#reaching out for the light but kept from it behind windows and metal bars

[ender--gaming]

@cosmicskittlez I did the art from your post that I really liked but in my style.... :3 :3 :3 :3

[mercurysmaelstrom]

Swan Song

pairing: Remmick x POC Reader

summary: As a vampire out in the present-day west, you take space on the stage of a local bar, playing the keys for a griot; however, on the night of your final performance, you're approached by a man who wants exactly what you're leaving behind.

or…

Remmick approaches you at the local bar you play at.

part 2

contains: vamp!reader, emphasis on tension, blood drinking, (blood kink if you squint), smoking, sexual themes, no use of y/n, modern au.

word count: 3k

notes: in this fic, i’m implying that once a griot is turned into a vampire, they can’t summon their ancestors since i’m running on the theory that remmick was a filídh back in his day, but he lost his ability to conjure spirits after he was turned. walk with me.

Music flowed alongside the barren streets that night, each sound swimming out of each open club.

But just a little deeper within the small town hid another bar, sitting cunningly behind the brick walls of vacant stores: a former prohibition-era speakeasy that still carried that title on its front window. And what bubbled from inside attracted the same old townsfolk who knew this place still existed.

On stage, you could never fight the wrinkle on your nose, nor could you fight the nodding of your head when your fingers caressed the keys, playing for the one woman in town who could hypnotize you with just her voice alone. Every weekend you let it wash over you.

Hell, you bathed in it. 

You drank in her voice. You drank in the kick drum that accompanied the snare’s metal rim and the closed hi-hat that bridged each gap between the beat, fusing together like a jigsaw puzzle—the soothing, yet vivacious rhythm merging with the lifeless beat in your chest. 

And you drank in the hands of the guitarist and bassist on each side of you, their fingers sliding against the neck of their guitars; their fingers strumming and plucking at the strings that seemed to grapple your limbs, seizing you on the platform. 

Not that you were eager to leave. 

The music was why you came here, and the band were why you stayed.

But even so, you knew you had to go. 

For fifteen years you performed at this bar, and though no one questioned why you began to look like the youngest in a band full of forty-something-year-olds who knew you to be the oldest, you realized that insisting you had a really good sunscreen wasn’t going to work anymore. 

Regardless of all this, you kept putting it off, telling yourself, “Just a couple more weeks,” which turned into a couple more months, and eventually another year.

This had to be your last night. 

“Alright, y’all,” huffed your lead singer, who despite being breathless, maintained her honey-smooth voice. With a handkerchief, she elegantly wiped off the sweat glistening on her forehead, glancing back at all the musicians behind her. “This is gonna be our,” she inhaled, “last song of the night.”

Last song of the night.

When the music slowly reached its end, you basked in the atmosphere one last time, scanning the crowd sitting ahead of you, swaying their heads and tapping their feet against the concrete floor or their fingers against their respective tables.

Then you observed the other crowd—intangible, yet wholly present, engaging in an incorporeal, cultural anachronism that somehow seemed to fit almost perfectly in this time and space. 

No. 

They transcended it.

Nevertheless, they vanished, as they always did. But this time around, you didn’t know when you were going to see them again. 

Gloomily, your fingers abandoned the keyboard and you ended up outside the bar attempting to light the cig tucked between your lips, the purple neon light above flashing on the back of your head as you leaned on the short, black metal gate wrapping around the front of the small building.

“Fuck,” you muttered, the lighter failing to do its only job. 

From inside, you could still hear the guitarist playing for a few extra minutes. Most of the time you’d stay back with him, rousing remnants of the melodious aroma left by the night’s session before you officially packed up. 

Tonight you couldn’t do it…because if you did, you knew you wouldn’t be able to bring yourself to leave.

“Allow me,” came a voice with an arm stretched out, a brass lighter in hand.

Belonging to the sudden voice, you saw, was a man—his dark hair damp from the summer heat. Clad on his body was a dark plaid button-up that looked just a little too big on his frame, and attached to his back was a guitar, its strap diagonal across his chest.

Naturally, you leaned in, his lighter finding its way just below your mouth and his other hand cupping over the flame even though the air stirred quietly. But the second he took another step closer, that very air curdled into something else; into something you hadn’t felt since the night you were infected.

You could feel his gaze latch onto you as he lit the cigarette between your lips, the tip glowing. Quickly, you glanced at him before you pulled apart, turning away from the man as you blew the smoke out from your nostrils. 

In that time, neither of you failed to recognize the flicker of something vaguely familiar behind your eyes.

“Thanks,” you uttered, leaning back against the fence. Cordially, you held out the cig in the brunette’s direction. Silently, he declined, putting up his palm before removing the guitar from his body and placing it on the concrete column beside him. 

He was an unwelcome presence, and perhaps he knew that. 

To your detriment, you didn’t say anything. 

“So, uh,” he scratched his stubbled cheek, clocking your keyboard in its carrying bag beside you, upright against the gate, “you the one on the keys, huh?”

“I was.” You cocked your head towards the bar. “This your first time comin’ to see the show?”

“I stroll around town every once and a while. S’pose I never got the chance to come in. Y’all play real nice though.” The man leaned against the gate and peered at the large window a few feet behind the barrier. “And whoever’s singin’...yeah, she’s got a voice on her, don’t she?”

You took another drag and blew out the side of your mouth, nodding fervently. 

“Everyone calls her Whiskey,” you replied, also turning back, catching the subject of your conversation talking to folks inside who were just as mesmerized as the both of you. “Never heard anyone like her.”

Facing away from the window, you took a gander at the man instead, catching something else in his eye—a glint of hunger followed by an infernal glow that matched the cherry of your cigarette…only darker.

“Your accent,” you tried to change the subject. “You’re not from here, are you?”

He fixed his gaze back on you. “North Carolina.” 

You hummed. “You’re far from home.”

“Like ya wouldn’t believe,” he laughed vacuously, tilting his head towards your friend. “Y’know, I’ve been meaning to meet her for some time now. Heard her so much, I gotta know what she’s like.”

You sighed. “Well, you go on and meet her then.”

He lifted an inquisitorial finger on his lower lip. “Maybe you could introduce me to her?” 

You pointed your thumb back. “I was about to leave after this actually—”

“I’m sure you could invite me in real quick.” He inched closer to you. “I’d hate to be impolite.”

You licked your lips. “Right.” 

Index finger and thumb softly pinching your cigarette, you took one last drag before dropping it to the ground and crushing it with your shoe. What a waste, you thought. 

Only briefly you peered through the window, assuring everyone inside was well-distracted by each other before grabbing the stranger’s throat, shoving him away from witnessing eyes and into the tunnel under a bridge nearby, until his back slammed into the brick wall, both of your bodies engulfed in warm darkness.

Although he appeared to be surprised, a grin slowly formed on his lips, teeth as sharp as yours—maybe even sharper—revealing themselves under the partial fluorescence of the violet neon sign.

He snickered. “Was wonderin’ when you’d break.”

You edged closer to his face. “What do you want?”

“You know what I want.” His hand steadily made its way to your wrist, wrapping his fingers around it. “That's why you’re here all the time, right? Just wanna have what you’re havin’. No need to be greedy.”

Your brows furrowed. “She can’t summon shit if she’s dead. I’d know.”

“Then she won’t have to be.” He shook his head, slightly inclining his face to yours. “You could let me in. And I could play witch’all.”

“I’m not in the band anymore.”

“All the more reason for me to join,” he insisted, his grip on your wrist tightening as he bent your arm away from him. “I could fill in.” 

Your mind couldn’t process the speed he moved in. 

One minute you had him on the ropes, or so you thought, and the next your own back was against the opposite wall of the tunnel with his hand on your throat this time, caging you with his body.

“Y’know, I’ve been watchin’ ya for a while now,” he rasped, his hand so high up your neck, straining your head to bend back. “Feastin’ on rats, livin’ a life of hunger and desperation—I mean, it’s sad really.”

You made an effort to push against him, but he was far stronger than you. Perhaps even older, you feared.

“I’m not the one who’s desperate,” you grunted.

His other hand firmly planted on your chest, pressing you even further against the hard surface behind you. “But you’re hungry, ain’tcha?”

He jutted his chin to the bar across from the tunnel, every warm being inside the bar broiling in the humid, cramped room. 

The vampire took a big whiff. “Ya gotta be starvin’.”

Feebly, you turned away from the sight of the very people you congregated with most nights, indeed famished. 

He leaned his slick forehead onto your temple, his thumb softly caressing your jaw, his nail gently scraping against your skin. “Ya can’t keep torturin’ yourself.”

In this moment you realized it was easier to resist listening to your stomach when there was no one there to tell you otherwise.

“How’d you even find this place?” You heaved, attempting to focus on the lamp post on the other side of the tunnel, trying to ignore the sapid smell of bodies oozing out across from you.

“A musician likes a bit of inspiration from time to time,” answered the stranger. “But when a voice like that reaches a man’s ears…ya can’t ignore it.”

You felt the light huff of air from his nose. 

“You certainly didn’t,” he carried on, turning your head back towards him. “I mean, look atcha—ya still here.”

You scowled. “What, you’ve been watching me this whole time?”

“Now don’t get it twisted. I came here for the music. For her. Findin’ my own kind though, that was a plus.”

My own kind. 

“I’m nothin’ like you,” you told him.

The inner corners of his brows crinkled and the sides of his mouth gently raised. “Oh yeah? What’s this then?”

He removed the hand he had on your chest and used his thumb to roughly wipe off the thick saliva you hadn’t realized was trickling from your mouth.

He scrutinized the liquid on his thumb, chuckling. “Nothin’ like me, huh?” 

Your eyes glided to the curved ceiling of the tunnel, unable to let yourself witness the very instincts you’d been muffling away for years.

The man licked your saliva off his tongue before laying a hand on the wall beside your ear. “I’m here for the same reason as you are—I just wanna see my people again.” The man’s grip on your neck began to loosen, though he didn’t let go. “We’re the same, you and I.”

Your gaze reluctantly dropped onto him. 

Through the shadows you could see his pupils uncannily dilate, his scarlet irises limited to a glint. And in the sympathetic bleakness of his stare, much too dark to find a reflection of anything, you still managed to see yourself buried somewhere in there, no matter how much you dared to deny it.

“Tell ya what,” the man began.

Gently, he released his grip on your neck, instead laying his palms on your shoulders, dusting off nothing in particular, then adjusting the neckline of your shirt.

You didn’t move.

“I’ll leave this place,” he told you, his fingers lingering around your collarbone. “Hell, I’ll leave your beloved Whiskey alone.”

Finally his touch left your body, which should have been a relief, until his claw-like nail slit against his wrist, his eyes fixated on you while his own blood tantalizingly leaked from the self-inflicted wound. And although the scent of crimson fluid from a living being laid incomparable to the leftovers of the undead, the years you spent chasing after rodents made the sight of his wrist look like a home cooked meal.

“If you join me,” he bargained, his other hand now placed on the back of your neck. “We could travel together. 

Even with the smallest movements of his wrist, the vampire stood entertained by your mouth, in a restrained manner, chasing its direction.

He squeezed his hand into a fist, sending more blood out of his laceration. “Clearly, you’re all packed up and ready to go. We can...find someone else to help us. Help me—” he paused for a moment—“and yourself find our people. Find a band to play with. It’ll be fun.”

The longer you watched his wrist, the hazier your mind grew, and everything that wasn’t pouring out of his skin blurred in your field of vision. 

The vampire snaked his hand away from your neck and back up to your mouth, taking a hold of your chin to wipe more of the drool that pooled over your bottom lip. “What d’ya say, hm?”

Eventually, his voice fizzled away once your teeth rushed after his wrist, biting into his flesh and sucking what tasted like stale nectar, but nectar nonetheless. And once his blood touched your tongue, the consequential guilt you’d feel after chasing the people inside the bar had faded into the back of your mind; the thrill of their blood rushing vigorously into your mouth, diverting the very conscience you allowed to guide you for decades.

“That’s it,” cooed the stranger, cupping the back of your head while your moans stifled against his skin, both of your hands clutching his forearm. “That’s it.”

He knew whatever he said to you—it didn’t need to be true—would slip past you once you’d eaten. Just one drop of sanguine delight was enough to pull you away from yourself, overcome by a spell that was produced from your own numinous hunger. It didn’t matter if he told you Whiskey was safe. Your newly returning thirst, he thought to himself, would neglect whatever concerns you had over her. 

Finally you released your canines from his wrist, tilting your mouth to the ceiling, deeply inhaling what resembled fresher and colder oxygen into your lungs, and accessing a sudden burst of energy surging through your veins.

He took a step closer, glancing at your red lips, tapping your cheek. “There’s more food inside. Nice and ripe for the takin’.”

You couldn’t remember much else from that night. Frankly, you didn’t want to. 

You lost.

You blocked out the screams. You blocked out the feedback from your old friend’s electric guitar; his pleads as you ravenously approached him. You blocked out the regrettable invitation you had drunkenly offered the vampire whose name was Remmick. And even after the slaughter, you followed the wicked man, too guilty to believe you deserved to do anything else.

He was right, you concluded. You were the same.

But the one thing you could remember—the only thing you permitted yourself to remember—demanded yourself to remember was the beastly “Run” rumbling from the depths of your blood-coated throat in front of a frightened Whiskey whose heels scuffed against the floor as she slid back toward the broken steps of the stage, viewing the man you had spoken to several times before laying on the floor below you—a river of red streaming from his shredded neck.

Whiskey did run. You didn’t know if she survived or not; if Remmick caught up to her, or if any of the people you turned in the bar found her. You only hoped she made it out. And if she did, maybe, just maybe, you hadn't completely lost.

That same night, Remmick found you crouched over another victim, the bottom half of your face dripping; your neck stained with red, alongside your clothes; the warm light of the bar gleaming against your cold, gray eyes. The elder vampire kneeled beside you, and he took either side of your cheeks, surveying your current state, pleased. 

Was he pleased with you or himself? It didn’t matter.

Everyone around the two of you laid still, not yet awakened by the burden you and Remmick had thrust upon them. 

And inebriated by the woman you just drank from, you didn’t pull away from him. Despite the shame that quietly loitered beneath your stomach, there was something liberating about seeing a monster in front of you that wasn’t in a mirror or every piece of glass that you passed.

“We gon’ have a lotta fun together,” he whispered, staring at a bullet of blood running down your chin before his lips met your skin, sucking teasingly at the red honey, thirstily searing a trail from your jaw to your neck, gluttonous for your prey’s remainders.

Innately, you tilted your head, opening up space for him with a sigh, placing your hands on his arms while his mouth traced upwards, returning to your chin, then pausing when he hovered over your mouth. A hand of his landed on the nape of your neck while he slid his tongue along his serrated teeth, waiting. 

He didn’t have to wait for long. 

You mimicked the man, indulging in his scraps with a long lick on his moist skin gliding from the bottom to the top of his neck, eagerly skipping his chin in order to capture his lips instead, lost in a frenzy you hadn’t experienced in a long time. 

Remmick moaned against you pleasantly as you forced your tongue into his mouth, tasting him and every unconscious person around you. You nearly pushed your body against his, close to straddling the man who diminished everything you worked for, until you pulled away, panting.

The vampire hummed curiously, wiping the blood from your cheek with his thumb.

With effort, you ventured to drag yourself down from your high by looking at everybody around you. But an obscure ache within you prevented you from separating from your catalyst just yet, because regrettably, you wanted more. And when he understood that, he took advantage of it. 

He encouraged you to seek for more—thirst for more.

And you did. But never without the penance of guilt that came with the sin you cyclically committed.

[caramara3]

How Could You | Damian Priest

Warnings: it's just sad.

A/N: Sooo... this is actually a rework of an old Seth Rollins one-shot I had made years back, but I decided to revamp it into a Damian Priest one-shot. This has absolutely no tie-in to Just Friends whatsoever.

Word Count: 2.9k

Enjoy!

DING!

The elevator comes to a halt upon the arrival of yet another floor. A robotic, yet feminine voice comes over the loudspeaker:

“EIGHTH FLOOR.”

The metal doors slowly open to reveal a black and gray hallway with artwork of abstract watercolor paintings hanging on the walls. Standing towards the back of the car, leaning against the safety bar, you watch your best friend and maid of honor Sydney step off the elevator. Placing one hand in front of the elevator door so it wouldn’t close she scans the hallway, looking left and then to the right, all to make sure that there was no one around.

After a few minutes, she finally turned her gaze back into the elevator. A small, loving smile softly forms and she extends a hand.

