Want me to coach you through it? Cooking’s more fun done with a partner, I’d say. 

-

-

In the end, you manage to make something that tasted way better than you thought you could do by yourself. You have him to thank for that.

“You happy with it?” Sylus asks, grinning at the satisfied look on your face.

“Mhm!” you hum around a mouthful of food. “Fanks, Sy.”

“Anytime, darling.”

––––

“Do you really have to call me ‘kitten’? You sound like a Discord mod.” 

Sylus has no idea what a Discord mod is, but judging by the contempt in your voice, it’s clear that you’re not giving him a compliment.

"What do you prefer, then? Princess? Poppet? Sweet thing?" He pauses, tilting his head. "Baby?"

You blush and look away. "... Ugh, whatever. Kitten's fine."

––––

Your routine with Sylus settles into a seamless, effortless flow as the days go by; it’s almost second nature, talking to him. So much so that you’d think nothing could faze you anymore.

Well. Almost nothing. 

A message bubble from an unknown number appears on your lock screen: Hi, sweetheart. X

You almost ignore it—brushing it off as some dumb prank from a bored rando—when, not even five seconds later, another text pops up. 

+0063-XXXXXX: Its Sylus.

… Huh? 

“Is someone fucking with me right now, or…” 

+0063-XXXXXX: Nobodys ‘fucking with you,’ kitten. 

Then–

+0063-XXXXXX: Send a reply so I can see how it shows up on my end.

Your jaw drops. “Holy shit—you can text?? How are you doing that?” and, “Did you just cuss...?” 

+0063-XXXXXX: 👍

+0063-XXXXXX: And Ill let you know if you text me the question 🙄

So you do. You tack on a now spill?? at the end for good measure. 

You watch the “typing…” bubble appear, holding your breath.

+0063-XXXXXX: Its a complex mix of technical code and harnessing the energy from a dormant protofield Ive discovered, just south of Vagrants Land.  

+0063-XXXXXX: The energy I got from it felt different somehow from your normal protofield. I figured I could put it to good use. 

+0063-XXXXXX: Oddly enough, theres an… indescribable effect to oneself when youre nearing the centre of disturbance, shall we say. 

+0063-XXXXXX: I can only decrypt the waveforms by the rarefield border surrounding the AoR. Any further and Im afraid the adverse effects may do more harm than good.

+0063-XXXXXX: But if amplified, it seems responsive to the filament of what connects your signal from deep space to this planet.

+0063-XXXXXX: Who knew it could act as a transmitter to send you something as rudimentary as a telegraph? 

… Sometimes you forget how smart Sylus really is. 

You: that’s pretty amazing ?? wtf sylus  

+0063-XXXXXX: I get by OK. 

You could practically feel his smugness radiating from those four words. You scoff, shaking your head in a mix of awe and begrudging admiration.

He sends two more messages. 

+0063-XXXXXX: Im just glad we can communicate through other means, sweetie. 

Sy-Sy (??): Now save my number. Sy Sy will suffice 😉

––––

Since your latest discovery that Sylus can now text (!!), you’ve been talking to him outside the game non-stop. It’s like talking to a very active friend who never leaves you on read, and you couldn’t be more ecstatic. 

You: so no one else in ur universe knows anything abt ur situation?

You: no one else acting funny or sumn ? >.>

Sy-Sy (??): None that I know of, no. I prefer to keep it under wraps. 

Sy-Sy (??): Now that you mention it, Mephisto has been acting quite suspicious lately. 

You: ?? suspicious-suspicious or just reg suspicious??

Sy-Sy (??): Hes with his other crow friends now. They might be attempting a murder. 

You: ………. is that…. supposed 2 be a joke……….

Sy-Sy (??): Im running on 3 hours of sleep, give me a break.   

Sy-Sy (??): Also your textspeak is horrendous, sweetie. 

"Um, hello—?" 

Your gaze snaps back to the–very real, very present–person sitting across from you at the table, sporting box-dyed blue hair and a frown. You're at the Annex House; a sleek, new-age Japandi-style bar downtown, just an easy five stations away from your place. You both decided to try it for their infamous Rotten Apple cocktail and, of course, your weekly catch-up.

Khol, your friend of eight years since college, is currently giving you a mildly annoyed look.

Oops. 

They point at you accusingly while complaining, "Ugh, we don’t use our phones when we’re hanging out! That’s the rule!"

You smile at them, sheepish, pocketing your phone as discreetly as you could. “I know, I know. Sorry.” 

Then, puffing out your cheeks, you meekly ask, “You were talking about Anna...?”

They roll their eyes but go over the gossip a second time, much to your benefit. Phew.

Your phone vibrates. Twice. 

…

You sneak a quick, final peek.

Sy-Sy (??): Enjoy your night out, darling ❤️ 

Sy-Sy (??): You let me know when youre back home, OK? 

Biting back a grin, you send out one last text in reply. 

You: will do !:9 

Sy-Sy (??): Good girl. 

––––

"Um–so this is my cat, Maru," you say by way of introduction, holding the plump, orange tabby in front of your phone that’s propped up against a carton of Koko Krunch. There’s a slight struggle in lifting his left paw between your fingers to wave at the man on the other side of the screen. "Say hi, Maru."

“Hello, Maru,” Sylus greets amicably in return, watching the both of you with clear amusement in his eyes. “Care to tell me the origin of this proud beast?” 

You recount the story where you’ve first seen Maru five years ago, nothing more than a scraggly little runt at the time, hiding in the gap between a dumpster and the interstice of a cragged wall. You were walking home from a night out drinking with your uni buddies, when you heard the incessant meowing. 

It drew you in like a siren’s call. If the siren in question had the vocal prowess of a warbling whale on the brink of death.

Upon closer inspection, the grimy fluffball revealed a stubby, crooked tail and wide, beady eyes. In your alcohol-fueled haze, you briefly wondered if you were staring at a tiny ginger rat.

“Well, it’s definitely all cat,” your friend Bee declared by noon the following day, calmly retracting a scratched and bloodied hand from the disgruntled feline, which promptly hissed and darted right back under the bed.

You hummed in agreement, passing her a wad of tissue. 

"I couldn’t decide between Nospurratu and Catpin Meow," you say matter-of-factly, giving your capricious son a scritch under his chin. "Bee suggested I stick to something simpler, like Maru. Hence the name."

Your explanation is punctuated by an offended nip on your pointer finger. 

Sylus is covering his mouth, but nods solemnly. “I think Maru is a nice name.” 

There’s a moment where the two seem locked in a silent standoff, neither breaking eye contact nor making any sort of outward reaction. Just as you’re about to step in and interrupt the bizarre staring contest, Maru gives a slow, deliberate blink.

Sylus takes it as a sign of victory—or perhaps a ceremonial seal of approval.

 With a faint smirk on his lips, he offers the cat a bow in respect.

––––

You’ve practically emptied the entire arcade of plushies—enough to put it out of business if it were actually, you know, real—and you’re bored to tears. 

“Another round of Kitty Cards, perhaps?” Sylus suggests, but a single glance at your face is enough to let him know that you’d rather gnaw off your own hand. Or his. He might just let you.

Sighing dramatically, you complain about the limited playability of the “mini-games” in-game.

“There’s literally nothing else to do. Same old shit, over and over again.” There’s a pout on your face that Sylus wants to nibble on, not that you’re aware of the forming thoughts in his head. “No new banners. I’m stuck between Kitty Cards and the claw machines—I’m bored, Syyyyy,” you whine, stretching the last syllable for effect.  

To be fair, he has tried to make it a bit more challenging for you. He stopped fucking around during Kitty Cards—no more extra two cards in exchange for one of yours, no longer placing different colored kitties deliberately in the wrong cups. 

After six straight losses, your frustration is palpable. The fun is gone.

He makes audible commentaries during each of your six tries at the claw machine. Every time you manage to snag a plushie, he praises you for a job well done (It flusters you—not that he needs to know that). When your luck runs out and you grab onto nothing but air, he wryly points it out through some slight ribbing, but nothing that’s actually hurtful (This flusters you too—again, not that he needs to know any of this).   

There’s nothing else to do. It’s like you’ve exhausted all you could in this small, curated window of his that you’re privy to. If only there’s a way to leave the mini-games behind, to do something new, perhaps outside of what the game has to offer…

Oh, wait. 

“Hey, Sy,” you call the man to attention. “Wanna try something out?” 

-

-

You beat him at Words with Friends by a small margin.

“Ha! That’s thirty-nine points, buddy.” You crow proudly, after putting down Devotees in a straight column.

He eviscerates you at Zynga Poker. 

“... How are you so good at this??” 

“Comes with the package, sweetie,” he says with faux-modesty after revealing (yet another!!) full house, winking like he hasn’t just wiped the floor with you.

By the end of it, both of you are in high spirits—except, maybe, for your bruised ego.

––––

“Say my name, say my name… If no one is around you, say baby I love you…”

“It’s nice to know that we have another thing in common, little dove.”

 

It takes you a moment to process what he’s implying. 

You stop singing, affronted. “Wh—how dare you.” 

––––

“Are you having fun?” Sylus asks, his tone droll as he stands there, hands on his hips and a small scowl on his face. You’re too busy spinning him around, thoroughly entertained by the number of outfits and accessories you’ve forced upon your slightly reluctant model in the photoshoot that's currently taking place.

It’s more amusing, knowing that he’s fully-aware of what’s happening. And that you know he’s aware of what’s happening. 

He’s like your personal, sentient Ken doll—if Ken had ashy grey hair, red eyes, and a mercurial attitude.

“I am, actually,” you shoot back, grinning as you plop a tomato stuffie on top of his head. “Look, you two match!” 

He exhales a long-suffering sigh, shaking his head in mock exasperation.

Not that it stops you. Fluffy bunny ears, a fish headband, an uncharacteristic halo—you’re relentless. “Hey, can you try a different pose?”

“That depends on the pose… and how nicely you ask.”

“Dear Sylus,” you sing, jutting your bottom lip forward and fluttering your eyelashes exaggeratedly, “could you please, pretty please, flip the camera off?”

He snorts but obliges, raising his hand to deliver the most effortlessly cool middle finger you’ve ever seen. “Happy?”

Woah. That’s… hot. “Oh! Uh. Yeah. Yeah, that’s—”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by your reaction. You giggle nervously. “You look… hot.”

“Mm?” His smirk grows, teasing and predatory. “What was that?”

“Nothing!” you blurt out, but the pinking of your cheeks betrays you. He’s definitely enjoying this now.

“I could be convinced to do another one,” he murmurs, voice pitching a little lower.

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to say the first thing that comes to mind. Stop, you whore. 

Your nerves get the best of you. Without thinking, you switch to putting the MC back on screen. 

Sylus blinks, red eyes narrowing as he looks at you, perplexed. 

“Uh,” you shift your gaze between her frozen stance and his idle figure. The sudden silence hangs a little heavy in the air. “Would–would you like to do poses? With her?”

He opens his mouth, an automatic response—but he stops, expression flickering into something unreadable. Confusion? Hesitation? 

His brows knit together, and for a short while, he just studies you, the space between you thick with unspoken questions. 

“Do you want me to?” he asks finally, his voice quieter, almost careful.

No–I don’t want you to— To pose with someone who looks so-–

perfectperfectperfect by your side—I only want to see you—

I want to see you––

Why do I care–?

I don’t care––I care, I care so much–– 

“Why not?” you choke out, the forced cheer in your voice grating even to your own ears. You shrug, nonchalant in all the ways you’re not. “I’ll dress her up real nice, and then—” You slap a pink bow onto his head. “You can try to keep up.” 

He doesn’t move, not paying the offending accessory any attention. His gaze is solely locked onto yours. 

I don’t care. I don’t. 

You take the first shot. 

____

“What’s the song you’re playing?”

You pause mid-mop, cocking your head to the side in slight surprise. 

“Uhh—Pedestal,” you answer unsurely. “By Portishead. You like it?” 

He hums, eyes glinting with interest. “I do. Play the rest.” 

And just like that, you’re introducing Sylus to modern twenty-first century music—and to Spotify.

