#replaced rather than a long time plant as I don’t think outside of the shit down codes synths can be directly controlled

[dykedvonte]

People in the fandom who think synths are mostly robot or don’t need to care for basic functions fell for Institute propaganda and have not been paying attention the the various examples of robot sentience past the gen 3 synths.

Not to be a nag about it but the Institute is very much like the synth equivalent of Tennpenny Tower for ghouls. A lot of the information they have is warped to make them seem less horrible about creating a type of human purely to enslave. To find out if a person is a synth is literally impossible with out prior knowledge or death of the synth. Synths regularly enough “gain consciousness” or yknow realize there is more out there beyond the Institute that it’s hard to say they don’t have sentience. Its fear, brainwashing and the very real fact that if they for a moment step out of line they (as they know themself) will be erased or straight up killed.

Even the robots in fallout have a sort of sentience. They may not be able to disobey their primary functions in certain cases but they have opinions on things and can get very opinionated about it. Prominent examples are Cogsworth, Curie, Yes-Man and Ada. I know the difference is one is distinctly believed to be masquerading as human but that’s literally their only “crime” if you can call it that.

It’s such easy bullshit to debunk with canon and a lot of the confusion comes from a lack of second thoughts. The Institute created synths for hyper specific and inhumane purposes. Why in Earth would they propagate information that says:

“Yeah these things are basically people that we made hella strong and forced in to subsigation through threats of death and mind wipe to the point they’d rather escape and have their memories of this place cleaned rather than live and remember their horrible treatment. But not they don’t have sentience or like human needs… I think.”

Like these are your guys? This is who you’re taking the word of? Wake up Commonwealth!

[ronalddear]

Experiment.

hey! this is a little one-shot into some DH tent angst (really doesn't get better than that) this is my first time writing any fanfiction at all so bear in mind that this is very armature.

I've been thinking about this idea for a couple months now and it's officially my headcannon replacement for the Harry-Hermione dance scene in DH, which i'm not the biggest fan of. I've already rambled on a bit but please feel free to reblog and comment your opinions and possible improvements!

The ground was inexplicably hard where Ron stood, the canvas tent behind him violently thrashing through the harsh night wind. Perhaps his thin shoes were wearing out after years of being hand-me downs, or months of endless use while they aimlessly trudged around Britain.

Ron knew though, that he was just tired. He didn't know how his shoulders managed to sag with exhaustion while remaining tense in discomfort but that's how he's been since he woke up in that god-forsaken tent.

He checked and re-enforced the wards, something that he was insanely adamant about after returning, paranoia finally setting in. It was constant at this point, hunger had become somewhat familiar and his fingertips were always a faint purple.

Not that he was complaining, he had Harry and Hermione within arms and ears reach now and he could not possibly ask for anything more.

"Ron! Dinner!", Harry's voice rang through his ears, disrupting his thoughts.

Shit. He had done it. He wasn't aware how long he had been wallowing outside and he was sure the porridge he had taken his time making for the three of them had overcooked on the stove.

He could picture Hermione's look of disdain clearly and cursed himself, not wanting her to get more mad at him but also acknowledging how he had wasted their already near non-existent supply of food.

"Merlin, I'm sorry! I'll try and find something else to-" he began with pace and halted halfway through.

Harry stood expectantly in the tiny living room area in front of Hermione who was neatly sat on their tiny couch. Harry's hands were raised excitedly yet awkwardly in an 'L" shape gesturing towards the worn table where Hermione's books usually lived.

Except there was a small space cleared, and it was occupying a small plate which had about 4 stacks of bread, with jam doused in-between and on top, with the wand that he had given Harry stabbed in the middle, a tiny flame at its tip.

Bloody hell it was a birthday cake.

"My birthday already?" he mumbled, still in awe of the poorly presented but beautiful stack in front of him.

"Well-"

'It was yesterday, I checked the calendar this morning." Hermione cut Harry off shortly, her eyes shamefully anywhere but Ron.

"Oh" he said, wishing so desperately that she would just look at him.

"Come on then mate, make your wish, because I'm not bloody singing" Harry encouraged, his eyes shining fondly at Ron.

With a soft chuckle, he sat on the ground at the table, feeling Harry follow next to him. He blew out the 'candle' softly, not even thinking about his wish, there were simply too many.

Harry gave a low whoop and reached over Ron with a knife and fork and haphazardly cut the cake into thirds.

When Hermione's eyes finally reached his, because yes, he had not taken his eyes off her, his stomach gave a jolt and a small smile graced his lips. Her lips however were still set in the line that she had been giving him for the past couple weeks but her eyes were so gentle and loving, almost unwillingly so, as if she was trying so very hard to be mad. After Harry hurriedly plated their shares and they began eating, a small lump began forming in Ron's throat. He willed himself not to cry, it was just sodding jam soaked toast after all.

He looked up at his two best friends as they ate, observing as Harry scarfed down his portion and as Hermione ate slowly, taking sips of her weak tea in between, knowing it was far too sweet for her taste.

"Wish we could have given you a gift." she said so softly, that he had taken a few seconds to register that she said anything at all.

Her eyes were still on her plate.

"Don't need one", he murmured, hoping that he sounded earnest enough that it could translate how very thankful he was.

"Really?! You sure?", Harry said, and Ron swore for a second that it was eleven year old Harry speaking to him. It was evident that the boy was prone to sugar rushes, even if it was a tablespoon of old jam.

"I have all I need.", he said, voice steadier this time, flashing a grateful smile at him, which was returned.

"Really? Not even a special birthday snog Ron? Because if you want I'll do it again-"

"Harry I'm fine! Merlin's Beard!', Ron interrupted Harry's rushed teasing with loud laughter, Harry's roaring laugh following close behind.

"Wait what do you mean again?" Hermione chanced at Harry, her eyebrows furrowed inquisitively and mouth adorably agape.

Breaking their giggling fit, they both turned towards her , eyes widening at the exact same time. It was then Ron realized that there was soft music playing, presumably from the wireless that was on the table. Has it always been on?

'Nothing don't worry."

"Nothing!"

Harry had followed Ron with the most non-convincing 'nothing' he had ever heard. Sensing what was about to happen, he suddenly felt the strongest urge to slap Harry on the back of his head.

"No no, you said again" Hemione retaliated, her eyes wide as ever, it was the most lively Ron had seen her for months.

"It was once in fourth year!"

'Don't worry about it Hermione, it's fine."

Ron's head snapped toward Harry cursing the stupid sugar in the stupid jam that apparently made Harry, quite frankly, very stupid.

"Wait wait! what?!" Hermione was energetic now and had fully swiveled to face them both.

Realizing that he physically could not lie to Hermione straight to her face, he accepted his fate and both boys began rambling at the same time, Harry excitedly, Ron bracingly.

"Look after the Yule ball-"

"This is rather depressing actually-"

"Shut up Ron, you liked it."

"I don't recall saying I didn't-"

'Anyway, after the shit-show that was the ball, y'know, we wanted to see if-"

"Oh my god I can't believe we're actually- We said we wouldn't tell anyone!"

"Bit late now Ron, anyway, we wanted to-'

"To see if what?!" Hermione gaped at them both, she was clearly teasing now, after seeing Harry's frantic (and hand waving heavy) storytelling and Ron's hair to toe blush.

"Just experimenting-"

"Just for fun!" Harry interjected.

They turned towards each other, eyes wide and then proceeded to practically scream at Hermione.

"Just for fun!'

Just experimenting!"

Great. Now they've switched excuses.

Hermione burst into loud laughter, after much suppression. It was, by far, the most beautiful sound Ron had ever heard and he wished for it to never stop.

This unfortunately, did not halt his maroon blush or the clearly embarrassed look on his face, which made her laugh even more. The second he took a glance at Harry and their eyes met they erupted into an uncontrollable fit of giggles, Harry doubling over and Ron throwing his head back. Drunk on laughter perhaps, Harry leaned over to the wireless and increased the volume, a slow yet rhythmic song filled the small tent.

"Let's have a ball yeah? Like last time?' Harry said, eyebrows wiggling suggestively on the last part, causing Ron to start laughing again, completely red faced.

Hermione struggled to breathe giggling as she looked on at them clearly trying to ballroom dance and failing miserably. The form was so bad no one was sure who was leading at this point, Ron's shoulders much too stiff and Harry's hands much too loose around Ron's waist. They were jumping around madly in the tent laughing harder than ever. Hermione managed to tease once more through gasping breaths,

"Should I leave before you start snogging or-"

"Oh shut up you!", Harry exclaimed, accompanied by a rude hand gesture and Ron simply stared at her and grinned.

'Come join us then', Ron said, holding out his hand for her.

She pretended to think for a moment before getting up, the thin blanket around her laid forgotten on the couch. They rotated for a couple moments, Hermione taking turns in being spun by Harry and Ron, all three of them a giggling mess, their threadbare socks squeaking on the wood floors.

Ron and Harry began a much too rough slow dance once more and Hermione was lightly swaying on her own before standing behind Ron, wrapping her arms around his stomach and tiptoeing her furthest, her nose barely reaching his shoulder. Effectively sandwiched between the pair of them, Ron was thrashing widely in attempts to throw them all off balance, cheeks impossibly red. The lump that was in his throat earlier had developed into free flowing tears and sniffles and he didn't care to stop them.

It didn't bother him because he knew he saw Harry's watering eyes and wobbly smile and felt Hermione's soft sobs through her giggles.

It was definitely the sugar or perhaps the sheer sadness of it all but for a moment they were still children who didn't have any worries or wars to fight on their own. Hermione nuzzled into Ron's back, still giggling, and placed a shy but firm kiss on his jumper-clad shoulder. He reached behind him for her hand and gently pulled her to the front, now spinning both Harry and Hermione, his heart glowing with joy. He tugged her towards him and gave a soft, chaste kiss to her hairline. Now both giggling, they seized Harry and planted two very hard kisses on his cheeks from behind, startling him enough to let out a disgusted squeak and he roared with laughter as he wiped his face on his jacket.

It was insanely messy but it was perfect. So perfect that Ron didn't care that in the morning he would have to second guess if Hermione was even close to forgiving him or that Harry would brood all day about the Hallows and be distant from them both, a war on their shoulders. He was with the two people he loved the most and for that he was thankful.

[meowdymista]

For my first RDR2 event, I was paired with @sunspott / @polybigbang. Their art was for a playlist on spotify called Going’s All We Know, and I’ve tried to incorporate the mood of the playlist into my first impression of the art.

You can read my submission on AO3 or follow through with the read more :)

Still No Rest

Feet are itching again, plus it ain't like we can stick around much longer. Going is all we know, even if we ain't got nowhere else left.

Things had been too steady of late. They had been too safe, had slipped away far too easily, had pulled moneybags out of places that should have fought back but hadn't even batted an eye.

Arthur pushes back his hair, greasy and long, off his brow. The clouds above are smoky and dark - a storm, just as anticipated.

Maybe he jumped a little too far too fast today. Maybe if he hadn't been so on edge waiting for something to go wrong, they could have deescalated the situation. Maybe lives could have been spared, but it’s not like the guilt isn’t scratching the ridges of his brain like a dusty gramophone needle.

What makes you any different? You who's always scraping for a scrap of some sort. Them trying to do the right thing and crossing your path to do it. Better you than them, right? Like Daddy always said, if they didn’t want to die they should mind their own business.

A new start: isn't that what they had promised themselves? A new state, a new town, a new camp: a clean slate that he had managed to bloody in a record three days.

Every bullet that screamed past his ear left his bones ringing with that too familiar dull tired ache. Every blade that snagged his clothes instead of his skin embittered him. The tiniest of voices hummed with the thought that maybe, maybe, he should fight that craving for carelessness and even tell someone about it… but the beast he’s become scowls and reminds him with a low growl that then they would stop him. They would take him off the front line, teach the gangly adolescent John - who is a far worse shot - to replace him.

It's not even jealousy really, he reasons as he slips his journal away and stretches into a stand. They need him. Need his gun, his eye, his blade. Worrying them isn’t an option, especially right now. He doesn’t need to make them doubt his reliability, or question whether they’ve misplaced their trust. He knew in his heart that if anyone in the gang confessed the same, he would refuse their gun, even if he needed it - and afterwards? In the weeks, months, years to come? He would always pick someone else. Someone less vulnerable. Someone he never doubted or needed to protect.

Which is how he ended up going out with the feller Dutch had picked up when they were up North. He’s had a few too many close shaves under Hosea’s watchful eye of late as he struggled to conceal the beast's rearing head. The old man was onto him, his brown eyes still boring into him, even after Copper found his way to him.

Bill, on the other hand, is always game for a ruckus. He has as much of a temper as he does, and can match him drink for drink. Some of the stories he lets slip prickle him - like the beast recognising a party equal, a fellow host. He says nothing. Doesn't validate them, doesn't acknowledge them or aim to empathise, he just accepts the added weight of tar and grudges home with another bottle.

“Arthur?”

"M'tired," grunts Arthur, walking past Hosea, boots scuffing the dry red earth beneath them. “Besides, you know how it is. Sometimes bullets fly no matter what you do.”

Hosea doesn’t dignify his excuse with a response, and despite the poker face, Arthur can feel the guilt twist a little tighter in his gut as he sets about washing his arms and face in the barrel by the food reserves. He knows nothing good would come from trying to explain the truth of the situation... How a glimpse of a little boy in his peripherals is as sure a sign of upcoming thunder as lightning flashing in the distance. His not-brown-not-blond tussle of hair brushing the wind with fat drops of rain… rain that never came, leaving Arthur to water the ground with blood, like somehow it could make him feel less like he’s drowning in the driest desert outside of New Mexico.

He pats his pockets for the cigarette he had rolled earlier, until, retracing his steps mentally, he sighs in disappointment. He had been about to light it when it all kicked off. Or rather… it had been in his mouth whilst he tried to align yet another match to the tobacco when he had caught the eye of another patron and decided to swap the nicotine for some adrenaline.

His fondness for Bill always grew at moments like this. Bastard heard one cross word and his guns were out before he found his balance.

Deflated, he uncaps a beer instead, emptying it, tossing it aside and grabbing another, before spotting the girl devouring a bowl of stew a stone's throw away.

"Who's she?" he asks before Hosea can try to raise the day’s events.

"Your new ward."

Arthur stops, scoffing, growing angry when the elder doesn’t back down. "Nuh uh! No way! I just got rid of Johnny! Get Williamson to do it!"

"You'd trust him with her?"

"Sure! Why not?" He glances back at the girl despite himself. His index finger is itching again. "Or get Marston on it. Ain't like he's doing much else."

"John is still learning how to take care of himself, and Bill…"

"He ain't gonna beat up a little girl." Restless, his feet shuffle beneath him, his beer swapping hands before touching his lips again. "And ain't like he's gonna have interest in her."

"You think he wouldn't do it just to prove a point?" Their eyes meet briefly before Arthur's gaze drops. "People who are insecure are far more dangerous than those comfortable in themselves, never forget that Arthur. Besides, I'd rather not expose her to the prejudices she can get any day of the week. She ought to feel safe here, don't you think?"

He finishes the dregs and tosses the bottle, preferring to change the subject than admit he’s right. "Where’d she come from? She got any family?"

"She left her cousin back east. Came this way looking for her mother but she’d passed meanwhile."

"So… what’s the plan? We taking her back east?"

"Sure as shit you ain't!"

The girl has stepped around the table, legs planted apart, hands folded across her flat chest, her hair as free and untamed as her temperament. She is glaring something fierce, making the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end in a fight or flight instinct.

Hosea chuckles softly, eyes bright with pride. "I reckon she's one of us now."

"Well, does she have a name?" asks Arthur, incredulous.

"Jackson." She jerks her heart shaped face in a defensive greeting. "My name is Tilly Jackson."

"Well, Miss Tilly Jackson, you always so fierce?" He stalks the couple of steps to the nearest crate of whiskey and pulls one free.

"You always this stupid?"

"Hey now, Miss Jackson," interrupts Hosea before Arthur can bark. "We don't talk to each other like that here."

"He started it!"

"And you’re sitting with Mrs Matthews when you’re done so she can keep an eye on you!” He ushers her towards Bessie to keep her out of harm's way before turning back to his first product of adoption with a raised brow.

"You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

"Try coming back just half soaked some time. Might make them go easier on you."

Arthur scoffs, his rebuttal dying in his throat. He dampens the ash with another swig.

"I want you to take her with you when you go out."

His scoff is solid. "No way."

Hosea straightens up, watching him, using his body language to ask the questions.

"I ain't taking her out. You want her shot?"

"You intend to shoot her?"

"No, course not-"

"Then what's the problem?"

Arthur's eyes roll in exasperation, his finger flexing around the neck of the bottle like it's a button that will win the argument if he squeezes tight enough. "The problem is other people shooting at us."

"You intend to get shot at?"

"No, but-"

"Then I see no problem."

"That don't mean we ain't gonna get shot at!"

"Why would you get shot at?"

'Cause that's what I set out to do most days, he wants to counter. And if I ain't likely to get shot, I'm likely in jail or black out drunk in a saloon someplace.

Instead he closes his mouth, any excuse dead before it passes his lips.

"I'm not asking you to take her with you to rob a bank, Arthur." Hosea's tone is firm but still soft - a talent of his. "But while you're out looking for leads, or even looting a homestead or something… She's nifty."