“Coast is clear,” she whispers.

You nod and push off the safety bar, throwing the thick strap of your purse over your shoulder. You grab hold of your carry-on and step off the elevator.

Sydney places a hand on the swell of your back while the other pulls her suitcase. Your gaze falls to the floor as the two of you walk down the hall, focusing on the hotel’s unusual carpet pattern as she scans the placards on the wall looking for the right room. Every so often you could feel her eyes practically burning a hole through before quickly turning away to look back up at the placards. 

She was worried. She had every right to be. Since leaving the arena over an hour ago you'd barely spoken a single word. Not to her, not to Rhea, no one. You were catatonic. 

But who could blame you? After what you had just seen, anyone would react the exact same way if they were in your shoes.

As you continued down the hall, you could feel the consistent buzzing of your phone through the thin fabric of the hoodie. Slow at first, but quickly becoming more often with every unanswered second passing by.

It almost felt like with every step you took, the phone would go off.

Step.

Buzz.

Step.

Buzz.

Step, step.

Buzz, buzz.

Normally you would have answered by now. But instead, you chose to ignore whoever it was and kept going. 

You finally reached the end of the hall and stopped in front of a door marked 827. Sydney pulls out a key card from the pocket of her jeans and slides it into the automated lock. A few buzzing sounds later, a green light flashes and a loud *click* signals the door had unlocked. She turns the handle, pushes the door open, and then moves to the side to usher you into the room, following close behind.

Placing your purse on the dresser, you look around at what would be your new home for the night. For the most part, the room looked like every other hotel room you’ve stayed in while on the road. Granted, this was probably the most luxurious of most of them, but still pretty standard. 

There were two Queen beds each donning a fancy purple duvet with no less than eight of the fluffiest pillows you’d have ever seen in your life, a giant flat screen TV mounted above a black dresser, cashmere floor rugs draped across cherry hardwood floors, a cozy little reading area near the windows with a small leather loveseat, and a wet bar fully stocked with overpriced snacks and tiny bottles of alcohol. 

The one thing that did make the room stand out was the incredible view. Floor-to-ceiling window panels centered on the main wall of the room leveled with the New York skyline, showcasing a near perfect image of the city. There was even a clear view of the Empire State Building in the background, lit up in red and blue lights as night blanketed the city.

You sit on the edge of the bed, looking out the window. Looking out at the city you couldn’t help to think about how different life was a few hours ago. You were engaged to the love of your life. You were in the final countdown before the big day, less than a week. You were at your rehearsal dinner downtown surrounded by your closest friends and family, all gathered to celebrate your upcoming nuptials. 

But all of that seemed so long ago now.

How could this have happened? How could he do that to me? 

But before you could think of an answer to your question, the sound of boots clacking across the hardwood floor brought you back to reality.

“Well,” Sydney says with a satisfied sigh, “this is nice. Really nice as a matter of fact, especially with it being super last minute.”

You brought your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms tightly around them, never once looking away from the window. “It’s fine, I guess.” 

“Fine?” she snorts, “Y/N, come on! Look at what we got. Gorgeous view, fancy sheets, free Wi-Fi, a fully stocked bar...”

You hear movement from behind and see a light flicker on through the window’s reflection. “Oh my-, Y/N you’ve gotta see this bathroom! It’s got a huge shower and…” she pauses, “Oh. My. God. The floors are heated. Y/N the floors are heated!!”

But you don’t move. You don’t spring up from the bed to revel in her excitement over heated floors or whatever other fancy details the room had to offer. Instead, you stay seated in silence, holding yourself as you gaze out into the city and its nightlife. 

You observe the streetlights perched on the sidewalk creating an ominous glow on the pavement. The mixture of city cars and yellow taxis, halted by ongoing traffic as they struggle to reach their destination on time. The small groups of tourists stopping every few minutes for selfies with various buildings in the background, including this very hotel.

All the while your mind replays the events from earlier. A single tear manages to escape as your mind begins to torture you with a play-by-play of what happened. It all still felt like a dream to me, a sick twisted nightmare that no matter how hard I tried I just couldn’t wake up from. Your brain searched and scanned through every single memory collected from the last three years.

You were desperate to find any little detail you missed, something that could explain just where everything went wrong. Something that could’ve prepared you for what would eventually happen.

But you found nothing.

No hints, no little clues. 

No hidden messages or blaring warning signs.

Nothing that screamed out: “Y/N don’t be alarmed, but the night before you’re supposed to get married… you’re gonna find your fiancé with some random woman bent over a table.”

Boy that would’ve been a great fucking warning now, wouldn’t it?

You were so lost in thought that you hadn’t felt the bed dip, nor did you flinch when you felt a set of arms pull you into an embrace, resting your head under Sydney’s chin. One hand settled at the swell of your back, tracing small circles with her finger, the other gently stroked your hair. Sydney had been your best friend ever since you were both in diapers, you knew just how much it pained her to see you like this; this deflated catatonic alien that had replaced her bubbly best friend. You knew she probably had a million questions for you, but rather than bombard you, she said nothing and just held you. 

Throughout your nearly three decades of friendship, there was never a time in your life where you couldn’t rely on her to be there for you wherever you needed the most. And tonight was definitely one of those moments when you needed her.

The two of you stayed in this comfortable silence for seemed like forever, just staring out into the night as she held you. 

“You feel like talking about it?” you hear her ask, her voice just above a whisper.

You say nothing.

“Ok, that’s fine, we don’t have to talk about it yet. We’ve got tomorrow to figure everything out, but tonight,” she pauses, leaping from the bed, “tonight we are getting shit faced.”

Once again you say nothing but watch as she makes her way over to the wet bar. You knew what Sydney was trying to do. First she would pump you with some top shelf liquor, order a bunch of room service, and then put on your favorite horror movies to get you in a relaxed and neutral state while she did damage control. 

Unfortunately, Freddy Krueger and tequila weren't going to fix this problem. Not this time.

“Tell you what. Why don’t I call Rhea and see where she and Bianca are with the rest of your things, and then I’ll see if I can wrangle us up some food. How does that sound?”

You think it over for a moment before nodding in agreement.

A smile forms on Sydney’s face. “Awesome. What do you feel like? We could do chinese, pizza, maybe some Thai food? I could see if room service is still available…?”

You look over at her, her hazel eyes meeting yours. “Could we do a little bit of everything?”

A small laugh escapes Sydney’s mouth. “Hell yea we can! I’ll even get some ice cream from that bodega we passed down the street. Why don’t you change out of that dress, take a nice hot shower, and I’ll start getting everything ready.”

You give her a small smile and with one final hug from her she grabs her purse and heads out, leaving you alone. You slide off the bed and walk around the large room. You stop in front of one of the many conveniently placed touch screen panels on the wall. Scanning over it, you find an app called Night and tap it. Instantly, large panels begin descending over the large window panel, slightly darkening the room and hiding the skyline away for the night.

You move about the room making your way inside the en-suite bathroom. Once inside, you shut the door and lock it. Sydney was right, this was an incredible bathroom, like something straight out of Architectural Digest. Apart from the aforementioned heated floors, there were heated marble countertops, eucalyptus scented plush Egyptian cotton towels, two complimentary plush bathrobes with matching slippers, full-sized bottles of luxury brand skincare and body products, & a huge glass walk-in steam shower with two large overhead rainfall showerheads and shower wall panels on the front and side walls.

On the outside of the shower was another touch screen panel to control the shower. You look it over for a few moments, looking over your choices before choosing the one labeled “rainfall.” The overhead showerheads come alive and water begins to rain down, quickly filling the bathroom with steam.

Moving back to the sink you look at the wide selection of skincare products laid out when you felt your phone begin its incessant vibrating once again. But rather than ignore it like before, you pull your phone from your hoodie pocket and stare at the screen.

The first thing you see is your background. It was one of your favorite pictures of the two of you together, Halloween 2022. The two of you had dressed up as Frankenstein and The Bride of Frankenstien. You were looking at the camera but his eyes were focused solely on you, a smile stretched across his face as he did.

You unlock your screen and view the notifications: over a dozen missed calls. Dozens of voicemails. Way too many damn unread text messages.

With a sigh, you begin scrolling through the list of missed calls, seeing one name appear more often than others.

Damian.

Damian.

Rhea.

Bianca.

Damian.

Damian.

Kayden.

Finn.

Dominik.

Damian.

Damian.

Damian.

Bianca.

Finn.

Damian.

Rhea.

Damian.

Damian.

Damian.

Damian.

The nerve he had to call you, the absolute nerve. What in the hell would make him think you wanted to hear anything that he had to say? Did he think that simple sorry was going to change everything? Or was he calling to explain that what you had seen wasn’t what you thought it was.

You toss your phone onto the counter in annoyance before walking back into the main room, not caring much where it landed. You free yourself of your hoodie, your dress, and the rest of your clothes. You grab two of the plush bath towels underneath the sink, placing one on the back of the toilet and place the other on a hook outside of the shower. You grab one of the bottles of complimentary body wash and open the shower door, the rush of steam engulfing you as you step inside.

You move to stand directly underneath the showerhead, letting the warm cascade over your body. The sound of water splashing against the tiles echoed off the walls but it wasn’t enough to drown out your own thoughts as your mind displayed every kiss, every touch, every ‘I love you’ ever said playing on an endless loop in your mind, attempting to pinpoint the moment where everything changed.

Meeting for the time wrestling on the indies. Meeting again after signing your WWE contract. The night he first asked you out, the night he first said I love you, the night you first made love. Meeting each other’s families. 

You try to shake these thoughts from your mind, but it won’t work. No matter what else you attempt to think about, no matter what other happy memories you attempt to form in your head, nothing can keep them at bay. A few stray tears push their way out but you’re quick to wipe them away.

No, you thought. You are not going to do this Y/N. This isn’t happening right now. Stop it!

You reach to grab the bottle of body wash from the shelf inside the shower...    

And that’s when you noticed it. The tan line on your finger, now completely visible on your left hand that only a few hours ago bore the beautiful oval cut diamond engagement ring. 

The ring that he claimed to have been carrying around for months, hoping to find that right moment that never seemed to come. 

Until the night of WrestleMania 37, just hours after you retained your title against Asuka and watched him compete in his first Mania alongside Bad Bunny. The two of you found yourselves back in your shared hotel room, bodies entangled with one another, holding you close against his chest when he would whisper in your ear the two words that would freeze time around you both:

Marry me.

He would reach over to the bedside table next to the bed and pull out a small black box. He would tell you just how much he loved you, how he has always loved you from the moment he met you, how he doesn't wish to spend another day on this earth without you. Then he would slip the dainty ring on your finger and ask you to spend the rest of your life with him.  

Now that finger is bare. The ring was gone, given or rather thrown back at him after what had happened.

And just like that, it all came crumbling down. That false sense of reality you created since leaving the arena had finally collided with actual reality and had smacked you dead in the face.

Damian Priest, the love of your life, the man you were set to marry tomorrow, had been cheating on you. 

And you had caught him tonight. 

Your legs carried you backward until your back hit the wall of the shower. A wave of nausea swirls all around your empty stomach and your chest tightens like someone was stomping on it repeatedly. The first sob was quiet, nothing short of a small childlike whimper as the tears fell. But more and more as reality continued to sink in, they grew louder. The tears flowed more, so much so that I couldn’t tell what were tears and what was from the shower. 

Three years of your life, all gone in a flash. Plans for the future, for children, traveling the world… all just illusions and fantasies that would never come true now.  

Your body sank to the ground and before you knew it you were curled up into a ball, sobbing into your knees as the water turned from warm to cold. 

But you didn’t care. Your head swam with half-formed regrets. Your heart felt as if your blood had turned into tar as it struggled to keep a steady beat. 

There was nothing left to feel, nothing left to say, nothing left but the void that now engulfed you in the swirling blackness.

And it was all because of him.  

TagList:

@terrortwinunicorn @damiansgoodgirll @rootedinrevisions @thedeboniardevistation @beibigirl124 @bonni-98 @queencherryberry @queenoftheworldisdead @kalliravenne @neversatisfiedgirl @mzv11 @sassymox @blueblazezz @madhatterbri @royallyprincesslilly @southerngirl41 @abadbitchblogs @miss-kuki-nz @shamaness11 @cookiebelle @flawlessglamazon @lavitabella87 @chaneajoyyy @adriennegabriella @gold--gucciempress @msbigredmachine @fivefootxo @joy-of-life88 @joannasteez @wrestlingbabe @daniiwrites @trippinsorrows @lorena26 @babiidee28 @yana3sworld @disc0fairy @eringobragh420 @bossbitch-22 @kultklassickiller @hotmessexpressssss @writinglionqueen @retro-rezz-the-est

[speaknow-sw]

Illegal Racer! JAMES KELLY x Infiltrated Cop! Reader

A/N : I’m finally launching my new fic No Saints in this City. It’s a James Kelly x Reader little series I’m sure you’ll be thrilled. There’ll be illegal racings, alcohol, much swearing, stargazing, betrayal and many more… So buckle up your seatbelts, we’re going on a ride !

ᴘʀᴏʟᴏɢᴜᴇ

Seven Years Ago

“All souls are born shackled to something—memory, guilt, hope. But some, like his, are born trying to outrun a flame that began long before they were even old enough to understand it.”

IT WAS THE KIND OF NIGHT THAT DRIPPED LIKE MOLASSES OVER THE CITY OF NEW ORLEANS. Hot, slow, humming with secrets. Somewhere far off, jazz meandered through the open windows of Bourbon Street bars, tangled with sirens and the aching hum of restless hearts. But here, inside the Orleans Parish Prison, it was all stillness. No saxophones. No neon haze. Just cement, rusted steel, and regret echoing through long fluorescent hallways.

James Kelly sat on the edge of the metal bench in the phone booth, elbows on his knees, head bowed. He wasn’t the kind of man to fidget, but tonight his thumb wouldn’t stop grazing the side of the payphone receiver, back and forth like a nervous tick. His hands were oil-stained, even in here. It was like the past refused to wash off. The guards didn’t bother him. Not anymore. But time—time gnawed at the edges of his brain like rats behind the walls.

You’re allowed one call. One shot to reach beyond the wire and concrete, out into the world that kept turning without you.

But James had no one to call.

His brother hadn’t spoken to him in five years. His old crew were either in deeper trouble or pretending they’d never known him. And the girl he used to think would wait for him was now married, living in Florida with a mortgage and a golden retriever.

He stared at the phone like it might bite him. Then, on impulse, he picked it up and dialed a number—any number. His fingers moved without thinking, some half-remembered rhythm of digits once scrawled in a gas station bathroom or on the back of a receipt. Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was a mistake.

It rang.

Once.

Twice.

Click.

“…Hello?”

A pause. His breath caught.

The voice was soft. Feminine. Tired, but alert. Not what he expected.

James blinked, stunned for a moment. He should’ve hung up. Should’ve just stayed silent and let it pass. But he didn’t want to waste the call.

“Hey,” he rasped, voice low, lined with static and smoke. “Look, I know this is weird. I think I dialed the wrong number.”

“Okay,” you said carefully, suspicious but calm. “Who are you trying to reach?”

“No one anymore,” he muttered. Then leaned back against the chipped concrete wall. “Just… needed to hear someone who wasn’t behind these walls.”

There was a pause. A breath. You could’ve hung up. Should’ve.

But something in his voice held you there.

“…Where are you calling from?” you asked.

“Jail.”

That word landed heavy between you. He could hear it in your silence. The way you didn’t immediately end the call intrigued him.

“Well,” you said after a moment, your tone shifting from wary to oddly warm, “I guess I’ve got fifteen minutes free.”

He let out a dry, surprised chuckle. “You serious?”

“Don’t waste it.”

James leaned his head back, gazing up at the ceiling where a single fly buzzed around the flickering light. “Alright then. What do you wanna talk about, stranger?”

“I don’t know. What do inmates usually talk about?”

“Usually?” He grinned, the edges of his mouth cracking dryly. “How they got framed. How they’ll get out. Or how it wasn’t their fault. But me… I did what they said I did.”

“And what was that?”

He hesitated. Not because he was ashamed—James wasn’t wired that way. But because your voice didn’t deserve a lie.

“I beat a man half to death,” he said finally. “He laid hands on a kid who couldn’t defend herself. I didn’t stop until someone dragged me off.”

Silence.

You didn’t speak for a moment. But when you did, your voice was quiet.

“…Good.”

That startled him more than it should have.

James let out a breath. “You’re not what I expected.”