____

From that point on, Sylus begins using your Spotify account to discover a whole new world of music—quite literally, in his case. Sometimes he steals the control from you, overriding what you’re currently listening to, just to hear the most random track play from your speakers.

In the middle of a mundane afternoon while you're completely locked in at work—hyperpop synths blaring in your ears—you’re suddenly jolted by the sound of heavy mandolins as an honest-to-god Russian military march blasts through your headphones, shattering your focus like a damn rhino in a china shop. 

And so with the level of patience that could put the Virgin Mary to shame, you painstakingly explain to your friend the courtesy of not stealing the proverbial AUX cord from the “driver,” especially when it’s their turn on the radio. 

The two of you reach a compromise, and thus the birth of your “shared” playlist. Sylus reluctantly agrees to explore on his own time—when you’re not using the app. Like when you’re busy with other things. Or when you're asleep. 

-

-

-

You wake up to the first strings of a Muse song. One of your favorites, in fact. 

Sy-Sy (??): Good morning, sweetie. 

Sy-Sy (??): Last night was enlightening. I have you to thank for that.

Sy-Sy (??): Oh, and I hope you could indulge me. I added some songs to our playlist. I think youll like them. We both seem to have a thing for alt-rock.

Sy-Sy (??): Give me time and Im sure Ill acquire a taste for electronic music too. Be patient. 

You huff out a laugh, lazily rolling over as you check your shared playlist. Sure enough, there’s twelve new songs on it.   

You: awe that’s great sy :)) and these songz r rly good !! u got sum of my faves here

You: based on what u like maybe u can try looking up sum david bowie, probz massive attack idk 

You: i’ll add stuff later for u to listen 2!!! <2

You: <3* 

Sy-Sy (??): Alright, sweetheart. I'm looking forward to it. 

Sy-Sy (??): ♥️

____

From the outside, the studio is just another unit among endless rows of dull grey—small and unassuming. Tucked away on the sixth floor of a nondescript building, it’s built as unremarkable as the rest.

Through a window stained with a mix of corrosive ochre and burnt sienna, there’s a quiet hum—the presence of something that wasn’t there a week ago. Life has shifted, ever so subtly, from an oppressive achroma to a much warmer vibrancy.  

There’s a faint hint of movement. Inside, the young woman wears an almost-permanent smile, her phone an extension of her hand as she taps away with no semblance of rhyme nor rhythm—only in a continuous staccato. Her eyes are locked on the screen, as if drawn by an invisible force.

It’s elusive; this connection—something beyond. Supranatural. It weaves through the room like whispered secrets shared in the dead of the night, beneath a city blanketed in deep ultramarine. Soft, like a wind brushing through a still everglade. 

The apartment, once steeped in a self-inflicted solitude—one that went by unnoticed for a long period of time—comes alive as an intangible presence fills its nooks and crannies with the steady warmth of companionship. There’s a gentle heat to the space now, like the glow of an invisible hearth. 

The flickering of the string lights, the muted laughter shared with a voice through the tinny speakers of a handheld device, a slight signal interference… all feel like the genesis of an impossible story.

Outside, the evening sky is fading into twilight.

And as one looks out onto the street below from the sixth floor window, it’s almost as if the world outside doesn’t quite matter anymore. 

Inside, the air is full of life, in ways it has never been. 

____

“Come to me, just in a dream

Come on and rescue me

Yes, I know I can be wrong

And maybe you’re too headstrong

Our love is––”

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @i2sannie @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @slyfoxtsu @beomluvrr @milkandstarlight @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @tinyweebsstuff @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean

(if..... for some damn reason..... the tags still don't work i rly don't know what i'm doing wrong T_T i'm posting this from a macbook is that it, is the ghost of steve jobs fucking with me rn)

[steddielations]

Steve walks into utter chaos.

He was stopping by just to see Max, but all the increasingly concerning noise coming from the Munson’s trailer drew him over there instead. Worried that all the cursing and clattering would drown out any chance of a knock being heard, Steve lets himself in. 

Eddie doesn’t even notice him come inside, too busy scrambling around the complete wreck of a kitchen.

“Dude, are you cooking or just banging pots and pans together? I thought you were dying in here.”

Eddie squawks and jumps about a foot in the air. His hair is even more disheveled than usual, barely tied down with a bandana. He’s got flour splotches on his face and all over the frilly grandma apron he’s wearing (which Steve is definitely getting a photo of and showing Dustin later) along with a suspiciously sticky goo on his fingers.

“Stop laughing at me,” Eddie groans. 

“I’m not laughing,” Steve laughs, going to join him in the kitchen, “What are you doing, man?” 

“Well, I’m trying to bake Wayne a cake, but at this point, I might as well give him a frosting covered rock for his birthday,” Eddie sighs, frustrated hands scrubbing the flour off his apron, “I don’t know, man, usually I just get him another mug and a pack of smokes, and he’s never asked me for anything, but I’ve put him through hell this year I just wanted— I don’t know like, to do something special but I can’t even—”

“Alright, take it off.”

Steve folds his arms and waits while Eddie just gawks at him for a moment, cheeks reddening under the patches of flour.

“What?”

“You heard me. Take. It. Off.”

Eddie scoffs, starts muttering like he does when he’s nervous and Steve cracks a smile when he realizes why.

“The apron, Eddie,” he gestures, “Hand it over.” 

Another moment of confused staring and Eddie slowly gives it to him.

Steve wastes no time shaking out the flour and tying it around himself. He moves past Eddie, gets right to work clearing the mess and salvaging what ingredients he can.

“You…” Eddie peeks over Steve’s shoulder, “You know how to bake?”

“I can make a cake,” Steve shrugs, “Robin obsesses over shit sometimes, calls them her “little brain worms” or whatever. She couldn’t stop thinking about this cake she swore she had for her 5th birthday but couldn’t remember the flavor. So we made every cake recipe in her mom’s cookbook until we found the right one.”

“So Harrington’s got a secret Betty Crocker power-up, impressive.”

“Nah, just small stuff. I help Claudia with Dustin’s birthday cakes. Little shit is very particular about his red velvet.” 

Eddie snorts and Steve waves him over to start washing the dishes. He does so with a small salute that smears more flour on his forehead. The word cute comes to Steve’s mind but he just rolls his eyes. 

“So you dusted off your oven mitts for little old me, hm? I’m flattered.”

“Only because I like Wayne and I’d prefer if you didn’t give him food poisoning,” Steve teases, dumping out Eddie’s abomination of batter into the trash. Though he softens when he sees the way Eddie winces at it. “And I think it’s nice, you know, you doing this for him. I wanna help.”

Eddie clearly holds back a smile, looking down at the bubbles in the sink, and the cute word comes back to Steve’s mind.

“Okay well, take it easy on me. Not everyone has a bunch of mom friends teaching them to bake.” 

“Oh yeah, then where’d you get this grandma apron? You just had this little number in the closet with your leather and chains?”

“No, it’s Mrs. Bennet’s and she’s not my friend,” Eddie bristles and Steve senses a hell of a backstory there, “I stole it off her clothesline.” 

Steve laughs and makes Eddie tell him the whole story, all the inner workings of Forest Hills feuds. It’s nice, Steve’s been spending more time here since everything, listening to Eddie’s stories and sharing his own. It’s easy to be around Eddie, even though that pesky word won’t get out of Steve’s head.

Once the batter is finished, Steve dips a finger in to test.

“How does it taste?” Eddie asks, “Better than mine I hope.”

Steve hums around his finger, “So good, here taste,” he meant to slide Eddie the bowl, but the wires must’ve gotten crossed somewhere, because now he’s holding out a dollop of cake batter on the tip of his finger to Eddie’s mouth. 

They both look down at it, then at each other again. Steve knows he should apologize, drop his hand and say it was a mistake but there’s something about the way Eddie’s looking at him, the way he subtly licks his lips is almost like— He wants this. 

So Steve lets him have it.

Eddie leans in, keeps his hands at his sides and slowly guides himself down on Steve’s finger. His eyes fall shut as his mouth closes around it, like it’s too much, watching Steve watching him. It’s a lot for Steve too, the wet warmth of Eddie’s mouth, one swirl of his tongue almost makes Steve’s knees buckle. 

Something comes over him, he presses his finger down just slightly, feeling Eddie’s tongue curl around the tip. It elicits a soft noise from Eddie that sends heat thrumming all through Steve. Eddie’s eyes flutter open, brows turned upwards and mouth in a plush little O around Steve’s finger, looking up at him through dark lashes, a dot of flour on his nose. The sight makes Steve’s breath catch in his throat. It’s fucking cute and hot.

Steve has to swallow his own noise when Eddie pulls off. 

“Yeah,” he breathes out, a slight grin on his lips, “Really good.” 

Steve’s about to do something crazy, put his finger back in Eddie’s mouth, maybe more than one this time, or just his lips on Eddie's, maybe even slip his tongue inside instead of his fingers, lick all that sweetness away until he just tastes Eddie, something— but a sudden loud knock on the door has him dropping his hand like it’s made of cement.

It’s Max, wanting to know why Steve ditched her for Eddie. She comes inside to ‘help�� which means she leans against the counter, talks about her day, complains, teases Steve and makes fun of Eddie for being demoted to dish duty. 

Steve puts the cake in the oven and focuses on cleaning and composing himself. He can feel Eddie trying to meet his gaze, trying to see if Steve's going to freak out on him after that. Once Steve can look at him without feeling like he’s going to burst into flames, he gives Eddie a small reassuring smile, even throws him a wink when Max isn’t looking. Eddie gives him a smile back.

And later, after Wayne comes home and they sing happy birthday and eat the cake that Steve insists Eddie helped him with— Just the tasting part, Steve says and revels in how Eddie covers a blush with his hair— and after they walk Max home, Steve pulls Eddie behind the trailer and kisses him until he doesn’t taste like cake anymore.

for the prompts "You heard me. Take. It. Off." and "Stop laughing at me" for @highkingpenny and anon, thank you and I hope you enjoy this!!

[queenie-avenue]

Charming Demon Belle!

—> he expresses interest in you.

⤻ reader is female, reader's race/animal theme is not specified, reader is a bit insecure, alastor is a semi-sweetheart in this one, fluff, no canon-typical violence, dancing but it's not jazz *gasp*

notes: this fic was honestly a bit rushed, but i do really love alastor as a character and really wanted to write a fic for him but i currently do not have the time to invest in one idea i have for a longform fic so here's something small. feel free to post asks for alastor, or any other hazbin character, i would love to write your ideas!

💌 ⤻ archives.

You had been at the Hotel for a few months now, working on those trust exercises that Charlie persuaded — forced — you to join in. You loved the girl, but you found her methods to be a bit too idealistic at times. Especially since during your time as a human, you saw just how cruel life could actually be.

Still, you joined in because you came to love the girl. You came to love the rest of the staff and visitors too.

Whenever you came back to the Hotel after a long day of doing whatever, there Husker was with your favourite cocktail or Angel would be there to crack his stupid jokes and innuendos that would always make you huff out a laugh no matter how tired you were. Vaggie was a fun person to be around. There was quite a bit of anger in her, but you couldn't help but like how assertive she could be. You honestly admired her for being such a strong woman, something you thought you could never be. Charlie was just a ray of sunshine and though Nifty was weird, you found her almost endearing, just like Sir Pentious and his nerdy displays.

There was one person you could never calm yourself around though and it was the host of the Hotel.

Alastor, the Radio Demon.

Perhaps it was his reputation that made you feel so uncomfortable around him, but you refrained from speaking to him as much as you could. Those eyes and that never-ending smile seemed to follow you wherever you went, though, and you found that wherever you went, he was there just waiting.

✧ Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ ✧

The Hotel was practically empty by the time afternoon hit. Husk was out getting more things for the bar alongside Nifty, who needed to buy more materials for cleaning. Angel Dust was at work. Charlie and Vaggie seemed to be on a date, of some sorts, encouraged by you as they seemed to be rather stressed these few days because of the upcoming Extermination.

As for Alastor... probably up in his radio tower.

And for you? You were lounging on the couch in the lobby of the hotel, scrolling through various television channels and hoping to find one that would entertain you for long enough.