"Hosea, I-" He trails off, distracted by the clip of notes Hosea is picking through, and downright thrown when he passes him the thinned out clip. "What's this for? I gettin' paid to be a nanny now?"

“This-” Hosea holds up a couple of notes before putting them in his pocket. “-is for arguing with me. This is for the box, as it seems you’ve forgotten to pay the camp's share, and this-" He casually holds out the last few dollars to the side like he’s ashing a cigarette. A small brown hand slips it away as both Hosea and little Miss Tilly regard him smugly. "Is for a mark well scammed."

"You mean-?" He checks his pockets, ears growing hot. "You son of a-"

“Ah-ah! Language!” Dutch swaggers up with a smirk like he has been watching the introduction unfold in its entirety. “C’mon, Arthur, you have to give it to her. She’s talented!”

“Might finally have picked up a smart one, eh, Dutch?” winks Hosea. Arthur scowls and turns on his heel, leaving them laughing and praising their newest addition.

****

Arthur remains cool and calm the next few days, hunting local and sticking close to camp. Every time he approaches his horse, the little girl is waiting, watching him with her fierce brown eyes.

"Where we goin', Mr Arthur?" She asks as soon as he's within earshot. "Do I need anything bringing?"

Every time he offers to pay double what Hosea has offered her, and every time she refuses to discuss the terms of their negotiation. Every time he curses everything under his breath, keeping his language savoury for the child nearby. Every time he scowls, and every time he gives her a grunt of "naw, we ain't going far" before mounting up and lifting her onto the rear.

"I can ride myself, ya know?" She shoots one morning as Arthur leads his stead into a trot away from camp, heading towards the softer, greener terrain that’s barely visible on the horizon. "Properly. Not side saddle."

"Good for you."

"If I had a horse I would show you."

"And run off with the money we got, huh."

She bristles. "I ain't no snitch."

"Sounds like somethin' a snitch would say." He pops the cork from a half full bottle of rum and takes a swig. Replacing the bottle, he notices her scrunching her nose in disdain. “Got a problem? I can take you back to camp.”

“You sure don’t drink much water,” she comments drily. “You ain’t worried ‘bout heatstroke out here?”

“Liquor’s hydrating,” he scowls, pushing the horse into a canter.

“Pretty sure it ain’t, but you do you. Besides, I got dibs on your things. We all gotta start somewhere, right?”

Arthur snorts angrily, adrenaline prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. “You sure as hell do not, princess. I ain’t going nowhere!”

Miss Jackson hums sarcastically. “Sure you ain’t. You don’t eat, don’t drink anything under forty proof, don’t talk to no one-”

“If you don’t like it, I can drop you right here!”

“Go ahead.” Her tone is defiant, but it doesn’t escape his notice that she grips his sides a little tighter. “Mr Matthews was pretty explicit about what he’d do to you if you tried.”

He stews the next mile or more, not speaking up until he finally dismounts for a break at the change of terrain.

Wide open spaces always helped to ground him, even though it could make vanishing into thin air difficult. To some extent, it forced him to not be so careless. In others, it made it easier to kid himself that he had never crossed the threshold into civilisation, let alone crossed a kind faced waitress.

Listening out for creeping cougars and restless rattlesnakes, he crouches down by the water’s side and splashes his face, washing off the worst of the sweat and dust that’s caked itself into every pore available. The girl makes no move to dismount, so he takes it upon himself to refill her canteen as a gesture of goodwill.

“You don’t got to stick to us, you know.” She turns her big brown eyes from the sky onto Arthur’s face. He shuffles his feet awkwardly, focusing his attention on brushing out the biggest clumps of dust from the horse’s mane before they continue. “If you need me to take you somewhere-”

“And what’s a girl to do then? Hit the road with a couple dollars?” She fixes him with a look that is too old for her face. “Naw, I think I’ll stay with youse a little longer.”

“That’s alright, but we’re gonna have to be moving on real soon.” He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to ignore the unspoken reminder that it’s because of him and his actions. “It ain’t like we can promise to be back up this way any time in the near future. If you change your mind-”

“I won’t change my mind about them, Mr Morgan.” She shivers in a breeze that only seems to touch her. “No, sir. They had me bound real good for real long, but I don’t need ‘em. I won my freedom, Mr Morgan, an’ I ain’t going back.”

He risks a glance, curiosity getting the better of him. Her eyes are sparkling as bright as the water's surface, but her jaw is clenched tight. He debates riding further, doing what he can to get them set up at the fishing spot Hosea had heard about as they moved through the state to their current set up, but the child looked too old. Too tired. Too existentially exhausted.

Plus, when you get low enough, it's like some things will follow wherever you go.

“Let’s stop here a while.”

As predicted, Miss Jackson double takes. “Don’t you want to get to where we’re headed?”

Arthur shrugs. “Ain’t like there ain’t food to be foraged here. Nothing to come raising any hell or bother us into raising it for them. Reckon this spot’s as good as any.”

He turns his back to her as she dismounts warily, focusing his energy on starting a small campfire they can add to.

"I ain't goin' anywhere if you wanna swim." He grimaces as his words come out gruffer than intended. "I got clean clothes in the saddle bags here if you want 'em for the trip back or to swim in even. Can't imagine that skirt is the lightest when it gets wet."

"You ain't wrong, Mr Arthur, sir. Thank you for the offer but I think I'm just gonna stick to paddling for now."

"Sure."

It's not his first choice. This land is a little too dry for his liking, but that's what comes with being so close to the desert. Money means nothing to nature, besides she provides everything and more than what shops and butchers supply. Who needs civilisation when there's the wilds to retreat into? When there is wild carrots and rhubarb aplenty, fresh meat, shelter, all for the low cost of taking what you need as you need it?

The fire started, he sets out to look for fuel and food. Crouching down to check dung and disturbances in the foliage, he finds the damage is minimal. He swears again, taking a swig of whiskey from his satchel.

He doesn't really remember a time he didn't drink, but he knows this is different. He knows this isn't a choice on his behalf. The demon demands fuel as a child demands milk, and like the fool he is, he provides without much hesitation. Anything for a glimmer of peace from the screaming child in his mind.

He scoffs at himself and straightens up, looking around on the off chance some animal is dumb enough to be caught out in the open - and as luck would have it, a pronghorn buck is grazing a stones throw away.

He inhales deeply, taking aim with newfound focus, and fires.

The pronghorn bolts, but it's no contest for the bullet soaring his way. A mournful cry bleats through the undergrowth as it flees. He follows, as loud as he likes given the rip of the shot would have blasted a warning to anything within earshot. Breaking through a wall of cacti, he spots Miss Tilly aghast in the shallows as the buck splashes into the lake he had washed up in on their arrival.

He keeps going, realising the buck is heading for a wet escape. Shedding his guns as he runs, he wades in after it, shouting.

The buck is swimming in deep water, leaving behind a trail of blood behind with every baleful bleat, leaving Arthur with no option besides taking a spur of the moment swim or going home with an empty stomach.

"C'mere!" he cries, breaking into breaststroke. The buck is slowing, every cry growing more lamenting and mournful. "Stop! I can make it stop, just come a little closer."

It's crying weakly by the time he manages to reach it. He throws an arm over its neck and fumbles for his hunting knife, but the blood proves too thick and one small fumble sends it disappearing into the depths.

"C'mon," he grunts, tugging the wounded animal with him as he kicks his way towards shore. "You ain't gonna get any lighter."

He struggles towards shore, gasping assurances every chance he gets. When his boots finally scrape the bottom, he whistles for his mount with the last of the air in his lungs.

He finally releases the animal, using both hands to search for a knife or a pistol - something to end its suffering quickly. Drowning the thing felt too callous, too slow, too-

"Will this be enough?"

Arthur, still gasping for breath, hair dripping into his blue eyes, pauses, surprised. A small hand is proferring a flip knife, her small face reflecting the distress of his own. Recovering, he nods quickly, thanking her as he takes the tool from her and advising her to look away and cover her ears. Obeying doesn’t lessen the heart wrenching last cry of the animal, but on opening her eyes again, she decides it is less painful than watching the poor thing struggle as it drowned.

Arthur is holding the animal, counting, as though held to some strange code to make sure it is dead before removing the tool of choice. He shakes the knife under the surface and folds it up, passing it back to her with a grunt of thanks. She takes it, still in shock at the unexpected show of violence.

He pushes the carcass out of the water, promising to be back soon before swimming back to where he caught the animal. Watching his head disappear under the surface, she is left with the silence of the cooling body nearby. It looks strangely peaceful staring off into the east.

Arthur swims back, pushing back the sodden mop of brown hair as he wades out with sopping boots and a shiny carving knife he must have dropped earlier. He advises her to leave him to it if she’s squeamish, and she refuses up until the animals guts plume onto the sand.

From a distance, she watches him carry them away from their makeshift camp, covering them up with some leaves and branches to disguise the worse of the mess but leave it readily available to the creatures due a feast. Returning to the body, he begins to carve with care, piling steaks onto canvas. He wastes as little as possible, even wrapping the exposed neck of the head in canvas before tying it onto the horse. He turns to the water, notices her watching and walks over.

“Reckon we’re almost done here,” he calls as he gets close enough. “Just gonna wash up and we can get going.”

“You always butcher your kill before going back?” she asks.

He huffs, a twinkle in his eye. “Sure, when I don’t plan on walking back. Figured you’d rather hitch a ride than straddle a dead deer.”

She shudders, making him laugh as he kicks off his boots and setting them aside to dry from earlier. He doesn’t remove his clothes, just pulls a bar of soap from the saddlebags and asks if she minds if he doesn’t dry off. She herself finally admits internally that she feels grubby. She had washed and washed and washed, and eventually came to accept the grime was not going to wash off her. Too much dirt, too ingrained, too repeated to ever shed properly…

She follows him, still keeping her distance. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything, just keeps scrubbing suds under his nails, over his forearms, into every fibre of his shirt. When she finally feels brave enough to speak up, she takes a deep breath, and on a whim decides to splash him.

He turns around, frowning, before picking up on the giggles and grinning himself. His arms are stronger, thicker, longer - the retaliation engulfs her with a responding tidal wave that leaves her gasping for air. In the small glimpse she makes of him, she notes the guilt and the apology on his lips as he believes himself having gone too far, but she’s too quick. She pushes him in the chest and tries to swim away as quick as she can, squealing the whole way.

Their laughter disturbs the birds in the branches, and they take flight, not that either of them notice. They play until the sun lowers to kiss the leaves around them. They share the bar of soap, and Tilly takes refuge in his disinterest. He lets her wash. She lets him wash. Both of them keep their distance when appropriate.

“Perhaps we oughta ride back in the morning,” Arthur muses when he notices how much she is shivering. "It's only gonna get colder, and at least we've got a fire going here."

“I don’t mind making the ride.”

He chuckles, eyes soft. “Miss Tilly. You’re dead on your feet, and sure as hell will be dead in the saddle. I can fall asleep just about anywhere if you’re alright with the tent and bedroll? Hell, it’d make a nice change to waking up to Susan and Dutch arguing, huh?”

“You ain’t wrong...” She is still hesitating. Arthur tried to shake the thought of what she must have been through and instead tells himself that it's standard practice to be wary of new folk. She could feel safe in camp because there were more people to keep tabs on one another. Out here, it was just him, her and the stars, and since when did the stars ever do anything to help?

“Listen. Choice is yours. I’ll ride through the night if that’s what you want, but I promise you’re safe with me.” He checks the barrel of his revolver, counting the six bullets nestled inside before snapping it in place and holding it out by the barrel. “Here. I can’t give you both in case we get jumped, but I’ll stow the long arms on Wyn if that makes it easier.”

She sits in silence for a long while before nodding slowly.

“Alright then. You get to eating your fill while I set you up for the night.”

*****

She wakes up, well rested and warm. She takes a few minutes to lay there, watching the shadows of the flies buzzing on the canvas above before finally crawling out in search of fresh air.

Owain is grazing not so far away, but Arthur is nowhere to be seen. His long arms are still stashed, the fire just ash now. Panic rises in her throat, torn between the fear of him being jumped and him abandoning her willingly.

She frets, pacing, checking their reserves. No, she has no clue where the hell he has taken her so she doesn’t know where to even start on trying to return to Mr Matthews and Mr Van der Linde. She curses him for being so spoilt as to be threatened by a little girl.

“Mornin’, Miss Jackson.” She flinches, immediately retreating from the greeting. Arthur is frowning under the brim of his hat as he dismounts the small bay coloured horse. “Everythin’ alright?”

“I thought you left me,” she admits, still choked up. He seems surprised, then bashful, trying to hide it by patting the neck of the horse he has with him.

“Naw. There was a herd moving through here early this morning and I remembered about you wantin’ a horse of your own.” He gives her an awkward nod. “Whaddaya reckon? She rides pretty nice. One of the smaller one, but she seems friendly enough. If you wanna keep her, I’ll set you up on mine until we can get this one broke in properly if tha’s alright?”

“Sure.”

“Awesome.” He begins to pack their things away, tacking Owain and bribing both steads with sugar cubes.

“We going hunting again?”

Arthur puts away the brush and pats his horse’s neck. “Naw. Today we’re headed to Greyhound Station.”

“Why?”

“Boring stuff. Check to see if anyone’s tried to write us. Check for bounties and that we ain’t most of ‘em. See if there’s any jobs goin’, keep an ear to the ground in case there’s money to be had. You know, standard outlaw stuff.”

“I ain’t ever been on a wanted poster yet,” she muses. “That I know of anyhow. Knowing the Foreman Brothers, they’ll be tryin’ to frame me for something.”

“The Foreman Brothers?”

“The… gang. The ones I was with when Dutch and Hosea found me.” Arthur hums in acknowledgement but doesn’t press it. It’s like he knows it’s a big bruise still there after months of riding with them. “They was wrestlin’ to hang me or bury me alive. Never did find out which since I managed to wriggle off the wagon without them noticin’. So much for family.”

“Y’all were related?”

“Yeah.” She spits off the side. “Good riddance to ‘em.”

He hums. “If anybody tries to pull that with you again, you lemme know. I’ll get ‘em before they blink.” He rummages in his saddle bag and pulls out a glass bottle of clear liquid. She frowns as he takes a greedy few gulps before offering it to her.

“I ain’t much a fan of the bottle, Arthur.”

He throws her a look of befuddlement over his shoulder before understanding befalls him. “It weren’t my first choice, Miss Jackson, but I’ve yet to learn how best to store water if not in a bottle of some kind.”

“Water?”

“Water,” he repeats with a shake of his head. “Whiskey’s the other side if you want some.”

“I’m good for now, Mr Morgan,” she smiles, raising the bottle to her lips, squinting at the sunburned strip that’s the back of his neck. “Maybe some other time.”

[nagia-pronounced-neijia]

w(h)ip wednesday

It's a surprisingly quaint little farm, the kind of thing some traveller from the far-away west might paint into his little journal and tell all the Belgians and Austrians and French about.  Green hills rise up in a gentle roll, with occasional stones that must have tumbled down from God-knows-where, looking pushed up through the grass and the barley like crooked teeth.  Sheep meander among the gray rocks, bleating occasionally to each other and munching on the plants.

As they step past the low wooden fence, Trevor spots a goat chewing cud in a pen.  It stares disinterestedly at them, eyes gleaming with that peculiar mix of cunning and stupidity native to goats.  If it was ever a person, their mind seems long gone, he thinks, replaced by a goat's determination to be the biggest pain in the arse it possibly can.

They keep going and find a yard full of chickens.  Here chickens, there chickens, everywhere fucking chickens.  Mostly roosters, judging by the wattles, which he finds odd, and when Sypha steps too close to a hen, one of the stupid cockerels jumps at her.  His wings flutter, feathers flying further than he can, and he seems determined to murder her with talon, beak, or both.  He makes the most insane noises as he does it, like metal screaming.

It's instinct to try and put himself between her and something trying to hurt her.  Even something as small and stupid and surprisingly vicious as a pissed-off chicken.  He raises his arms to block the pecks and scratches, glad of the fur-and-leather vambraces, thick enough that he feels nothing.

"Calm the hell down," Trevor says, and puts a boot to the bird, which doesn't improve his disposition, exactly, but does manage to make him reconsider attacking.  "I'll do it again," Trevor warns him, and immediately feels like an idiot.

But the rooster subsides, sulky, glaring at them both with beady eyes.

And the cabin door swings open.  The woman who steps outside isn't quite pretty, but she's striking.  He thinks her nose might have been broken, once, and her hair falls loose around her shoulders in a riot of deep red that catches in the sun.

But it's her hands he's most interested in, and, just like every family book always said, they tell the real story to him immediately.

Her face may look youngish -- certainly only of middle years -- but her hands, too pale, have wrinkles and liver spots, a sure sign of a witch.  The deep, nearly black bruising that extends from the nail to the second knuckle of her littlest fingers, however, is the mark of a witch who has embraced questionable magic, if not outright reveled in the foulest and blackest of workings.

Beside him, Sypha moves to wave one arm.  "You must be Sârșe," she says, and he can hear that she's smiling.

The woman inclines her head.  "I am.  And who might you be?"