“You either. I don’t usually take jail calls from strangers at ten o’clock at night.”

“Hell of a first date,” he quipped dryly.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, jailbird.”

He laughed—genuine, deep. It rolled through the receiver like thunder breaking through summer heat. You laughed too, before it faded into the low crackle of silence.

For a strange, suspended moment, the distance between you and him didn’t feel so wide. Just two voices in the dark, trying not to feel so alone. The kind of conversation that didn’t need names or details. Just breath. Just honesty.

“What’s your name?” he asked, quieter now.

“…Not telling you,” you replied, but not unkindly. “You?”

He smiled to himself. “Not important.”

The phone buzzed softly. One minute left.

James exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. “Guess that’s it.”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks for picking up,” he said. And for the first time in months, he meant something without knowing why. “You made it feel like I wasn’t caged in for a second.”

“You’re welcome, stranger.”

“…I hope you never have to feel like this,” he added softly. “Locked out of your own life.”

You were quiet. Then, gently: “I hope you get another chance.”

The phone clicked.

James stayed there, holding the dead line to his ear until the guard came to nudge him.

“Let’s go, Kelly.”

He stood, jaw tight, eyes harder now. But as he walked back down the corridor of locked doors and stale air, something strange had settled inside him.

Not quite hope.

But a flicker. A match, barely struck.

He never knew your name.

And he never expected to hear that voice again.

But fate has a habit of remembering unfinished conversations.

Especially in a city like New Orleans.

[wanderlustqueen-writes]

Merry Christmas! This is my gift to my lovely friend and secret santa @youre-ackermine. I hope you like it Val ❤️🎁

@levihanweek thanks for organizing this event!

Meet Cute (But Make It Scary)

Pairing: Levi Ackerman/Hange Zöe (Attack on Titan)

Ratings: SFW.

Warnings: Swearing; Well-meaning tackling (?)

Genre: Fluff

Additional tags: Attack on School Castes AU

Wordcount: 2,1k

Summary: Levi Ackerman gets locked inside the School one night, completely alone. Or so he thinks...

Once again, Levi Ackerman was the last person to leave the workplace. The new hire of Paradis High stood in the employee’s locker room as the world outside ended in deluge. The noise of heavy rain filled the empty room, and the droplets hit the egress window so fast that it was nearly impossible to discern anything through the glass.

The image of the other janitors stranded in a bar waiting for the water to stop invaded his mind. He told them it was going to rain…

Except he’d just lucked out with that prediction. The sky could have been clear and still, he would find an excuse to go home. Alone. It was just the way he was.

Levi started to zip down his janitor uniform with one hand, bringing the other one inside his locker to feel for his umbrella.

“Shit” he mumbled under his breath when he came up short. 

As if on cue, a blue light descended from the sky. The whole room was engulfed in black. 

“Shit!” Levi slammed the metal door, only to jump out a second later when the reverberating rumble of the thunder finally hit.

It was starting to feel like the setup for a bad horror movie.

Levi cursed Flagon, one of his chummier colleagues, for telling him those stories about the school.

Don’t take too long to leave after you clock out, Levi. This place is full of ghosts, especially at night. Did I ever tell you the story of the student who died in…

“Asshole” Levi mumbled.

***

The cleaning crew had used a flashlight to work on a darker section of the school’s basement the week before, and that’s what Levi was crossing the corridor to retrieve. The path wasn’t pitch black, as the emergency lighting had kicked in, but it was still far from ideal.  The lamps barely illuminated the narrow space, creating an eerie atmosphere. 

When he reached his destination, the room was so dark it didn’t matter if his eyes were open. Levi closed the door behind him with a click.

“Who is there?” a hesitant voice called from the darkness ahead of him.

Levi froze. His blood felt like liquid ice and his heart started pounding hard inside his chest in the second of silence that followed the question. His breathing picked up.

It wasn’t his imagination.

He shut his eyes hard, taking in a deep breath as quietly as he possibly could, though he was sure his heart could be heard from a mile away. Levi slowly backed up with his hands behind him, until he felt the light pressure of the wall against his fingers. His movements were silent and calculated. He slid his body to the side, always slow,  hands always lightly on the wall, until he was met with harsh resistance. He felt around the edge of the desk, lowering his digits when he found the drawer.

Levi cringed at the light noise of wood sliding against wood as he carefully pulled on the handle. From the opposite side of the table, came a choked gasp.

Fuck caution! Levi reached inside the drawer, but the only thing he felt was cold fingers wrapping around his.

“AAARGHH!!” they yelled in unison.

The hands repelled each other immediately! Levi opened the door wide and sprinted through it, stumbling on his own feet. Suddenly a dancing yellow beam revealed the corridor before him. Levi took the opportunity to run faster, no longer hindered by the low lighting.

But the ring of light kept moving forward too. In fact, it seemed to be going faster than him. And the sound of steps he thought were just from him now seemed to also belong to someone else, someone close.

“Wait!” the voice called from close behind him. He looked back for a split second. White clothes. Brown hair all over the place. Crazy wide eyes. Fuck. Levi boosted again.

“Slow down!”

“The fuck I will!”

“I swear, I won’t hurt you!”

He didn’t respond, all his energy on his feet. Running. Running. Run-

He crashed flat on the ground like a starfish, crushed by the weight of whoever tackled him. Levi struggled like a bull trying to knock over a cowboy, to no avail. The weight lifted off of him for one second, enough for Levi to turn over and face his assailant. He was met with a blinding light.

“Who are you?” the voice sounded more composed now. It was low and rich, Levi tried to free himself again. The person above him sighed.

“I’m Hange. I work here." The flashlight turned 180º. Through the yellow stains in his vision, left behind by the light, Levi got a look at the person straddling his hips. Strands of brown hair were glued to their face. Ghosts don’t sweat, right? And the white clothing he got a quick look at before was a lab coat. “I’m the chemistry teacher. And you are a janitor, I assume?”

Levi remained silent.

“I’m sorry I tackled you.” Hange began explaining “It’s just that you were running in the dark and the doors of this corridor are locked” then pointed the light at the double doors not 3 meters before him “Good thing I stopped you, or It would’ve been bye bye to this perfect face.” Hange booped his nose.

“Tch. Get off of me” he struggled under the strange teacher again.

“If you tell me your name.”

He grunted.

“Levi.” 

Hange smiled, finally de-straddling him. Levi staggered up to his feet, moving towards the corridor doors.

“It’s locked.” Hange warned. Still, he tried to push them open.

“Told you.”

Levi clicked his tongue and began walking in the other direction.

“I’ve tried that one too. We’re stuck here.”

“Huh?” He frowned.

“It happens sometimes to workaholic idiots who don’t know when to clock out,” Hange sighed.

Levi’s head was spinning. It was all too much. He stumbled back. 

“Are you okay?” Hange was up in a second, hands all over him, lifting his arms, patting his sides and his face, searching for injuries. Levi flinched when two fingers simultaneously pressed on sore spots on his cheek and forehead.

The light was on his face again.

“Oh, you hit this side pretty hard.” Hange muttered, “This one is going to leave a nasty bump.”

Levi pushed the hand that held the flashlight away but allowed the other to rest gently on his cheek. “There’s a fridge in the teacher’s lounge, we can get you some ice! Come on!”

Several seconds of silence passed, but Levi eventually sighed in defeat.

***

“Voilá” Hange opened the door in an exaggeratedly cordial movement. “Mi casa es su casa.”

“Does su casa have any food?” Levi let his body fall on the two-person loveseat that occupied one corner of the room. Hange approached him moments later, bearing gifts. 

“Iced tea and soufflé cake or ice cream?”

Levi reached for the right, grabbing the bottle with one hand and the small Tupperware and fork with the other.

“Don't these belong to someone?”

“The power is out, so it’s our moral imperative to save this food from waste!”

Levi shrugged, leaning in to take a bite out of the treat.

“I think Nanaba has some candles in here from the rising water experiment her class did last week!”

Levi took a few sips of his drink as the strange teacher jumped from cupboard to cupboard, fleshlight in hand. Soon, the room was covered in dancing shadows cast by candlelight. The heavy rain outside created a soothing symphony. Levi crossed his legs, supporting the cake on one of his thighs. Hange sat next to him, with a few ice cubes wrapped in a dishcloth.

“Is this clean?”

“Of course! Fresh out of the cupboard.”

Hange laid the improvised cold pack gently on his cheek, then on his forehead.

“You think we’ll be in trouble for staying in?” He took a sip of his drink, looking at his new acquaintance out of the corner of his eyes.

“Only if we get caught” the reply was casual “I usually hide in the teacher’s bathroom when I hear someone coming. Then I just have to wait a few minutes and make sure no one else is in the room before I  exit. The timing is tricky though, no room for errors.”

He almost choked on his iced tea.

“How many times have you done this?”

“Don’t know. Lost count.” Hange shrugged.

“Why?”

“The lab is my favorite place in the world. Well, that and this lovely room right here” Hange joked but something vulnerable lurked behind the feigned chuckle. Levi turned to face the teacher, who continued “I also don’t have much else going on in other parts of my life. This is the closest thing I had to a date in… I don’t know… a year and a half?”

Levi’s cheeks felt warm, and he was grateful for the warm tones of the lighting in the room. To his surprise, he found himself saying:

“Eight months.”

He tilted his bottle to touch Hange’s ice cream cup.

Hange laughed, sincerely this time. The sound was low, bubbly, irregular. It was the weirdest combination of strange and familiar that made something resonate deep within him.

“What a couple of losers we are.”

“Yeah,” Levi replied, still stunned by the feeling.

***

“We should try and get some sleep.” Levi proposed, as the rain died out, and Hange nodded.

Except they didn’t. For some reason, whenever one of them stopped talking, the other broke the silence. Hange talked excitedly about the experiments the class did that day. Then Levi complained about the mess of the students and how some of the staff half-assed the cleaning. Hange nearly died laughing when Levi explained he ran because he thought he was being chased by a ghost but, for some reason, he didn’t mind. He liked it. 

***

“I guess we won’t be needing these anymore.” The chemistry teacher blew the candles on the little center table before them, as the morning light entered the room, filtered by the blinds.

“I guess we won’t.”

“So, we’ll be out of here soon,” Hange commented.

“Yeah, I guess we will.” Levi turned to face his newfound friend. Now that the sun was up, he could see Hange’s features clearly. Smooth light skin. Strong, slightly convex nose. Brown chaotic hair that somehow fit the whole picture. Deep brown eyes one could get lost in and lips so full, so soft looking.

He averted his gaze when he realized he was staring, but it was too late. There was already a strange charge in the room, hovering over them. It was slightly uncomfortable but also exhilarating. The tension that precedes a leap into the unknown. Levi gulped, creating the courage to look at Hange again. Brown eyes stared right back at him. His heart picked up the pace as he moved forward. Hange moved too, tongue peeking out to moisten those lips. He could feel the heat emanating from them. Any second now.

A loud clanking outside made them jump in surprise.

“It’s the doorman!” Hange whispered. They both ran for the window. As one man unlatched the gate, another stood behind him.

“That’s Erwin, the history teacher!” Hange whispered as though they could hear them talking from that distance. “He always comes here first thing in the morning! Quick! Hide!”

They ran to the bathroom, hiding behind the partially closed door.

There was a creek. Then slow steps. Then the sound of a refrigerator door opening. Then silence.

“Is he gone?” Levi mouthed.

The chem teacher peeked through the crack and nodded negatively. Then frowned.

“What is it?”

There was a moment of silence. Then, in what can only be described as an oopsie face, Hange mouthed “I think he’s looking for his souffle cake”.

Levi caught the laughter last minute, letting out only a strangled snicker. Meanwhile, Hange was all silent open mouthed-chuckles, which intensified when Erwin rested his chin on his hand in a stoic pose while examining the empty fridge.

By the time the room was clear, they were both out of breath. Levi and Hange stepped out of the bathroom, looking each other in the eyes. The moment was gone, but there was a tinge of promise in the air. Hange spoke first.

“So, I’ll be bumping into you from now on?”

Levi shrugged. “if you’re lucky.”

Hange laughed and, once again, they ran out of words. Levi moved towards the door, but as he took a step out, he heard the teacher speak again.

“Hey, Levi!” He turned back to find Hange with the fingers of both hands crossed. “See you around!”

“See ya.” Levi stepped out this time, a smirk hiding on the corner of his lips. Maybe socializing with his coworkers wouldn't be so bad, after all.

[writingpandagoth]

Summary: In a city where nothing stays clean and nothing stays yours, The Black Rose is your sanctuary—your rules, your regulars, your refuge. Severus Snape is just another shadow at the bar... until one night changes everything.

What starts as sex born of tension becomes something quieter, steadier—almost like love, though neither of you has dared to say the word. You never defined it, never asked. But it’s there in the way he looks at you, the way he stays.

And then his past comes calling. Old debts. Old threats. And suddenly, the thing you never named is the one thing you’re both at risk of losing.

Chapter 1: Static

Grimwell always smelled like metal and rain. The streets stayed wet, the air carried a taste like ash, and most people kept their heads down—either wanting something or hoping not to be seen. You liked that about this place. People didn’t ask questions. They didn’t pry.

The Black Rose sat half-sunk into the bones of the city, its brick walls tattooed with smoke and stories. Your name was on the license, but the place ran on instinct and muscle memory.

The bar was your altar. The regulars, your family.

And every night, you wiped down the same counter, poured the same drinks, and kept the same rules:

No fighting unless you really meant it. No lies unless you were a good liar. And no hands unless they were invited.

You noticed him the second he walked in—just like the very first time. Tall. Broad. Black jeans, black jacket, black eyes that looked through you like glass. A few tattoos peeked out where his sleeves had pushed up—sharp lines, no nonsense.

He didn’t talk much. Just ordered the same drink—neat, no bullshit—and sat at the same end of the bar, like he owned the shadows that settled there.

Severus Snape.

He never gave you his name. You learned it from Lily that first night, whispered under her breath like speaking it too loud might summon trouble.

“Old biker friend?” you asked.

She nodded. “But he doesn’t run with anyone anymore.”

You’d heard the name before, of course—but you never imagined it would come with a face like that.

You didn’t press. Just kept pouring his drink when he showed up—always late, always quiet, always watching. At first, it was nothing.

And then, slowly, it wasn’t.

He started tipping more. Not for the service—you doubted he cared about that.

It was for you.

You felt it in the way his eyes lingered on your hands, the curve of your throat, the way your voice dipped when exhaustion crept in halfway through your shift.

One night, he brushed your fingers when you handed him his glass. He didn’t pull away. Just looked up— And something in you buzzed, sharp and sudden, like static.

You’ve caught him watching you—never directly, but always in the corner of your eye. His gaze trailing you as you move behind the bar, as you reach for a bottle, as you laugh at some guy down the far end who thinks a cheesy line and a cocky grin might win your number. Snape’s jaw tightens when that happens.

You’ve seen it.

Tonight, it’s past midnight. Rain slicks the windows. The place is half full—enough to make noise, not enough to be interesting.

You’re wiping down the counter when the door opens, and the wind brings him in. Black hair. Black boots. Cigarette smoke on his breath. He slides onto his stool like he’s reclaiming territory.

Lily looks up from her clipboard. “Your lover boy is here.”

You glance over.

Severus is already in his usual seat. Same black-on-black. Same look—like he’s waiting for something to give him a reason not to be bored.

But tonight, his eyes are already on you when you meet them.

You ignore Lily’s comment and walk over to him.

“You’re late,” you say, light and casual—like his absence didn’t mean anything.

His eyes flick to yours. “You always work this late?” His voice is low. Rough. Edged with tired.

You lift a brow. “Only when I’m not sleeping.”

“Shame.”

You pour his drink. “Trouble sleeping, Snape?”

He takes it, knocks it back in one motion, and shrugs. “More like trouble staying out of here.”

You smirk. “Are you flirting?”

His mouth twitches—almost a smile. “Would you know if I was?”

And damn it, that’s a good question.

You pour him another drink. He doesn’t thank you. He never does. But his gaze lingers—on your hands, your mouth, the hollow at your collarbone.

You feel it, like static—something in the air shifting.

You glance at him.

He says nothing.

Just watches you, sharp and unreadable. Your pulse picks up.

You move down the bar, refilling drinks for the regulars, when a voice beside you cuts in.

“You should just fuck him already,” Lily says flatly.

You roll your eyes. “Thank you for your input.”

“I’m serious. He stares at you like he wants to carve his name into your very soul. That’s not subtle.”