"Hello, my dear!" The static-filled voice almost made you fall off the couch as you looked up to see the Radio Demon standing over you. "What are you doing?" Alastor inquired, looking at you before his gaze shifted to the TV in front of you, his eyes narrowing in what appeared to be annoyance. "Oh, you're watching a picture box, how quaint." He attempted to remain cordial in his speech, but it was clear he wanted to wreck that television.

He reached for the remote and pressed a few buttons. "What are you doing?" This time, it was your turn to question him.

"Turning off this pesky little thing, dear! You know, too much of this," he pointed his cane at the TV, "rots your brain!" He chuckled as he finally pressed the correct button to turn it off.

"You should get off the couch and get some exercise. Today is far too nice of a day to be wasted on such idle activities." He grinned wider as he his clawed hands grabbed yours and dragged you up.

"H-hey!" You yelled, shocked by the sudden touch. Despite the fact Alastor hated someone invading his personal space, he seemed to love to invade others.

"I know you don't like to exercise, so I have come up with a rather fun activity for us to partake in." Your eyes widened at his words. What in Hell's name did he mean by that? You had seen what Alastor viewed as 'fun' and you were now worried. He snapped his fingers as he dragged you to the middle of the lobby, a radio materialising on the bar desk as it began to loudly play some jazz music. "Some dancing ought to do the trick." He smiled.

"Um, Alastor." You peeped, "I'm glad you want to do an... activity with me. But I don't know how to dance. Let alone dance for some jazz music." You grinned awkwardly up at him as he looked down at you and tutted his lips.

"Ah, no worries." He grinned as he snapped his fingers again, causing the music on the radio to shift from jazz to classical. "We can start slow, of course. I could never force a lady to do something she didn't like." Well, that was ironic, considering what he was doing now.

"Hold on." He grinned as he grabbed your waist, using his other hand to guide yours to his shoulders. Without being able to respond, he dragged you across the floor.

"One, and a two. One and a two." He demonstrated how his feet moved about the floor, forcing you to follow against his steps as he swirled you about the hall. "See, you're already getting a hang of it." You couldn't help but smile at his words.

"Heh, yeah I guess I am." You grew more relaxed as you looked up at Alastor and his toothy grin and ash face.

He grinned wider. "I'm so glad that you are starting to feel comfortable around me, my darling." He expressed as he spun you around. "I was simply so hurt when I saw you interacting with the others but not me." He pulled you closer to his chest, "Might I ask why?" Alastor asked, the static filter on his voice disappearing slightly to reveal his human voice.

"I guess we just have personality clashes?" You tried to lie, not wanting to admit that you were intimidated and scared witless thanks to this demon, especially with the way he stalked you in the shadows at times.

"Haha!" He laughed comically. "My, what an intriguing assumption, my dear Belle!" He exclaimed as he spun you around and dipped you down. "I think we have more in common than you think."

"Like what?" You gasped out as he held you down, your hair brushing against the floor as you gazed up at him.

"Well, we're both sinners."

You deadpanned at his explanation. "That's it?"

"Well, there's certainly more, but why not leave it up for us to discover?" He suggested with a grin before pulling you up, slamming your face into his chest. Alastor gripped your chin in his sharp hands, his smile growing more sinister.

"I would certainly love to know more about you." His smile grew brighter, his eyes glimmering with a hint of intrigue and desire.

Shit, somehow that was the only thought running through your mind.

[theostrophywife]

the prince of hell.

my love is a mindless flight risk, never on time but god he's timeless he's a villain, he's a saint, he's a hero—he's a fucking renegade author's note: i've scoured high and low for demon!azriel fics and couldn't find any, so i thought why not write it myself? there will definitely be multiple parts of this. as always, thank @writingsbychlo for listening and participating in my rants about dark daddy az.

song inspiration: masterpiece by sam short.

The church bells tolled in the packed cathedral as you walked through the crowded pews. Each ring that reverberated against the stone walls mimicked the beat of your heart. 

One. Your father clutched your arm, his ironclad grip preventing you from bolting. The false smile he wore held no warmth. Only greed for what he stood to earn by pawning off his only daughter like a prized mare. 

Two. Your mother looked up from her seat at the front of the altar, and the words she had spoken to you before the ceremony echoed through your mind like a death sentence. You’ll learn to love him, she said. As I learned how to love your father. 

Three. Your betrothed leered at you, hunger dancing behind his cold, dead eyes. I will break you, his wicked smile seemed to say. Then I will mold you into a perfect, obedient wife. 

With each step, you came closer and closer to sealing your fate. The shaky breath you released fluttered through your lace veil like a ripple in the ocean. As the hem of your wedding dress kissed the marble mosaic floor, you screwed your eyes shut and prayed. 

Please, you pleaded. Please, save me.

Thunder rumbled through the church. Screams erupted from all sides. The ground beneath you shook as the earth cracked open to release mist and fog from the bowels of hell. 

In the midst of chaos, a winged figure emerged from the shadows. Your heart skipped a beat as you caught sight of the beautiful male. Cloaked in darkness, a pair of familiar glowing golden eyes locked onto yours from across the room. 

The Prince of Hell smiled. “Hello, my heart.”

He had a face like heaven and a voice like sin. A small voice in the back of your head warned you to be afraid, but your heart warred against logic. While everyone else in the room screamed in terror at the sight of the devil, you only saw salvation.

“Azriel,” you breathed. His name sounded like a prayer on your lips. 

You had never seen him before, at least not while you were awake. But you knew that face. You dreamt of him every night. 

Azriel was your favorite fantasy. The beautiful male that took you away from your monotonous life. A figment of your imagination that symbolized all the things that awaited in the world beyond, should you ever be afforded the chance to escape becoming someone’s simpering, obedient little wife. 

He wasn’t supposed to be real, but yet here he was in the flesh. 

“You’re here,” you said, hardly believing the words yourself. “You came.” 

The Prince of Hell pierced you with his gaze. “I will always come for you.”

From behind him, your groom-to-be flicked dust and ash from his doublet before glancing at Azriel with contempt. “Who the hell are you?”

The male was either exceptionally brave or extremely stupid. 

The Prince of Hell regarded Alaric as one would a cockroach—with thinly veiled disgust and the desire to crush the pesky little insect beneath his boot. 

“I am death.” Azriel purred, his voice laced with the promise of violence. “I am shadow and darkness, the monster that haunts your nightmares. I am the Prince of Hell and I have come to collect my bride.”

He held out a scarred hand towards you, barely sparing a glance at Alaric. The male bristled with pride and stepped between you and Azriel. 

Something dark and dangerous flashed in the Prince of Hell’s eyes as he came face to face with Alaric. The side by side contrast emphasized how otherworldly Azriel was. Though he took on a mortal form, there was nothing human about him. 

His ethereal features were slashed with fury, dark hair rippling in waves to frame his flawless face. Flecks of amber burned like embers within his eyes and the contrast against his golden-brown skin further illuminated his strange and cruel beauty. 

“You must be mistaken,” Alaric declared, puffing his chest. “She is my betrothed. We are to be wed this very day.”

Azriel glanced around the room, taking in the stained glass windows and rosewood pews of the crowded cathedral. The people that hadn’t managed to escape trembled in fear under his watchful eyes. The corners of Azriel’s full lips sloped into a frown as he dragged his gaze towards you, examining your white dress and wild expression.

“Your betrothed does not wish to marry you, mortal. ” Azriel declared, his voice barely above a whisper yet full of lethal cold. 

“She is promised to me,” Alaric replied. “I have paid the bride price.”

The humorless laugh that slipped past Azriel’s lips was devoid of emotion. His gaze cut to your father, who cowered behind the marble altar. With one glance, shadows wreathed through his limbs and yanked him towards the Prince of Hell. 

“Tell this male that he is mistaken,” Azriel commanded. 

Your father paled, fear and trepidation evident on his face. “P-p-please, my Prince,” his voice was high and desperate. “I assumed you had forgotten. Years had passed since our bargain, and you hadn’t returned so I—“

“Thought to deceive the Prince of Hell?” Azriel seethed and his shadows whipped violently, tightening their grip on your sniveling father. “Did you not think that this day of reckoning would come?” Shadows brought him to his knees before the dark prince. “A bargain is a bargain, mortal. I want what was promised,” his eyes were feverish as they landed on you. “I want her.”

Your mother blanched in horror as she looked up at her husband. “What have you done?”

“I was only doing what I thought was best!” your father cried. “When famine ravaged the countryside, I grew desperate. I prayed to the old gods, but none of them answered. The Prince—he offered fertile lands and a bountiful harvest in exchange for a bride.” 

“Then what?” you said bitterly. “The reward Azriel offered was not enough for your selfish, greedy heart, was it father? You weren’t satisfied, so you thought to sell me off once again?”

“I did it for our family. We have land! We have gold! We have riches beyond imagination! I have secured a match above your station so you may live comfortably for the rest of your life. I did this for you.”

Tears welled in your eyes. The realization that your father had traded you like some bargaining chip, not once but twice made your stomach roil. You’ve always known that he was a greedy bastard, but you didn’t think he’d go this far. 

“No, father,” you said with mirthless laughter. “You did this for yourself.”

Your father struggled against his restraints as he turned towards his wife. “Tell her,” he coaxed, his words full of despair. “Tell her that I only wanted what was best for her.”

“You promised our daughter to the devil!” your mother screamed, her voice echoing against the stone walls. 

You wanted to tell her that Azriel wasn’t a monster. That he’d held you in your dreams, comforted you when you cried, listened to every wish and whim that you whispered into the night, but she wouldn’t have understood. None of them would. 

“It’s okay, mother,” you said, attempting to appease her agony. “Azriel won’t hurt me.”

As his expression softened, you knew that you’d spoken true. Azriel nodded in agreement. “I would never hurt you,” he declared. His attention cut back to your father. “Him, on the other hand, I have no qualms about inflicting pain upon.”

Your father squirmed in place, shooting a pleading look in your direction. The shadows tightened around his neck like a noose. ��Please,” he begged with wide eyes. “Please, have mercy.”

He sounded frantic and desperate, exactly how you had been days ago when you pleaded with him not to wed you to Alaric. Your father hadn’t listened to you then. With your roles reversed, it was tempting to let his pleas fall upon deaf ears, but you decided to be the bigger person.

Azriel waited for your cue. You shook your head and watched as his shadows receded. 

“Thank you,” your father said. “Thank you, daughter.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” you snapped. “I did it for me. From this day forth, I want nothing to do with you. I wish to be free. I am no longer your daughter.”

Hurt and anger flashed through your father’s eyes, but you didn’t care. This was your chance. You could finally rid yourself of this dreary existence. Feeling lighter than you had in years, you turned your attention back to the Prince of Hell. He smiled as you took a step forward.

“Not so fast,” Alaric hissed. “What about what I am owed? I paid for you. I own you.” You shot him a cutting glare as his fingers curled around your wrist. 

Anger bubbled up within you as you bared your teeth at the horrid male. “I am not a piece of cattle to be traded for gold.” Alaric glared as you shoved him away. 

His hateful beady eyes focused on you as he closed the gap between you. “And yet your father sold you like a fattened calf.” His grip on your arm tightened. “You should be flattered. I purchased you for a considerable amount of gold and I expect a return on my investment.” A blade shimmered in Alaric’s hand as he held it up to your throat. “Either from your father or your beloved demon.”

The Prince of Hell was rage and wrath personified. “You want payment, mortal?” Azriel asked, his eyes cold and hard and full of malice. “Very well, then. I will trade you my heart for yours.”

Alaric barely had time to react before Azriel was upon him. Shadows sheltered you from harm while the Prince of Hell slammed the foolish male to the ground. The floor shuddered from the impact as Azriel’s dark wings flared behind his powerful back. You watched in stunned silence as he plunged his scarred fingers into Alaric’s chest, tearing through flesh and bone with brutal efficiency. 

The scream that tore through Alaric’s throat was horrific. Cries of terror echoed through the cathedral once more and those who were able to flee did so with haste. But Azriel was deathly silent as he wrapped a fist around Alaric’s heart. Blood trickled through his wrists and pooled at his feet like crimson tears as he yanked the still beating heart out of the male’s chest. 