"I"m Sypha, and this is Trevor."  She jabs at him with an elbow.  He doesn't jab back, but mostly because he's trying to figure Sârșe out.

"Hello," he says, about a second after Sypha's pointy elbow makes contact a second time.

Sâr��e watches them both.  Absolutely no emotion colors her face.  Even her eyes look flat and lifeless, no more interested in them as people than the goat had been.  "What have you come to find?"

He sighs.  "Oh, we found it already."

"Trevor," Sypha hisses.

But Trevor ignores her.  "Look, we know you're a witch.  Well, Sypha suspects.  But I know.  And I don't care about the whole," here, he makes a sort of quotation mark with the fingers of both hands, "'demons into chickens' thing.  Not sure anybody should be eating those, but it's not my business."

The very furthest corner of Sârșe's mouth curls up for about a second before smoothing back down.  Her gaze remains flat.  "And what is your business?"

"I'm not saying I expect you to turn them all back, mind, because I know that's not how it works.  But how many of your sheep used to be people?"

He's a little relieved when, rather than hotly deny it, Sârșe licks her lips.  "All of them," she says, calmly, like she doesn't care at all.

Well, that explains at least one of her fingers.  Hell, he's a little surprised it hasn't spread further.

Sypha's the one to step forward and ask, "Do you have any plans to stop?"

Sârșe stares between them for what feels like several minutes.  It's probably not even a whole minute of its own, but it sinks its teeth into him and drags.  Her eyes look like empty wells, endless and awful.

"No," she says, still very calm.

"Told you," he mutters to Sypha.  "When they're this far gone, they don't really listen to reason."

That draws Sârșe's attention.  She snaps her head to look at him.  Something even darker stirs in her dark eyes, moving and shifting, and they bite into him.  He doesn't look away, but he wants to, because eyes like those see, and the brain behind them judges, and men are always found wanting in a gaze like that.

Found wanting and then turned into farm animals.  And then potentially sold at fucking market day, to be slaughtered and eaten. Christ.

"Do you think yourself such a hero, Trevor Belmont?"`

He lets out a short bark of a laugh.  "I helped kill fucking Dracula, sure.  But what I was really doing was helping a man kill his own father.  What kind of hero is that?"

She repeats the question back at him, emphasizing it.  "What kind of hero is that, Trevor Belmont?"

"No kind at all," he replies.

And, for the first time, she smiles.  It's terrible and pitying.  "Will you kill fucking Sârșe?  And if you do, what will you really have done?"

Sypha fields this one.  "We'll have stopped animals that used to be people being sold and eaten by those who once knew them.  You have to admit that's grotesque."

"I admit no such thing.  They know who I am.  They know the consequence of crossing me.  They know what I bring to market day.  They choose to buy from me regardless.  Their business is no business of mine."

God, witch logic.  It's all perfectly factual, but frustratingly circular in a way he can't put words to.  A sort of pure, unfeeling truth that leaves no room for honesty or humanity.  Infuriating.

"Yeah, done with you, now," Trevor says, and draws the Vampire Killer.  Consecration is little good against witches except in their hands, but the Morningstar would be worse than useless.

Where's a rowan branch when you need one?  Not that there would be a single rowan tree on this property; they would have all died the first time she took a piss here.  Hell, if he were half the Belmont that Sypha thinks he is, he'd have a fucking pouch of salt on him, and he doesn't.  Their salt is in the wagon with their goddamned cooking supplies.

Sypha conjures a ring of fire, driving away all the chickens and other animals from the farm, and Sârșe's eyes widen for a moment.  She looks between them again, gaze darting from Sypha to Trevor, trying to determine if the Belmont or the fellow magician is the bigger threat.

She apparently decides on him, because she flings an arm out and tries to drag him toward her.

Trevor, more used to this sort of thing by now than he likes, drops forward.  He lets himself fall, and feels the grip of the spell break as his weight pulls him away from it.  His hands hit the ground first, and he pulls himself into a roll, coming up on one knee.

He lashes out with the whip, half-turning to improve its force as he lets his arm flow then jerks his wrist.  The line sings out, tip whistling, and the metal end bites into her hand.

Her finger flies away, landing with a sort of wet, useless noise in the dirt.

Sârșe doesn't even scream.  She just looks between her now maimed hand and the finger on the ground.

"That was very stupid," she says, somehow wholly unbothered by the fact that he just tore off part of her hand, a part she probably uses pretty often.  She raises the same hand, even as it bleeds, and makes a curling gesture with her remaining fingers.

Once again something grips him, trying to pull him closer.

When she raises her other hand, Sypha slides sideways, colliding with one of the wooden fences.  It cracks with the force she hits it at, splintering.

He's not thinking when he sends the whip out again.  It's anger that drives him to it, and this time, he gets her in one of those tainted, blackened littlest fingers, and Sârșe screams.  At first it's just a gurgling sound of pain, thin and high, like any woman might make when a man reached out and hurt her because he could.

But then it turns to something else.  Something thick and strange sounding, that scratches at his ears and the air around him.

"I name you worm, that crawls in the dust," Sârșe says.  "I name you dog, that licks his master's hand.  I name you cock, that lords himself over nothing.  I name you buck-goat, that ruts and farts, and I name you pig, that wallows in shit."

Absolutely no imagination on the woman.  He supposes whatever demon she serves, or made a deal with, or whatever, has probably long eaten it.  "People have really got to find worse things to call me."

Sârșe laughs.  "What a strange worry," she says casually.  "But needless.  You'll call yourself all those things, in the end, and worse."  And she raises both hands, and this time, she really does manage to pull him in, mostly because he lets her.

Once he's close, she smears her blood on his cheek and smiles that terrible, pitying, dark-eyed smile, and the empty wells of her eyes stare at him, judgmental, even as he sinks one of his knives into her throat.

He pays no attention to the witch's body after that.  Instead, he runs for Sypha.  She'd fallen among the splinters, and he doesn't even think about kneeling, about passing his hands over her to feel for blood, for anything sticking out or misplaced.

"Are you alright?  That was some hit."  And fuck him, his job is to be the one taking the hits.  He still hasn't forgiven himself for the scars on her upper arm from their fight with Dracula.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she grumbles.  "Help me up."

He does, splaying one hand under her back and supporting her under the elbow with his other hand.  He hefts her up, taking most of her weight, and she stumbles a little as she rises.  She leans heavily against him, and he lets her, wrapping one arm loosely around her shoulders.  "You're sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine," she snaps, predictably irritated, and waves a hand at him.  "Leave it be."

"Alright, alright, if you say so.  And, well, she's dead.  If we're lucky, some of these people might start turning back.  Do we want to be here for that?"  They probably should.  He thinks his uncle would have.  His father certainly would have.

[marvelous-maximilian]

[AO3]

Tony not-so-subtly wrinkles his nose, and Howard can’t help but empathize. He, too, is beginning to lose his patience, and would quite literally do anything to get out of this conversation as quickly as possible. Their audience, however— a senator who knows just enough about rocket science to bullshit his way into looking like he knows what he’s talking about— isn’t really giving the Starks an opening to hightail it out of the interaction. 

Obadiah had been getting on Howard’s case, recently, for rather understandable reasons. He was the CEO of a multi-million dollar company, whose wife had recently died, and he had vanished from the public eye for months. The longer he stayed in isolation, the more people wanted a story, and many have already begun to weave conspiracy theories and outright slander. After a certain amount of months, the story that he was busy ‘grieving’ seemed too flimsy to the public, apparently. The board was getting restless, a point Obadiah kept making, and so Howard had no choice but to accept an invitation to a charity event. One that Maria would typically be the one to attend.

Of course, many had expected Howard to come alone, like he usually did when he went out to make connections. Instead, he had taken a leaf from his late wife’s book and brought along Tony, and went even further to bring along Peggy and an agent of hers by the name of Nick Fury. He can’t understand why people would be surprised by this. There’s no way in hell he’s letting his son out of his sight, not even for a single night. Besides, Tony was always seen at charity events alongside his mother. Howard may not be Maria, but he was still Tony’s parent, and there was nothing wrong with keeping this unofficial tradition of attending charities together alive.

Unfortunately, not everyone seemed to agree with that line of reasoning. While a good half of the attendees were charmed with Antonio, having met him before on many occasions and were quite used to his quick wit and abundant intelligence, the other half that Howard was more familiar with were... Condescending at best. At worst, they were downright insulting.

The amount of times the Starks had to endure blatantly false accusations of Howard buying Tony’s way through his schooling, from both business rivals and supposed partners, was enough to really get their blood boiling. Many were too caught up in their own egos to catch Tony’s displays of higher knowledge. Some even laughed and called him ‘cute’ when he attempted to open a discussion on artificial intelligence.

(Howard can already tell that Tony is going to take those personal insults and use it to fuel his ambitions. He doesn’t know where, exactly, his son got it into his head to pave the way for real, fully-functional artificial intelligence, but from the few comments the boy had made, Howard had no doubts that he will succeed. When Tony was focused, practically nothing could shake him out of it until he was finished with the job.)

This senator in particular seemed to be among the variety who wasn’t attempting to be insulting, but certainly came off that way. He spoke like he was the smartest man in the room— which, considering the amount of scientists in the room, he most definitely was not. He had continuously brushed away every attempt at conversation Tony made with a shake of the head, pointing a look towards Howard in a ‘kids these days, they think they know everything’ sort of expression.

As if Howard would agree. Christ, it really had him grinding his teeth.

Things really came to a head when the senator ruffled Tony’s hair. 

Let it be known that Antonio Edward Stark did not like being touched by people unless they were either family, or had explicit permission to do so. He didn’t like hugs from strangers, he didn’t like it when old ladies pinched his cheeks, and he very much did not like having his hair tousled by grown know-it-alls who can’t help talking down to people who are smarter than them.

“You should carry a plant around,” Tony said, fluttering his eyelashes in that all-too-innocent way he does before he says something that’s bound to make Howard lose his marbles. Big eyes paired with his now mildly messy hair, he looked like the picture of sweetness. 

As a businessman, Howard should probably make some attempt at stopping his son from insulting any of the other guests, regardless of how absolutely infuriating they are. Especially when they’re someone in such a high position of power. As a father, he’s rather looking forward to whatever his kid has to say, regardless of the many scrutinizing eyes on them.

Fatherhood wins out, so he stays quiet, letting the senator dig his grave as the man leans down and starts to talk like the patronizing imbecile he is.

“And why is that, young man?”

“To replace the oxygen you waste whenever you talk,” Tony replies, grinning back sharply. Beside Howard, Peggy chokes on a sip of apple cider, and starts coughing.

Around them, the noise of the other guests decrease in volume, many having overheard. The coughs seem to echo a bit in the silence, so Fury guides Peggy away from the center of attention, blending into the crowd, but keeping an eye on the Starks. Neither agents want to end up with their faces plastered in the tabloids, but they still have a job to do.

The click of a camera goes off.

“Tony,” Howard scolds, putting on the act of a disappointed father. “I’m so sorry for my son’s behavior, if you could excuse me for a moment—”

He picks Tony up and into his arms, then walks away, not bothering to wait around for Senator What's-his-name’s remarks. As soon as they’re far enough, out of earshot and away from the majority of the eyes that had witnessed the interaction, Howard leans towards his son’s ear.

“Do you have any idea,” he whispers, “Any idea, how difficult it was not to laugh?”

Tony giggles, and buries his face into his dad’s shoulder, body shaking in a way that, to those peering from the outside, made it look as though he were crying.

“Seriously. Fantastic performance, Tony,” he continues to whisper. “You’d do pretty good as an actor. I think you deserve a reward.”

“Make it something that looks like you’re trying to shut me up,” Tony suggests, mumbling into Howard’s coat.

“Great idea. Let’s go get you some juice, yeah? You’re probably thirsty, I bet.”

“Orange juice?”

“I don’t see any spread out, but I’ll ask one of the staff.”

They don’t have orange juice, but they do have banana milkshakes, for whatever reason, and although that isn’t what Tony was hoping for, he takes it anyways. A flute of champagne is also offered to Howard, which the man isn’t too happy about, but he still accepts it with a smile. It’s not like he has to drink any of it, right? 

Tony seems to have the same idea, because after a small sip of his milkshake, he clearly decides that he hates it. The boy doesn’t show it in his expression, but the carefully blank mask is just as much of a tell as scrunching up his face would be. 

“Don’t like bananas?”

“I do,” Tony assures, slightly turning his nose away from his glass. “I don’t think I like it mixed with milk though.”

Howard chuckles and pats his son’s head.

“You don’t have to drink it, then. C’mon, let’s go get Peggy and leave. We’ve been here long enough, and I’m sure we’ve got some orange juice at home.”

After abandoning the milkshake and champagne, they find Peggy and the younger agent, Nick, not too far, the two having been watching the Starks from the crowd. The journey home is not necessarily long— not even a full hour away, in fact— but it’s long enough that Tony ends up falling to sleep against his father’s side in the car. It’s not the first time Tony’s fallen asleep beside Howard, but the novelty of it never seems to wear off whenever it happens.

When they roll up into the driveway, rather than waking his son, Howard lifts him up and carries him towards his room, walking past SHIELD agents who aren’t all that great at pretending they’re not completely amused by how adorable a sight the father and son duo make. Or maybe they just think Tony is adorable, which would make sense considering they’re all wrapped around the kid’s finger.

Halfway towards the bedroom, Tony blinks himself awake, grumpily squinting up at his father. Howard gives him a fond smile, about to tell him to go back to sleep, when things suddenly go to shit.

Tony’s face twists up in pain, and he starts crying.

“Antonio?!”

Immediately, Howard kneels down and sets Tony onto the ground, and SHIELD agents begin to crowd in.

“Papá,” Tony groans, wrapping his arms around his stomach. “Papá, fa male.”

“Maybe it’s food poisoning,” one of the SHIELD agents suggests, which makes the universe decide to prove them wrong, evidently, because that’s the exact moment Tony turns on his side and starts vomiting blood. 

Howard freezes up, breath stuttering to a stop. He sees Maria and Tony’s faces side by side, and it’s like his world is crumbling around him. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know if he can do anything, and the panic taking over him is drowning out the voices and chaos.

“Out of the way!”

Peggy pushes past the SHIELD agents, clapping a hand on Howard’s shoulder, forcefully turning him to look at her.

“Howard, pick him up. We’ve got to go.”

“What?”

“The hospital,” Peggy explains. “Pick him up, we’re getting back in the car and driving to the hospital. Now.”

Her instructions bulldozes through his panic and has him spurned to action. Not even a minute later, they’re speeding towards the nearest hospital.

[chwetuan]

+ the baker, the bun ; yugyeom

+ read this & this | pregnancy!au | husband!yug

+ gender reveal shenanigans, markbam crackhead dynamics, all that good stuff

+ category: one-shot | genre: it’s literally just fluff

+ requested by @geminimess​

Yugyeom feels like he’s going to pass out. Not because he’s outside in the 90 degree weather of the summer, but because you’re glaring at him with such hatred that he’s truly beginning to wonder if he’s called you his wife for the last two years.

The cap on his head does nothing to stop the way the heat creeps up his spine. His eyes are trained on you — so pregnant, ankles swollen, cheeks flushed pink and sipping on a red Gatorade because it’s “the closest thing” to a cocktail you can get your hands on.

Yugyeom’s heard it from all his friends and coworkers — how women seem to glow when they’re pregnant. And to an extent, it’s true — your face seemed to be beaming with life, cheeks full and pretty when you smiled. But more often than not, he swears on his life, you don’t glow like an angel. Rather, you glow red like satan’s right-hand man, coupled with a sharp tongue and a newfound-wit about you.

You wore pregnancy like armor — literally, always in defense mode and ready to chew his, or anyones, head off at the smallest inconvenience.

But he takes the hits and rolls with the punches, because at the end of the day, you were easy to talk down.

You’d grown impossibly sweet, calmed by simple kisses and the sound of his voice when it seemed like you were on the brink of exploding with rage or annoyance. On most days, you were fussy at best, only needing the bare minimum of a hug and some peanut butter to keep you satisfied.

But right now, there’s something he can’t place his finger on.

It feels like a guessing game — he isn’t sure why you’re glaring at him, or what he’s done to warrant such a look of venom, but mentally, he’s going through a checklist of what he could’ve possibly done to piss you off.

You’re reclined on one of the lounger-chairs in your tiny backyard, your dad next to you. He’s peeling a tangerine and singing along to whatever 80s throwback he’s decided to play. Yugyeom has no clue why your sister employed your insane father with the task of setting the playlist for your gender reveal, but he’s known your family too long to ask questions when it came to delegation. The old man wears the same blue tinted bifocals, but instead of his usual button down Hawaiian shirt, he wears a white tee that with bold lettering that reads “grandpa” across the front.

“Dude, you look like you’re going to pass out.”

At the sound Mark’s voice, Yugyeom is snapped out of his daydream.

“These lemon squares are simply exquisite.” Bambam buts in, squeezing his way in to stand between the two men.

You’ve finally mastered the recipe, after all.

Mark stares at him for two beats before facing Yugyeom. “For real, are you okay?”

Yugyeom nods, taking a sip from his water bottle. “I’m fine. Just. Gender reveal, you know?”

Again, Bambam buts in. “______ looks like she’s going to kill me. Or you. She’s staring in this general direction and I can’t really tell.”