“He’s a customer.”

“He’s a man. One with forearms like that and a jaw built for sin. Also Tattoo's... do I need to say more?”

You snort, turn away, grab a bottle.

“Besides,” she adds, “I know him. He does not just look at anyone like that.”

Before you can answer, someone new slides into the stool two seats down from Severus.

Tall. Tan. Blond. His smile comes fast and easy.

You know his type.

He orders something expensive without checking the price. Watches you too long while you pour and lets his fingers graze yours when he takes the glass.

“Have we met?” he asks, leaning in on the bar.

“Probably not,” you say.

“Pity,” he says. “You’ve got the kind of face that’s hard to forget.”

You give him a look—the kind that usually means: don’t push it.

He pushes anyway. “You from around here?”

“I run the place,” you say, wiping down a glass.

“That so?” He grins. “Woman in charge. That’s hot.”

Snape’s glass hits the wood a little harder than necessary. You don’t respond. Just drift to the far end of the bar again. But you feel it—his eyes on you. And someone else’s.

When you turn, Severus is watching. Not glaring. Just steady. Just there.

The guy doesn’t last long. He gets bored when you don’t bite, downs his drink, and staggers out without a second glance.

You wipe his fingerprints off the bar like they’re something dirty. That’s when Severus finally speaks up.

“He touch you?”

You look up. “No.”

He holds your gaze. “He wanted to.”

You tilt your head. “And?”

His voice drops. “And I don’t like that.”

You should’ve said something smart. Something with bite. But all that came out was: “Why?”

He stared at you for a long moment. Then stood. Moved behind the bar. Got too close.

You didn’t hear him move—But you felt it. The heat. The silence. He leaned in.

“Because he doesn't know what's infront of him” he murmured. “I Do.”

Then he was gone. Back in his seat like nothing had happened.

But your pulse? Still thudding against your ribs.

His glass is empty, but he doesn’t ask for another. Just sits there, elbow resting, eyes on you. Watching. Waiting.

Like you’re the one on display— And he’s the only one who knows what he’s looking at.

“You want another?” you ask, already reaching for the bottle.

“No.” His voice is low—velvet, but with a bite. “I’m waiting.”

You pause. “For what?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes drop to your hands, then trail slowly—up your arms, your throat, your face. You feel heat rise—not from the bar. From the way he looks at you like he wants to burn something down.

“You close alone?” he asks. Your brows lift. “Worried someone else might try to flirt with me?”

That almost earns a smile. Almost. His mouth twitches at the corner, like it’s not used to doing that. You don’t know why you say what comes next. Maybe it’s the hour. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s that sharp, restless thing in your chest trying to claw its way out.

“You don’t seem like the type to wait around unless you want something.”

That gets a reaction. A slow inhale. A tilt of the head. Stillness that feels like a warning—

Or a promise.

“You’d be right with that,” he says.

Your hand tightens on the bar.

[bigtreefest]

Bandits In The Cans- Fic title

Not me having to research what this means😂😭🫣 big oof. And I still don’t really understand it… Can you tell I suck with colloquialisms?

Based off of this ask game

Bandits In The Cans

Andy Barber x neighbor! Reader

You woke up in a startle for the third time this week to the sound of metal rattling. After moving into your first home in what seemed like a quiet neighborhood, the last thing you expected was to have to deal with unwanted visitors each night.

You groaned and rolled over in your bed, putting on slippers and a robe and grabbing the baseball bat you kept by your side. Living alone as a single woman wasn’t easy, but you weren’t gonna call your parents in the middle of the night again. You could do this.

The stairs creaked as you slowly crept down, bat at the ready for any sort of intruder that was causing the crashing sounds at the side of the house.

You slid the glass door open, stepping from the back yard and into the driveway. The clanging sound of metal turned into the skittering of little feet, away and into the bushes, and what was left behind was trash strewn all over.

You dropped the bat at your feet with a clatter and began to clean up, knowing that the same would happen the next night if you couldn’t get this thing under control. Damn raccoons.

The sky was cloudy, storm warning on the horizon, but with your midnight brain, that was the last thing on your mind. It was just a sprinkle. Until you had no choice but to acknowledge how the sky had opened like a floodgate not even halfway into clearing the mess. With a loud groan, you looked up at the angry storm clouds above as rain instantly soaked through your clothes.

“Ugh, seriously!?”

In your mini tirade, though, you saw the light turn on through your neighbor’s window. Great, you didn’t mean to wake him, but it was probably a good idea to go and apologize.

Your slippers sloshed as you fast-walked up to the porch, hair matting down in the heavy rain. You crossed your arms to tight your robe across your cooling body, lifting a fist to knock on the door, but before you could even make contact with the wood, it was pulled wide open. In front of you was your elusive, standoffish neighbor, Andy.

“What are you doing out there? Come in, come in.”

He dragged you in by your shoulder, your body shivering as the cold from the rain began to seep into your bones. Your teeth chattered, water creating a puddle at your feet that threatened his hardwood floors. Andy went to the hall closet to grab towels, throwing one at your feet and wrapping another around your shoulders. He was tender, but wordless, as you watched him move. His eyes were tired, but not as bleary as you’d expected them to be from waking up past midnight. A full beard was broken by plush lips, supporting a freckled nose. The light creases on his forehead showed worry, but all together, it was entrancing as he cleaned you up.

And then all too soon, he disappeared up the stairs and emerged with a set of fresh clothes, what looked like an old pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt.

“Here, take these. Go change. Bathroom’s just around the corner.”

Wordlessly, you followed his instruction, slipping on the soft clothing, before re-emerging to see him at the kitchen counter, a cup of coffee and one of tea in front of him.

“Wasn’t sure which one you’d want.”

Any warm drink sounded amazing right now as your fingertips reached for the tea after you settled into a bar stool, clothing hugging you in a warmth that was quickly working. Andy reached for the coffee and brought it to his lips as he looked at you over the mug rim.

And then his brow furrowed like he was breaking through the haze suddenly.

“So, uh, why are you here?”

“Raccoons.”

[enmauchimaki]

LOST ON YOU

Across empty glasses, neon glows, and the melancholy melody of Lost on You, two wounded hearts collide in the shadows of a bar called The Cave. Abby still carries the weight of a love that left its mark; Ellie reaches for a new beginning she’s not even sure she’s ready for.All it takes is a glance, a shared toast, a whispered “yes”—for something greater to be reborn from the ashes of their pasts.This is the story of two paths intertwining, despite their scars, as they let themselves come alive together.

The music passed through the bodies like a wave of pleasure, intoxicating everything on that Friday night.

The bar, a place called The Cave, was a combination of exposed brick walls, heavy wooden tables, high stools by the counter, neon lamps in purple, red, and orange that cast a soft glow on the bottles lined up on the shelves.

The windows were slightly fogged by the sweat of the people who danced on the floor — a sea of bodies letting themselves be carried by the sound.

Laughter, overlapping conversations, the clinking of glasses, the smell of hops, the smell of skin, the smell of the night.

Abby was sitting at the same table as her friends, the glass nearly full of beer in front of her — a beer she rarely touched — while her fingers traced the rim of the glass, almost a nervous tick.

Her thick blonde ponytail was heavy, pulled back so that it wouldn’t fall into her eyes, which were fixed on the door, on the people who came in, on those on the dance floor… especially on those who were with Mel and Owen.

They were just a few feet away, embracing, sharing a toast as if there were nothing flawed in the relationships they had left behind.

That hurt, a burning feeling in her chest, as if a coal were still alive deep within Abby.

Her jaw tightened at times, trying to swallow what her conscience already knew: that he had been a jerk, that he still held her back in the rare messages he sent.

That left a bitter taste in Abby’s mouth — much like the flat beer that had gone warm in her glass.

Still, she forced herself to look happy for them, while her friends exchanged jokes, raised their voices to be heard over the noise, touching each other’s hands or shoulders, showing that they were together, alive.

And yet, it was as if she were… empty.

Suddenly, the music grew quieter — a sign that something was about to happen — and everyone turned toward the small stage near the speakers.

The lights fell upon the woman who stepped up, her silhouette pierced by purple and red rays that danced across the metal beams.

With a wave, a microphone in her hands, she said:

“Hey, guys… everything chill? Nice Friday, right? I'm Ellie… and I'll be singing for you tonight.”

Some applause, a whistle.

And then the song began.

First, the strums of the guitar — a melancholy sound, almost a lament — then Ellie's voice, piercing the place, the skin, the hearts, growing until it exploded alongside the chorus of Lost on You (LP).

Ellie was a whirlwind of stage presence.

With her body close to the microphone, her hips moved alongside the strings she played, her leg kept time, her fingers fell into their exact positions.

Her copper-colored hair, shoulder length, stood out under the lights as she let herself become completely swept up in the moment.

Her piercing glimmered from time to time, alongside a confident smile.

The tattoos on her arms were visible under the sleeves of her tank tops — skin art that shared her stories.

With a piercing, almost predatory gaze, the lead vocalist crossed the crowd until it met the pair of clear eyes that were on the same emotional path.

She gave a wink — nearly a lightning bolt — toward the blonde woman at the tables.

Abby blushed, swallowed hard, and turned her gaze away, while her heart pounded as if it might break free from her chest.

Then, almost instinctively, a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

It was the first time she let herself be noticed — the first time she let herself be desirable.

After the show, while the applause still reverberated in the crowd’s hands, Ellie came down from the stage, her T-shirt clinging to her back due to the sweat, her toned muscles visible through the armholes, her broad shoulders a magnetic point in the crowd.

With a sigh of relief, she grabbed the first beer bottle within reach, taking a large sip to ease her throat — which still burned from the last notes she had sung — and then walked over toward Jesse, Dina, and Cat.

They were riding the same high, laughing, exchanging comments, bumping the lead guitarist with their shoulders over her moves.

Dina elbowed Ellie in the ribs: “I saw you kept your eyes on that big one…”

“The big one?” — Ellie let out a mischievous laugh — “That woman’s a monument.”

They fell into a riot of giggles.

With that rush of courage growing in her veins, the lead vocalist put an end to her doubts: a “no” was already a given; now there was a chance for a “yes.”

“The ‘no’ we already have”—she whispered to herself—“…now let's go after the embarrassment.”

Flipping off her friends in a playful gesture, she turned and crossed the crowd in a copper-colored flash until she reached the tables.

The song kept playing — a melancholy rock that carried many hearts — while the bar shared its stories in the shadows alongside the colorful lights.

Suddenly, the space grew small, the world shrinking to the few steps left to reach Abby.

With a nervous, almost mischievous smile, Ellie drew close, turning every gaze toward her — especially that of Owen, who swallowed hard as Mel tugged his arm.

Still, nothing kept the lead vocalist from leaning forward, adding depth to their eye contact, and asking:

“Want to grab a beer with me?”

[lupin-bun]

Blood and Oil - An Art the clown x Male S/O story

CW (Story as a whole): Art is a warning in and of himself! Blood, gore, murder, torture, smut, sex (M/M), filth, weapons, stalking.

CW (This chapter): Firearms, intimidation, torture, blood, injury

Chapter 1 - An Evening's Hunt

It was supposed to be a clean kill.

Well...

Not clean. But quick.

Well...

Not quick. But the point was, Art had simply been on the prowl for a meal when he met him. A nice, quick, five to thirty minute torture, slaughter, flaying, and ripping apart of a still-warm corpse so he could get some wet brains and guts in him for the evening. Delicious!

And he had decided he’d found the perfect target when he spotted a youngish man dressed all in black, sitting by himself at a bar at around ten-thirty. The bar was small and hidden down a back alley on a starless evening, all celestial bodies hidden by a veil of cloud cover. Even they hid from Art. He’d been strolling by the window in the unnervingly carefree way he always did, when he’d momentarily turned his head to the side and spied the lone drinker.

He wore black jeans, black leather jacket, black boots. Even his flawless fin of a mohawk was ink black, save for a white chunk stretching back three inches or so at the front. His hand with painted, black nails rested, curled around a glass full of black cola on the dark wood of the bar.

Art slunk in the door and placed himself in the corner, staring holes into the back of the man’s head from where he sat.

The young man didn’t seem to notice, but the barman did.

“Hey, Soda,” He murmured, “you see the state of the guy who just walked in?”

Art’s eyes flicked to the barman’s face. The barman shifted uneasily, glancing away momentarily, before looking back again.

Art’s face stretched itself into its usual, unnaturally wide grin as he continued to stare, unblinking, in the barman’s direction. The barman visibly shuddered and he looked down, occupying himself with some form of busy work beneath the bar, out of Art’s line of sight (but, judging from the clinking sounds, he was arranging glasses).

The man called Soda turned in his seat and looked over at him too.

Art kept his grin in place, but lowered his head so he was glaring up at him from under a heavy, marble white brow.

Soda merely raised his mostly-drained glass in greeting and turned back to the bar, apparently unperturbed by the monochromatic clown that sat ten feet behind him.

Huh.

Ok. Not the reaction Art had expected (or wanted). But it was early in the game yet. He had all night to sit and sneer and grin and unnerve, whipping his prey into a frenzy of anxiety. It made the meat taste so much better!

So Art sat, grin still on his face, sitting in his corner, staring with all the focus of a sniper’s crosshair at the back of Soda’s head.

And he stayed that way for a good ten minutes, apparently being ignored by the man in black.

Eventually, Art lost patience, stood up, indignantly, picked up his trash bag, and closed the gap between himself and Soda with just a few paces. He reached the bar stool next to him, dropped the trash bag heavily on the floor with a metallic clatter, dropped himself into the stool next to him, and dropped his head into his hand, his arm propped on the bar by his elbow. He stared, blankly for the most part but with eyes wide, at the side of Soda’s head this time.

Soda turned his head casually to look at him.

Art cracked that grin again, blackened and bloodied teeth glinting in the light from the lamps that hung above the bar.

Far from being unnerved, however, Soda cracked a small smile of his own.

“Everything alright?” He asked, benignly, still smiling.

Art Shrugged his shoulders dramatically, flicking his gaze to the ceiling as if to say “Oh, you know..! Can’t complain.”

Soda chuckled.

“Don’t talk much?”

Art didn’t react to that.

“Want a drink?” Soda tried.

Still no reaction.

Soda gave a small shrug and turned back to his glass, draining it.

“Same again please, Joe,” He said to the barman, who was now crouched on the floor and throwing wary glances Art’s way.

Joe was easy prey. His heart rate was through the roof already, and adrenaline was coursing through him. Art could smell it. But he was working and wouldn’t be going anywhere for now, so perhaps Art could come back for seconds after he was done with this guy.

“...and I don’t know what this guy wants so just give him the same.” Soda concluded.

“You sure?” Joe asked, looking, uncertainly at Art.

Now Art snapped his head towards Joe, staring at him. He straightened up on his stool, made a big show of straightening his little black hat, put one hand on his hip and tapped the bar aggressively with the index finger of the other a few times, with a hard stare at Joe.

“I think that means “give me my drink.”!” Soda laughed.

Art nodded, grinning, and clapped his hands in Soda’s direction in over the top congratulations.

Soda flashed him a genuine smile. His teeth were perfectly straight and white, and his hazel eyes glittered beneath long, dark lashes. He had a pretty face. Clear skin, straight nose, peachy lips, and Art felt an overwhelming desire to destroy it completely, leaving nothing intact. To gouge out those hazel eyes. To bash in those pearly white teeth. To aggressively wreck it beyond recognition, like jumping in a perfectly settled blanket of new snow, and kicking it everywhere. That was the fun Art found in his slaughter. That same rush of ruining perfection. Like a small child kicking down a sandcastle, or pulling the petals off roses, or clapping his hands in a fresh mound of bubbles in the bath and delighting in the mess. Nice, whole things were just fun to destroy, and when you were a demon inside the body of a grown serial killer, messing up sand sculptures didn’t cut it. They had to be living, breathing, full of blood and bones and organs.

Art was pulled out of his musings with the dull thunk of a full glass being placed in front of him. He looked at it for a moment, then up at Joe. At length, that same, sinister smile spread across his face and he nodded.

Joe swallowed and nodded back, curtly, before making his escape down the bar.

Art waved goodbye, waggling his fingers patronisingly, grin still in place.

“You like trying to scare people, huh?” Soda said to him, swigging from his refilled glass. “Is that what all the…” he gestured vaguely at Art’s face, “...is all about?”

Art pointed at himself with a look of feigned offence, before shaking his head side to side, cartoonishly, interlacing his fingers and resting his chin on them, head cocked and fluttering his lashes with a sweet smile.