The carnage and gore incited a chorus of desperate pleas. Some retched, some clawed at their eyes.

But you simply locked gazes with the Prince of Hell.

As the male beneath him took his last pathetic breath, Azriel tossed his heart on the marble altar. It was sacrilege at its finest. A dark offering. A blasphemous statement to the gods above of the lengths he would go to for you.

“A promise,” he declared, addressing the petrified crowd. Azriel glanced down at the dead male crumpled beneath his feet. “This is what will become of anyone who presumes to come between me and my bride.”

You watched with bated breath as he walked towards you. With bloodstained hands, Azriel caressed your cheek with surprising gentleness. His touch was warm and soft, just as it had always been in your dreams. You closed your eyes, relishing the feel of him. 

“Are you hurt?” Azriel asked softly. His thumb stroked against your cheek, painting a streak of scarlet against your skin. Azriel frowned at the sight of blood and made a move to draw his hand back, but you only laced your fingers through his. 

You looked up to find him studying you. Searching for fear. Waiting for you to scream in terror and run in the opposite direction. Instead, you wrapped your arms around him and sobbed. Azriel was stunned for a second, but he recovered quickly and scooped you up into his arms. He seemed to understand that in this moment, all you needed was to be held.

“I’m fine,” you said through your tears. “I’m fine now that you’re here.”

The Prince of Hell placed a tender kiss on your temple as his wings wrapped around you like a blanket. “Come, my heart,” he murmured in a soothing voice. “Let me take you home.”

taglist: @viradeity @moony-thoughts @i-opened-the-chamber-of-secrets @demirunner @swansworth @heart-defendor @momlo @mali22 @roselensage @searchingford@nessianxgwynriel@azriels-angels@brekkershadowsinger@morelovemorepeacemoretattoo-blog @mattte-black @marina468 @lillithathecathecat @highladyofillyria @navyblue-eternity @margssstuff

[n4rval]

hi I just wanted to say your tags on the gaster poll posts are so correct yessss (always enjoy your takes just in general). thank you for being one of the seemingly very few people out there who also believes there's no way the timeline works for gaster and alphys to have been colleagues. however, him haunting her benevolently is something I'm 1000% here for <3 (also I hope your finals went well and you get to have a nice relaxing break!)

HII HELLO HI im glad you like them!!! knowing you read these motivates me to keep being Absolutely Very Normal About Him on the internet

personally it's less of a believing thing and more of a come on it's written right there thing, but since we're here.

behold! dingus timeline. (and the hottest of takes with freshly baked personal headcanons otherwise what am i doing)

Not a skeleton?

Isn't 201X too early?

Indeed, not a skeleton, but rather, some guy. Something about how monster's bodies are manifestations of their SOUL, and him oddly resembling a strange looking man does well to represent his insatiable curiosity and love for creating. (things humans are known for in a better light)

On the other hand, you will be pleased with how fascinated he is by "FLESHLINGS AND THEIR CALCIUM DEPOSITS".

And then they fucking died.

201X is the year the first human fell into the underground, and shortly after, the royal family has moved to New Home. This means some decent exploration of the cavern has already been made. Scientists could very well already have been working on optimizing life underground, with special attention to the large and ever growing new capital.

My idea? As this idiot has been aiding exploration with his antics, Gerson was the one to appoint him to Asgore. Something about his talent with turning garbage into non-garbage. With a little patience and getting familiar with his odd manerisms, it was not too long until he got to be the prince's weird godfather.

Cracking already?

And everyone was devastated, mainly the close family. Not only that, but amidst your mourning, the one couple responsible for your unrealistically high standards for romance just divorced. Is love even real anymore. You eat ants with your cereal and your work consists mainly of convenience improvements and absolutely nothing groundbreaking. What's the point of breaking that pesky barrier again? Child murder? Come on.

That's the Wingdings PATIENCE and BRAVERY encountered in their adventure. Dear god, you're lame. Aren't you some kind of genius? Get yourself together! And together he got his self, now, he has children to look after. Surely there must be some other way. He must stop coming up with new flavours for chips and find some other way.

... Dear god, the King is going to kill them.

BONES and DT

Listen. He's old. You got your wrinkles, he's got his cracking. What? You meant to point out some major event of injury must have been responsible for his current state of deformity? Well, he's old AND heartbroken. That's a direct blow to the SOUL, okay.

Jokes aside (kind of), doing any lasting damage to a monster is quite difficult given their magic forms can easily be healed through, well, magic. They can, however, eventually "fall" (wink wink) and dust away with age - which cannot, however, be fixed with magic.

With a little determination however ...

Something about the anomaly.

He found it, the other way. It was the bones all along, the so needed sustainance for channelling such a high concentration of that power. Well, not necessarily, but a boney structure will endure much more and last much longer than a meaty one. Also, it looks so cool.

You know this guy, he gets first dibs on any and all dubious substances that might or might not deal the last hit to the nail on his coffin dust urn(?). And when it all works out (dubious), he might as well play a little. What kind of things can he make? With the material properties of these calcified remains infused with his own magic, animated with determination.

Some new, powerful magic tricks?

A new kind of monster, maybe?

DARK, DARKER, YET DARKER.

There is a lot of interesting things one can do with isolated DT, aside from making bones rattle with life - for example, peeking onto the complex layers and ramifications of what composes reality. This is when the already kooky scientist grows a little mad; manic, if you will. This is the Wingdings sans was familiar with.

Time travel this, resets that, blah blah blah alpha timeline, the anomaly, the angel, the anomaly again, all things that only make sense to him and his illegible mess on the black board. The lack of detail is killing him, he needs to know what it is - what it does, why it does, how it does. Not to stop it, no, there is no stopping it.

Rather, an overwhelming need to understand it.

He falls somewhere in recent history, details of it left ambiguous. The shattering, combined with the amount of DT running in his magical... mathematical physiology, rendered all of his self but an espectator of his reality; confined to the code and unable to do anything but watch, powerless before the nature of his very being, like a corrupted program.

It is all rather frustrating, besides the burden that is coming to terms with simply not existing anymore, watching was pretty much all this research was and now ever will be. That is, until something interacts with him. It is different from the tragic prince, whom no matter how much DT he's accumulated, he is just as confined to this world's rules as other elements. Not this one, not the force from beyond. Not "YOU".

He makes it a mission to reach out, despite the limits of the code, to give away bits and pieces of him and see if you bite. But not too much, he's seen how you tend to exhaust a world for knowledge, something he can oddly sympathize with. I mean, what will you do once you find everything? One cannot fully know a person.

Maybe in another world, prophetized by a cute, little white dog. A much better world for everyone, without so much as war or disease, his greatest creation yet. And he could invite you to it, to experience bewilderment, to be reminded of wonder. If it could even help you, wherever you are, to deem your own world worth of partaking ... then the experiment was a success.

[burntsecrets]

Winter's Bite

Pairing: Spike x Reader Word Count: 1280 Prompt: @fluff-cember Day 7: condensed breath Summary: On patrol during a cold winter night, Spike keeps teasing you about your visible breath in the icy air, calling you a “bloody dragon.”  Warnings: mild suggestive themes, banter, and some violence typical of Buffyverse patrols (vampires/demons).

The cemetery is eerily quiet under the full moon, the kind of silence that makes you question every shadow. The chill bites at your cheeks as you walk the winding path, your breath curling into the icy air like tendrils of smoke. Adjusting your grip on the stake in your hand, you glance around, senses sharp for any sign of movement.

Behind you, a familiar voice cuts through the stillness.

"Careful there, love. With all that huffing and puffing, you’re liable to start a forest fire."

You glance back to see Spike leaning casually against a headstone, his leather duster flaring slightly in the breeze. Even in the dim light, his pale hair gleams like a beacon, and his trademark smirk is firmly in place.

"Really?" you say, rolling your eyes. "This is how you’re helping me patrol? By making fun of my breath?"

"Why not?" he replies, falling into step beside you. "It’s bloody freezing out here, and you’re the only thing keeping it interesting. Besides," he adds, with that infuriating grin of his, "you look quite fetching as a dragon."

You tug your scarf tighter around your neck, trying to ignore him. "It’s called being human, Spike. You should try it sometime."

"Why would I want to?" he retorts, flashing a teasing smirk. "All that pesky breathing, eating, and freezing your arse off nonsense. No thanks."

You shove your hands deeper into your pockets, exhaling a puff of frosty breath. "You’ve got to get some new material, Spike."

"Why? This works just fine," he quips, his voice dropping into a playful murmur. "You always bite when I pull your tail."

You ignore him—or at least you try to—but it’s hard when his gaze lingers on you, sharp and assessing, like he’s trying to see past the surface. Since Buffy left for Italy, Spike’s been different. Still sarcastic, still sharp-tongued, but there’s a new softness in him, like he’s figuring out how to move on from her. And then there’s the way he looks at you when he thinks you don’t notice...

A rustling sound pulls you from your thoughts, your body tensing as you grip your stake. Spike’s demeanor changes instantly, the teasing gone as his predatory instincts take over. A moment later, two fledgling vampires lurch out of the shadows, their movements erratic and feral.

"Finally," Spike mutters, cracking his knuckles. "I was getting bored."

The fight is quick but intense. You duck as one of the fledglings lunges for you, its claws slicing through the air where your face had been. Spinning on your heel, you drive your stake into its chest, and it crumbles to dust before it can even cry out. Spike, meanwhile, dispatches the other with his usual flair, staking it with a bored expression as though he’s done it a thousand times—which, of course, he has.

When the dust settles, you’re out of breath, your chest rising and falling in sharp bursts that fog the cold air. Spike leans casually against a tombstone, twirling his stake like it’s a toy, completely unruffled.

"You alright, love?" he asks, his smirk returning. "Not too winded, I hope. Wouldn’t want my dragon passing out on me."

"Would you stop calling me that?" you huff, brushing dirt from your jeans.

"Why? It suits you," he teases, stepping closer. "Fierce, fiery, and entirely too much fun to rile up."

"Keep it up, Spike, and I’ll show you fiery temper."

He raises a scarred eyebrow, his smirk softening into something more playful. "Promise?"

Your cheeks heat—not from anger but from the way he says it, low and flirtatious, the words curling through the space between you. You hate how easily he gets under your skin. Or maybe you don’t hate it as much as you pretend to.

"Come on," he says suddenly, nodding toward his crypt. "You’re freezing your scales off out here. Let’s get warm."

✦ ✦ ✦

Spike’s crypt is warmer than you expected, though that’s likely due to the small space heater humming in the corner. The air smells faintly of leather and whiskey, and the flickering candles scattered around give it a surprisingly cozy atmosphere.

"You’ve upgraded," you remark, eyeing the threadbare but inviting couch as you settle onto it.

He shrugs out of his duster and tosses it over a nearby chair. "Figured I’d make the place a bit more hospitable. Not that I get many visitors these days."

"Well, consider me honored," you quip, though there’s a weight to his words that lingers. Since Buffy left, Spike’s world has grown smaller, quieter. You suspect he’s still figuring out how to fill the void she left behind.

He grabs a bottle of whiskey from a nearby table and takes a swig before holding it out to you.

"Here," he says. "Warm you up."

You hesitate for a moment before accepting. The first sip burns, but it spreads warmth through your chest, chasing away the chill of the night. Spike sits down beside you, closer than he needs to, and you’re hyper-aware of the space—or lack thereof—between you.

"So," he says, leaning back and stretching his arms along the back of the couch. "What’s it like, being one of the Chosen?"

"It’s... a lot," you admit, staring into the amber liquid in your hand. "Buffy made it look easy, but it’s not. Sometimes it feels like I’m just trying not to screw up."

"Buffy was good," he says, his voice softer now. "But she had her share of screw-ups too. Don’t sell yourself short, love. You’ve got fire. You’ll figure it out."

The mention of Buffy hangs in the air for a moment, a ghost neither of you can ignore. You glance at him, trying to read his expression, but it’s unreadable.

"Do you miss her?" you ask quietly, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is low, almost a whisper. "Used to think I’d never stop missing her. Thought she was it for me, you know? But... things change."