He knows you’re staring. You’ve been doing so for the last 15 minutes and he hasn’t decided on his approach yet.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees your sister enter the backyard with a white cake box in hand, resting it on one of the many, many, many (really, the table to guest ratio is absurd), food tables that crowd the space.

It’s then you motion Yugyeom over, brows angled inward and a huff leaving your chest.

Your hands are grabby when you reach for him, and his arms are around you as he helps you up from the seat. He stares at you a few seconds before brushing your bangs from your face and planting a soft kiss on your forehead. It’s only then that the crease in your brow disappears, your face relaxing into a happy smile. It’s simple.

“The spawn won’t stop kicking.”

He laughs, loud and open, palms falling to your rounded stomach. “When are you gonna stop calling our baby a spawn?”

“When I find out whether or not it’s a female or male spawn. Maybe then I’ll think about a different name.”

You look around at your friends and family that have began to gather around the tables, all wearing various shades of blue and pink — in competition with each other placing bets on whether or not it’s a boy or a girl.

After a few more minutes spent talking with them, Yugyeom asks —

“Are you ready to cut the cake?”

“I swear to god if I have to listen to one more joke about how I’m now literally a baker, I’m going to kick everyone out and then retire.”

~~~

Stood in front of the people closest to you, you and Yugyeom both grip the knife, prepared to cut into the frosted white cake that sits before you. He doesn’t know why there’s so much tension in the air — but everyone is excited, holding their breath and waiting to see what color the slice of cake is.

“Ready?” You ask and he nods.

When the knife parts the frosting, you can feel the excitement buzzing through the air as your friends and relatives watch on.

Jackson stands next to you, watching intensely as the first slice is plated. He looks like he’’ll burst into tears at any second.

“Boy! Boy! It’s a boy!” Exclaims your dad, face breaking into a smile as guests begin to cheer.

“Oh my god, oh my god.”

Yugyeom is speechless, wrapping his arms around you and kissing you what feels to be a thousand times.

But within a few seconds, the cheers are replaced by silence as you stare at your sister, who’s approaching the table with a second cake, in confusion.

Now, Yugyeom really feels like he’s going to pass out.

With Jackson’s help, she places the second cake on the table in front of you. “Uh, surprise?”

On the sidelines, Bambam whispers to Mark. “It’s fucking twins! You owe me ten bucks.”

“I’m not paying you shit! I-“

“I knew I was right!”

Mark shoves him, just enough to have the younger man tripping over his feet and repositioning himself.

“Shut up! It was a joke, you weren’t even being serious.”

“It’s a girl!” Your sister yells, and the two men turn their attention back to you and Yugyeom.

“Now, you owe me ten bucks.” Mark quips, clapping and cheering alongside the rest of your friends and family.

.

.

.

“It’s two spawns! You knocked me up with two spawns?” You exclaim, shoving a mouthful of cake into Yugyeom’s mouth as he tries his best to keep his composure.

Your house is empty now, and it’s just you and him standing in your kitchen going in on what’s left of the cakes from earlier.

He knows you’re joking, you haven’t stopped smiling since your sister brought the second cake out.

Whether it be chance laying out the cards or a higher power sketching the timeline of events, he feels blessed, to have you in his life.

To have you as his wife, the soon-to-be mother of his children, to have you as his best friend.

You beckon him closer to you once more, pulling him into a kiss that tastes like frosting and the epitome of happiness.

X

X

X

(written july 4th - posted & edited july 5th)

[cazuzuka]

Lumity: “Grom: Amity’s Side”

Amity frowned and crumpled another page of her favorite magenta stationary. The floor around her desk was already dotted with balls of color paper. "Why is this so hard! ‘Luz. Will you go to Grom with me?’” Amity's face reddened even as she said this to her empty room. She sighed heavily and laid her head on the desk. 

“What you doing mittens?" Edric popped up suddenly next to her, his twin close behind. "Ahhh!" Amity was so startled that she fell out of her chair to her siblings amusement. "Edrick! Emira! Get out!" She said hotly. "I just thought we could help our cute little sister with her homework!" Emira said sweetly.  “Unless…  This isn't homework…" Her fingers inch towards a discarded note. “IT’S JUST HOMEWORK! I GOT IT! PLEASE LEAVE!”  Amity drew a quick circle to burn the note her sister was reaching for and pushed the twins towards the door.  A brief scuffle at the door and a summoned abomination later, Amity was alone again.   With a sigh she took the opportunity to burn all the notes, rather than risk her siblings coming back and taking one.  Gone were notes about getting balloons and shoving them in her locker, notes about meeting her in a supply closet to ask her in private, gone were long notes with flowery words.  Amity sighed at the half dozen piles of ash. She would never get the nerve to do something big. She wasn’t even sure if she could push the words out.   ‘But...’  she took a new sheet of stationary. ‘Maybe something simple...’  A note. Clear and to the point, Amity just had to pass to Luz. She could do that.

She could not do that. Amity could barely find Luz alone the next day at school. Not only that but the school was well on its way to being ready for the next night’s festivities and looking at the decorations was only making her more aware of her dwindling time.  She glumly trudged to her next class, debating giving up on passing it to her at all, when she bumps into someone, knocking her books to the floor. “Watch it nitwit!”  She said impulsively before noticing who was in front of her. “Oh!  Hi Luz. And co.”  She was proud of having managed to keep the blush down when Luz, who had been helping her collect her things, held out a magenta piece of stationary. ‘Oh god.’ SNATCH. “Man, you’ve got some quick grabbers.”  Luz said unfazed by Amity’s weirdness. “It’s just… it’s...” could she say it? “private.” nope. The loudspeaker crackles to life. ‘Time to announce grom royalty?  I pity the unlucky kid who has to deal with that shit this…’ “Amity Blight!” ‘F***.’ “Whoo!  Am-it-y!” Luz cheers but the girl herself barely notices over the stares and her own encroaching terror and shame.  Head down, she runs off.   Finding an empty classroom she closes the door and holds herself close.  ‘I can’t.  It’s one thing to ask her myself to the dance but to be outed in front of everyone?  No.’  She pulls out her note and moves to rip it.  When she isn’t able to do the deed, she slips it back into her pocket with a sigh.  The loudspeaker starts up again and Principal Bump is calling her to the gym to go over Grom Queen details and she drags herself over.

Amity hangs out high on the bleachers of the gym as the principal runs through directions for decorating, too distracted to talk to her despite him calling her here.  Her ears twitch when they hear the voice of Luz, who clearly has the wrong idea about what the whole event is about. “They are not for decoration,” Amity corrects, alerting the human to her presence. “This arena is where I will make my debut as Grom Queen.”  She stands to descend and forces her arms to her side. “Right.  So why don’t you seem excited?” “Because this isn’t just some dance party.”  A deep, animalistic noise rises from the pit and Amity elaborates on the true nature of what she has to do.  They part ways after some well intentioned but naïve advice from Luz.

Amity decides to take the long route home. She hoped to get her thoughts and emotions under control before having to share the news with her parents, unless her siblings have already told them.  ‘If I do this and succeed, I’ll be praised by the whole school and get extra credit with my teachers and with Lilith.  And maybe some recognition from my parents.  If I fail, then I will bring shame to the Blight name and cause chaos for the whole town and everyone will think I am pathetic.  If people see my fears…  they will think I am pathetic anyway…’  Her weak attempts at optimism give way to panic as she spirals into what revealing her fears to the whole school could cause. She is so lost in thought she doesn’t notice she isn’t the only one walking in this part of the woods until she is startled by a warrior cry and knocked to the ground.  In the mud.  Perfect. “Oh my gosh, Amity!” And of course it’s Luz (why couldn’t I find her when I wanted to and now that everything sucks I keep running into her?).  She apologizes profusely and holds her hands out to Amity.  Amity accepts the help, slipping and sliding in the mud.   “And here I thought this day,” Amity’s breath catches a moment as she is pulled nose to nose into Luz.  She pulls away, hating that Luz is seeing her like this. “couldn’t get any worse.”  She sits on a nearby stump.  A moment later she hears Luz plop herself in the mud and she can’t help but feel her heart lighten that the girl would voluntarily share in her misery.  Despite that Amity can’t bring herself to face the human. “Did you talk to Bump?”  Luz said hopefully and Amity sighed.  She had actually tried to ask to back out and got a resounding ‘no.’ “I am Grom Queen,” Amity said resigned to her fate.  “Unless I can find a replacement.” ‘not that anyone would.’ “I would,” came an unusually serious voice from Luz.  Thinking she misheard, Amity looked over. “Amity Blight!  I’ll do it!  I’ll take your place and face Grom in the arena and be your champion!”  Amity would have blushed at the declaration but was distracted by the large spider on Luz’s head, which sent the human into a panic when she noticed.  ‘An honorable gesture but I’m not sure she can do it…’

The next day after school, Amity brings her siblings over to the Owl House (who were too thrilled by the task to need bribing to come) to help Luz prepare for tonight.  She walks up to Luz’s room after a disturbing encounter with the house’s defensive measures ‘Hooty’ and finds her pulling out clothes from a trunk.   “What should I wear to grom?” she says cheerfully and Amity has a moment where she imagines Luz wearing the options before shaking her head.   “Luz!  You need to take this seriously!” She pulls Luz away from the clothes and they meet her siblings outside.   “Alright Luz.  What are you afraid of?” Amity says like a drill sergeant.  Luz says some things and Edric and Emira conjure them with their illusion magic.   It doesn’t really go well.  Amity can tell these fears are just tiny surface fears.  But maybe it will be ok.  Maybe Luz doesn’t have big terrifying fears.  Amity holds onto that hope as they part to meet up again at the dance.

The party begins.  The music is pretty good for a school dance.  Willow is using her magic to create corsages and boutonnières (Amity debates if she could ask for one or if it would be too awkward) and the twins headed to the punch bowl like they had a prank up their sleeve.  Amity herself is too anxious to enjoy the music.  Her dress was something her mom had picked out and though to a degree she wished she could have chosen what to wear for herself, it was one less thing to think about tonight.  That stupid gromposal was still with her.  Her mom had nearly spotted it when she came to check in on her daughter so Amity had stuffed the note into her dress pocket in a panic.   She stepped outside the gym, wondering where Luz was and pulled out the note.  The edges where it was folded were growing warn from all the times Amity had touched it, pulled it out and stuffed it back away in the last couple days.  ‘I’m not Grom Queen anymore.  I could just do it.’ She saw a shadow and hid the note behind her back. “I’m not sure if it’s nerves or if I accidentally drank some milk.  But something is making my stomach squirm.”  It was Luz wearing a tux, skirt combo that worked surprisingly well and her hair was slicked back. “You look…nice,” Amity said in awe, though there was a different adjective she wanted to use.  “Strange, but nice.”   She took a step closer and held the human’s shoulders.  “Thank you, Luz.  Honestly, I’m kinda amazed with how fearless you are.” ‘And how I wish I could be’ Amity thought, very aware of the note burning a hole in her pocket.  “You have done things I could never do…” Amity glanced down at Luz’s lips for a moment at those words and they curled into a smile. “Yeah right!”  Luz smirked.  “You going soft on me Blight?”  Amity laughed at the banter, loving how natural this all felt.   Maybe tonight would go just fine. “In your dreams.” Of course then, Gus had to announce the start of the fight.  Luz turned to her with a smile to hide her nerves.   “Wish me luck!”  Amity couldn’t return even a fake smile. “Luck,” she whispered, her face drawn in worry.

The challenge went alright.  For like 3 minutes.  And now Luz was running away from… her mom apparently and this was all Amity’s fault.  She knew Luz was unprepared, she had no idea what she was in for.  This was Amity‘s fight.  She summoned an abomination and raced after Luz. Luz cowered on the edge of the cliff outside the school grounds, the abomination vaulted her thought the trees and Amity planted herself like a shield in front of Luz.  ‘my turn to be your champion.’ “Stay away from her!” Amity told the inky shape but it just grabbed her and held her aloft, too tight to try to draw a summoning circle.  She looked back to Luz. “I’m sorry, Luz.  I should have fought my own battle.  I…”  Amity was cut off as Grom poured through her mind.  Finding what she was most afraid of right now.

Luz stood before her.  Hearing the rustle of paper, Amity looked down and that stupid magenta note, was being taken from her pocket.  With a sneer, Luz ripped it, crumpled the halves and let them fall to the ground.  Amity tried not to cry.  ‘This isn’t really.  Luz hasn’t really rejected me…yet.’ The beast retreated and Amity took half the note and held it close.  She couldn’t look as the real Luz came over and picked up the other half.  Amity didn’t move to stop her as she unfurled the crushed paper. “You were afraid of being rejected,” Luz said with surprise and understanding.  “Amity… It’s ok,” Amity raised her eyes to meet Luz’s kind ones.  “What if I went to Grom with you instead?” ‘Could this really be happening?  All this fear and I didn’t even ask her myself…’  Amity’s chest filled with warmth.   “Really?” After everything she almost expected it to be a lie but this was Luz. “That’s what friends do!” Luz said with a big smile and Amity returned it.   Grometheus decides to return then, huge and bellows an inhuman cry.  Determined, Amity stands her ground, no longer afraid if Luz will be at her side. “Well then, if that’s settled…” With only a slight blush, she holds out a hand to Luz. “May I have this dance?”  

[desiraypark]

Snowflakes

Previous Entire Series

As some of you may know, last week I decided that I would no longer write for the Flip Zimmerman character. However, I did not want to just leave my Flip x Mae series hanging. Here is the final chapter of their story. I hope you like it.

Content Warning/Disclaimer: Fluff; Christmas/Christmas-themed

Flip is not being depicted as someone who celebrates Christmas. Mae observes the holiday and participates in the (American) pagan traditions of it, and Flip is merely participating with her, or rather, helping her with the process. Also, there is a reference to something Flip noticed about her in the first chapter of this series, and I thought this would be a good callback to that. ____________________

Christmas Eve 1975

“Chestnuts roasting...on an open fire…”

“Babe?”

“Hm?” Flip asked, fiddling around with a string of tree lights. Never having to deal with a Christmas tree before, he’d spent the last twenty minutes trying to figure out which one of the bulbs had blown out.

“Brand new fuckin’ lights,” he mumbled. 

He finally looked up to acknowledge Mae, strolling into the living room in a pink, sheer boudoir dressing gown. His hands slowly fell and his scowl turned into a smile.

“You like it?” she asked. She spun around and kept walking toward him.

“Fuck, I love it,” he said. He wrapped his arms around her waist--lights pressing into her back--pulled her close and kissed her. Then he held her hand in the air and spun her around like a ballerina.

When she faced him again and looked down at his hand. “Didn’t I tell you not to worry about those lights?”

Flip shook his head and refocused on the string in his hand. 

“We bought these fuckin’ lights, we’re gonna fuckin’ use ‘em.”

He observed every little bulb.

Mae laughed, sat on the sofa, and crossed her legs--baring a long limb for Flip’s eyes to feast upon. Of course, he saw it. He froze again and looked at her, then shook his head.

“Don’t try to distract me.”

Her laughter filled the room again. She stood up, walked to the radio and turned the volume up a little. Then, she walked to the window to get a look out at their Brooklyn street. It was abnormally quiet and still. No one outside. Every street light on. And…

Mae blinked hard. Snowflakes. The little white pieces of precipitation melted into the concrete and asphalt below.  She started to tear up and sniffled to keep the drops from falling. 

“You alright over there?” Flip asked.

Mae nodded profusely. “Yeah,” she answered--voice cracking.

“Babe, are you gonna cry every time you see snow now?” he asked.

The tears finally fell, and Mae wiped her eyes. “This is different. It’s Christmas Eve. And it’s snowing…”

Flip looked up at Mae and saw her hand near her face, wiping away a tear. He dropped the lights on the floor, walked up behind her, and wrapped his arms around her. Then, he planted a soft kiss on her neck.

“I’m just so happy,” she said. “Our first Christmas together. In New York. Putting up our tree. Snow. It’s like a movie.”

Flip gave Mae another kiss, then pulled away, leaving her at the window. He reached under the tree and pulled out a rectangular box.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

Mae turned around and looked at him with a raised eyebrow. He rolled his eyes and scoffed.

“Woman, turn back around and close your eyes.”

Mae chuckled, turned around, and closed her eyes. She listened to the paper rattling behind her--the quiet opening of a box. Soon, she heard Flip’s footsteps ascending on her, and felt his body heat. Something cold fell against her neck.

“Open them.”

Flip fastened the clasp on the nape of Mae’s neck, and she looked down at the new piece of jewelry that sat over her gold “H” necklace--a silver necklace with a sparkling, snowflake-shaped pendant.

“Oh, Flip--it’s beautiful!” she turned around and hugged him. Then, she held the pendant up with the side of her index finger and stared at it.

“I thought about how you flipped the first time it snowed and thought this would be perfect.”

Mae’s lips pressed together in a soft smile, and she rubbed Flip’s cheek. He kissed her hand. 

“It’s beautiful, Baby.”

She picked the snowflake up again and observed it. “It almost looks real,” she whispered.

Flip snorted. “It is real, Baby.”

Mae gasped. “What?”

He only smiled, gave Mae a peck on the lips, and walked back to the Christmas tree, leaving her with a dropped jaw. He grabbed the lights, sat on the sofa, and continued searching for the broken bulb.

“Flip...what do you mean this is real?”

His eyebrows knitted together and he looked at her. “What do I mean? They’re not rhinestones, Babe.”

Mae swallowed and sat beside him. “Wow…” she mumbled.

Flip and looked at Mae’s forehead with a straight face. She was still staring at the necklace.

“You thought I was gonna get you some shit that makes you turn green or something?”

“No, it’s just…” she finally looked up at him. “I know you’ve been trying to save money, and…”