“Pfft. Right. Yeah. Proper angel, you are!” Soda chuckled, unconvinced.

Something about this interaction was staying Art’s hand somewhat. Despite how he looked and how he’d invaded Soda’s space, Soda was far too comfortable and casual about the whole thing. He hadn’t even flinched when Art had dropped the bag on the floor with a cacophony of metallic clanking. No, something was… wrong. Off. It wasn’t just that he wasn’t scared. No. He was actively connecting and being friendly. That didn’t sit well with Art. It was alien to him. He was far too used to his appearance alone making people shifty and uncomfortable.

As it happened, Soda gave him the perfect in to test his intimidation tactics again.

He gestured with his head at the black trash bag by Art’s stool.

“So, what’s in the bag, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Art stood up quickly, holding up a finger as if to say “Oh boy! Wait until you see!” He bent and rummaged melodramatically in his bag, choosing what he thought would cause the most alarm the quickest. He settled on a hand gun. He withdrew it, and brandished it with a theatrical flourish, gleeful grin all over his face.

The few other patrons that were in the bar all gasped, horrified, and most of them immediately made a panicked dash towards the door, falling over each other on the way out. One woman sort of… sob-screamed as Art wiggled the firearm at her menacingly. He guffawed, noiselessly at the instant pandemonium he’d created in this small bar, slapping his knee with his free hand, doubled over with mirth as Joe himself made a bolt for the back door behind the bar, fishing in his pocket (no doubt searching for his phone) as he went.

Art spun on the spot, his face an insane mask of grinning malevolence, to look at where Soda…

…was still sitting.

The guy hadn’t moved! His elbow was up on the table, the glass held by the rim from his hanging fingers and he looked with gentle amusement at the clown.

Art’s grin faltered somewhat.

“Terrifying.” Soda remarked, almost sarcastically, with a small huff of amusement. He brought the glass to his lips.

Now Art was just getting annoyed. Maybe Soda thought he was joking about using this thing. Without much grace, he pointed the gun at Soda, one handed, and took a pot-shot at his glass. The glass exploded in fragments. Soda blinked as he was sprayed with a mix of glass shards, rum and coke. But the only additional movement he made was to put the tip of his index finger in his ear and twist a couple of times.

“Warn a guy, would you! That was loud.” He chastised Art, lazily.

Dumbfounded, Art could only watch as Soda stood, took a couple of notes from his jacket pocked, dropped them on the bar and turned to leave through the door the other bar-goers had rapidly evacuated through.

Unable to help himself out of sheer curiosity, and not wanting to let this challenging quarry go, Art grabbed his bag and strode from the bar in Soda’s wake.

“You owe me for that.” Soda called over his shoulder, immediately aware he was being followed. “I know I bought you a drink, but you didn’t even touch yours.”

Soda cut down a back alley.

Perfect.

Art strode up behind him and, without even giving him a chance, spun him on the spot, grabbed him by the jaw, and slammed him into the wall of the alleyway with a grinning snarl on his face.

“Oof! Wow. A bit forward. Shouldn’t we exchange numbers or something?” Soda sniggered to himself, but that was soon cut off with a small choking noise as Art tightened his fist around Soda’s throat, just beneath his jawline, and pushed his head up higher so he was on his toes, almost being hanged by Art’s iron grip. Art felt Soda’s trachea beneath the silken skin of his throat ripple as he attempted to swallow past Art’s fingers.

And yet, his pulse still hadn’t quickened any.

In fact…

Art looked down at Soda’s chest, bemused. He couldn’t detect a pulse at all, now he thought about it. And it was only now Art was so close and took in Soda’s form that he realised. There was a hole in his jacket sleeve just under his shoulder. The bullet had hit him! And still he hadn’t reacted.

What the fuck was this guy!?

Art raised his gaze back to Soda’s face. With a smug wink from the man he had pinned to the brickwork, Art’s confusion and anger boiled over. Releasing him, he bent and grabbed a filthy broken bottle from the ground, wasting no time in straightening up again and jamming the jagged toothy edge of the glass into Soda’s stomach. The glass pushed forcefully through his leather jacket with a muffled pop Soda, one again pinned to the wall, threw his head back with a hiss, eyes squeezed shut.

Not wanting to risk this being another dud, Art’s grin widened, sadistically, and his pushed in harder, twisting the bottle, no doubt ripping a circular lesion into the man’s stomach.

Still with his head back against the wall, black hair pressed against the vaguely wet bricks, Soda groaned as Art gave the broken bottle one last little shove for good measure, and stood back to admire his handiwork, and watch for Soda’s inevitable crumple to the floor.

But it didn’t come.

Soda righted his head to look at the clown, panting slightly, eyebrows knitted, eye somewhat misty, still upright but supporting himself with one hand on the wall behind him.

This had to be it. The pain and fear that Art was after.

Soda looked down at the bottle neck protruding from his front and raised his free hand. Shakily, he gripped it, pulling it out and letting it fall to the ground. He gasped, swallowing hard as he reached for his jacket zip. He pulled it down, slowly, the metal teeth sliding apart to reveal (big surprise) a black t-shirt underneath. Once done with the zip, Soda pushed his T-shirt up to inspect the damage.

Art’s gaze followed his, and landed on his exposed body.

What spewed from the gaping hole in Soda’s gut was not the deep, satisfying fountain of red that Art had been expecting. It was black and thick like tar, and crept down Soda’s body slowly in gooey lines.

Soda chuckled, and Art raised his gaze from the sticky black substance to look, instead, at his face. The bright smile and perfect straight white teeth were gone, replaced by lips as black as his own, grinning madly, with rows of sharp, yellow teeth within that were somewhat reminiscent of an angler fish. The same thick, black blood was seeping from his eyes, formerly hazel, now completely black. The corners of his mouth too.

“Nice try,” Soda laughed, voice incredibly clear, despite the mouth full of daggers, lips sliding over them, glazing them in saliva so they glistened, “I’m immortal, you idiot. Just like you.”

Just like you.

Just like you!!!

Just… like… you…

Those final three words echoed and repeated in Art’s mind, tolling like church bells. Could that really be true? Were they so much alike?

Soda was still panting, shallowly, and he quirked an eyebrow at the killer clown.

“Well?” He said, questioningly, “Are you going to finish what you started, handsome? Or are you just going to tease me all night?” He ran a hand through the sticky black mess that ran down his body, pooling slightly above his waistband, before bringing that hand to his mouth, parting those lethal teeth, and licking it from his fingers, languidly, never breaking eye contact.

Oh.

That wasn’t pain he’d felt!

...

Tags: @strangererotica

[godlizzza]

for spider-dan au, have we heard how they got introduced originally? i'll take either their first meeting as med students or their first meeting as funnel web and scientist! or both if u feel up to it :-]

"Shitshitshit-!" Dan cursed as he sprinted through the hallway.

Sirens blared all around him, red lights flashing off the stark white walls. Behind him metal feet stamped, the sound of Hill's robots steadily gaining on him. Even with his enhanced spider speed, he knew he couldn't outrun them forever. His muscles already ached from fighting his way through one robot henchman, never mind a whole swarm of them.

Dan looked around frantically for an exit- an open door, a window he could smash, anything- but whatever button Hill had pressed to activate the alarm had also completely sealed the building shut. Steel shutters had descended over every possible exit, barring the way.

Dan was trapped.

He rounded a corner only to skid to a halt at the sight of one of Hill's robots. It had its back to him but at the sound of his feet sliding across the tiled floor, its head spun round on its neck until a pair of glowing red eyes were locked on him.

"Target located," its tinny voice droned. "Surrender. Surrender."

Even as it said this, it raised an arm that ended in a hollow barrel Dan knew spewed red-hot lasers. It pointed it right at Dan's masked face, a whining hum issuing from the glowing chamber of its arm.

Dan didn't stick around to see his face blasted to a crisp. He span around and looped back the way he'd come. Just as he was remembering he'd been fleeing from another squad of robots in that direction, a door suddenly slid open beside him. An arm thrusted out through the gap and gripped Dan's shoulder before hauling him into the newly opened room. The door slid shut behind him with a hiss and, just like that, he was out of danger.

From the robots, that was.

Dan easily wrenched his arm free and sprang back from his sudden captor (saviour?). It was only as he put space between them that he realised his spider sense hadn't flared up at the appearance of his assailant. He supposed that meant the person wasn't trying to harm him, but he also didn't know if he should ascribe an ability to deduce malice to an inexplicable alarm system inside his head.

"Don't make a sound," the person ordered sharply, and Dan looked up to meet their eyes.

He gasped at the familiar face.

"You?"

Herbert West frowned. "You know me?"

Dan did know him. They'd only been classmates in med school for a couple of years, most of which Dan had spent trying to juggle the sudden emergence of his powers with his studies, but he could never forget Herbert. His short, dark hair, his hazel eyes framed behind wiry glasses, the challenging jut of his chin. All of it had been ingrained in Dan's mind for years. They hadn't been friends- it would've been a stretch to even call them acquaintances- but Dan had always admired Herbert's particular brand of droll, cutting honesty. It had kept his classes entertaining at the very least.

He'd seen him a few times at the coffee shop that neared the hospital and had thought about going up to say hi, but Herbert always looked harried and annoyed, so Dan had kept away. He'd always wondered where Herbert worked if not at the same hospital as Dan. A research lab or an observatory had been his thoughts, not Hilltop HQ.

"Um, no. Never mind," Dan replied, then quickly swept a look around the room he was stuck in with Herbert. "What is this?"

It appeared to be some kind of personal lab, fitted out with all kinds of chemistry equipment and machinery. The smell of bubbling chemicals and the acrid stench of sulfur invaded his senses. He flicked his eyes back to Herbert, who'd turned his back on Dan to fiddle with a switchboard.

"It's my lab," Herbert retorted. "So, you'd better not break anything with those sticky fingers of yours."

He reached out to pull a lever and Dan reacted on instinct, whipping his hand up and shooting a line of webbing out at Herbert. It caught him on the wrist, sticking to the sleeve of his white lab coat and staying his hand. Herbert didn't startle but he did look coolly over his shoulder at Dan.

Dan met his eyes evenly, comforted by the fact that Herbert couldn't see his face and instead had his impassive mask to contend with.

"Don't," Dan warned. "I don't want to hurt you but if you sound any alarms-"

"Oh, it's not an alarm, you idiot," Herbert hissed, tugging his arm but Dan's webbing held strong as steel. "It's your only ticket out of here with your brain still intact. Now, if you want to live to see the light of day, you'll unhand, er...un-web me and let me help you."

"Help me?" Dan echoed dubiously. "Why would you want to help me? Or did you miss the part where I blew up your boss's factory floor?"

"I didn't miss a thing. Splendid job, by the way. Hill's going to be fuming about that for quite some time." He grinned, flashing a row of gleaming white teeth. "Oh, just thinking about that stalling production line and lost revenue will have him seeing red for weeks!" He tittered a manic little laugh before the humour suddenly vanished from his face and he was glaring at Dan. "You couldn't have been a little more covert about it though? Crashing through the front door like that wasn't exactly the stealthiest of moves."

Irritation flared through Dan's temples. He didn't need criticism on his superheroing abilities from some lackey of Hill's, even if that lackey was Herbert.

"Things haven't exactly gone to plan," Dan hissed.

"Clearly," Herbert droned, and he aimed another sharp look down at the webbing clinging to his arm. "Now, are you going to release me or not?" When Dan didn't immediately reply, Herbert looked back over at him and said in a softer, more placating voice, "Come now, Funnel Web. You need to trust me. What have you got to lose?"

Everything, Dan thought, but realised that Herbert was right. His choices were putting his trust in a man he barely knew, who was working for his arch nemesis, and waiting as a sitting duck to get turned into a charcoal spider. He didn't like either option but decided to go with the one that left him with his hair intact and cut the web blinding him to Herbert.

The web line fell limply to the ground, the end of it still stuck to Herbert's sleeve. It would stay there for an hour or so until the webbing dissolved. Herbert flexed his freed hand and gave Dan a thin smile.

"Good choice," he said, then threw the lever.

A panel on the wall descended inwards and slid aside, revealing a narrow chute vanishing into the bowels of the building.

"What is that?" Dan demanded, tiptoeing closer. The chute held the same acrid stench at the rest of Herbert's lab, though stronger and more putrid.

"It's for disposing hazardous chemicals," Herbert explained. "If you climb down it, it'll lead you to the lower labs. You can find an emergency exit there."

"Oh, so you're tossing me into your mega garbage chute? Gee, thanks."

"You'll be fine. If you don't slip on a puddle of nitric acid or breath in anything noxious, but I'd garner you're made of tough stuff." He smiled another crooked, unsettling smile. "I believe in you."

"Wow, so reassuring," Dan mumbled as he climbed into the narrow opening. It was just wide enough to fit his shoulders. He watched Herbert reach for the lever once more, but before he could throw it back into place and shut Dan out of sight, he called out, "Wait. Why're you doing this? Why help me?"

Herbert didn't pause to consider, merely stared at Dan steadily as he answered. "Because I've been working here for years, trying to expose Hill for the fraud he is and nothing I've done has amounted to anything. I want to see him crushed and I've never seen anything so much as ruffle his feathers. Until you."

"So, you're using me? How sweet."

"Hush, you," Herbert commanded.

As soon as the worlds left his mouth, the surround sound speaker system blasted through the room.

"Target located in Floor C2, Eastern wing."

"Well," Dan said chipperly, sticking to the slick walls of the chute, "I think that's my cue to dip out."

"Wait," Herbert hissed. "You need to subdue me."

This had Dan freezing before he'd completely lowered himself out of sight. He gingerly lifted his head up to squint at Herbert, who was standing there, waiting expectantly.

"Um. What?" Dan said, and Herbert rolled his eyes.

"You need to make it look like you had to subdue me before managing to escape," he explained. "Now, do it quick, before they arrive."

Dan thought briefly for a moment before reaching over the lip of his escape route and shooting another spurt of webbing at Herbert. He adjusted the web shooter to let out a wider spray, spanning the width of Herbert's body. The webbing hit him, throwing him back and pinning him to the adjacent wall. Herbert let out a short grunt, his glasses slipping down his nose at the impact. Dan wanted to fix them for him, but the sound of stomping feet was growing closer by the second.

Dan raised one hand in a cheery wave and said, "Thanks, Doc. See you 'round."

Herbert just stared back at him in response, but Dan could've sworn he saw the faint ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Dan threw out a line of webbing, caught hold of the lever, and tugged it down, causing the panel to slide back into place and lock him in darkness. Then he was sliding down the chute, away from the blaring sirens and the scientist he'd left glued to the wall. A swell of giddiness rose in his chest and Dan almost wanted to laugh.

He had a feeling he was right. He was going to be seeing quite a bit more of Dr. West.

[theknightmarket]

Act 1 | Scene 10 - Old Man Mark

‘Even though you know Engie is from ‘out of town’, it becomes incredibly obvious when he has complaints questions about technology.'

You had to give it to him. For how theoretically strange Engie was, he somehow managed to be one of the more normal regulars in your bar. Of course, there was a certain minimum of weirdness for that group of people, which he did not disappoint in reaching, but there were the few times that you almost forgot. He just seemed so normal, as if he were a mechanic taking a break from a hard day at the workshop instead of the dimension hopper who built a spaceship and travelled through a metric ton of wormholes that he actually was. It was easy to slip into normality if you didn’t constantly remind yourself of the reality of the situation.

Lucky for you, some conversations made it easier than others to recognize the strangeness, and this was one of them. In this moment, you were standing behind the bar, facing the very man who was trying – and failing – to convince you windows on a spaceship were a good idea.

“Why?” you asked, just as you had done minutes ago.

Engie shrugged. “Space is cool.”

“But why?”

“I don’t think you get what I’m saying.” He held out his hands in a dramatic gesture, as if your understanding was key to the universe. “Space is cool, so seeing space up front is…” Watching with his eyebrows raised, he gestured for you to finish the sentence.

Alas, you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction. “There’s this thing called structural integrity—”

He cut you off with a groan, throwing his head back and nearly toppling off the back of the stool in the process.

Yes, Engie was pretty normal, as far as your regulars went, but that didn’t mean he was the pinnacle of adulthood. You had found out very quickly his patent for pettiness and pouting and another word starting with ‘p’ that meant he acted like an affronted toddler when he didn’t get his way.