His eyes meet yours, and there’s something raw and honest in his gaze that makes your heart skip a beat.

"And now?" you ask, barely more than a whisper.

"Now..." He trails off, his lips quirking into a small smile. "Now I think I might be moving on."

The air between you crackles with unspoken possibilities, and for a moment, you forget about everything else—the patrols, the vampires, even Buffy. It’s just you and Spike, the space between you shrinking by the second.

"You’re not as much of a pain as you think, you know," you say softly, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

"Careful, love," he murmurs, his voice low and teasing. "Say things like that, and I might start thinking you like me."

"Maybe I do," you admit, your cheeks heating despite the cold.

For once, Spike doesn’t have a snarky reply. Instead, he leans in, his hand brushing against yours. His gaze drops to your lips, and for a heartbeat, the world seems to hold its breath.

But before he can close the distance, a loud crash outside shatters the moment.

"Bloody hell," he mutters, standing and grabbing his stake. "Can’t a bloke get a moment’s peace?"

You laugh despite yourself, standing and pulling your jacket tighter. "Come on, dragon," he says with a wink, holding the door open for you. "Duty calls."

As you step out into the night, the cold bites at your cheeks again, but the warmth of his presence lingers. And as you walk beside him, trading banter and stolen glances, you realize that maybe, just maybe, you’re not the only one moving on.

[writethrough]

The Stranger Things Collection

The Collections

I do not permit anyone to copy, repost, and/or share my work anywhere, translated or otherwise. However, please feel free to like, comment, and reblog!

All rights to the media and characters below belong to the original creators and writers.

Moodboard by @steph-speaks

BILLY HARGROVE

Bad Boy Type (Fem!Reader) ⊹ Girls' night at Billy and Max's new place takes a turn when El insists on you marrying Billy.

By the Lakeside (Fem!Reader) ⊹ You're spending the day at Lover's Lake with everyone when Jason decides to humiliate you. It's a good thing Billy and Eddie are there.

Connection (GN!Reader) ⊹ You stumble across Billy when you go to stargaze. He seeks you out each time after.

Found You (GN!Reader) ⊹ You give Billy what he's always needed.

I Know Better (Fem!Reader) ⊹ You've heard every rumor about Billy Hargrove—from the girls, the guys, the teachers, the parents—it never interested you all that much. Until one of those pesky rumors involved you.

Life Guard (Fem!Reader) ⊹ It's the middle of summer and everyone decides to go to the pool. You don't know how to swim, but at least Billy's on duty.

Lost Things, Found Beginnings (GN!Reader) ⊹ You find Billy's ring on your way into work and can't stop the swirling thoughts on how to return it. How does he react when you do?

Morning Blue (GN!Reader) ⊹ Waking up with Billy.

The Only Destination (GN!Reader) ⊹ Sometimes you can’t stand all the noise and the people. You want to run and hide, but you don’t know where to go. Until you spot the one person who you’ll always run toward.

A Place to Land (Fem!Reader) ⊹ You told Billy you love him. And he knows it's time to break up with you.

Refuge (GN!Reader) ⊹ Billy seeks you out after another incident with Neil.

A Sign of Heat (GN!Reader) ⊹ Billy's a textbook Aries, and you tell him as much...with a little twist.

Still A Thing (Fem!Reader) ⊹ You and Billy are visiting Hawkins for the week, and of course, you run into Tommy H. who still has trouble shutting his mouth.

Sun Daze (GN!Reader) ⊹ Warmth comes from more than the sun.

EDDIE MUNSON

By the Lakeside (Fem!Reader) ⊹ You're spending the day at Lover's Lake with everyone when Jason decides to humiliate you. It's a good thing Billy and Eddie are there.

Little Chickadees (GN!Reader) ⊹ Eddie signs you both up to work the petting zoo, but just because he likes to hang out with kids, doesn't mean you do.

Track Two (Fem!Reader) ⊹ As you and the gang are trying to stop Vecna, save Max, and clear Eddie's name, you see something that shakes you to your core.

STEVE HARRINGTON

Fill In the Cracks (GN!Reader) ⊹ There's no way someone like Steve would love you. It's only a matter of time before he forgets you.

BONUS CONTENT

⊹ Billy's Love Languages

THE BRAIN ROT BRIGADE PRESENTS...with @bookshelf-dust and @steph-speaks

⊹ Billy As A Firefighter ⊹ Billy at Disney ⊹ Billy Giving You the Look ⊹ Billy Knowing When You Need to Be Grounded (Part I / Part II) ⊹ Billy Working at Target ⊹ Eddie Letting You Play With His Hair

[hostradio]

❝  my  oh  my ...  what  sort  of  mess  have  you  gotten  yourself  into  now?  ❞   the  question  is  purely  rhetorical  —  he  isn't  entirely  sure  whether  angel  is  even  capable  of  hearing  him,  splayed  out  on  the  ground  like  some  pesky  creature  post-run  in  with  the  wheel  of  a  car.  though  his  smile  remains  present  as  ever,  one  corner  of  alastor's  mouth  twitches  crookedly  upwards.  (  a  scrap  of  annoyance  bleeding  through  the  cracks  in  his  facade.  )  honestly,  he  would  have  no  qualms  simply  leaving  the  sinner  to  lay  there  while  he  goes  about  his  business  —  ah,  but  he  supposes  angel  dust  is  vaguely  his  responsibility.  at  least  to  such  a  degree  that  it  would  behoove  him  to  ensure  he  still  has  the  capacity  to  drag  his  sorry  carcass  back  to  the  hotel.  (  or  see  to  it  that  he's  dragged;  alastor  isn't  picky  about  the  details.  )  ❝  wake  up. ❞   he  says  curtly,  nudging  the  spider  with  his  microphone  just  a  bit.  very  helpful.  very  efficient.

@x-angelxdust-x &&. liked for a SMALL STARTER.

[thesoulesscollection]

(Request) Crack The Mask

Request: Angst Dmitri; maybe something that involves why he runs the complex the way he does, or maybe something from his past before being the warden? Perhaps whatever it is, it triggers him and none of the employees know why. 

Post Fleeing the Complex, Henry and Ellie team up but I did leave it ambiguous kinda what happened afterwards. 

I don't write much for Dmitri or well, any of the characters in the wall so I was happy to finally be able to do so. This may have gone a little astray of what you may have requested but I hope this is good. As well, I'm a big fan of writing stuff where Dmitri is vulnerable. 

Held up in his office, finally alone, Dmitri kept the door closed by pressing up against it as he took in long, dragged breaths. For once in his life, career path, both that led him to see many gnarly things, he was actually scared to death. It was stupid, humiliating, that he was feeling this way. 

Dmitri shouldn't be seen as weak around his men. He was a warden, after all, meant to be tough, no nonsense, serving with the Wall for over fifty years, everyone gripped in his tight iron fist, he's never supposed to have a bad day. Until recently, things went to shit, as the recent prison riot was anything to go by, and now he's in a frenzied panic. Many prisoners were able to slip through the flagrant cracks while others, his guards and him thankfully were recaptured in a short matter of time. 

"Hello?" Sat on the floor he heard the voice, crisp yet polite call out on the other side of the door. 

"I'm busy, Grigori" In a brittle tone Dmitri can't be bothered to keep a mask of indifference or brisk impatience. "Let me be" 

"They're worried about you. You know that, yes? I am too" Grigori cuts in. Despite what he was told to act in his youth, the threat to weep, loudly, like some snot-nosed child is becoming evident. He struggled, wiping his red rimmed eyes haphazardly to rid the pesky tears. 

"They shouldn't" He draws out unintentionally on some of the words, cheeks warming up at the embarrassment, hands covering his face. 

"We should. As a friend I've known you for decades. I understand what you're feeling. I've been there plenty of times and so has everyone else. But it's going to be fine" 

Unwilling to move from his spot on the cold floor, Dmitri breathes deep, shallow breaths, as he hardly believes the man for a second. 

"You're not alone" 

The warden cracks, casted his head into his hands, bites his lips, an attempt to muffle out the pathetic sounds. "I never had a massive failure like this in my entire career. Not when they came along" He dryly heaves, sobs are choked back. "They ruined me. Everything I have ever worked hard for. I had a reputable career and in a flash they dismantled it"  

"I know" In his teary haze Dmitri was still able to hear the shuffling from the other side of the door and the other man's sympathetic tutting afterwards, "Could I come in?" 

At first, Dmitri vehemently denied the idea of allowing anyone, including his best friend to enter the office, see how broken he is, and change their whole viewpoint on him. It will reveal his weaknesses to the open where in a lifetime he deliberately hid underneath the multiple secretive layers. Then he surmised it, deeper, this was Grigori after all, who he could trust with his life if needs be. 

"... Okay, y-yes…" He concedes, scoots from the door, hand on the wall so he can clumsily stand. In a particularly bad mood with temper flaring wildly, he hides within his office, where he throws an explosive fit, unable to keep his cool. For all he went through came a period of tense uncertainty, he is without control, in a vulnerable spot. 

As his hand reaches toward the handle, the sinking dreadful sensation returns but Dmitri swallows his pride, dusts off the muddy grime from his wrinkled jacket, and wipes the tears with his fist. What worsened it was seeing his friend, battered up, arm in a sling, and looked plainly put darn awful. It was his fault after all, he allowed two prisoners, escapees amongst much more to do that to his right hand and to his men. Hot faced humiliation racks his mind in its entirety, riddled with guilt he could have done more. Furthermore, he hated himself as his eyes stung, his face flushed, and his body started to shake. 

"Thank you" Grigori thanked him for whatever reason when the door opened and the man took his time to enter then closed it behind him. "Everything is going to be alright" 

Stiff and awkward, his posture impeccably straighter than it ought to be, Dmitri looks away as he bites his tongue, not knowing what to say. 

"It's okay to be upset, Dimi. To cry too" Slow to lock the door Grigori continued to cut past the unnecessary small talk. It did manage to both comfort and terrify Dimitri in a way he would usually shut himself away. "Feeling these emotions don't make you weak" 

Grigori steps forward, cautiously, done out of respect, into his personal space, a very thick and large bubble. "I am not weak" He says in a low grumble. "Nor am I going to cry. I'm an adult man" 

"Never said you were weak. I'm saying that you shouldn't be afraid to feel things. Even the bad emotions" 

"Y-You. You don't know what I feel. You don't get to tell me how to feel either" Dmitri albeit weakly orders, he isn't going to allow anyone to dictate him. "I won't stand by and let them get away with this" 

"We know you won't" Calmly reassuringly like always when they're alone, Grigori takes the initiative to have Dmitri sit down in his seat to relax. A hand lays on his tense shoulder as the man continues, "You're an incredibly stubborn man"

At the comment lightly poked at his expense Dmitri rolled his eyes with a huff where his old friend just smirks in return. 

"I know you very well. We've been friends for a long time since childhood. I've helped you through thick and thin and you did the same for me" Grigori pats his shoulder a few times until pulling away. A mild twinge of sadness, perhaps washes over Dmitri though he can't detect the causes behind it. 

"I suppose. Between the two of us. Someone has to be found responsible" Dmitri shrugs then adds, "That is why we need to make a pla-"

"Uh huh. Before we make any rash decisions there's something important to be discussed here" 

"Then this? Recapturing them is our main priority" 

"It is. You're right. Though that's for a later on discussion" Grigori reassures, matter of fact, with the knowledge that when Dmitri gets his attention on a project it's hard to get him off it so he is quicker to divert Dmitri to the major topic, "It's about you" 

 "What about me?" 

"One of the guards. They told me you weren't yourself. You were staring blankly at nothing, unmoving. It scared them"

Dmitri wanted to melt into the seat at the idea someone else outside this office saw him in a disrepaired state. 