Flip looked back down at the bulbs and observed the one currently between his fingers. He held it to his ear and jiggled it. “I think this is the one…”

He stood up, grabbed a replacement from the packaging on their coffee table, and unscrewed the suspected bulb.

“I’m saving money for rent. For the car note…” he said. He screwed the new bulb in. “I don’t pinch pennies on you.”

Another smile formed on Mae’s face. Flip plugged the lights in, and they still didn’t come on.

“Fuck!” he shouted. “Cheap piece of shit.”

“Baby. I just want to put the bow on, now,” Mae said.

Flip shook his head. “I’m gonna make ‘em work, Babe.”

“Baby…” 

She stood up, walked to him, and wrapped her fingers around his arm. “You’re celebrating Christmas with me. You’ve bought me gifts and helped me decorate.”

She looked the tree up and down and rubbed his arm. “This is more than enough, Honey.”

Flip gave the tree a once over, as well. Mae had dotted the fluffy, artificial leaves with red and gold bulbs, and wrapped two strands of gold, beaded garland around it. “Yeah, it looks good.”

“Let’s put the bow on.”

____________________

Flip wrapped the failed lights in a frustrated ball and helped Mae fasten a gold satin bow on the top of the tree. They stood back and gave it a look.

“The snow is snowin’...wind is blowin’...but I can weather the storm...what do I care how much it may storm? I’ve got my love to keep me warm…”

Flip tugged on Mae’s arm and she glanced at him. Then, he took her hand. With their chests pressed together, they swayed to the music--both of them in blissful disbelief that a fling in Miami had turned into this.

____________________

Thank you to everyone who’s read and supported this series! I hope you enjoyed this goodbye <3

[fvrxdrm]

City of the Living Dead

Chapter 4

"Leon? Claire?" You began. Your eyelids stretched out as humanly possible after seeing and recognizing them. "What are you doing here?"

*****

Claire was the first to stand up from the blood-tarnished floor, her blue orbs lingering against your form as her brain proceeded to unscramble all of the muddled thoughts. Eyebrows slightly furrowed together and lips parted from one another, she raised her arms and let her fingers meet your denim-clad skin with so much prudence and care as if she feared that all she was seeing was the ghost of her long-lost friend.

"Y/N, is that really you?" Claire spoke, her voice sounding little to none as it trembled and threatened to break. Tears were beginning to form in her eyes and you felt her hands shake against your forearms as she held you.

"Claire", without any other words spoken, Claire pulled you into a tight embrace, a huge sob spilling out from the both of you as you clung to each other closely as if if one of you let go the other would be gone.

"Leon, it's Y/N! She's alive!" The brunette cried out as she turned her head towards the male who was still seated on the floor with his brain still processing what was going on. If Claire hadn't spoken at that moment, he still would've been trapped inside his own head.

He eventually stood up and joined into the hug with an immense amount of tears of his own pouring down his cheeks.

"Y/N, where have you been? We missed you. We thought you were dead!" Leon sobbed out, his voice becoming muffled as the mess of your hair blocked any clearer words from him.

"I miss you, too." The three of you savored the moment, setting aside all of the worries and fears that surrounded the outside world until you finally pulled away from the embrace and grasped each of their hands with your own ones while flicking a few strands of hair away from your face to get a better look at your friends who looked just as wet as you were (A/N: no, not that kind of wet you filthy people). As much as you wanted to relish your reunion more, all of you needed to get out of that hellhole, alive. "Listen, I'll explain everything later, I promise, right after we get out of the city. I found help awhile ago but I got separated from him and I still have to find a detour because an explosion went off to where I came from".

"Okay, but, are you sure this gonna work 100%?" Claire questioned. After what she'd seen in the last forty minutes or so, she was certain that there would be no chance of escape with all the undead roaming around and explosions going off every 10 minutes.

"From what I heard, there's a big chance that we can escape. I think I overheard a train was available or something." A big sigh of relief was inwardly released as the pleasing news filled your friends' ears along with the enthusiasm that was held in your voice, hope suppressing the urge to just lend themselves to the animals that populated the town.

"Okay, but I gotta find Chris first."

"What?"

"He hasn't been home for weeks. Never contacted us either."

"Oh, God.  I'm sure he's fine. We just...we just gotta find him and then we're out of this city." No words were spoken for a moment until the heel of one of your hands was sent to your nose as you felt something trickle from there. You expected it to be a drop of snot from all the crying you've done but once your stained palm was brought into your view, you noticed the familiar crimson-colored liquid spreading against your skin and that's when you immediately panicked.

"Shit! Your nose is bleeding! Hold on, I'll get you something." Leon's left hand gently held on to your arm while the palm of his right hand rested on the plain of your back before guiding you towards the cot that Sherry once sat on while Claire ran to find something to help. You on the other hand, you continued in your attempt to stop the flow.

*****

"Thanks", the bleeding had finally stopped after a few minutes of  just letting a tissue absorb the substance that came out of your nose while Sherry found herself sitting beside you with her short arms wrapped around your torso and her eyes brimming with tears as worry for her savior filled her heart.

"I thought you were going to turn into one of them, Y/N. I don't wanna lose you." Sherry tightened her hold against you before letting her face plant on the side your torso as the tears that she had been holding back finally escaped from their cages. It may had only been an hour since you saved her from being eaten by those hungry creatures outside but the short amount of time was enough to make you an important aspect of her life. Without you, she might've been one of those monsters that lurked outside, mindlessly searching for her first victim, a result of what whoever turned the city into a hellhole had done, and she whole-heartedly thanked you for that.

Your lips curled into a small and gentle smile at how much the little girl cared about you as your hand found itself on top of her head, stroking her messy blonde locks before muttering a response. "Don't worry, Sherry. I will never turn into one of them."

"You promise?"

"I promise." You wrapped an arm around her small body and tenderly caressed her back to comfort her before a soft whisper blew from your mouth. "I don't wanna lose you either."

Tranquility filled the air for a sweet moment while you two engulfed each other's presence even for a small while until it suddenly fell with Claire's mild voice interrupting it.

"I see you met a really sweet girl." She crouched down to get a better look at Sherry as a sweet and kind smile formed against her face before she introduced herself to the said girl. "Hi, my name is Claire and I believe your name is Sherry?" She spoke, the warmth never leaving the sound that came from her throat.

"Y-yeah." Sherry hid her face on the fabric of your jacket again as fear of meeting strangers took over her emotions at the moment.

"It's okay. I'm not a bad person. I'm actually Y/N's friend"

"Really?"

"Yeah, we've been friends since we were in high school." Sherry eventually got over her anxiety as curiosity got the better of her.

"Really? How did you meet?"

"Well..."

Anxiety rose on Claire's brain as she walked down the hallway and observed the students that filled the corridor with her stuff clutched against her chest.

Being a freshman, it wasn't easy to step foot inside the high school she was currently in as number one: you can never presume how much expectations each and every one of the staffs and students have. Number two: no friends. Number three: being the introvert that she was, the massive amount of people that surrounded her was just too much for her. And finally, number four: all of the above.

You see, Claire barely had any friends to talk with for the reason that the last school she went to barely had any people in it. I know, crazy, right? So, she was forced to adapt to the environment that she was in and, thus, making her a little awkward around people.

It wasn't until two juniors approached her table and joined her during lunch did she happen to find somebody, or rather somebodies, to finally call her best friends and then the rest is history.

"And that's how we met Claire." A familiar voice that sounded deeper than Claire's boomed against the walls of the huge hall. The three of you looked up to where the sound came from and surely, you saw Leon adjusting the sleeves of his blue cop uniform.

"Hey, supercop! Looks like you're ready to roll." A small smirk tugged on your lips as your E/C orbs captured the faint blush that joined the tiny amount of freckles that adorned his cheeks. He shook off the random thoughts that plagued his head as he attempted to ignore your comment and just introduced himself to the blonde girl beside you.

"How about you? How did you meet Y/N, Leon?" The girl curiously asked with a small tilt of her head.

"Well, we've been best friends since birth"

"Really? Wow! I wish I had friends like you. My mom never really wanted me to have friends." The little girl's bottom lip stuck out a bit as her gaze dropped down to the floor but you knew better than to let the girl stay blue even for just a single minute. So, you gently lifted her chin up with your index finger and thumb and smiled to lighten her up.

"Don't worry we could be your friends." As soon as you spoke, a huge explosion of happiness and glee replaced the gloom that painted her face and she pulled you into an embrace once again.

"Thank you, Y/N!" You giggled, finally finding a reason to smile and laugh in your world where agony and pain seemed to be the only ones to fill the void.

"Well, I hate to break your moment there but we still got a job to do", the cop you saw earlier, which was named Marvin Branagh and was the lieutenant of the police department, spoke out loud, his focus still on the pocketbook he had been scanning since Leon changed to his uniform. "Come here, you three."

All four of you looked at each other before nearing the severely wounded man with your hands resting on both the little girl's shoulders.

"A cop gave me this earlier before he died and he thought this secret passageway might do the trick", Marvin said as he handed the small book to Leon before the blonde showed us the illustration of the passageway the lieutenant was talking about.

"This is good news. We can get you to a hospital", Leon said but the man just shook his head before uttering out a response.

"No, no, I am not the priority here."

"Lieutenant, we're not just gonna leave you here-"

"I'm giving you an order, rookie!" The sudden roar in the man's voice shocked all of you and it also made Sherry shake in fear as she hid behind you with her hands tightly clutching on your denim jacket. "You save yourself first. I'd come with you, but I'd just slow you down. Now...you'll need this." Marvin stood up front his seat with a grunt and took a sheathed knife from behind him before handing it over to me, the blood that covered his hand now staining the handle of the sharp object. "Don't make my mistake. All of you. If you see one of those things--uniform or not--you do not hesitate. You take it out or you run, got it?" Taking a glance at one another, you eventually nodded your heads with a sigh, the seriousness in his voice giving you the message that what was happening was not to be taken lightly even though you already knew that.

"Okay, we'll find a way to get to this passageway", you spoke, the starting point of your eyebrows curved upwards as you nodded your head again.

"Good. Take care of the little girl, too. I'll just get some rest for now." The man slowly laid himself on the couch with a grunt, more blood oozing from the large bite wound he was covering with his hand the more he made some movements.

"Okay, Claire, is it okay if you stay here with Sherry while Leon and I find all of these stuff?" You spoke as you pointed towards the illustrations of three things that looked very helpful. "These might be helpful."

"Okay, careful, you two."

"Wait, Y/N! I don't want you to die! I don't want you to turn into one of them! Please, stay!" Sherry cried out as she tightly hugged your right leg in hopes of stopping you from venturing through the eerie halls. You crouched down to her height, your hands finding themselves on both of her filthy cheeks.

"I promised I wouldn't turn into one of them, didn't I?"

"Yeah..."

"And I'm keeping that promise. You'll see me again, alive, in no time, okay?" Sherry shred a few tears before her arms wrapped around your neck and she very softly muttered an 'okay' , her tiny voice filling in and soothing your ears.

"Be careful, okay?" Sherry spoke again after letting you go.

"Yes, ma'am." You gave her a salute and a wink before nodding towards Claire and leaving the both of them standing in the room, the sound of yours and Leon's footsteps reverberating across the room.

---***---

FINALLY! FOUND TIME TO POST! WHOO!

Tag list:

@mysterious-398 ​ I couldn’t find the other ones who asked for a tag so message me if you want a tag for the next chapter. I’m really sorry

[gothic-safari-clown]

The Mind’s Power Over the Body

Part 16: Round Two?

Story summary: They only ever had each other. It had been that way since high school, ever since Elianna transferred to dreary Arlen and took Jonathan under her wing. They go separate ways for college, and when they're reunited at Arkham Asylum professionally, Elianna comes to find that they've both changed during their time separated. Can she look past the promise of danger and stay by Jonathan's side as they slide further and further into the darkness while she grapples to come to terms with the truth about herself? Can she accept what needs to be done in order to hold onto the only person who holds any meaning in her life? This is a very self-indulgent AU that draws from several different canons of the DCU and ignoring others, starting in the Batman Begins Nolanverse. This will follow the plot of the movie, although the timeline has been very slightly tweaked.

Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five / Part Six / Part Seven / Part Eight / Part Nine / Part Ten / Part Eleven / Part Twelve / Part Thirteen / Part Fourteen / Part Fifteen 

Word count: 1559

El had been right about her mysterious savior in that his interference grew to be something that could be quite a nuisance to them. It wasn't long after Jonathan's meeting with Falcone that he had returned with a new, tricked out getup. Rumors around town had confirmed that it was the same man and seemed to solidify the vigilante theory.

Gadgets or not, the pair had yet to see the effects of the toxin on the caped crusader. Jonathan had come home that night composed as always, but she had recognized the troubled look in his eyes. Between that and the attack on Falcone, it seemed that whoever was having little trouble sniffing out their plot.

"What's the bad news?" She sighed, putting down the book she had been reading. Jonathan just shook his head in response, loosening his tie.

"The bad news-" he sighed, rubbing his hand down his face, "is that Rachel Dawes is still alive, and rumors are that she has some leverage over the judge that Falcone paid off for the organization."

"Oh, shit," El put her forehead in her palm. After all of the traction that the so-called 'Batman' had gained so quickly, the last thing she had expected was to hear that the meddling DA was still around. "Well, wait, the bad news? Does that mean there's good news too?" She lifted her head again, relieved to see him nod.

"That microwave emitter that I told you about, for the final stage, it came in, it's all ready to go. If-" he cut off the look of excitement on El's face, "we can prevent the DA's office from throwing another wrench in."

"Jonathan, don't worry about that." She rolled her eyes and stood from the couch. "They have leverage on the DA, not Falcone's staff at the shipyard, and before they can build a case, they need to have proof that we even have it."

"If they get a warrant-"

"Then the boys at the docks will take care of it, that's what I'm trying to say. Now, will you relax? Everything is going to be fine. We have the machine, and we have more than enough of the toxin."

Jonathan was still leaning back slightly against the table, pinching the bridge of his nose. Elianna sighed, silently cursing her friend's perfectionist nature, and moved his hand away from his face and replaced it with her own hands on either cheek.

"Can you just once relax and appreciate your own work? Do you need a cigarette?"

"No, I don't need a cigarette; they're disgusting. I need to find a way to foolproof this damn thing."

"It is disgusting, it's absolutely revolting, but I think it'll bring you into the present and give you at least a couple minutes to step away from being you." She patted his cheek and nudged him toward the fire escape window.

"From being me?"

"Yeah. Let's not be you right now. Let's be me instead, and be proud of your work." Jonathan rolled his eyes but went along with her.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to stop thinking for a minute.

You'll listen to her and not me? I'm very hurt, Jonny. You don't share a body with her.

Standing outside smoking, leaning against the rail, the pair stared out at the city before them.

"Look at that. It's disgusting. You should have come to California with me when you had the chance." Elianna teased and elbowed Jonathan lightly. He responded by exhaling slowly and giving a look that said 'maybe.' "Okay, look; you're still not being me, you're not here. Look out there," she pointed with her cigarette. "Gotham is falling apart, and if I remember correctly, it has been for decades. What you are doing with this project will end all of that once and for all. This city is a stain, and you're cleaning it out, once and for all."

A long pause hung between them as Jonathan let his friend's words sink in. She was right, and for the first time since the beginning of the whole plot, he felt a sense of pride for his contribution. Ultimately, this was for the greater good, and he would be the one to pull the trigger on it.

Pride was quickly replaced with a relaxed contentedness, and Jonathan took another drag, almost enjoying the taste.

"Actually," he began, "I think now we are cleaning it out. Give yourself some credit." He turned El's little speech back on her and watched as she floundered.

"Well, I—I haven't really done anything, I'm just sort of here, and honestly, I should have gone back to my apartment ages ago-"

"There isn't really any point now; there are only two weeks before we start." El nodded and returned her gaze to the skyline.

"I'm sorry for being in your space for so long. I really didn't mean to be here still." She turned her head to look at Jonathan.

"I already told you, I like having you around." El's eyes widened at the genuine admission. "Besides, if someone were to come after you, I'd rather you not be alone. I think we both know how that usually ends up by now." He finished with a grim smile, and the redhead nodded in agreement. Everything seemed to come back to the late Granny Keeny.

Remembering the painful and dangerous situation in which her friend was brought up made her sad, and she moved closer to rest her head on his shoulder. "I'm just glad I could help. I know I give you a hard time, but I love you very much." El told him matter-of-factly, planted a kiss on his arm before returning her head to his shoulder, and took a drag off the stick between her fingers.