“What is the point of doing something cool if you mess it all up with logistics and the fear of death?” he complained as he crossed his arms over the bar’s surface. The glass of water at his elbow was almost knocked over in his theatrics - he had either forgotten it was there, or he was ignoring it to spite you.

“Personally,” you said, moving the delicate thing out of the danger zone, “I wouldn’t want to do something ‘cool’ if I knew it would kill me.”

You were immediately glad you did; Engie threw out an arm alongside his indignant response of, “That’s why you’re running a bar with sub-par equipment and not working on a spaceship!”

“Sub-par?” you muttered, half-amused and half-insulted. If he disliked your bar that much, you had to wonder why he showed up at all. It wasn’t as though he drank alcohol. Ordering a water wasn’t an uncommon thing, and it wasn’t because it was four o’clock. Though it hadn’t been long since the two of you had met, he’d yet to ask for anything different, regardless of the time. You had the sneaking suspicion that what Engie came for was not the drinks or the little umbrellas you kept around for certain guests – no – it was the interaction, and you were only pushed further into your theory as he scrambled to pull up the sleeve of his coverall.

“Just look at this.”

You leaned over and hoped that none of the other patrons noticed you propping up on your elbows. That thought gradually faded out of your concern, though, when flashing lights and shifting graphs replaced it. Fitted onto Engie’s arm was a gauntlet of sorts, a thick casing of metal that pressed into his skin. As your eyes flitted from one section to the next, he adjusted the fabric over his forearm to give you a clearer view.

“Obviously, we’re not on the ship, so most of the features don’t work, but—” He tapped through different screens, sending them backwards in favor of more analytics you couldn’t begin to guess the meanings of, “—see?”

“Yeah, I see,” you muttered. 

You had never been one for gadgets, and your knowledge of how they worked went as far as high school physics. Nevertheless, you were thoroughly embroiled in the changing statistics, especially when Engie started pulling the gauntlet on and off again, like a kid performing a magic trick they had just learned. The lights flashed and the primary graph fluctuated, peaks and troughs creating a mountain range in the diagnostic.

After a few seconds of back and forth, a textbox overshadowed the rest of the information, displaying a clear warning of an unstable heart rate. With a nervous chuckle, he slid it back into place, and the alert soon disappeared with the standard regained.

“Do you keep that on you all the time?” you asked. You tried to think back to your previous encounters, but you failed to remember any distinct shape underneath the coverall. Not that you had a habit of looking at people’s forearms – at least, not before the first date.

Internally, you laughed at your stupid joke as Engie went on to explain, “It works better if I do. If my averages change too much without it having time to calibrate, it goes haywire.” 

Questions about just what ‘haywire’ meant with such tech filled your head, but you waved them away. Not ignorant to clichés, you weren’t going to dignify wild theories about artificial intelligence going off the rails and establishing a dictatorship with being spoken aloud. There was an awareness of assumptions that hovered around the back of your mind constantly, and it took you more time than you would admit to battle against them, and then even more time as you thought through your own opinion.

While you had your inner debate, Engie started to roughly roll up his sleeve, using his other hand to keep the gauntlet secure. “I gave myself a heart attack once.”

Your attention snapped to him so fast that your neck creaked.

“What?”

Casually, he tossed a hand in the air, as if he had simply tripped over his own feet. “I tried to build a defibrillator into it, with all the pads and wires and stuff. Didn’t get it checked by medical before I went to sleep that night, so the system must have thought my heart rate was too low and zapped me.”

Those questions from earlier were quickly chased out in favor of wondering how he was still alive. Was it magic? Was it just science? Was the notion of science being magic or vice versa offensive to an engineer? Was this a stupid thing to get hung up on? 

Yes. 

You chose not to interrogate him, and, instead, let a small smile fissure across your face before laughing at him quietly.

Engie scoffed at your reaction, which was likely warranted, and followed through by saying, “Hey, it’s better than what you have.”

“You’re really judging this universe based on the quality of our defibrillators?”

“Not just the defibrillators, not even just the med-tech.” What had been an expression of mild annoyance shifted into a dramatic pout and glare. “All of it sucks.”

You were surprised that he didn’t cross his arms and turn up his nose, like some haughty aristocrats. It was a funny image, but you knew it wasn’t accurate in either sense; Engie, on his part, dropped his chin onto one of his hands, the other fiddling with his phone.

Another huff of laughter from you prompted a petty eyeroll.

“You sound like an old man,” you teased.

As soon as the words left your mouth, he sprang out of shape and yelped, “Hey, no, I don’t!”

Seemed you’d touched a nerve there. You placatingly held up your hands while he searched his reflection in the varnish. For a reason to calm down or get more hyped up, you didn’t know, but he apparently found something like the former as he sighed, practically collapsing in on himself.

“Everyone says that, but I’m technically the youngest.”

You assumed that ‘everyone’ meant their merry gang of doubles, but it took you a moment to reconcile the second part. Their being different ages had never occurred to you before. It made sense, sure, they were different people, but you’d never thought about them being at different stages of their lives. It took you a second to run through who you knew and how they acted before formulating a response.

“I would’ve thought Yancy’s the youngest. He’s, what, twenty-something, and you’re…?” you trailed off, squinting at him. No noticeable wrinkles, besides the beginnings of crow lines, and his hair was completely dark. Considering he was an engineer who built literal spaceships, you had to guess he was mid-thirties, closer to forties than not.

“Technically, I’m negative seventy.”

You were wrong. About one hundred years wrong.

“And that’s possible how?”

A smug smirk overtook his mouth, pride that seemed irreconcilable with his prior annoyance. Even so, he replied happily, “I’m from the future.”

You inhaled deeply. You had to, or else you were sure you would choke on your own shock. 

“Yeah, okay, sure. How far into the future?”

“2116.”

What you had thought about Engie being ‘normal’ resurfaced and was promptly scraped from your beliefs, icing off the cake and thrown into the trash, because not only was he from an alternate universe – that would be too simple, after all – he was also from the 22nd century. A hearty groan fought its way up your throat, but you forced it down. Now was not the time to dispute what he told you. Now was the time to brush past it. Ignorance was bliss, and all that. Although, you were going to force yourself to think it over later that night, if only to stay true to the reality of the situation, which was that Engie was and always would be weird.

It explained why he looked down on your universe’s equipment.

“Maybe our technology is bad,” you said.

“Thank you.”

“But that’s only because you have a hundred years on us. Obviously, we’re going to be worse off than you.”

Completely oblivious to your internal crisis, he leaned forward on crossed arms, saying, “The least you could do is have good communicators. It’s the basics of the basics.”

“Phones are arguably the best we have.”

“Oh, yeah? How come you have to remember every contact number yourself?”

He said this with that hubristic air, but just like old heroes, it would be his downfall. You challenged his smug smile with a dismally blank stare. Surely, he was grasping at straws just to prove you wrong.

“You don’t,” you replied simply.

“Yeah, you do.” 

The utter conviction in his words both amazed and concerned you. He was an engineer on a spaceship – you didn’t know how much you could reiterate that fact. Faith in the progression of humanity was teetering on the edge that was this conversation. He didn’t genuinely believe that, did he?

Did he?

Trying to keep the worry out of your voice, you held out your hand for his phone and repeated, “No, you don’t.”

He gave it over with a begrudging roll of his eyes, and you navigated to the contacts with little attention spared to anything else. You were not greeted by the list but assaulted by it when you tapped the icon, seeing the mess of area codes and digit strings. Not a single one out of the disorganized jumble was named, just number after number after number. The only saving grace of the sight was that there weren’t too many. The number given to you by Wilford matched up with the 20 or so disgraces-to-order that you were looking at.

“Don’t make that face,” was Engie’s grumble at your grimace.

“What else can I do? This is awful.”

“Whatever. Can you help me or not?”

You sighed, with the weariness of someone who did not have the option of deleting the app and never looking back. You didn’t have it in you to abandon Engie to this cruel fate – of his own doing, as you reminded yourself. Still, you weren’t that immoral.

“Sure, just give me a minute.”

First, though, you had to make sure your other patrons were satisfied. It was early enough in the day that most were there for conversation over the drinks. The primary group was the builders for the nearby housing estate, who took their breaks in a corner booth and had just been served another round of beers fifteen minutes ago, so they were scratched off your roster. There were a few university students dotted around, typing away at their laptops or scanning through textbooks as they nursed mocktails, but you doubted they would be asking for anything more soon. Although the med student did look close to tears, today was the sweet spot; the hardships of the week had yet to utterly destroy anyone, but the naïve few looking to hang onto the weekend had already been swept away.

That only left you with the annual reunion of three at a proper table. It took you barely ten minutes for you to get their orders and distribute drinks, and when the clink of glasses being toasted was behind you, you were able to direct your attention to Engie’s nightmare of a phone.

When you slipped back to the bar, he perked up again, vastly more enthusiastic about sorting this out than you were.

Context clues would be your guide, it seemed, as you didn’t have any of their numbers nor was your phone present and you also weren’t a psychopath who didn’t name their contacts. 

Your cold glare made Engie shy away as he tapped through the text conversation from the first number.

Reading upside-down was difficult, but you had no need to try initially; the GIFs spoke for themselves, and, if that weren’t enough, the singular use of pink as a theme for them gave the game away before it started. An invitation to a party, which went unanswered, apparently belonged to Wilford as Engie typed the name in. He steered away from giving nicknames, and you didn’t blame him.

Second up was a completely normal conversation about a new series for a show. It was strangely domestic for who you were dealing with, and Engie wasted no time in glancing through the messages and then retyping the contact number to ‘Yancy’. It seemed this would be one of the only simple ones you were going to see, so you braced yourself for whatever crisis they inflicted on you, existential, moral or one they invented just to screw with you.

What did make you pause was the small grin over your lips. You hadn’t known the members of that house for long, but figuring out each’s style was an exercise that you found somewhat fun. Puzzles weren’t your forté, but you were eager to move onto the next one, finding it fun to pick through the digits like some Indiana-Jones-reject in an unexplored jungle.

“Oh, that’s Illinois.”

You nodded, matching the sporadic sentence structure with little to no punctuation with the rough and tumble adventurer.

The last to catch your attention was the complete opposite to Illinois’ style; every bubble was written in perfect English to the point of excessiveness and they never entailed more than a demand. No pleasant chatter, no pictures, nothing but information, like a business transaction. None of this counted as a clue because the most recent text, the last sent in a month, was signed with Dark’s name at the end. No surprise there, no surprise in any of them.

You were less entertained by the people you didn’t recognize, and you handed over all deciphering duties when the group of builders raised their hands to get the cheque. Engie was just finishing off the last couple when you returned with the empty glasses. You didn’t bother looking over his shoulder for who he was naming, but the look of mild aggravation on his face, tongue poking out at an odd angle, made you think they were something different than a friend. Was frenemy the phrase? Nuisance?

It made you think of certain regulars who used your bar like a 24/7 entertainment service.  

By the end, you were rivalling him in your pride, and it was quickly becoming a point of contention when he scoffed good-naturedly.

“That’s not even the worst part, though.”

“Oh, yeah?” You dreaded to think what was worse than the chaos you just went through. 

“Your security is horrible. You don’t even have facial recognition—” He shifted his glare to his phone, “—it just lets you in immediately.”

It was back in your hand before you had time to consider what you were doing, the button to lock it pushed in and let go when the screen lit up. You made a full show of trying the function, getting rejected, and then waving it in the air.

Engie’s face gradually grew redder and redder, like a battery charging. In an attempt to curb his embarrassment, you tossed the phone back to him, but it didn’t stop the color flowing plentifully.

“Then how does everyone keep getting into it?” he asked.

You didn’t know for certain, but you had a pretty good idea. “Everyone in your house has the same face. You should really change the passcode if you want to keep them out.”

To you, it seemed a normal suggestion, barely worthy of being said aloud. You wouldn’t have been offended had he called it patronizing. The blush that continued to grow must have been of agitation, and he was going to declare your rudeness over his shoulder as he stormed out.

And yet, Engie stayed seated. He didn’t move a muscle, in fact, and remained completely silent as he did his best to avoid eye contact with you.

“Engie?” you said, brows furrowed and more than a little suspicion in your heart. The contact issue was one thing, but…

“Seriously?”

“It’s a terrible system!” he yelped, “I have more important things to remember than some six-digit code for something that doesn’t even work properly!”

“It works properly when you use it properly.”

You had half a mind to snatch the phone back to save it from whatever torture he put it, and you by extension, through. For someone so smart, Engie was an idiot.

By the look on your face, he hesitated to tell you the actual story behind the password problem. If you discovered he locked himself out for a personal-record-breaking six months, your jaw would fully disconnect from your skull as it dropped. If you found out he had then removed it and relied only on the facial recognition software that didn’t work, it would never reattach. So, you weren’t going to find out, from him, at least. His housemates, however, did so love to tease him about his technological ineptitude, and he trusted exactly zero of them to keep a secret.

To cover his tracks, Engie fumbled for another poor feature, and you watched him with bated breath in painful wonder of what he would come up with.

“The search function is terrible,” he began. “Keeping track of the information is no better than searching through books and dog-earing the pages. We’re not cavemen.”

There was no point in stopping you from taking the phone. Now that you knew it didn’t have to be unlocked first, which almost made you retch, you were efficient in getting to the browser app and promptly recoiling at the number of tabs. Why? It wasn’t as though you had any reason to be surprised.

“Oh my…” you trailed off in astonishment.

You were tempted to ask when the last time he deleted something was, but you knew the answer would inflict damage, so you wisely kept your mouth shut. All you said was a quiet, “What is wrong with you.”

Engie was glad it wasn’t a question; he didn’t have an answer or rebuke.

“Number one, there’s a notes app. Use it,” you ordered. The hand he held out for the phone was almost an insult. “And number two, delete your tabs.”

“But I’m still using them.”

“It doesn’t matter. If it’s important, you can find them again.”

To demonstrate, you deleted the most recent tab, striking it from the browser just as Engie struck his annoyed frown from his face. Panic took its place, but you tried to sooth him by opening the search history section. There, the page detailing catalytic converters sat, safe and sound. 

Now, you held it out to him, deeming the phone as secure as it could be in his possession again. “See?”

He took it. He obviously wasn’t happy about it, clenched jaw and all, but he did take it, muttering under his breath, “Yeah, I see.”

He was mad at you now, but this would be better for him in the long run – you didn’t even think he was mad. That clenched jaw mostly served to prevent the rising of the corner of his mouth, the little bit he was unable to stop forcing him to tilt his head away from you. It lasted barely seconds before he was looking back at you and glaring half-heartedly.

On your part, you didn’t try to hide your smile. Too much emotional weight had been lugged around in the last hour; you didn’t need the added pressure of pretending – which felt nice. Easy.

Until Engie’s screen turned black and flashed with the dead battery symbol.

“And there’s your final issue,” he declared, invigorated with new ammunition. “Now I have to go and buy an entire new battery. You know, I might not normally live on this planet, but even I know how solar panels works. I don’t know why you make them so clunky, but…”

He didn’t stop talking, you just tuned him out as you reached underneath the bar. You didn’t use your own phone during work hours, keeping it either upstairs in your apartment or, closest, in the backroom amongst extra stock. You only made sure this socket was hooked up in case of patrons’ emergencies – someone not being able to get home or, worse yet, not being able to pay their bill. They weren’t going to get out of it because they couldn’t access their digital wallet.

For now, though, you simply tilted Engie’s phone forwards, still in his hands, and plugged the cable in. He only paused his rant about the superiority of hydro-generators when the phone lit up again, now charging.

He stared dumbly at it.

“Huh.”

“Yeah, ‘huh’.”

AO3 Link - List

[ghostlyshoes]

FFXIV WRITE - #2 Horizon

Horizon

[Iara Vanu - Vanu Vanu Machinist]

Iara Vanu was lighting. Whirlwind. The most reckless amongst their tribe. Free as a gale, torn apart from the orders of their brothers and sisters they were seeking further heights, further and further than the blissful winds of the sparse islands that they were born into. 

The airships that the new netherlings had brought. With machines of metal, the stench of burning and the rumbling of the aether. Everything about them seemed unpleasant, unpalatable to the average inhabitant. But, the great wind that Iara Vanu was this had only brought them a deadset feeling of curiosity. To them, this was chance, the winds of fate turning in their direction. 

An outcast amongst their own people, Iara Vanu, had always searched for a way to prove themselves worthy. No hurricane, born for naught but destruction, but someone capable of being a petal on the breeze, in tune with how each member of the tribe carried themselves through the skies. For once they had their purpose, their endless hunt against the tribe’s flow would be over, their ambition would cease. 