"They asked if you were alright. You didn't respond so they presumed otherwise, trying to shake you alert and you do acknowledge how you reacted in turn, yes?" In reluctance Dmitri nods, "Good. Because you began to cry. Why I said it isn't good to bottle this up" 

"I… Uh, I got something in my eye. That's why. I said I was fine" 

"Don't pull the wool over my eyes. We had this talk a second ago" Grigori sternly states. Arms crossed over his chest, cold gray eyes bore down at the warden. Only Dmitri keeps quiet, grips at the chair's armrests. "You can be open with me. Don't hide behind the thin veils that you can't feel these things. Cry if you must. Let it out"   

It was like a cue for the dam to break, tears unwillingly staining his cheeks, he attempted to dry them. "I can't be a failure… I won't let it happen" He angrily shakes the arms, almost to the point could rip them off. "I will get them and show them what I can do to criminals who dares to defy me"

"You're not. We will get over this. A simple yet fixable hiccup in the system" Thankfully, he's helped by Grigori to settle the frenzied panic. "You're not alone. I'm here for you" 

He hoped that was true. Failure wasn't an option in his opinion. The glee he would feel after so long without nearly takes him. Once he gets the two escapees who tarnished his pristine reputation in his grip again, he'll be happy.  "Thank you…" Dmitri gritted out, a crooked smile forcibly stretching his worn face. 

Happiness may be a stretch. 

[pesky--dust]

The first episode of Hannibal be like:

[ben-101-rewrite]

-Ben 101 Rewrite Note-

Every time Ben turns into one of his aliens, he tends to take on traits and instincts of them that can affect his personality. Some are more obvious than others, ranging from mild shifts in tone, to full on acting barely like Ben. Here are the Omniverse series aliens and their personality shifts.

Feedback - Confident and always holds himself up with pride. Has a stubborn streak to him and has a problem with not listening to others. Tends to drag out situations cause he likes to have fun with it and put on a show. Bloxx - Always quick to change and get creative with his builds, acting as if he’s a dad having to keep an eye on all the chaos around him. Seems to have a family man side to him, and holds a lot of patience.

Gravattack - A bit of a loner, but not in the sense of rejecting people, but more so his kind are used to living in solitude, and need to be one with their gravity powers. Especially since they roam space alone, and go with the flow of things.

Crashhopper - Always on the move, being a destructive mess. His mood is almost always chipper, cracking quips and jokes as his brain never stops thinking. Takes a lot to bring down his mood, and to get him to slow down.

Ball Weevil - Neat freak, hates seeing messes and dirt where it is not supposed to be. Likes things to be orderly. Despite his small size, it can be pretty vocal about things, and tends to act tougher than he actually is. The moment it becomes clear to him he’s outnumbered though, he’ll run for it.

Walkatrout - Awkward little fish, that is rather cowardly. Doesn’t like to be in stressful situations and prefers to keep a distance. The world just seems very hostile in the eyes of Walkatrout.

Pesky Dust - Comes across as sweet and playful, but has a twisted dark side to them. A trickster that likes to make people pay for their crimes, and does what amuses them most. Not the kind of alien you want to be stuck in a room with. Also just comes across as really weird.

Mole-Stache - Hard worker who doesn’t mind doing jobs around the place, always eager to be doing some hard labour. Though he is not very orderly, or good at the concept of being clean, known to just trek dirt around the house if not paying attention, or leaving open holes in inconvenient spots.

The Worst - Has no sense of danger whatsoever, so they come across as dumb and unwise, when really it’s just they have no fear drive. He kind of just vibes and enjoys life, experimenting with dangerous things that most would avoid.

Kickin Hawk - Proud and likes to flaunt his strength around, being really into combat and training. Very much an athlete that tries to play it fair, though also has a territorial side to them. He also has a sharp eye, and very little gets past him.

Toepick - Shy and quiet, doing their best to come across as nice, as he doesn’t like using his fear hallucinations on people. He’s actually quite good with emotions, and ironically connecting with people about their fears, and his own.

Astrodactyl - Somewhat hostile, feeling the need to keep the skies to himself, so can be sharp and snappy with his words. Anything he sees as a threat, he’ll race in to fight. Also really likes to hoard things, whether that be food or treasures.

Bullfrag - Loud, proud and very adaptable. He’s smooth with his wording, and knows how to switch between serious mode, and fun mode, depending on the mission he is on. Has a silver tongue too, knowing have to play a situation right into his favour.

Atomix - Has a hero way of speaking, the kind of person who wants to provide life lessons to those around him, even if he just destroyed the street he is on. Not use to his own strength, but still comes across as kind and caring, just a little dramatic if anything.

Gutrot - A kind of high alert intelligence, always ready to mix and match chemicals since they take time to make and produce. He is aware that he’s pretty smart, but isn’t one to openly talk about it, rather just gets done and dusted with. 

Whampire - Fancy and posh, an upper class acting alien that likes to present themself as such. Enjoys the finer things in life, and can be rather materialistic and egotistical about their looks. That being said, they’re not afraid to throw down and prove their worth to anyone who gets snarky with them.

[randomwriteronline]

In another life, Volo smiles in a way that gives his eyes a strange shape and says: “Don’t worry about tomorrow.”

Ingo looks up at him, piercing him with his blank gaze: “I’m afraid that mentioning something I should not worry about whilst not specifying what exactly that will be is bound to have the opposite effect on my peace of mind.”

Volo laughs softly, face turning genuine: “Something frightening will happen.”

“Ah. It is simply another part of the plan, I assume?”

“Very much so.”

“Thank you for warning me in advance.”

The merchant shakes a hand back and forth as if to say it’s nothing, index and middle finger raised. It looks like he’s giving him a holy blessing of sorts.

“If all goes well, you’ll even be home early!”

When the sky turns green and red, Ingo breathes evenly, and waits.

In another life, Ingo’s breath hitches in the night.

His hands are red and cold and he keeps repeating to himself, like a mantra, the instructions for covering one’s tracks in the snow while hunting or retreating as he follows them to the letter, just like the clan taught him, and thinking of the kind people makes his guilt jut a spike right through his chest, and he bites his lip and tries to ignore it.

The Lord sleeps with a quiet rumble that turns into a howling whistle as he exhales, the ice in his breath freezing Ingo all the way down to the marrow in his trembling bones. At least, it means he won’t wake up anytime soon.

He searches the enormous body feverishly, its every crack and nook. He peers into the dark maws as they open slightly: nothing. Until...

Overcome by such relief that he almost cries, he reaches out, at once careful and deliriously frantic, until his almost frostbitten grasp clenches around the stone. Maybe it’s his diminished sense of touch, but something about it feels completely alien in a manner he can’t understand, at once both above and below nature itself.

The Lord does not stir; Ingo rushes away, plate tight against his chest, masking his passage to pretend nothing happened tonight, absolutely nothing, while shame shrieks in his head unheard in the cold air about the assassination of trust he’s just tainted his hands with.

The Pearl Clan already has a home, whether a piece of the Original One is held in their possession or not.

He just wants to have a home again, too.

Ingo hopes they’ll understand.

In another life, the Survey Corps kid returns to Jubilife confused.

Pompous words echo in their mind: “If you’re talking about that pesky thing, it’s been dealt with. And it didn’t even leave a feather for all the trouble it caused!”

“Excuse me,” a voice that is outside their head snaps them back to reality.

Ingo, who barely talks to them outside of battles, greets them with a polite nod and his usual frown that reminds them in a way of Captain Cyllene’s.

“I hadn’t heard you had planned a detour to Mount Coronet tonight,” he starts off. “I suppose you too had been told of the commotion around Moonview Arena - I left for the Highlands just this morning to deal with it myself. I would have gladly spared you the trip.”

He produces a dark slab from one of his pockets and simply hands it to them.

They stare at it.

Neither makes a move for the next few seconds.

“I imagine this might be something of interest for you,” he says halfway between a question, an affirmation, and an encouragement.

The kid snaps out of their momentary stupor; they take it from his kind grip without much fanfare, mumbling their thanks as a quiet blush dusts their cheeks. They didn’t mean to just stand around like that - they feel terribly silly. He doesn’t seem to mind, thankfully.

Just as he turns to make his way back to the dojo with a quick tilt of his cap to bid his goodbyes, their voice rises again to catch his attention: “Did Sneasler give you one, too? A plate, I mean? Like this one?”

He follows their finger as it points to the object.

“The other Nobles gave me one,” they clarify sheepishly, ashamed of their forwardness: “Except Electrode and Avalugg. So I thought, maybe...”

The man hums as he considers their reasoning: “I wasn’t aware of such a thing before I was told. Perhaps she does still have it, unless she has shared it with someone else. I can inquire for Electrode as well once I return to the Highlands, though Avalugg is out of my jurisdiction, so - I’m afraid I cannot help with that. Gaeric always striked me as a helpful fellow, though; perhaps he’ll be able to lend you a hand.”

They smile brightly at him: “Thank you.”

They bow slightly before setting off for the next plate, and miss the unspoken lies the warden carefully tiptoes around telling them.

In another life, Volo’s eyes glimmer as they settle on the teen.

“You’ve been called here,” he proceeds, bout of loquaciousness still not extinguished, “You’ve been chosen, that’s plain to see. A grateful, merciful god doesn’t abandon its chosens - is it wrong to assume you’ll be granted a return from whence you came once your duty is done?”

His head tilts slightly to the side.

The kid can almost see his other eye behind golden hair.

“It must be an act of plain cruelty,” he says: “To be left in a time and place you don’t belong to, with no certainty you’ll go back.”

He smiles a little wider.

“Wouldn’t you agree?”

In another life, Volo finds the way that lost fool believes so blindly in his every word so pathetically amusing that he has to hold himself back from laughing in his face each time he crosses that look of wholehearted trust.

In another life, Volo slots a hopeless man’s only hope onto his back, together with the end of Cogita’s heartbroken grieving and his tremendous desire to do good, pure good, and his knees tremble a bit more under the expectations.

In another life, Ingo spends days in a cell torturing the wrist now forcibly freed of the warden bracelet to give himself some peace of mind, pacing back and forth, thinking furiously, to ignore the slight chill seeping into his undershirt from beneath his coat.

For an hour, he despairs about his predicament, about being betrayed, left like that; for another he berates himself for having believed so readily, for having given up community in exchange for myths and fairytales and empty promises; for another, he hates himself as much as the clan despises him, for the same reasons as them; for another, he hates the man in whose hands he so stupidly agreed to put his life.

After some time he stops thinking and only cries, cries, cries.

In another life, the kid gawks dumbly at the five missing plates as Volo carefully hides them back with a slight of hand that makes them disappear in mid-air, not expecting to have been beaten to them, not knowing two were stolen, two were given, and one was caught.

He smiles at them with an indecipherable expression. His free fingers extend, demandingly.

“Hand them over,” he orders, his voice like an airy laugh and his teeth as white as marble, as bleached and polished bone: “There’s a score I have been waiting far too long to settle with Arceus.”

“No!” they manage to blurt out amidst their state of shock, and though they gasp for breath no other words come out of their lips.

Volo smiles a little wider, looking past them.

“Please,” a voice that really does sound like it’s begging them rises from behind their back; Ingo stands, slouched but tense, and looks at them in the eyes. “I would advise complying with Volo’s request.”

The sentence stumbles out of their mouth: “What are you doing here?”

“I must catch a coincidence,” the man replies, unblinking, still as a statue: “My train departs from here, as soon as you kindly provide us with the plates.”

Confusion makes their brain swim as though they’d gotten a concussion.

They look back at the merchant. No explanation: his eyes have gotten narrower, more sinister as the setting sun dies into a halo behind blonde hair and casts a long, terrible shadow on the familiar face, turning it dark, grey, supernatural.

They look back at the warden. No explanation: his throat constricts as he gulps down a dry breath, his frame sways ever so slightly in an antsy worried uncertainty, his teeth catch a portion of his lip to bite and easy his anxiety.

Their gaze divided between the two, vocal chords fail them. Their head shakes, movement growing harsher as their footing turns steadier.

Ingo fetches a Pokéball out of his coat.

He waits for them to get one of their own to defend themselves with after fumbling a little for the surprise and fear, and swallows another breath.

His tone cracks under the terrible burden of plain, candid honesty: “I apologize,” he says, and his chest recoils into his shoulders like it really, really does hurt to force their hand like this, “It’s the only way I can go home.”

The apricorn ball leaves his hand: the Alpha Probopass once blessed to guard the Stone Plate roars above Spear Pillar.