Jonathan found himself glad that she couldn't see his face, as her words caused his eyes to shut of their own accord. Even Scarecrow's filthy encouragements were drowned out as he privately reveled in El's affection. The insecure teenager still inside of him reminded him that whatever she said was meant platonically, but he allowed himself a quiet moment to pretend.

Connecting with people had never been his strong suit, and that fact had continued to hold into adulthood. But being around Elianna every day again for the first time in years served to remind him of the benefits of personal relationships. Even so, it frustrated him to no end that he had yet to figure out whether his attraction to his friend was based on the comfort of her presence or something else.

Even thinking about it made him tired. Slowly, almost tentatively, his head rested on hers. In response, her free arm wrapped around his to keep him there.

Unbeknownst to Jonathan, Elianna was facing a similar dilemma. It was a debate she had been having with herself since she had moved to Gotham, and as much as she wanted to convince herself finally to take the chance, now was most certainly not the time. Besides...

"It's Saturday."

"Yes, it is."

"You said that we were going to dose me again; we were supposed to do that last night."

The moment broke, and Jonathan let out a long-suffering sigh. "Alright, if you're so eager," he extinguished his half-smoked cigarette and tossed it down onto the ground below with El following suit.

Once back inside, the pair both went automatically to prepare for the ordeal. As Elianna settled onto the bed, Jonathan spoke again.

"You know you don't have to do this again. We were already going to get you a gas mask like the one I have."

"I know." She replied simply, and with a Look, Jonathan began fastening the restraints.

"May I ask why you want to do this so badly?" There was a silence as the redhead pondered her answer.

While some of her motivation came from the perspective of 'just in case of an accident,' she was reluctant to admit the real reason: that once the toxin wore off, the flooding of endorphins left her exhilarated and wanting more. That the rush of surviving something traumatic and harrowing, even just an assault on her psyche, left her feeling powerful, if somewhat exhausted.

Despite her reluctance, Jonathan seemed to know the answer already.

"The thrill of making it through?" El couldn't help the short laugh that escaped.

"I guess that sounds kinda crazy." Jonathan shook his head.

"Not at all. I went through the same thing." He assured as he finished fastening all of the restraints and retrieved the old belt from the dresser where it had been left. "Just remember," he continued as he placed it between her teeth, "that I am going to be here the entire time, alright?" Before he could think about the action, he laid his hand against her cheek comfortingly. Reading her expression, he nodded, "I promise."

El nodded and took a deep breath through her nose to prepare herself, staring at the ceiling before nodding firmly. With that, Jonathan wiped the injection site clean with an alcohol swab and carefully stuck the prepared needle into her vein, and pushed in the plunger.

[lake-arrius-caverns]

Nerevarine Rising

Chapter 9: Outlander Avenger

this took too long to post heehoo ive noticed that sometimes italics don’t save when im posting on tumblr? might have been a glitch idk but in that case it’s better to read on AO3 where the formatting is actually proper lol 

summary On their arrival to Vivec City, the twins part ways and Fahjoth finds himself drawn into the investigation of a very serious crime. 

content warnings violence, blood, minor character death

read under the cut or on AO3, cheers 👍

:: First :: || << Previous << || >> Next >> || :: Masterpost ::

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“Ey, Ribyna, have you ever heard of Ashlanders?”

“Yeah, why?”

Fahjoth paused, pulling a disgruntled pout. The sun had well and truly set now; the last vestiges of warmth had evaporated entirely, replaced by a nipping chill and creeping shadows that submerged their surroundings in deep blue blankets. Vivec City loomed in the distance, unlike anything Fahjoth had ever seen before. Instead of individual houses like he had seen in every other town he’d been to so far, the city was populated by rows of colossal cantons, square and blocky yet towering over them with a kind of intimidating grandeur. Walkways bridged the gaps between the cantons, stretching over the rolling waters of the Ascadian Isles’ open bay, and several flags and tapestries fluttered from the sides of the cantons, embroidered with differing patterns and art that Fahjoth couldn’t make out from a distance. 

Turning his gaze back to Ribyna as they crossed the bridge towards the first canton, Fahjoth gave an exasperated huff, though there was no real annoyance in his tone. “Oh, so it’s just me, then?” he questioned. “Being an idiot as per usual. D’you know, I made a right tit of myself to Cosades earlier. Told him I didn’t know what Ashlanders were, then he gave me a bollocking for being a dipshit. I mean, how was I supposed to know? Nobody’s told me!” 

Ribyna’s response was surprisingly terse. “Well, maybe if you kept your mouth shut more often instead of chatting a load of shit, you’d listen and actually learn something for once.”

Fahjoth blinked, taken aback by this harsh rebuttal. He was used to Ribyna’s blunt manner of speaking of course, but this was something else entirely. He had noticed her demeanour getting more subdued and her posture stiffening the closer they got to Vivec City, and chalked it up to weariness after their long walk. Now, however, he was not so sure. Was that a hint of nervousness he detected in her voice?

“Are you alright?” he asked, then frowned sympathetically. “Bit nervous about being in the big city?”

“What?” Ribyna turned back to Fahjoth and flashed him a scathing look. “No, of course not. Don’t be stupid.” 

“Then what is it?” He received no response, as Ribyna stopped walking and examined their surroundings, occasionally dropping her gaze down and squinting at the map she held. 

“Right, I’ve got some shit to do,” she announced, as if she hadn’t even heard Fahjoth’s concerns. Fahjoth was certain that this wasn’t the case. “I’ll see you later.”

“Whoah, hang on a second!” Fahjoth protested, disconcerted by Ribyna’s unexpected change of plans. “I didn’t realise we’d be splitting up. What are you doing, anyway?” 

“Just... stuff,” Ribyna replied vaguely. Fahjoth grimaced; perhaps it was best that he didn’t know the details after all, if she was here on business with the Thieves Guild. 

“Alright, fine,” Fahjoth said, relenting. “But where should I meet you?” 

“Uh...” Ribyna gestured aimlessly at the immediate canton, the details on its banners now impossible to make out in the dark. “The map says this is the Foreign Quarter. Just find a cornerclub or something in here and get a room sorted for us. I’ll meet you back here when I’m done.” 

“Right,” Fahjoth replied mutedly. Admittedly, he was disappointed; he had been assuming that he and Ribyna would explore Vivec City together, but now, he was resigning himself to being Billy-No-Mates for the next few hours, or however long Ribyna would take to do her mysterious errand. “See you later then.” 

Fahjoth thought Ribyna may have flashed him an apologetic glance before she turned away, but then she stalked away along the path flanking the canton and rounded the corner, disappearing out of sight. Heaving a sigh that materialised in the air as a faint puff of steam, Fahjoth turned and headed up the sloping path towards the canton’s upper door, slipping inside and into the warmth. 

The inside of the canton was well-lit with torches and rather cheerfully decorated, an array of potted plants sitting in the corners while colourful tapestries and banners hung from the walls. Fahjoth could see a variety of people going about their business, not just Dunmer but Imperials, Bretons, and Redguards, among others, and in that moment he felt a strange sense of almost belonging. Initially he was surprised, until he realised that he was in the Foreign Quarter, and he was left with a deep feeling of despondency instead. 

This grim reminder that he truly was an outlander was accentuated by the unrelenting glares he received from the Ordinators who patrolled the corridors, striking an intimidating presence with their gleaming gold armour and helmets, fashioned into the shape of a sharp elven face with a crest of hair atop their heads. 

“We’ll have no trouble here,” one of the Ordinators said in a low, rasping voice as he walked by. “Move along.”

Suppressing a shudder, Fahjoth began to wander around the upper floor of the canton, trying to look as if he knew where he was going as opposed to being totally lost. Fortunately, it didn’t take too long before he found himself at a door with a sign overhead reading The Black Shalk Cornerclub. Figuring that he was not going to find anywhere more ideal than this, he pushed the door open and stepped in with caution. 

The cornerclub was quiet, with only a few punters sitting around tables or standing in the corners of the room, deep in conversation. A Dunmer stood organising a collection of bottles behind the counter, while an Argonian sat at the bar nursing a drink of his own. Fahjoth approached, plonked himself onto a stool near to the Argonian, and offered him a smile of greeting. The Argonian, who had seemed quite tense as Fahjoth sat down, suddenly relaxed and gave Fahjoth a polite smile in return. 

“Can I have a mazte, please?” he asked the barman, reaching into his pocket for his coin purse. “Oh, and how much would a room be for the night for two people?”

“That’ll be twenty drakes for the room, sera,” the barman replied, pushing a bottle of mazte towards Fahjoth. “And ten for the mazte.”

“Oh, alright, cheers! I’ll take it then,” Fahjoth replied, handing over the coins with relief. He caught the Argonian’s eye and chuckled, a wry grin curling the corner of his mouth. “Ribyna reckoned it’d be more expensive than that.”

“Ribyna?” the Argonian questioned. 

“Ah, that’s my twin! She’s off doing... something,” Fahjoth answered, his voice trailing off thoughtfully as a mild frown settled on his face. “I’m not sure what. She wouldn’t say.” 

“I see. That sounds rather sinister.” The Argonian smirked. “Forgive me, but I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Fahjoth couldn’t hold back an awkward giggle. “You’re right, sorry. My name’s Fahjoth,” he said, holding his hand out, which the Argonian shook after a brief pause. 

“Huleeya,” he introduced himself, withdrawing his hand and taking a sip of his drink. “Well, I can’t blame your twin for being secretive. Not with this recent spate of attacks on outlanders.” 

Fahjoth’s smile slipped from his face. “Attacks?”

“Oh, yes.” Huleeya nodded gravely. “Not just attacks, but murders. Five outlanders have been found dead this week. Not only that, but two Ordinators have been found dead too. Killed in the same way — that is, with their throats slit.” 

“Gods alive... Do they know who’s doing it?”

“If they knew, they would have been caught already,” Huleeya replied. “The Justice Offices are looking for help in catching the killer, from what I’ve heard.” 

Fahjoth paused. Though this had given him a lot to think about, there was something else he wanted to ask. “Is that why you looked a bit...” — he gestured vaguely with a wave of his hand — “on edge when I came over?”

“Hm? Ah, no. It’s not that,” Huleeya said. “It just wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had trouble from the local Dunmer, that’s all.”

“What do you—?”

“Excuse me, outlander. I should get going.” Huleeya finished the remainder of his drink and stood up. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Fahjoth. You and your twin should be careful if you’re out wandering alone at night.”

“Ah... we will. Thanks, mate,” Fahjoth answered, watching as Huleeya said his farewells to the barkeep and took his leave. Once again, Fahjoth was left alone with his thoughts, and he began to get some very dangerous thoughts indeed. 

The Justice Offices are looking for help in catching the killer...

He bit his lip as he nursed his mazte, quietly wrestling with his own brain. To think that he would be able to go up against a serial killer who had slain two highly trained Ordinators was madness, and yet...

By the time he had drained the last of his mazte from the bottle, he had made his decision. Fahjoth stood up, trying to ignore the creeping feeling of foreboding, dropped off his supplies in his rented room and headed outside into the fresh night air once more. 

                              ——————————————

The Office of the Watch was much further away than Fahjoth had anticipated, and by the time he arrived, his legs — which had been trembling with nerves — were heavy and aching from weariness, which didn’t bode well for what he had to do. It had been a very long day already, and more than anything Fahjoth was craving a nice warm bed to fall into, but he’d come all this way. There was no going back now. 

After navigating the Hall of Justice — with some difficulty, assuaged only slightly by the directions given to him from irate Ordinators on patrol — Fahjoth eventually found himself at the doors of the Office of the Watch, which he knocked gently and waited to be given permission to enter. 

Peering around the door, Fahjoth was faced with a rather small and cluttered office inhabited by three Dunmer in the usual golden cuirass and boots, who were sitting at messy desks and perusing sheaves of parchment. One of them, a dark-haired Mer with a moustache and goatee, eyed Fahjoth as he crossed the threshold, the heavy bags under his eyes indicative of his tiredness.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “We’re very busy, as you can see.”

“Sorry to bother you,” Fahjoth apologised, “but I’m looking for an Elam Andas?”

“Yes, that’s me. I am Elam Andas, chief of Vivec's Order of the Watch. Are you here looking for work?”

Fahjoth bit his lip, knowing full well that this was his last chance to back out of his foolish and potentially suicidal mission, but he ploughed on anyway. “I heard you were looking for help solving these recent murders.”

The effect his words had on the office was startling. The officers stopped what they were doing, each of them fixing their red eyes on Fahjoth with dubious expressions. Fahjoth remained silent until Andas spoke again. 

“We cannot officially hire you as only Ordinators can serve the watch,” he explained. “But if you can find this killer and bring them to justice, we’ll see to it that you’re rewarded for your efforts.”

Bring them to justice? Now that was something Fahjoth was sure was well above his pay grade. He had been hoping to do a bit of investigation, to help the Watch with their search, but to be tasked with bringing down a serial killer himself? That wasn’t something he was at all confident he could handle. 

“Oh, I—” he started in alarm, but Andas cut him off. 

“I require no commitment from you,” Andas informed him. “In fact, I can’t even officially accept one. But if you’re serious about helping, I can tell you what we know so far about the killer and the victims.”  

After a moment of hesitation, Fahjoth nodded, and Andas gestured to the seat across his desk. Fahjoth obeyed, sitting and listening in silence. 

“There have been seven victims so far, five outlanders and two Ordinators, and all with their throats slit. Three of the victims were found in the Foreign Quarter, one near the Arena and one in the Hlaalu Compound. None of the outlanders had been on Vvardenfell for more than a week.

“Our Ordinators were found near the body in the Hlaalu Compound, and we think they interrupted the killer at work. Despite the fact that they were armed and on duty, their weapons were still in their sheaths when their bodies were found, which is unsettling. We’re likely looking at someone incredibly stealthy, or adept at illusion magic.”

It was times like this that Fahjoth dearly wished he could read and write. At least then he would have been able to make notes. 

“Finally... there is the matter of witnesses. We’ve had no official witnesses come forward, but one outlander reported being threatened by a Dunmer woman with a dagger in the Hlaalu Compound, around the time of the other murders. He couldn’t give us a very clear description as he teleported himself away to safety, but he told us she was wearing a skirt and netch leather armour.”

Fahjoth nodded, frowning as he tried to absorb all of this information, all the while his heartbeat had quickened uncomfortably with apprehension. Without further ado, he stood and excused himself from the office, heading back outside and into the late night’s chilly grip. 

Hearing about the victims, as well as Huleeya’s dire warning, had strengthened Fahjoth’s resolve. Someone was lurking in the shadows of Vivec City, slaughtering innocent people seemingly purely because of their foreign origins. People just like him.

His years spent away from Morrowind had left him as good as an outlander in the eyes of the native Dunmer, and if someone considered that fact alone a trait punishable by death, then they couldn’t be allowed to continue to walk free. Someone needed to deal with them, and if the city’s Ordinators couldn’t — or wouldn’t — then perhaps it would be up to him. 

Although... it would probably be a good idea to find Ribyna first, Fahjoth figured as he set off towards the city’s northernmost cantons, before he went blundering headfirst to his potential death. Again. 

The path ahead was dark and unsettling, and Fahjoth found himself throwing anxious glances over his shoulder every few minutes, flinching at the slightest unexpected sound and eyeing every shadow with mistrust lest he be ambushed by a dagger-wielding, skirt-donning Dunmer intent on ending his life. It was with relief that he made it to the first of his destinations and, incidentally, the last place he had seen Ribyna heading towards — the Arena. 

                             ——————————————

Unfortunately for Fahjoth, Ribyna was nowhere to be seen, so he lingered around the Arena for long enough to do some investigating, inquiring with a few inhabitants and Ordinators but turning up no new leads. Eventually he was forced to resign himself to the fact that he would be a lone worker in this case — a thought that inspired a well of dread in his gut — and moved on. 

The same was to be said with the Hlaalu Compound, where Fahjoth had checked in the hope that someone would have seen something about the attempted attack, but he had no luck there either. He then moved on to the Foreign Quarter where, to his surprise, an Orc was happy to assist. 

“I recall someone — maybe one of the sewer cleaners — saying something about seeing a Dunmer woman down in the Underworks. Wouldn’t be that odd, but... in the Underworks? That’s odd. Nothing down there but rats and sewers.”

Which led Fahjoth to his next point of investigation — the Underworks. 

                             ——————————————

The moment he stepped foot in the Underworks, the smell hit him like a brick to the face. Almost choking on the pungent stench of sewage water, Fahjoth lingered for just long enough to feel just a little more regret before he set off, trying to forget the misgivings he felt. He yanked his scarf up to cover his nose and mouth and navigated the Underworks as carefully as he could, every footstep deliberately placed to be as quiet as possible. He was well aware that the killer could be lurking around any corner, and the deeper he tread into the sewers the more he felt his legs begin to tremble.  