Iara Vanu watched the netherlings, day in day out, with their crates and boxes, their featherless bodies and their pointed ears. They ferried all sorts of goods between their islands and a place so far below it made even Iara Vanu dizzy, sickly. 

But they had to take their chance. If none of their people’s arts could make them belong, then they’d take a new one for themselves. There was not exactly a need to make oneself ‘stealthy’ upon the sea of clouds. Comparatively, Iara Vanu stood miles above any of these netherlings, even the ones with the knife-like ears and their rich cerulean feathers didn’t make them blend in with these whirling ‘air-ships’. Sneaking aboard wouldn’t be a good idea. There was no way they could pretend to be one of the crew members these netherlings had brought with them. The best way to reach their underground world, would be to hide within their many boxes. Stuffing themselves into the most cramped of spaces to reach yet some other, likely dirty cramped space sounded like a nightmare but was a small task for Iara Vanu who needed to find their way of being amongst the flow. 

Even within that tiny box, Iara Vanu felt the skies shift, bright green umbral winds, sunlight, the setting fiery horizon, the night’s darkness. Their breath heavy against the wood, their throat clawing at them. So long in a place with no sky.

No, it would all be worth it in the end. 

They burst out of the box. The world around them cold, starless, breezeless. Beset by dull grey stone and full of mutterings in foreign words. The falling snow falling upon their ill-equipped feathers, they snuck out. Only a taste of the violence that these netherlings lived through, no wonder they would seek other worlds. The only presence of light came from a building just ahead of them. 

Only just able to enter the door, Iara Vanu found themselves surrounded by contraptions of steam, unkind metal. Utterly alien compared to the wind magics of their tribe and the world above. Great chambers, golden windows with crossed bars, wheels turning, unusual rectangular shapes strewn across wooden tables. Iara Vanu grasped one of them upon their wing. So much complexity in such a small device, what did it do? How would it compare with the beauty of the winds? 

While the Vanu Vanu was encountering some internal storm, behind them appeared a netherling; taller than most with hair the colour of straw. 

“Excuse me, are you looking for anything?” 

-

It had been several suns before Iara Vanu returned. Instead of being nestled in a box they were given a comfortable seat in their ride back to the skies by the netherlings. 

“So the one of storms has returned, although we feared you had met your end, may you explain what kept you from our tribe for so long?” 

The corners of Iara Vanu’s beak twisted to a smile, “I’ve got a gun.”

[teasandcardigans]

talking to the moon

characters: juno lykaios (oc)

cw: trauma, ptsd, nightmares, bad family relations

challenged myself to write a no-dialogue piece to kick off 2025! got to explore one of my favorite ocs and her backstory, hope it’s not too sad!

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

Juno felt cold stone under their palms. It was cold in a way that wasn’t natural, as if all the fear and dread in this place had seeped into the rock to make the atmosphere as chilling as possible. How did she get out here? It didn’t matter. It was a matter of time before someone noticed and tracked her down.

They stood and stumbled, clinging to the freezing wall to stay upright. The room warped, everything seeming unstable as Juno tried to get down the corridor. Where did it end? Where was the door? Moonlight bled in through the windows, the bars a cruel tease at the world outside. To the woods Juno could disappear into.

Someone screamed. Deep, gut-wrenching scream that had Juno whipping around to find the source. They were in pain. They needed help. Visions of being cut open and sewn back together flashed in their mind. Juno tried to yell out, but nothing came. Clutching at their throat, they felt sutures up their neck. Again and again, they tried to scream and nothing came. Panic started to swell in Juno’s chest, clouding their mind. They had to leave. Someone was going to find them.

Pitching through the hall, Juno heard the scream again, but louder. They were going the wrong way- or the right way? If Juno saved them, she would be caught, too. She needed out. Everything was spinning. Sweat dripped down her skin. Everything was wrong.

Juno pressed themselves against the wall, praying for balance. Then a vice grip came around their wrist and they were jerking away, seeing a cell behind them. Inside was a gaunt, almost undead looking thing. It was almost human, a hoarse moan coming from them as they reached through the cell bars for her again. Juno went for the opposite wall, but felt cold iron slam into their back as the stone dissolved into ash.

Spinning around, Juno saw they were in the cell block. Gnarled, wrinkled hands reached out into the corridor. Reaching for her. Each face was more dead than the last. She had to get out of this place.

She searched for an exit, running to the end of the hall as the floor slid beneath her feet. Jagged nails caught her shirt and shredded it. From the other side, the smell of rotting flesh closed around her ankle. Juno jerked away from them both, but it all kept coming. The walls were closing in on themselves. She was going to be crushed and whatever was still intact would be ripped apart by these dying imprisoned things.

Juno couldn’t breathe as the stone walls got closer to her, pressing into her cheek and back and every part of her as the creatures clawed at her skin too. She was going to die like this.

She was going to die, gruesome and alone and no one was ever going to know.

Juno gasped in air and suddenly everything was gone. It was almost like floating until their eyes ripped open, seeing the darkness of their apartment around them. Were the walls closing in on them here, too? Panic gripped them. Juno ripped the blanket off them, stumbling off the couch and towards the only light in this shoebox.

It took a few tries before they tore the window open, crawling out onto the fire escape and heaving gasps that puffed out breaths of smoke. Metal bit into their knees and palms as they dragged themselves to the railing, trying to tell herself it was a nightmare. It wasn’t real. That place was gone, obliterated by daemons.

Pulling themselves up to the railing, Juno hung her head over it, staring at the sidewalk below. Part of her wanted to throw herself onto it. Make this miserable existence of “department recovery” end. But she didn’t. She let herself catch her breath, watching drops of sweat drip off her skin into the night air. Juno didn’t cry. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t worth crying over.

When their heart had slowed, they sunk down to the landing of the fire escape. The night air was cold on their skin. Vampires couldn’t get cold, not like humans did, but the breeze against her exposed arms was enough to chill the sweat lingering there. Enough to make Juno crave the very human desire for warmth in nothing more than a tank top and thin pajama pants.

She was a wreck. As much as no one would be able to see it, as hard as they could try to hide it, the feeling of being trapped only continued to plague her. The walls of her dingy department-provided apartment would close in around them, trapping Juno is a dark, impenetrable cell once again. The city wasn’t big enough for her to feel free in. Not while the department was still keeping her on close watch. Them and every other prisoner who wanted to tear that bitch limb from limb.

She hadn’t bothered to learn their names. Who any of them were, what their lives were like before that hellhole. Korax probably had known them all. Probably had carried them back to their cells like he had done for her, told them that it wasn’t that bad if they could only see it his way. His way was years of imprisonment warped to be something domestic and marital when all it ever had been was manipulation to make him a perfect henchman. The way he stood by her, through it all, through the fact that he watched her torture and experiment on people, living beings just like him, and still he defended her. Protected her even until the end. Korax would have followed her into a burning building if given the chance, just to be crushed by the rubble and burned in the flames of her destruction.

Juno looked out across the city, burying the pit of nausea rising in their throat. Were the other captives dumped here as well? Had the department scattered them across the country or deposited them back to their families, broken and unsalvageable as she was? Did they have families to return to at all? Had their families searched for them, devastated by loss of their loved one?

They knew their family hadn’t searched for them. It had been almost thirty years with almost no contact. Juno had tried after the dust of turning had settled. Her parents hadn’t wanted them around. She was dangerous. Uncontrolled. They hadn’t seen their siblings in over two decades, as much as she had wished to force herself back into their lives. It had been better that way.

Was that how Aksana picked her? Had the psychopath known there would be no one coming? No one to report them missing when she provoked them in the alley that night? A lifetime had passed since then. She had been exposed to a world they never knew existed, evil that festered in darkness Juno had become so accustomed to. No one could’ve found her even if they had tried.

It was almost funny. While they never would’ve been able to save her had they known or cared at all, but her family had kept her sane. Kept her from giving in to the angrier part of herself. Kept them from killing Aksana when they had the chance. They were already a murderer, willing in it or not. Another body didn’t need to plague their conscious. If only her family could see her now, right? A well-adjusted, perfectly normal member of empowered society, with an apartment and city-skyline view to prove it. Yeah, right.

As Juno stared at the stars, she wondered if any of her siblings were looking at them, wherever they were, too. Did they think of them as often as they thought of them? Juno wondered what their lives turned out to be. If Steph was looking at the stars too, if she had built the software she had always wanted to. When she admired the night sky, did she remember the drives from school, screaming music in Juno’s rusted almost-dead car?

If Lucas had been able to manage both university and empowered studies, if he had married his girlfriend. Would they have had children? He would be a great dad. Would he show them the stars? Hold them and point out the constellations that Juno had shown him and their younger counterparts once, laid out in the grass of their backyard. When little Ilya had clung onto her, still so timid. Had she grown into herself now? Juno wondered if she had inherited their father’s magic just like she had taken all his other traits.

All of her siblings, the ones she had raised like her own children, were grown, with families and lives of their own. When they took in the night sky, did they remember her? The one that would’ve given everything for them? Did they remember Juno? Ilya and Ander were both so young when Juno’s world had been uprooted. Their parents probably told them she ran away. In ways, Juno had. It was better than them knowing what had really happened.

A selfish part of her heart wanted them to talk about her, for Theo to tell stories of them like he did all his tall tales, recounting the moments shared, the times Juno had taken them all on adventures of their own in a car that was hellbent to kill them all, and prayed she wasn’t some taboo subject of her family. That they remembered her fondly.

She wanted to find them again, bring her family together, show them that she wasn’t that vampire her father saw in the containment cell, half-blind in hunger and desperation. Tears stung her eyes at the thought that that was the last version of her he saw. They remembered calling after him as he walked away. What did he tell their mother? Despite everything Juno had done to keep her humanity intact, would she remember her eldest as some crazed, beastly thing?

A sob choked Juno, catching in her throat and making her sputter. The thought of her family remembering her as a monster, after years of her life showing the gentlest parts of her soul, softening herself to be their safest place to land, would they only know her as a murderer? Was her father haunted by the way she screamed for him to come back, to not leave her behind, like the way she was forced to remember the horror in his gaze when he took in her blood-stained clothes or the fangs that wouldn’t retract?

Raking a hand through their hair, Juno curled their legs into her chest and let herself cry. How did she become this? A prisoner in every sense, damned to be alone. They didn’t ask to be turned in the back of that bar, they didn’t know bloodlust had set in until they woke up shaking and ravenous in a containment cell. They didn’t raise her hand to be Aksana’s next pet project and be hauled off to Europe, and they didn’t ask William Solaire to take pity on them and offer them a clan. Fuck having a clan. She didn’t want a replacement family for the one they’d lost. They wanted theirs back. They had no one to turn to, no one to ease away the fear and isolation of her life.

Juno laid against the railing and cried harder than she had in years. The emotions were jagged and raw, tearing up their insides as they clawed their way out of her. They felt weak, so small and helpless like little Ilya clinging to them when she was just barely a person. Why was no one there for her? What did Juno do to deserve all this?

Caught up in her emotions, they didn’t hear the disturbance until a lower level window was creaking open. Juno sucked in the sob she was about to let out, their breath ragged. There were a few steps, the rhythmic flick of a lighter, and the sharp inhale of breath before they got the courage to peek over the edge like a child.

They must have heard her as their head tilted up to look above, but Juno didn’t want to be seen like this. Not looking so frail and broken. Instinct took over and they were inside again before she even saw the stranger’s eyes, the window slammed shut so hard it echoed.

She curled into the windowsill, staring at the moon high in the sky. Her only confidant, the only one with her through it all. The moon watched their turning, their rampage, the fight and the torture. It observed silently as she grieved and raged about the downfall of her own existence. The moon had never helped her. If anything, it was a bad omen on her life, but Juno still felt comfort in it’s light.

They let their tear-swollen eyes fall closed, arms wrapped tightly around themselves. If Juno fell asleep here and the sunlight burned them alive tomorrow, so be it. She left herself in the moon’s hands.

[sanders1665]

Limbo Street

The rain never truly stopped in Limbo Street, just shifted between a drizzle and a spit. The air was damp with mildew and regret, clinging to the peeling walls of tenements that leaned drunkenly into each other. The street’s two flickering lamps, dim and jaundiced, were not beacons but watchers—silent witnesses to the shuffle of feet and the murmur of misery.

The maze of old town had led me here, farther than I intended. The narrow alleys twisted like veins, pulsating with a quiet menace, their secrets concealed in piles of rotting garbage and shadows that seemed to breathe. This was a town that dressed in perpetual autumn, its dead leaves crunching underfoot, whispering of decay. Winter was coming, but here, winter was not a season; it was a state of mind.

As I passed under the first lamp, its light revealed more than I wanted to see. A man slumped against the wall, his eyes half-closed and clouded, a needle still dangling from his vein. Across the street, a woman leaned into a car window, her voice soft but her smile brittle. She adjusted the scarf around her neck, but it didn’t quite hide the purple bloom of a bruise.

The street was alive in its own way, a grim carnival of neglected souls. A hunched figure pushed a shopping cart piled high with scraps of metal and glass, muttering words only they could understand. Nearby, two men bartered over a threadbare coat, their gestures sharp and desperate.

I turned a corner and nearly collided with a toothless gypsy sitting cross-legged on a filthy blanket. She grabbed my arm with surprising strength, her fingers claw-like. “Your future’s in the leaves,” she rasped, thrusting a chipped teacup in my face. The wet clumps inside looked more like sludge than prophecy. I shook her off, but her cackle followed me, a sound too close to weeping.

The second lamp came into view, its light revealing the aftermath of closing time. A group of men staggered out of a bar, their voices slurred and rising. One stumbled into the street, narrowly missing a speeding car that didn’t bother to brake. Another man shoved him, and then fists flew. The air was thick with curses and the sound of breaking glass. I ducked my head and kept walking.

In Limbo Street, kindness was currency you couldn’t afford to spend. A man asked for change, his voice plaintive, his eyes hollow. I hesitated, but then I saw the knife glinting under his coat and moved on.

The roofs above seemed to sag under the weight of their own sorrow, their gutters weeping black streaks onto the cracked pavement. No moonlight softened the edges here; the sky was a murky bruise, as though the town itself had been punched and left to rot.

A sudden shout made me turn, but I regretted it immediately. A woman screamed, her voice cut off sharply. A figure melted into the shadows, and no one moved to help. The cops would come eventually, but Limbo Street had its own rules.

I quickened my pace, my heart thudding louder than the distant wail of a siren. The end of the street was close, the faint glow of a brighter light just visible. I walked faster, the weight of unseen eyes pressing on my back.

Limbo Street didn’t welcome visitors, and it didn’t let them linger. I reached the edge of the maze and stepped into the light, the air suddenly thinner, cleaner. Behind me, the street seemed to sigh, its secrets safe for another night.

[a-fistful-of-birds]

Cowboy Times

Word count: 1,749

Originally written in August, 2023

The sharp crack of a whip sounded in the air, encouraging the sturdy equine to keep trudging forward. The demon-horse duo had been slowly traversing the desert for a few weeks now, moving supplies westwards in search of a job in the cattle industry. Our lovely cowboy for this story, Urogi, had no actual interest in such a job.

The rest of the Hantengu grouping had scattered across the United States, Urogi finding himself deep in Nevada territory. Demons had still yet to defeat the sun, Muzan wanted to remain in central Japan to continue his research and searching for the infamous blue spider lily. Consequently, demons filling human roles were at risk for death, though Urogi being in cattle working territory had the believable excuse of shielding himself from the sun with thick clothes and a wide-brimmed hat, his wings seemingly tucked away under those leather layers and leaving no visible trace.

While he was more than capable of moving continuously throughout the night, his horse was not. This led to many nights spent camped out under the clear Nevandian skies, Urogi checking over his plans and maps to make sure they were still heading in the right direction. Most foodstuffs packed for this trip aimed to feed the working animal, little was kept aside for Urogi in the form of “beef” jerky in an unmarked bag.

While traveling horseback was agonizingly slow for the demon at times, he learned to appreciate the starry night that was robbed from his youth in the greatly populated Japan.

The sun had set hours ago, the pair falling into a pattern of continuing a bit further into the night before setting up camp. Evening travel was easier on Urogi as he could remove the thickly damp clothing from his body under the safety of nightfall. The pair moved forward, crossing several small hills and valleys and it was over one of these hills that Urogi noticed a small structure in the distance.

‘That’s odd,’ he thought, ‘there shouldn’t be any structures this far out.’