In another life, Ingo listens carefully to the professor as he recounts the fight just a stairwell away from the sky (where he was supposed to be, had Kamado not requested he remain in the Village the whole day) as the kid beloved by Arceus told it.

“Ah,” he says once the other man finishes, pale beyond belief, looking almost sick: “Thank goodness he was stopped.”

He spends half of the night biting into his arm to muffle his cries of despair. He leaves the village during the other half, uncaring of any Pokémon or people who might encounter him, heading to the Cobalt Coastlands: his hands bleed and the soles of his shoes crack as he scales the seaside cliffs until he’s finally reached the top of the tower of rock overgrown with moss, shivering as his muscles scream, and he enters the cave the uncatious scientist revealed to him as the hiding place of the terrible creature who might be his last chance at returning from where he came.

In another life, Volo breathes slowly as the dark coat falls further and further down the side of the mountain, following the itinerary of a smaller body.

His palms sweat. He dries them on the marble.

Casualties weren’t planned.

Grabbing the Sky Flute for himself, mind numbed by the sight of two people careening down the mountain at his hands, some part of him soothes him.

He’ll fix that too, along with everything else, in just a moment.

In another life, the man looks at him like he’s out of his mind.

Volo laughs gently: “I don’t blame your disbelief.”

“It’s not-” the other tries to excuse himself, “I just - you - how can you be so certain that it was-?”

“-The work of Arceus?” he finishes. “I doubt it could be anybody else’s. Few beings could harness a power to cause your situation, and it’s not like Its children of Space and Time to cause such misfortunes in Its stead - no, they’ve had an example of what punishment could be for them far too long ago, with their sibling’s banishment.”

“Their sibling’s?”

Volo’s finger wags in the air as his tone turns paradoxically excited in the span of a second, clashing with the tense atmosphere: “Yes, a third god of reality directly descended from the Original One! Most information about it has been lost to time, but it was a truly sad creature, doomed from its birth. Could you believe it, that it was purposefully made to oppose its Parent, and as soon as it followed the very nature instilled into it the Creator banished it into a world opposite ours? Would you consider such behaviour befitting of a kind God?”

The man shakes his head, dismayed.

“Is it hard to believe it would allow such a terrible thing to happen to you, then?”

“How - how did you know, about... That god?”

Ah. A fair question, all things considered - though it is awfully rude to ignore the one asked first.

The merchant tilts his head in a playfully conspiratorial manner: “I’m a bit of a scholar, though I may not look it,” he reveals: “Old myths, ancient buildings, half-buried artifacts, nearly lost religions - with how much I travel the region I was bound to get curious about its history, no? And snooping around enough, I’ve collected quite a bit of knowledge. That’s why I made my proposal to you.”

He pulls back away from the poor lost fellow: “You didn’t believe me to be a charlatan, I hope!” he exclaims suddenly, visible eye theatrically wide.

The sheepish look he gets back is expected, and tears a chuckle out of him.

“I did not mean to offend,” the man apologizes.

“Be not afraid! You’ve done no harm. I’m used to being considered peculiar among my peers, not sure if you’re familiar.”

“Ah - yes, I would be.”

A slightly more relaxed feeling oozes through the air between them. His pitch continues, flowing smoother out of his lips: “You needn’t worry either way,” he grins kindly, “I wouldn’t make an offer like that without being able to properly back up my claim.”

He explains it all, or at least as much as is necessary to convince him, skirting around finer details that might scare him into thinking Volo utterly insane and send him running back with his tail between his legs to the clan he barely knows but already seems ready to latch onto with the ferocity of a Shinx ambushing a Wurmple and refusing to let its bite go even while the Bug wriggles disgustingly in its mouth. He speaks of his studies, his ambition, of how despite being so unfathomable a God can still be battled and rendered submissive - how that is the only way to get anything out of one; he speaks of how he hates the helplessness of humanity against the terrible things that are simply allowed to befall the world, and how he wants to stop that.

He can see a particular light in the white eyes, a glimmer of interest and hope nudging the lost soul closer to Volo; but the dark clad arms are still held tight to his chest, and there’s uncertainty in the clouds his breaths make.

“Is it truly the only way?” he asks.

Ah - a pacifist. Didn’t strike him as one, used to battling as he is, but he has seen things change enough with the centuries for this to make sense.

“Believe it or not, it’s the least tedious one,” Volo answers. His finger rests in the air, only a few inches away from the pale straight nose, as if chiding his naivety: “Otherwise you’d need his children, the gods of Space and Time; but you’ll be hard pressed to find a member of each clan even simply keen on recognizing the other’s Sinnoh as equal to their own.”

He can see how he understands immediately. It’s common knowledge, after all.

Volo smiles; his grey eye squints a little.

His voice is sweet as honey as he speaks: “Besides, I’ve done most of the work already. All that’s left to do is collecting the plates.”

Before he can be questioned about them he produces a dusty purplish slab seemingly from nowhere. Its mere presence is enough to make the air itself feel different, caught in invisible wisps of ghastly tendrils, tasting on the tongue like dried blood, gaining the unreal scent of an abandoned abode being unsealed for the first time after ages of disuse.

He can feel it though his fingertips, the droning, dormant power held within. He can feel Giratina’s long body wrap around his arm to nibble at the piece of its Parent, seeiking revenge, seeking redemption, seeking affection.

The gaze staring confusedly at it is nonetheless equally mesmerized.

“Pieces of the Original One,” he mutters, “Carved by Its legendary hero, no less. One for each type, scattered across the entirety of Hisui. Once all are gathered, one may reach Its realm and challenge It.”

The man eyes it quietly for a little, before asking: “Where have you found this?”

“In a place of worship long forgotten,” he replies with a smile. “Though I’m certain the old hero hid some in easier places to find, maybe even with his trusted Pokémon, who passed them down through the generations. Those should be much less of a hassle to get, don’t you think?”

The other hums thoughtfully.

He fiddles with his hands, trying to decide. What is there to mull over, Volo wonders? He’s made himself plenty clear: he understands how awful the situation must be for him; he sympathizes with his desire to return where he belongs; he wants to help him achieve just that; he has the knowledge and means to do so.

He’s his best chance.

His only chance.

A breath shivers into dead pale lips.

“Are you certain?” the man insists: “That I would not be a bother to you?”

Volo’s laugh is airy, kind: “You’re a victim of cosmic injustice,” he replies: “I cannot stand to see your suffering. It would be my honor to lend you a hand.”

A bout of silence; then the clear eyes turn bright, the slouched stance straightens slightly, the tone of his words becomes emphatic: “Allow me to repay you by helping, then - since you’ve done so much already. I don’t know how effective I will be, but if I can shorten the time for your plan to come into fruition even by a minute I’ll be gladly to assist you any way I can. As a token of my gratitude, for your kindness.”

Another chuckle breaks the cold air between them into fine shards. Blonde hair sways in the cold: “Who am I to deny such a passionate request?”

They shake hands, their pact sealed.

[traveleroffarawayplaces]

Wind No- no don’t do it Wind… WIND!!!

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Twilight sighed as watched Wild jump off the tree for the seventh time in the last hour.

Currently, they were relaxing (as much as they could as heroes) in Wild’s time. They sat at a stable. A large open field sat around the stable where some wild horses grazed.

Wild was being the normal menace he is, was riding around the fields at top speed on one of his various horses, shooting monsters as he passed. Legend sat under a tree alongside Hyrule, both talking in hushed whispers as they too watched Wild trotting around. Sky had a book and was reading it next to Four, who was currently staring off into space with a thoughtful expression. Time and Warriors chatted as they brushed Epona’s mane, the horse snorting in pleasure. Wind was talking with some hylians at the cooking pot.

Twilight stared at Wind, the pirate talked quickly and waved his hands around. And just for a moment, Twilight thought he saw a flash of bronze, but when he blinked it was gone.

Strange.

Sky blinked blearly at the sunset. He heard his brothers around him talking as Wild gently stirred the soup. Suddenly, a crack sounded nearby like a stick being stepped on. All the links turned, hands on their swords. A small man stepped out with his hands up, he was muddy and ragged, as if he had been traveling trough several miles of mud and swamp.

“Hey, I didn’t mean no harm. I’m just tryin to find my way to castletown. Might you point me in the direction and I’ll be on my way.” He said in a heavy country accent.

Legend narrowed his eyes suspicious, but Time stepped up. Since this was his hyrule afterall.

“Well-“ Time started gestering the man over. But was interrupted by Wind as he hopped up.

“I know what direction it is! Come here,” Wind gestered the man over and the man looked at Time, then glanced at Wind and shrugged. Following Wind over to the opposite side of camp. Wind turned around a full 180 degrees, pointing straight ahead. “Castletown should be that way!”

Sky smiled at Wind’s enthusiasm to help. But he blinked quickly, thinking he saw something vanish into Wind’s bag. But he shrugged because that was probably something he was fiddling with earlier.

To say Legend was mad would be an understatement. He was livid. Legend growled as the bokoblin jabbed at him with a blunt spear. Black blood bled from its side where he had jabbed it earlier.

The monsters had attack them at the worst of times. One moment they were just relaxing and then the next, surprise attack! Several knights also were fighting them, as they were right at the entrance of castletown. (Legend was still a bit sour since the bounty. I mean come on! Legend was so worth more then they were paying. But also his hatred of knights. They never seem to do their job right.)

Wild had a nasty injury and Four was stumbling a bit, but other then that the others were holding out just fine.

Until it came.

It was dark and black. Blacker then night. It’s glowing red eyes gleamed from its stupid lizard skull. It should’ve been dead by now. Yet it was still standing.

And Legend just wanted to murder that little jerk.

It had hurt Hyrule, who currently was inside the castle, being forced to recover from the massive wound it had inflicted. It looked raw and red when Legend had seen it. Now here Legend was, shoving and slicing monsters onto his path to that annoying, pesky lizard.

Wind appeared by his side in an instant, helping him push back the monsters. The lizard’s head shot up, turning to face him. And it hissed. Legend distantly noticed the lack of monsters and saw a whole lot more land and monster dust floating in the breeze. But all that mattered was that little lizard son of a bi-

The Lizard’s red eyes roamed the battle field, before it promptly vanished. Legend stood blinking at the sudden lack of an enemy that he didn’t notice all the monsters dead around him.

Legend felt hands on his arm, and turned to stare at Four.

Four smiled and gently hugged Legend. Legend hugged back with less force. He saw his brothers around the clearing, Time talking with the captain, Warriors and Sky talking, Wild collecting every weapon he could, Twilight and Wind talking with the knights.

Legend blearly noticed Wind putting something in one of his pockets, but Legend didn’t fully process what was going on.

Hyrule sighed as Warriors, and Wind strolled ahead of him. He was lagging behind due to seeing something interesting, but Warriors had pulled him back. Telling him that they were there to get some groceries.

He had noticed Wind hopping off to talk with people, making a very short conversation before he hopped back and pointed to a stall with tips from the person. He seemed to just naturally be better at talking then anyone Hyrule had seen or really met. Maybe the only other person being Four on some occasions. Both being able to weave some pretty good stories and trick some high ranking officers.

Warriors pointed out a particular stall, noting the various foods that was splayed out and being sold. Hyrule caught up to Wind and Warriors noting that Wind had something in his hands.

Hyrule blinked, trying to see what it was, but it was gone. Shrugging, he followed Warriors and Wind up to the stall. Pointing out some fruits.

But he couldn’t help but notice that Wind looked a little.. too energetic…

Warriors sat at the table as Malon shuffled around somewhere upstairs. He grinned as he watched Four, Legend, Hyrule, and Wind quietly stare at each other with their cards up.

“You let your guard down. Boom. Straight.” Warriors grinned putting his cards down.

“We’re playing go fish though!” Wind exclaimed.

Four blinked at them. “I thought we were doing uno…”

Legend groaned, hitting his head on the table. It sounded so loud that Warriors was a little worried that he had knocked himself unconscious.

Wild cackled, a sound which caused Hyrule next to him jump. He threw a card down. “I nope your straight!”

Hyrule blinked at everyone. Not saying anything.