It was almost silent down here, the only sounds being that of the murky water sloshing against the smooth stone sewer walls and the occasional drip of moisture from the damp-ridden ceiling. Every so often he would hear a rat scuttling around in the darkness and his heart would jolt, requiring him to take a moment to stop and let his adrenaline levels fall after an unpleasant spike that set his pulse racing. 

As he progressed, however, more unpleasant thoughts began to surface in his mind. One possibility kept presenting itself to him, and as hard as he tried to reject it, he found that he couldn’t wholeheartedly dismiss it. 

“What are you doing, anyway?” 

“Just... stuff.”

He remembered that strange look on Ribyna’s face when he mentioned going to Vivec City. He could tell easily when his twin was apprehensive, and as brief as it was, it had been only too clear to see on her face back in Balmora. Was she nervous about returning to the scene of the crime?

But that was ridiculous! His twin wasn’t a murderer! 

What reason would she have to kill outlanders, anyway? The more Fahjoth thought about it, the more illogical it seemed. Least of all because he had never even seen Ribyna wear a skirt for as long as he could remember. So why couldn’t he simply disregard it? The fact that he even had doubts in the first place said enough, and he was even more nervous as he crept through the tunnels, dreading the possibility of seeing his twin around the next bend. 

So wrapped up was he in his own thoughts that as Fahjoth rounded a corner and exited a smaller tunnel into a larger section of the sewers, he didn’t even notice the figure standing at the end of the tunnel until he was looking straight at them. With a choked gasp, he flung himself back around the corner from which he had just emerged and pressed himself against the wall, his heart pounding in his chest and his stomach tied up in knots. After pausing to listen for any sign of the stranger’s approach, he deemed it safe enough to peer around the wall again and get a better look at the figure ahead. 

Even in the low light, he could tell that it was a Dunmer, and they were indeed wearing a skirt with what seemed to be a leather cuirass. This particular corner of the sewer almost looked like a base, with a scruffy bedroll laying on the ground near evidence of where a makeshift fireplace had been lit in the form of a charred mound of wood scraps. A pile of dilapidated crates and debris were strewn haphazardly around the alcove, in some cases holding — or failing to hold — contents like food and bottles of alcohol. Evidently, this was someone who had stocked up for some time. 

Fortunately, she hadn’t noticed Fahjoth yet. She sat atop one of the crates, perusing some sort of book or journal and occasionally making notes. A dagger — stained an ominous rusty hue — sat by her side, and Fahjoth’s suspicions were all but confirmed. 

How was he going to do this?

He could call it a day, back out quietly the way he came and return to the Office of the Watch with what he knew of the killer’s whereabouts. But even then, would anything get done? Would the Ordinators get here in time before the killer made another move, and claimed another victim?

Perhaps if he could sneak up behind her, he could get the advantage. He knew better than anyone that he was no master of stealth, but she looked fairly preoccupied. Perhaps if he was quiet and quick, then— 

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind did he become aware of a weight suddenly pulling vigorously on his foot. As he looked down, he silently squirmed and grimaced at the sight of a large rat digging its teeth into the chitin, shaking its head as if determined to pull his boot clean off. It made no noise other than a soft, squeaky growl, but the splashing of the water beneath its paws was unsettlingly loud and echoed due to the circular tunnel’s acoustics. If this kept up, it was only a matter of time before the killer would notice him. 

“Get off!” Fahjoth hissed, frantically shaking his foot. “Get off! Get off, you little c—!”

Unfortunately, the rat refused to budge. It was dragged along in the wake of Fahjoth’s mild kicks, which gradually grew more and more vigorous as he fought to free his foot of the rat’s vice-like grip. Leaning on the wall for balance, he raised his foot up off the ground, now aggressively kicking at the air when all prior attempts at gently shaking the rat off failed. The situation would have been comical had Fahjoth not been so painfully conscious of the murderer sitting barely 20 yards away from where he stood. 

At last, after what felt like hours, the rat let go. However, the momentum given to it by Fahjoth’s kicking motion caused it to gracefully soar away as it was flung off his foot and land with a tremendous splash in the deep sewer water in front of him. 

Instantly, Fahjoth froze. He pressed himself back against the wall, his breathing fast and laboured as he strained his ears for any sign of movement. Apart from the splashing of the rat as it swam away, apparently done with terrorising Fahjoth for the time being, all was silent. Then, as he dared to peek around the corner to evaluate the situation, a pair of red eyes stared into his own as he made direct eye contact with the Dunmer. 

Her reaction was instant. She leapt up from her seat, dagger in hand, and stormed the length of the tunnel towards him, already screaming abuse and profanities in his direction. Kicking hard off the ground, Fahjoth threw himself into motion, and with the Dunmer hurtling closer his options for where to go were limited. A brown and grey blur in his peripheral as he passed indicated that the Dunmer was giving chase, but with the advantage of having longer legs, Fahjoth half-sprinted and half-leapt over a nearby bridge spanning the sewer water before pelting down to the tunnel’s end. Whirling around once he came to a stop, the Dunmer was mere seconds behind him, so Fahjoth drew his sword and stood fast. 

Wielding a dagger which seemed to emanate a sickly red glow, his opponent lunged, landing a glancing blow against Fahjoth’s armour as he leapt back. But she was much faster than he had anticipated. He stumbled back and threw himself from side to side to avoid the Dunmer’s aggressive strategy of repeated jabs and slashes, breaking into a sweat and feeling his flanks ache with every shallow pant. One thrust of the dagger slid between the gap in the chitin protecting his arm, slicing through the sleeve and nicking the skin beneath. 

With a gasp, Fahjoth flung himself backwards. There was a dull thud as his heel collided with something on the ground and his balance was completely thrown off. 

His stomach lurched as he began a sharp descent, hitting the ground with a painful bump. The scraping and groans of the crates he fell against rang in his ears as the Dunmer was suddenly filling his vision, dagger poised ready to plunge into his throat. 

With his sword arm raised in a vague attempt to defend himself, Fahjoth reached to the side, grasping at nothingness in a frantic search for something, anything, that could— 

The cold sliminess of damp wood brushed against his fingertips. He fastened his grip, braced himself and flung the broken chunk at his assailant with as much force as he could muster. 

The jagged lump of wood, a deadly weapon in its own right in the right circumstances, struck the Dunmer square in the face. She staggered back with a howl of pain, clutching her eye while blood seeped from a fresh injury above her brow. With adrenaline coursing through him, Fahjoth sprung to his feet, clutching the hilt of his sword with fingers now damp from his own blood. 

The Dunmer lifted her gaze to Fahjoth again, her uninjured eye blazing with a chilling hatred, but before she could make another move Fahjoth had sprung. He rushed forward and thrust his sword into the Dunmer’s midriff, the tip of the blade piercing the thin, aged leather of her armour with surprising ease. Then he continued pushing forward, until his sword had been buried up to its hilt into her stomach and protruded out from her navel. 

The Dunmer froze, paralysed by the deadly blow, and Fahjoth relinquished his weapon and backed off, unable to do anything else but stare as she staggered to the side and fell. A sharp clang announced her collision to the ground as the sword’s blade hit the ground first, but once her momentum stopped and she lay still, total silence fell upon them. 

Silence, apart from the sound of Fahjoth’s ragged breathing. 

As he stared down at the lifeless Dunmer on the ground before him, Fahjoth only became conscious of how badly his legs were shaking when he tried to take a step forward and his knees almost buckled beneath his weight. Only one thought circled in his mind, over and over, as he silently watched the blood starting to ooze out from beneath her body. 

He had done this.

Someone was dead because of him. 

The more logical part of his brain insisted that if he hadn’t, it would have been him lying there in a pool of his own blood instead. But that didn’t make him feel much better about the fact that he had just taken someone’s life. 

There was a part of him that didn’t even want to approach the body to retrieve his shortsword, but at the end of the day, he had paid good money for that. And it wasn’t as if he had a backup. So with a trembling hand he grasped the hilt, slowly prising the sword out of the Dunmer’s body and wincing at the sickening sound of the blade gliding against flesh, squelching and wet. He cleaned the metal as best he could using linen from the makeshift bed, then sheathed his weapon and reluctantly searched the camp for evidence to present to Elam Andas. 

He didn’t find much of any substance. The journal the Dunmer had been reading was, of course, impossible for him to read. Quite apart from not finding any sense in the words, it was damp and smudged terribly to the point where it was barely legible. Still, perhaps the Office of the Watch would have better luck; he took it, along with an old rusty key and the Dunmer’s dagger, which left him feeling oddly nauseous and drained after his fingertips came into direct contact with it.

The damp stickiness of blood on his arm and staining his sleeve was impossible to ignore, as was the injury beneath it, so Fahjoth took a moment to attempt to heal it on his own. With the spell he had acquired from the Mages Guild in mind, Fahjoth closed his eyes and furrowed his brows in concentration; he racked every corner of his brain, searching for any spark that could ignite the spell that he could feel hesitating at his fingertips. But in his already worn-out state, the attempts only ended up draining yet more of his energy and left him with a considerable headache. In the end he conceded and admitted defeat, recognising a lost cause when he saw one. 

Then Fahjoth embarked on the long walk back to the Hall of Justice, craving fresh air and a warm bed above all else. It hadn’t quite sunk in yet that he had successfully taken on a serial killer and lived to tell the tale, but there was an odd light-heartedness in his chest as he traipsed back along the paths through Vivec City’s shadowy cantons, feeling somehow more confident than before.

                             ——————————————  

Fahjoth’s triumphant — albeit exhausted and bloodied — return to the Office of the Watch was met with disbelief at first, followed by amazement once he broke the news that the killer had been dealt with. Elam Andas was thrilled and accepted the dagger and journal as evidence without question, perhaps a sign of how desperate he was to believe that this Dunmer was no longer a threat. After expressing his gratitude he sent Fahjoth on his way, with a promise that Ordinators would be sent to clean up the mess and the reward of an enchanted belt to protect him on his travels, which Fahjoth accepted eagerly. Although he was pleased with the response to his daring deed, he was now more than ever looking forward to collapsing into bed after a very, very long day. 

With thoughts of only soft pillows and warm sheets on his mind as he entered the familiarity of the Foreign Quarter, it wasn’t until he came face-to-face with someone approaching the hallway to the cornerclub from the opposite way that he realised he had forgotten something — or rather, someone.

“Ribyna!” Fahjoth exclaimed, recognising his sibling even from a distance. But something was wrong. There was no wave or call of greeting from Ribyna, who walked silently over to him with a pronounced limp in her step.

“Ribyna?”

In the light of the torch that hung from the nearby wall, Fahjoth could see that Ribyna was in a dreadful state. Her armour was scuffed and damaged in places and her hair was a mess, but most worryingly was the copious amount of bloodstains that spattered and smeared her almost from head to foot.

“Ribyna!” Fahjoth gasped, rushing over to meet her and instantly beginning to fuss. “What the hell happened?! Are you okay?!”

“I’m fine,” Ribyna grunted, making a half-hearted attempt to push Fahjoth away.

“You’re covered in blood!”

“It’s fine. It’s not my blood.” Ribyna paused to wince, doubling over slightly and gritting her teeth. “Most of it...” 

Before Fahjoth could question her further, they were interrupted by the rapid approach of an Ordinator, his sword drawn and raised at Ribyna threateningly. 

“Halt!” he barked. “Murderous scum! You violated the law, outlander. Surrender and come with me immediately.”

Fahjoth's mouth fell open with horror. Murderous? Surely there had to be some kind of mistake...

However, Ribyna's silence was not encouraging. Instead of protesting her innocence, she reached into a pocket and tugged out a somewhat bloodstained roll of parchment, which she passed over to the guard without a word. To Fahjoth's astonishment, once he had finished reading it, he nodded and tucked the note away in his own armour.

“All of your papers seem to be in order,” he said, dipping his head to Ribyna. “You are free to go.”

And then he walked away, leaving Fahjoth utterly bemused as he stared at his still very quiet twin. 

“Are you gonna tell me what the hell just happened?” he questioned, and Ribyna huffed. 

"In a sec. Let's get inside first," she muttered, slipping away into the cornerclub without waiting for a response. Fahjoth, left with little choice, followed her in and then led the way to their room. The moment he opened the door, Ribyna pushed past him and dropped down onto the bed with a groan — much to Fahjoth's displeasure, as he had been hoping to do this exact thing first. 

“Well?” he prompted, lowering himself into a nearby chair and slouching back, relishing the chance to take the weight off his sore feet for a while. “What was that guard on about, calling you ‘murderous scum’?” 

It was a moment or two before Ribyna dragged herself upright again and turned her gaze to Fahjoth. 

“I joined the Morag Tong.”

Fahjoth, who had been in the process of removing his boots, froze motionless as he felt his blood run cold. “You what?!” he hissed, once he found his voice again. “You’ve— what?!”

“Yeah.” Ribyna’s tone was level as she stared back at Fahjoth, looking more tired than defensive. “Don’t start, alright? I’m knackered.”

“Don’t st—?!” Fahjoth bolted upright, keeping his voice hushed as best he could but fighting to quash the outrage that burned in his chest. “You’ve gone and joined a murder cult and you’re telling me to not start?!”

“It’s not a murder cult!” Ribyna protested. “It’s perfectly legal!”

“Just because it’s legal, doesn’t mean it’s not a—” Fahjoth stopped mid-rant, rubbing his eyes with exasperation. “Just... Ugh, what have you gone and done that for? Can’t you just do something... normal?! Like... I dunno, go join the Fighters Guild if you really wanna stab things!”

“No.” She slouched down, looking suddenly more tired than ever. “Look, maybe I’m fed up of being treated like the shit on everyone’s shoes, alright? Maybe I just... wanted a bit of respect for once.”

Fahjoth faltered, experiencing a flicker of sympathy for his twin. He knew that feeling all too well. “Beebs, you don’t need to become a murderer to be respected.”

“I was already a murderer,” Ribyna pointed out bluntly. Fahjoth felt a twist in his gut, memories from that horrendous day threatening to resurface in his mind. “At least this way I can get paid for it.” 

Fahjoth paused, struggling to find an argument and fighting to put into words exactly how he felt about Ribyna’s new career choice. Eventually, he heaved a sigh. “But... it can’t be safe. Look, you’re injured! I’m... I’m worried about you, Ribyna.” 

“Well, don’t be. Turns out I’m half-decent at killing people.” Naturally, Ribyna’s answer didn’t reassure Fahjoth in the slightest, but she ploughed on anyway with a change of subject. “Anyway, what about you? What have you been up to?” Now that she was evaluating Fahjoth properly, her eyes soon fell on the bloodstains that still blemished his clothes and armour. “Is that blood?!”

“Yeah... and this time, it is mine. Honestly, you won’t believe the day I’ve had, Beebs,” Fahjoth said, before he began to regale the whole story; meeting Huleeya, learning about the outlander killings, going to the Office of the Watch, venturing into the Underworks... 

By the time he had finished, Ribyna was staring at him with an incredulous look on her face. 

“Hang on,” she started, “you killed someone and you’re having a go at me for joining the Morag Tong? Hypocrite, much!”

“I— but— what?!” Fahjoth spluttered, affronted. “Th-that’s different! I’m not an assassin, I was stopping a serial killer—”

But he promptly shut his mouth once he noticed the wry grin curling at the corners of Ribyna’s lips. 

“I’m only messing,” she chortled, her smirk quickly becoming a proud smile. “Holy shit, that’s amazing, Fahji. Shame they didn’t pay you for it, mind.” 

“I don’t mind,” Fahjoth replied honestly, calming down again. “I’m just glad she can’t hurt anyone else.” He paused, feeling heat rising in his face as he prepared himself to confess to something. “Honestly for a little while, I was worried that the killer was gonna be you.”

Ribyna promptly cocked a brow. “You fucking donkey, why would I go around killing outlanders? I am an outlander!”

“I was just freaking out!” Fahjoth protested. “I was tired, and nervous, and you’d been acting proper shifty, and— well, I obviously wasn’t that far off, was I? Might not’ve been outlanders, but you were planning on killing people after all!”

Ribyna rolled her eyes, busying herself with removing her own armour. “Yeah yeah, alright, you’ve already said your piece. Come on, let’s get cleaned up and get some sleep. I’m absolutely wrecked.”

Though he still had plenty more to say on the matter, Fahjoth agreed, for both their sakes. He was looking forward to crashing just as much as Ribyna was, and once they had finished helping each other tend to their injuries and settled down for the night, Fahjoth was asleep almost as soon as his head had hit the pillows. 

—————————————————————————————

tag list  @boulderfall-cave , @padomaicocean (lmk if you’d like to be added!)

[a-simple-imagine]

Snapshots

Synopsis: Little moments of Y/N and Natasha’s life together starting from when they first met. Natasha never knew just how special Y/N would turn out to be.

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Words: 2.9k+

A/N - THIS IS AN AU but I think it’s better if you figure it out what kind as you read it rather than me telling you. Just seems cuter that way. 

1. Rain poured down like a blanket covering the busy streets of New York City. It had been a frequent occurrence as of late; it felt like it was never going to come to an end. Some called it an inconvenience but not everybody was bothered by the rain. Today was like any other day for Natasha Romanoff as she strolled along towards her apartment. A pitch-black umbrella held securely in her hand to shield her from the tiny knights of the grey clouds that fell from above. She considered the rain to be peaceful. The streets of New York were busy but it'd be worse had it been a sunny day. People walk faster when it's raining.