Their destination was not scheduled to be reached for another week at best, what was another night spent in the apparently unisolated night? Urogi switched the reins to one hand and directed the horse towards the small building, no lights were on and it appeared to be completely abandoned. There was little chance anything inside would be of use to Urogi other than potential water for his horse.

As the building came into view, Urogi could make out that this had used to be an old saloon. While money and booze were no direct benefit to the demon, it could prove to be useful with coercing humans into doing what he needed if it came down to it. The duo reached the saloon and the sound of metal spurs rattled out as Urogi dismounted, landing harshly on the sandy ground.

Tying the horse’s reins to one of the posts, Urogi made his way towards the crooked doors, being careful to keep an ear out for any unlikely motion. Hearing nothing startle, Urogi entered the saloon, the doors clicking as they swung shut behind him.

The interior of the building was shrouded in dust. Moonlight seeped in through the windows, lighting up the saloon and exposing the many half filled glasses of liquor, drinking glasses, loose coins, and the mirror which hung behind the bar. The interior consisted of a long bar filled with stools, which ran alone the right of the building nearest the numerous bottles.

Urogi neared the counter, hoping to see any box or bag indicating money was still kept there. If this place was truly left untouched, then whatever had caused such abandonment would scatter humans before they could think about the business funding.

Bending down, Urogi began opening several of the cabinet drawers on the backside of the counter, finding primarily more napkins and other items meant for bussing the tables. One of the drawers had seemingly been stuck shut with a thick coat of paint, garnering his full attention. Urogi shuffled, searching through his pockets in his pants and pulled out an old lighter he picked off a fellow trail goer.

Urogi understood these lighters were where man made fire was stored, yet he had not witnessed or recognized how to release such a flame. The demon only knew he could gently melt the paint layer away if he could successfully coax out the red heat from the metal box.

Turning the item over in his hand, the spark wheel glinted in the moonlight, catching the demon’s eye.

“This some kinda on and off switch?”

He flicked the wheel and was met with a bright spark accompanied with a screeching flash of sound ringing through the demon’s delicate ears. Urogi stilled, entranced by what lay in his hand. The light delicate flame before him danced in the cool air, licking at the demon’s face and gently reflecting off the metal fuel box. Minuscule reflections of light moved around the saloon, the fire light glinting off the old mirror and drinking glasses.

Urogi could not help the small smile which adorned his face while staring into the small flame. He truly was enraptured with its beauty.

The sound of a glass shattering against the floor rang out across the saloon.

Before Urogi could fully process what had happened, his survival instincts kicked in and mixed with his sudden state of panic, led to the demon throwing the lighter a good distance away. His wings fluffing up with ease due to the lack of clothing on his upper body, lifting himself off the floor and across the counter before he had time to consider finding the source of the noise.

“Shit!”

Urogi panicked, knowing if he was caught in such a vulnerable condition, he would be reduced to murder and have to come up with an excuse for his bloody clothes once reaching the western cattle ranch he intended to work at, posing as a cattleman. He needed to get out of the saloon and fast.

The flame of the lighter went out as it smashed into the wall and fell into an old pile of dishes, startling both Urogi and whoever else had entered the saloon. Alarmed, the demon attempted to take flight and fly through the swing doors.

Jumping off the counter had caused Urogi’s back to crash into suspended drinking glasses sending shards in all directions, some slipping under Urogi’s feet, tripping the demon and sending him into a swan dive towards the cold floor.

The sudden burst of action had scared the other present living being and they charged to hide in the nearest shade, the rustling of motion alerting Urogi as he felt the other jump over him towards the front of the room.

Urogi could only see the last sliver of a shadow casted by the animal disappear around the corner.

The temporary silence interrupted by a thumping noise coming from around the same corner the shadow disappeared to.

‘Who the HELL is here and what allows them to be so fast that I can’t see them?!’ Urogi felt one upped in this situation, having hurt himself and slowing himself to be trapped with the other blocking the exit.

Urogi decided he needed to move now, spreading his wings and taking flight in the first open direction that he found.

Glasses continued to shatter and napkins, plates, utensils, as well as other items decorating the tops of the tables were sent flying as Urogi flew, desperately searching for an out while impeding the stranger’s view of his identity.

‘Is there only one exit?’ Urogi thought, ‘who builds a salon and only puts one exit?! I’m going to die here!’

What sounded like a visceral human scream sounded out from the entrance.

If a demon’s blood could run cold from fear, Urogi would have felt it now.

The sweeping of his wings kicked dust up and into his eyes, blinding the demon and sending him flying into a random direction. Urogi cleared his vision in time to see himself make contact with the wide mirror over the bar and he made his best attempt to bounce off its surface and fly backwards in the opposite direction.

Urogi sent himself backwards through one of the windows of the salon, landing with a harsh thud on the sandy earth.

Hearing the screeching sounds of whoever was inside accompanied with the sound of running sent Urogi into flight. The demon had abandoned cover and took off without his complete disguise, horse all but forgotten at the hitching post. The crisp night air whipped through his feathers as he quickly reached the highest speed he was capable of, the demon had decided right then that Nevada, no, all of North America, was not something he was suited for.

He flew as high as he could, aiming to reach Japan before dawn. His only option left being to fly west and follow the direction of the sun to avoid direct exposure.

‘I’m sorry guys,’ Urogi thought about the rest of his group, the remaining individuals which made up the Hantengu group, ‘I’m going back.’

…

What sounded like stressed laughter erupted in the form of chittering from the jackrabbit which had managed to find itself in the salon with Urogi when looking for shade.

Now safe from any wild bird men, it thumped off into the plains.

[midnighthwng]

sight to see // hyunho

an unexpected find during the end of the world.

₊˚.⋆ pairing: lee know + hyunjin; ft. i.n

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ genre: sci-fi + meet cute (kind of)

₊˚.⋆ warning/s: mentions of blood

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ word count: 2.2k

₊˚.⋆ ao3 link

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"hyung! did you hear that?"

minho rolled his eyes, walking over to jeongin, who eagerly peeked out one of the windows. 'the window', made of a tiny slit in between the wooden boards, hastily nailed in place of broken glass. they figured that convenience stores were built to be steady, but glass was glass.

"you could hear the wind blow and you would think it's an approaching survivor," he sighed after he saw nothing through the space. he almost went back to his resting spot before jeongin pulled him back to peek.

"no, really! i heard something, i heard footsteps," the younger whisper-yelled. he was shaking his brother's shoulders, which really didn't help with his now growing headache.

minho swat his hands off of him, before pulling away from the window and walking to his previous seat. "it was probably, i don't know, a dog? i mean if you were sick of our biscuit supply, then i could have a look…"

a newspaper roll came flying onto his face. where'd that come from? "oi!"

"that's disgusting, hyung! i can't believe you think i would ever!" jeongin whined. minho chuckled and approached him again, ruffling his hair. the younger kept his pout.

"we'll… ah," he sighed, he's giving in, again. "i will check it out. only me."

"but hyung," the other whined again.

"no 'but's. you heard something and that's enough, we don't want you in danger."

"i don't want you in danger, either!"

"hyung can take care of himself just fine, buddy. besides, it's really probably just the wind," he winked.

minho stood and collected keys and a big padlock from the counter across the entrance of the store.

before he unlocked the doors, jeongin stood to hold him back by the arm. "wait."

the elder raised a brow. jeongin slowly lifted his arm to place something in his palm. a lollipop?

"in case you get hungry…?"

minho's eyes suddenly felt heavy with water. "what are you saying— i'm not gonna leave for that long!" he grabbed the candy and pulled his brother into his chest, into a tight embrace. "you're annoying."

"i'm just being cautious! you won't let me leave with you," jeongin chuckled. minho felt growing warmth on his shirt.

"i'm not gonna…" minho trailed off. he didn't want to say the word. why was he leaving again? ah right, jeongin heard something outside. "i won't be gone long, okay? i'll just round the building and i'll be back." the younger nodded, pulling away and unlocking the doors for him. he kept the keys and the lollipop in his front pocket and stepped out.

the atmosphere hadn't changed from when they first came here. the same gloomy red skies, abandoned cars, other stores broken in, electrical posts knocked down. there was a nonfunctional tank in the middle of the road, crashed to its side and reeking of undead remains it had run over before. maybe there was one or two in there, still.

minho sighed and turned to lock the outside bars with the padlock. he put the keys back into his pocket and looked over to their window, meeting a pair of eyes, to whom he smiled and waved.

then he heard it. rubble cracking underneath light footsteps. minho quietly walked over to the general direction of the sound, slowly reaching for the pistol in his makeshift holster. don't shoot, just warn. he made it a couple of buildings past their store before he found the source, situating himself behind a rundown car and peeking out.

some guy had half of his body through the backseat window of a car across the road. what the hell is he doing? the man was shifting around as he seemed to be looking for something, rocking the car and causing metal to creak together. he's being too loud…

just as the thought entered his head, he recognized a second pair of footsteps approaching. he looked around to find the origin; an alleyway behind the rundown car. where the man was still halfway seemingly stuck inside.

"damn it," minho cursed under his breath. he took his hand off the pistol and reached for the knife next to it.

the walker looked around for the sound and started speeding towards the car. just before its hands were to grab onto the guy's black pants, minho shoved it onto the floor and pierced its head with the knife. rotten blood laid itself onto his hand and flew onto his cheek. what a mess…

the creaking noises had stopped. minho slowly stood, wiping the blood off with his denim sleeve, and turned around to face the almost victim, who had finally pulled himself out of the car. the man, tall with messy, jet black hair and a black hoodie, stood there, with wide eyes and a dropped jaw. he grew red all over his small face. minho would've laughed had he not almost died because he was being too careless. he may have noticed the other's admittedly pretty face, though.

"sh-shit, i'm sorry— you had to— i'm sorry," the man hung his head low.

minho chuckled. "you should pay attention to your surroundings, kid," he said coldly. "if i hadn't been here… well, you'd be making different, unfortunate, noises…"

he thought the other's eyes couldn't go any wider, but they did. "i-i'm really, really sorry, sir," his voice grew bigger with panic, minho looking around for any danger, "you had to go through the troub—"

minho turned the man around and cupped a hand over his mouth to shut him up for a bit. loud rustling came from the direction of the store. jeongin… he had no time to get back inside.

he led them to a block farther from the store, farther from the approaching horde, hoping to find temporary shelter. hoping that the horde would only pass by.

he found an opening; yet another shattered window to an electronics store. it had been almost wiped clean by survivors— thieves, what would you need electronics for in the apocalypse?— save for a few blocky monitors ruined on the floor.

minho encouraged the man to climb in first before he followed. "here," he whispered, both of them ducking behind the store's counter. the rustling became louder. as if the horde was taunting them, following them wherever they had gone, trapping them until there was no way out, no way back home. back to the convenience store… back to his little brother.

"who are you? why did you save me?"

minho slightly jumped and stared at him. he didn't expect a conversation, nor did he want it. the man's voice was soft but it wasn't quiet. not with how the walkers could hear everything, and how they would follow whatever they heard. minho held a finger to his own mouth as a shhh and peeked over the counter. he immediately sat down.

"they're coming," he mouthed, closing his eyes and listening to the approaching parade.

both of them seemed to stop breathing in anxiety. noise attracts attention, not only to humans, but to the undead. especially the undead.

seconds before the first walker stepped into view, minho was grabbed and pushed to the ground— his eyes flew open and was met by the sight of the man he rescued wrestling with a walker, an unlucky store clerk that they didn't notice before they stepped in their hiding spot.

"fuck—" minho cursed, shuffling behind them and kicking it behind its knee, causing its calf to dislodge but not fall off. it lost its balance, but was still inches from being face to face with the man, so dangerously close to pulling him to the other side.

minho pulled out his knife and, as carefully but swiftly as possible, dug it into the walker's brain. slowly, it lost power and collapsed in the other's arms. he pushed it away and sat back down, checking himself for injuries. "damn it…"

as silence swept over them again, they noticed that the commotion outside had stopped. minho carried his gaze to the outside of the store. it was clear. the noise only faded into the distance, but the horde was out of sight.

"do you feel a sting anywhere?" minho looked over, eyes widening as he saw blood on the man's nose. "is that—"

"no, it doesn't hurt anywhere," the other responded. he stood in front of minho and bowed. "thank you for saving me. thrice."

minho had his brows raised. he was surprised to see the respectful gesture after so long. but to think… he was the first other survivor he's run into in a while. minho held his shoulders to help him stand, "it's no problem… just be careful and be alert, alright?"

the man smiled brightly and nodded. well, that was a sight to see. "yes, sir." as if he remembered something so important, his smile dropped, eyes widened, and bowed again. "m-my name is hyunjin, sir. how rude of me."

"wh— it's okay," he chuckled, helping him stand straight again. "minho." he held out a hand which the other respectfully shook. they listened to the wind blow for a second, before he asked hyunjin where he even came from. "do you have family to go back to?"

hyunjin looked away. minho observed as the other's eyes seem to start watering. "shit, sorry, you don't have to answer..."

"it's alright," hyunjin sighed. "just… we should probably get somewhere safe first."

minho almost jumped in realization. they weren't anywhere near safe right now, plus he had to get back to his brother. "i'll take you to our place, we gotta go now," he rushed, already climbing through the broken window. hyunjin followed suit and basically ran towards the convenience store.

as they approached shelter, minho sighed in relief as he saw the same pair of eyes peeking through the slit in the window. "you been watching the whole time, bud?" he whispered, almost giggling as he noticed how the younger's eyes seemed a bit damp.

"you scared me when you just ran off… come inside now, please?" jeongin pleaded. his expression went from worry to shock as he saw hyunjin come into view.

minho waited for hyunjin to catch up before he took out his keys and unlocked the door. he let him in first and scanned their surroundings as he followed.

jeongin shuffled to stand, jaw dropped as he stared at the taller boy. "you were right, innie," minho called after he secured the padlock, walking over to mess with jeongin's hair. "finally."

quickly, jeongin went over to hyunjin and started patting him everywhere— from his hair to his hoodie to his pant pockets— "who are you? where did you come from? why are you here— is that blood on your nose???" hyunjin's eyes blew open as he pushed jeongin off of him and rushed to the surveillance mirror of the store.

he looked over himself in panic, but quickly calmed as he seemed to realize what it was. he sighed as he wiped the blood off with his sleeve. "it's just a splatter from earlier…" he turned and sat on one of the benches in front of the other two.

"earlier? what happened earlier??" jeongin nearly yelled, minho not appreciating the sound at all. his headache had suddenly come back.

"we ran into two of them," minho tiredly answered, reaching over to pat jeongin's head. "no one is hurt, don't worry." he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. he hadn't been aware that he was out of breath and energy from today's encounters. how long had it been since then?

jeongin cleared his throat. "why are you staring? what are you planning?" he said lowly. minho opened an eye to peek and met with hyunjin staring at him like the younger had said.

"w-what," hyunjin stuttered, quickly averting his gaze and moving it to one of the windows, "i'm not.. staring.."

"you were," minho chuckled. "it's fine, i know i'm cute."

jeongin groaned, brows furrowed and making that silly, disgusted face that minho adored. "hyung, please, can you not." hyunjin turned extremely red.

minho couldn't help his laughter. he missed these moments. teasing his friends and his brother about literally anything, not worrying about anything around them. not being worried of lurking danger from people, alive or undead. "am i wrong?"

the younger made a face, causing minho to chuckle a bit louder and tackled him into a hug.

"actually, he isn't wrong," they heard from the seat across them. they both turned and saw hyunjin, less red, looking at them with a soft smile.

then, minho finally got a good look at the other's face. the messy hair, intimidating siren eyes, small nose, and the plump lips… it's a good combination. "you're really handsome, hyunjin-ah."

he laughed as he watched hyunjin avert his gaze again, eyes wide and furious blush brought back. he felt jeongin chuckle on his side. "so that's it? y'all were just checking each other out?"

"checking ea— jeongin, where did you learn this language??" minho mocked, giggling at jeongin's exhausted expression. faintly, he heard a chuckle from the other seat as well.

minho looked at hyunjin and saw that bright smile again. "you can stay here for a bit."

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another repost from my ao3, yippee! fun fact, i wrote this with their double knot teaser images in mind, so if you wanted to imagine them in certain clothing or in a certain setting, that was the inspo for this :)

i've had the idea to continue this zombie au as a series with the other kids but haven't had the motivation to do it, buttt maybe i can restart that idea sometime soon :o idk yet hehe

thank you for reading, and i hope you enjoyed <3

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