Suddenly, Malon’s father walked in and sat next to Wind. He regarded the state of everyone, Legend with his head down, Wild gleefully cackling, Hyrule looking around with a confused expression, Wind watching with the most nuetral face possible, Four who was staring at the cards all out on the table quietly, and Warriors who was currently priding in his win.

“Seems like this is going well.” He mused, chuckling at the display in front of him.

Wind grinned. “Yeah, this is fun!”

“Has anyone seen one of my rings?” Malon’s voice called.

“Nope!” Warriors called out.

If it was possible, Wind’s face got even more neutral and expressionless.

Wild was not the most organized person. But he sword that he had put a comet shard in his slate. as he searched, he came up with nothing. Groaning, he glanced at the night sky.

“You okay there?” Wind asked, twirling a small dagger in his off hand.

“Yeah, I thought I had a comet shard, but apparently not. I guess I’ll just have to get one later.” Wild grinned at the promise of adventure.

Wind smiled. “Of course!” His hand came to his bag, before falling short to just resting on top of the bag. Strangely enough, Wild thought he imagined a slight yellow glow emitting from the bag.

But if it was glowing, it had stopped.

Time watched Wind carefully. He had noticed Wind’s bag getting suspiciously full. They hadn’t come across any new towns but already Wind’s bag had a bunch of stuff and was slightly bulging.

Time had suspicions, but over the entire trip its seemed as if it has only grown. But strangely enough, Wind has not been buying anything for himself to keep.

Time had noticed it two switches ago when Wind’s bag was heavier. Time had thought nothing of it then, just assuming that maybe he has been keeping souvenirs and maybe rocks or something. But clearly something was going on.

Time was determined to find out exactly what.

Four’s known something’s been up since the start. Maybe it was when one of the daggers that he made vanished. Perhaps it could of been the way that Wind’s bag clacked and clinked together. Perhaps it was that wherever Wind went, things disappeared. He noticed when a man was searching for a feather that he had, he noticed when Legend somehow lost a shiny rock. (It really was only shiny as Legend said, he really didn’t care much for it.)

Four also noticed how Wind’s bag mysteriously got more and more stuff in it. He noticed how he always went to it after every conversation with someone.

One day, in Sky’s hyrule, Four decided to confront him.

He strolled up to Wind who was sitting next to his bag leisurely, watching Sky and the rest of the chain as they flew through the sky. Minus Time, Legend, Four and Wind, everyone was outside looking at all the different loftwings.

“Hey Wind!” Four cheerfully said, standing next to Wind. Wind startled, glancing up to Four quickly.

“Oh hello Four!” Wind responded with the same amount of cheer.

“You know, I’ve noticed something strange.” Four started. “It involves you it seems.”

Wind scratched his neck. “Oh really?”

Four grinned. “Yes. It seems that your bag there is getting quite heavy…” he motioned to it. “Much heavier for someone who hasn’t bought anything.”

Wind shrugged, Four could clearly tell he was getting a little nervous by how his shoulders tensed by the littlest bit.

“What do you mean? Its been the same weight as always.”

“Really, I highly doubt that with how much stuff its been getting..” Wind was sweating now.

“Okay fine!” Wind exclaimed. Legend looked over at Wind’s sudden outburst before he returned to his book uninterested and lazily turned a page.

“I’m a pirate. Its always been natural to me.. I’ve been uhh…” Wind trailed off, wringing his hands together.

“Stealing?” Four supplied, looking at Wind as he stared at the ground.

“Yeah…”

Four shook his head. “Of course. That makes a lot of sense. How long?”

Wind blinked at Four. “Wait you’re not.? Oh well uhm. Like the last ten switches? Maybe more..”

“Can I ask why you stole items?”

“I guess it was instinct? But also like.. I realized that this quest has to come to an end somehow… and well…” Wind sighed.

“You’ve been taking because its natural and because you want memos from this trip?” Four inquired, glancing at the slightly taller hero.

He nodded.

“I’m sure you can get some memos from other ways! Besides, we all might want a memo.”

They sat there, basking in the fresh air of Sky’s home. Watching their brothers flying in the sky.

[dcwnthercbbithcle]

[ EASE ] — sender encourages receiver's legs open ~ @who-is-muses [ Phiwip for Evan- something something training a stray dog <3 ]

Gestures That Get Me Going Meme | ACCEPTING

For @who-is-muses

Something something Evan is in a submissive position embraces his inner good boy featuring his more than mild humiliation kink, and lust for Phil

I would kill and die for these pathetic little men any day of the week, I love whatever the fuck they have going on and I hope this is okay! I tried my hardest, even if it came out a little clunky in the end!

NSFT BELOW THE CUT, ALL WRITTEN NO GRAPHICS

Pushing each other through the scrap and metal of the wrecking yard, Evan & Philip again found themselves at the crescendo of some argument. A lovers quarrel, some would quip, much to their resentment. But oh, wasn't it always how it fell apart? Some pointless strife, perhaps Evan had taken too much scrap, or Evan had caught Phil sabotaging his traps. It was an excuse to fight, a reason to fuck, nothing more. They needed the strife to justify themselves and the release as little more than a boilover.

These circumstances saw the pair bulldozing their way into the long-vacant space of Azarov's Resting place. Teeth snarled at each other's throats. Philip's balled fists gripped at his overall straps, a mercy to the shrapnel in his shoulder, but not by much.

Evan thoroughly prepared himself for his mask to be torn asunder in a smooth movement from his face and to feel the harsh sting of horrifically pointed teeth against his lips, a ritual of pain and lust and hatred he'd craved in their time apart. Yet, this quick rip of violence for violence never came to fruit. The moment stagnated. Then, in a fluid moment, far too fast for Evan to take heed, Evan felt himself drawn in, footing stumbling to catch himself on the uneven flooring as he braced himself against Phil's chest, hands knotting in his cowl as their bodies pressed together. He could feel his heart in that moment, his breath too, ragged. It was alien, fantastic, but alien.

Evan couldn't seem to pay mind to focus on the sensation, though, not while Philip pushed away the pesky bone visage, only so far as to allow for a kiss against Evan's chapped lips beneath. It was awkward, all knocking and jagged edges, but Evan was captured. Even as the bite of Philips's teeth drew a hiss of pain that ultimately served to separate them. There was a flash of fear then, something too quick and fleeting to put to mind, was Phil drawing away. But worries were put to rest with newfound vigour, pushing, no, urging Evan deeper into the poorly lit space, reeking of dust and aged wood. Yet despite himself, Evan followed Philip, an odd waltz of growing tension as they'd seemed to circulate each other, uncertain, unwilling to put the confusion to words. Who was leading who? Until Evan found himself pushed back into a long-forgotten desk, it seemed the decision had been made for them both. Jostling the boxy computer monitor, he dropped to sit against the chair.

The chair creaked beneath Evan's weight as he settled into its worn and cracked leather, giving a deep, groaning sound that generally would have arisen caution in Evan's mind, but deep in the fog of lust, he couldn't care less, no, not care less. Evan couldn't even notice; Evan had lost his mind in the fog of Philip, the taste of him on his tongue, heady and thick and distinctively earthy in a manner paired perfectly with the copper blood dripping down his lip.

It was all-consuming, and no matter what, he couldn't seem to shake it; why? He didn't want to admit, but there was an element in how Philip pushed, not with aggression but with lead. Evan felt a hound, and despite himself, something deep in his mind urged him to follow, heed, and obey. However, giving voice to such a treacherous thought stung something deeper than any of the wounds that littered across his broken body.

If only any of the coalmen could see it now, the hard-assed, no-nonsense, cruel scion of the great MacMillan, reduced to a mewling gutless heap at the gentle touch of the Wraith in all the right places. He would have been the laughing stock, and he'd deserve it. Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. The voice of men long dead and jeers echo in his mind like a chorus, mocking a reality he can't ignore, yet, despite himself, Evan feels no shame, not beneath the hand of his lover.

No, this submission feels good, too good, wrong-good; he craves it like the burn of scotch at the back of his throat and an itch scratched raw. Blood of his pride travels downward into his cock, painfully constricted by his position and the rubber overalls. It hurts; he's aware of that much, teeth-gritting beneath his mask, but the feeling is humbling, exhilarating & each hiss of his muted conscious only serves to stoke the fires in his veins brighter, hotter, closer to the fever pitch.

Distantly, though muted by the deep and consuming thrum of his heart in his chest, like the furnace at the heart of the ironworks. Evan wonders if his hunger is evident. If Philip can see it, pupils blown wide behind the eye holes of his mask, his need for him, the fire growing, consuming him, for him, all for him. Part of him wonders and hopes he does, but another sighs in relief, hoping the ever-stoic expression of his lover is evidence to the contrary.

Any deeper consideration into the matter finds itself lost from his mind as Evan is pulled from his thoughts by the hand of Philip, moving from the shrapnel piercing above his pectoral, over marred flesh, down, deliciously igniting his body under its path. Evan growls lowly at that, eyes squeezing shut beneath the mask as he feels himself pulse and his mind and body focused on the sensation, crawling lower, down the curve of his abdomen, inching ever nearer to where Evan craved him. He felt himself pulse again then, painfully, a low noise escaping his throat as he bucked as if to meet Philip halfway, knuckles almost touching that dull green rubber, and yet not, making Evan's hips drop back onto the chair, with a curse and what could almost be mistaken as a whimper. Still, Evan stilled, waiting, anticipating, green eyes focused intently, desperately on the movement of his partner.

Philip said nothing then; nothing needed to be said as his hand placed itself at Evan's thigh, urging them open to make space; much to Evan's relief was palpable in the shaking sigh that reverberated from the inside of his mask, as was the message. Good Boy.

[wndybyrd]

@petersprize​ :: closed starter !

faery dear ,             give me wings.              i want to hear            the faeries sing.      up and away.        i cannot stay.                   when mother comes ,              i’ll be far away !

thin streaks of light peaked through holes in the ‘hanging tree’ and kissed at her face to wake. earthy scents of dirt, bark, and morning dew invaded her nose—an unusual comfort. the girl stretched and yawned, stirring ever so slightly, despite desperately wishing to crawl further into her makeshift bedding for just a few minutes longer. it was only the ring of a pan’s cock-crow from outside, signaling the official start to their day, that possessed enough power to tempt those heavy eyes open, blinking away the hazy feeling of sleep. 

but wendy’s bones were sore, the collection of bruises had begun to darken, and a litter of cuts she’d accrued ( tiny reminders of her embarrassment at battle ) had become ugly scabs. she was in no mood for cleaning or cooking, for playing or bickering. she was in no mood to play ‘mother’, a part that went without the praise or appreciation once earned. in fact, she was in no mood to do anything at all. 

instead, a ball of achey limbs, she curled into the soft nest of furs and fingered through the pages of one of her few remaining books ( though she’d read it a hundred times now ). whooping laughter slithered its way into her ears from the distance, but the noise was no bother. in fact, wendy hardly noticed at all, her thoughts too far lost in the novel’s familiar tale. it was only the jolly jingle of a tinkling bell that managed to tear dour eyes away from her pages. wendy watched with utter loathing as the little ball of golden light 'n’ iridescent dust flitted around the tree’s shadowy corners, a thick knot forming in her stomach with each passing second.

tinker bell had eluded her for some time since returning to neverland, though she would not deny her pleasure in the little creature’s absence. it was a shame, really, for as a child she’d imagined the fae to be enchanting and marvelous beings like those in her stories. but tink had never brought any wonder into wendy’s life . . . just the continuous threat of misfortune. a part of her had secretly hoped peter’s pet had tucked tail and ran to wallow on some other island far, far away. no such luck.

book in hand, she slowly rose out from under her covers and crouched forward. her feet barely padded against floor of packed mud, quieter than a mouse, as she crept closer to the little devil. then, in one swift motion, she extended her arms and snapped the spine of her book with a sharp ‘CLAP’. but, as lovely as it would’ve been to flatten the smallfolk like a pressed flower between the book’s thick pages, she missed tinker bell by inches.     “ oh my. “     , she hummed, her tone void of any apology her words tried to convey. her face cracked into a pearly smile that was ruined by a dark brewing behind her eyes.     “ i’m so sorry, tink ! why, i must have mistook that pesky buzzing for a mosquito. “