"Fuck!" She heard the words of another before she could figure out what was going on. Falling to the ground hard; the umbrella slipping from her fingers, the wind pushing it straight into oncoming traffic. There was no saving it now, at least it didn't cause an accident. A hand was held out before her and as she looked up she found the owner to be a woman; the brightest of smiles on her lips. She wore polka-dot rain boots and a raincoat to match. There was no need for her to carry an umbrella too but she was. With a little help, Natasha was pulled to her feet.

"I'm so sorry," The woman chuckled casually. She was a little too friendly for Natasha's taste, she could already tell. "I wasn't looking where I was going. I- I didn't even notice you."

"It's fine," Natasha shrugs, her voice stoic and cold in return. She had no intention of making friends with someone so careless. And frankly, she was annoyed that she was now wet and a little sore. Her hand instinctively going to rub her bottom where she collided with the ground. Her shoulder was a little sore too.

"Sorry about your umbrella too, the wind can be a bitch," The other woman thrust hers forward as an apology. "Here, take mine."

"What about you?" Natasha was cautious. She cared not for the other’s wellbeing but the random act of kindness itself. It was a rarity or at least she found it to be. And it was otherwise pointless considering the rain hadn't stopped throughout this entire exchange. The girl shrugged as quick as ever and after a little debate, Natasha decided to take it.

"I've always loved the rain anyway." She didn't so much as even put her hood up. "I'll see you around." And with a little wave of goodbye, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the cloak of rainfall.

2. The encounter was forgotten almost as quickly as it happened. Natasha didn't have time to dwell on such trivial matters. But it seemed like fate had other plans for the young widow as she walked into another on her way to get coffee. The same familiar face with a perfect little smile. "Shit, sorry,"

Their eyes met but only for a moment before Natasha looked anywhere but at the Y/E/C eyes that burned into hers and for a split second the world wasn't so grey. A trick of the light, perhaps. "It's fine." Natasha waves her hand dismissively, wondering if the other remembered her too. It took a little longer but she eventually caught on.

"You're the girl who stole my umbrella."

"Stole?" Natasha huffed. "I didn't steal anything, you gave me it."

"Semantics," the woman teased, all playful and smiley. "Guess you don't need it anymore,"

She looked to the sky so Natasha did too. Clouds on a canvas that was apparently blue. "Guess not," she replies with a flash of a smile. Natasha took the lead without so much as a goodbye, she brushed past the woman to head inside.

"Wait," The girl called as the coffee shop doorbell rang, Natasha, let it fall closed again. Turning to face to girl. "Are you free now? Maybe we could," she held up her coffee cup, it had little paw prints on. "Get coffee or something?"

Natasha looked between the two but shook her head. Why would she want to get coffee with a stranger? She was far too busy. "I'm on my way to work so... rain check."

The other woman laughed a little at the accidental pun. "I'm Y/N,"

"Natasha,"

"Well, Natasha," Y/N took a few steps closer, taking a sip of her drink. "How about you give me your number? That way we don't have to randomly keep bumping into one another if we want to see each other." Natasha entered her number, there was no harm done. The other woman didn't seem like much of a threat. And a change of company could be nice. "Don't forget my umbrella,"

Natasha watched her walk away only to be interrupted by a couple trying to leave the shop. She stepped out the way before heading inside for an early morning coffee.

3. Natasha felt silly. She didn't go on dates. Normal people went on dates and she was the exact opposite of that. Was this even a date? Maybe Y/N thought it was just two friends - because that's what they were now - getting lunch together. They still hardly knew each other. She shifted her weight as she stood awkwardly outside the train station. Checking her phone in hopes of a message that suggested they could cancel the whole thing and go home.

"Hey stranger," Y/N appeared looking as chipper as ever. "You okay there? You like shady as hell." What did she mean by that? Natasha thought best not to ask; she smiled in return. Hoping it was enough to put those thoughts to bed. "Are you coming?"

Y/N had started off down the road with Natasha trailing after her. "There's a glorious little cafe not too far from here. I know the owner and they make the best grilled cheese I've ever had," Natasha met her eyes when she glanced back. "That sound okay to you or would you prefer something fancier?"

"The cafe sounds great," With a curious raise of her eyebrow, Y/N kept her eyes on Natasha as she walked. Natasha couldn't help but wonder why? What had caught her interest, she sped up a little so they were walking side by side. She didn't really know what to say. This other woman was so... strange and perky. Almost the complete opposite of herself.

They sat at a small table just outside the cafe. A little fake plant sat in the middle alongside the condiments. Dark clouds drifted above, threatening to let the rain fall. There wasn't much of a conversation happening or more so, Natasha stayed quiet as Y/N spoke. She imagined Y/N to be the kind of person who could talk to anyone and everyone. You could bring up any topic and she'd talk for hours. Partway through a conversation about dreams - the sleep kind, not future kind - a single raindrop hit the end of Natasha’s nose. Y/N dipped a chip into a little sauce dish before popping it into her mouth. "Should we go?"

"Home?" Y/N asked. Natasha nodded a little, she didn't fancy being poured on right now. By the look on Y/N's face, she didn't want it to be over. "We can if you want but I was kind of hoping to do something else if you're feeling up to it?"

Y/N rose from her seat leaving a fair tip behind. Natasha followed, keeping an eye on the sky. "You're not worried about the rain? You're not exactly dressed for it."

"I don't mind and besides you have my umbrella right?" Y/N offered a gentle smile, walking back to take hold of her hand. "Is this okay?"

Natasha glanced down to their hands. Y/N' was surprisingly cold but a small smile pulled at the corner of her lips. "Where are we going?"

"I don't know," Y/N replied with a little shrug, leading the way. "I figured we could just walk and see where we end up?"

"...Sounds like a plan," Natasha agreed slowly with a little nod off her head. She had no idea where they'd end up but she was glad they hadn't gone home.

4. "What's your favourite colour?" Y/N asked from a few paces ahead. Polka-dot boots stomping dramatically in all the puddles. Onlookers giving her distasteful glances that she simply ignored.

"I don't have one," Y/N came to an abrupt stop, spinning on her heel. Her brows were furrowed like someone had just said the most ridiculous thing. "Everyone has a favourite colour."

"Not me," Natasha shrugs, gliding past. She knew this would come up eventually, maybe it was just time to come clean. "I suffer from achromatopsia"

"And what is that?" Her cheerful disposition was beginning to fade. That always happened.

"I'm colour blind." Natasha watched Y/N’s smile fade entirely. Replaced by a look she hated; one of pity. "I can't see any colour. Only shades of black and white."

"I'm sorry,"

"Don't be. It's not your fault." Natasha had come to terms years ago. It didn't really hinder her in any way; except when people annoyingly used colours to describe something. Sometimes she'd simply pretend to know what they were talking about just so she didn't have to admit she couldn't see the colours. "What's your favourite?"

Y/N thought for a moment. "I don't know, yellow maybe?"

"Yellow," Natasha repeats.

"I suppose you wouldn't know what yellow looks like,"

"Not really," Natasha shook her head. "Explain it to me."

Y/N frowned up at Natasha, meeting her eyes. "I don't.- how do you explain colour?" Natasha left it at that. She didn't know how to explain colour either. After a moment the other woman piped up again. "Yellow is... bright and warm like the sun on a clear day. Or like a good hug after a long day."

5. Natasha didn't like carnivals, they left her feeling overwhelmed. They were just too loud and much too bright. Not to mention all the people barging around like they owned the place. But tonight she had agreed to attend alongside Y/N who was as eager as a child on Christmas morning.

"What do you want to do first?" Y/N questioned. Natasha debated saying go home but she kept that thought in her mental drafts.

"How about the Ferris wheel?" The Ferris wheel was both safe and slow. Not that she was scared to try the other rides, she'd just prefer not having to.

"We can't." Y/N insisted sharply. Natasha's brow knitted together in suspicion.

"Why not?"

"We have to wait until later." Y/N replied but didn't give any other information on the matter. "How about...." she surveyed the carnival and Natasha did too. "I know let's play a game."

Natasha was being dragged towards the booth before she had any chance to protest. A teenager stood inside looking bored and he explained the game. The aim was to fire the water gun at the mouth of the very creepy clown to inflate the balloon. Natasha watched Y/N try first, she wasn't very good but she seemed to have a very determined look on her face. It was no surprise when the time ran out and she didn't win. "You have a go."

"No thanks,"

"Come on," Y/N shuffled over, pushing Natasha towards the booth. "Win me a bear, I know you can do it."

Natasha sighed softly but she picked up the gun and aimed it. Pressing on the trigger as the bell rang, water shot into the clown's mouth. Carnival games are near impossible, they make them extra hard so fewer people win which explained the shocked look on Y/N’s face when she won. The guy even offered a bonus round which was basically just as easy. Natasha knew she had a great aim. Y/N practically jumped on her as she was handed a giant stuffed bear.

"That was so cool," Y/N called happily, slapping a wet kiss against the woman's cheek. "I never expected you to be that good."

"I'm a woman of many talents," Natasha responds, offering up the bear to her. Y/N proceeded to walk around giving the stupid stuffed animal a piggyback ride. It was adorable to watch her skip around with child-like glee. Natasha even gave in and went on a bunch of rides. She had cotton candy for the first time, it was much too sweet.

"What should we do next?" Y/N wondered sweetly; turning around to face her.

"What do you want to do? I think we've done a lot."

"What time is it?"

Natasha shrugged, looking to her phone for the answer. "Like... sevenish."

Keeping hold of the bear, she took Natasha's hand in a way she had done many times before.  "Let's go on the Ferris wheel."

"Sure," Natasha has no reason to protest. She was surprised by how much she was actually enjoying being here. Maybe it was just the company. Y/N was a chipper little weirdo who liked to jump in muddy puddles. She insisted on going into toy stores just to press all the buttons which is apparently totally normal for a grown woman to do. She had a major sweet tooth and can't walk past a bakery without wanting a cake or two. She was so unapologetically herself in everything she does. They'd been dating a while now. It happened naturally. Natasha had been unsure at first considering how different they seemed to be but Y/N was such a welcoming presence.

"Fair warning, the ride will stop when we're at the top." Y/N was practically oozing excitement. Wasn't new for her but it was just a Ferris wheel.

"Why?" Natasha wondered. Wasn't a big deal but she was curious.

"You'll see," Y/N climbs in first, placing the bear down to her right by the window. Natasha joins her. The ride starts and the seat shakes, Y/N shuffles a little closer. Natasha looked through the window at the theme park below. It was still as bright and hectic even as it got later. What time did this place even close? As it came to the top the ride came to a stop.

"I... kinda wanted to tell you something..." Y/N pipes up, taking a deep breath.

"Is that why we've stopped?" Natasha asks but Y/N just shakes her head. "No that's something else."

"What then?"

"We've been dating a while now, how have you not got annoyed with me yet?" Y/N offers up a little smile.

"Guess I've just gotten used to it. It'd be weird if you didn't annoy me all the time."

"You're like no one I've ever met before," Natasha frowns a little unsure of where this was going. "I just... I'm grateful." Natasha places her arm around the other woman and pulls her closer. Y/N head falls to her shoulder. A silence follows. "I love you, Natasha." Natasha hears the words but they're interrupted by a massive explosion of light that catches her off guard. Y/N puts her arms around Natasha in an attempt to comfort her. "Fireworks, look."

Natasha turns from Y/N to watch. The fireworks are chaotic and completely unpredictable as they scatter to find their own space on the canvas. Shimmering lights twinkling amongst the stars in the dark night sky. They were loud and magnificent but short-lived. It takes a second to realise but each flash was significantly different than the last. Each one crackled with... "Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah. Go ahead."

"Are they supposed to look like that?" Natasha wondered. She didn't understand what exactly was different or how to describe it. She'd never actually seen fireworks before, it always seemed pointless to just stare at bright lights and she wasn't fond of how loud they were or the smell they left behind.

Y/N was visibly confused as she turned to face her. "Look like what? They're bright lights in different colours. I like the really big ones that spiral into the sky before exploding into a splatter of giant light."

"Colours?"

"Fireworks have colours to them? Each one is a different colour, you see that." Y/N points out the window. "It's..." she hesitates until one explodes. "Purple"

"Purple," She repeated. Each one was a different colour. Then it clicked; for the first time in Natasha Romanoff's life she wasn't just seeing different shades of grey, she was seeing dazzling, vivid explosions of.... colour, maybe? What colours she didn't know but it brought a bright smile to her lips.

"What's wrong?"

"Huh?" Y/N gently wiped away a tear from Natasha's cheek. She hadn’t even realised.

"You're crying? I don't think I've ever seen you cry before."

"I can see them," Natasha admits slowly. "The colours?"

"...what?"

"I can see them. Each colour. Every colour."

"For real?" Y/N was confused but clearly happy. "That's amazing, Natasha- Really, I'm so happy for you.

Y/N wouldn't ever quite grasp the gravity of the situation. How could she? She probably didn't even think it was real; Natasha didn't even believe it herself. How long it would last she couldn't be sure. Maybe a few minutes. A few hours. Forever. But it didn't matter. Right now all that mattered was that she was sharing this moment with a woman who brought so much colour into her life even before she could see them. Y/N was special in so many ways.

"Y/N,"

"Yeah Nat," the ride started up again, startling the both of them as the whole carriage started to shake. Natasha places her hand gently against Y/N’s cheek, turning so their eyes met - her eyes had never looked more beautiful - before pulling her into a soft embrace. Y/N tasted sweet like sugar and Natasha wouldn’t have it any other way. 

"I love you too."

[neerasrealm]

bRO jason or LJ would be great with the record scratch one imo HSHSH

WHEN I SAW JASON AS AN OPTION I LOST IT FHGSDHF. Anyway hi this story is basically Jason getting bullied by Kate the Chaser for 2000+ words. Enjoy.

*record scratch* 

*freeze frame* 

Yep, that’s me. No, not the vague figure you’re imagining now from the zero amount of information I’ve given you, and no, I’m not the heroic yet relatable main-character you’d expect either. I’m the one that’s currently, and quite poetically, hiding in the corner of a chicken coop. Yeah, that’s the one.

Hi, I'm Jason. I'm a toymaker. And also half- or maybe three quarters demon because I work for an immortal god of chaos and destruction. And for a little more context, I'm in a chicken coop because things went horribly, horribly wrong. 

I was given one simple task. Spy on a woman named Kate. Okay, no problem. She's human, average height and weight. Nothing to be concerned about. The only foreseeable threat was the fact that she works for my boss's biggest rival. A man named Slender. I would say creature, but from what I've heard he's rather good at acting civilised, though I've also heard that it's all just an act to lower guards. Regardless, I had no fear of her.

No fear that is, until she happened to catch me watching her via my pet surveillance mouse, Licorice. She smacked the poor thing with a rake! A rake! My poor innocent little surveillance drone...Licorice wouldn't harm a fly…

Eh-hem. Anyway- after she found and assaulted Licorice I tried to make my escape- but she caught me. So I hid in the only place I could. 

The chicken coop. 

And that's where I am now. Curled up amongst feathers, grain and very upset birds. If I wasn't trying to be quiet, I would've killed them by now. Especially the one that’s pecking my leg. Rude bitch. I have half a mind to strangle you, you know that, chicken?

Wait.

Oh no.

I hear footsteps.

The door to the chicken coop is yanked open and suddenly I’m being glared at by an angry asian lady wearing black and white flannel. 

‘’Get outta my coop, bitch boy.’’

Okay, first of all, rude. Second of all, RUDE. third of all,

‘’No.’’

She glares at me.

‘’Alright, that’s it.’’

She climbs into the fucking chicken coop, grabs me by my EXPENSIVE knee high boots and YANKS me out of the coop with strength I didn’t expect from her. I scream and thrash about and kick at her until she lets me go. She stands over me, glaring. I glare right back. She puts her hands on her hips, channeling the energy of an angry texan grandma. If I wasn’t British I’d probably be terrified right now. 

‘’Who gave you permission to go snoopin’ around my property?’’

‘’I don’t need permission to snoop anywhere,’’ I growl back. ‘’I do as I please.’’

"So you admit you WERE snoopin'!" She points an accusing finger at me. 

"No, I was just saying I don't need permission to snoop." I cross my arms and give her a smug look. The word snoop sounds really weird now that we keep saying i- "AH!" 

She yanks me by the collar of my rather EXPENSIVE shirt. Blue eyes glare into mine between strands of dark hair. ‘’Jason,’’ she growls. ‘’Tell me what the fuck you’re doing here before I crack your skull open like an over-ripe cantaloupe.’’

I glare at her. ‘’...Fine.’’ I sigh. ‘’I was asked to look into you since you’ve changed location. It was suspected that you were doing something, or perhaps Slender had changed his base of operat-’’ I’m interrupted by her letting go of my collar and rudely placing her muddy boot on my nice clean clothes. ‘’HEY!’’

‘’I fucking moved out, Jason. Jesus. Can Zalgo just calm his tits? Do I have to live in fear of the bastard for the rest of my life just because of Slender?’’

‘’Yes, you do.’’ I glare at her. ‘’Maybe you should have considered that before becoming his proxy.’’ She rolls her eyes and lifts her foot off of me. I brush dirt off myself but- that mud isn’t going to come off easily...these were expensive clothes too…

‘’Get up.’’

‘’I’m not taking orders from you!’’

‘’Then maybe I should tell Slender I found a creepy redhead sitting up a tree watching me!’’

"Hey! I am not creepy!" 

Kate glares down at me, her hands on her hips again. After a few moments of stubborn silence, I stand up and brush dirt off myself. She folds her arms.

"I won't tell Slender about this if you do somethin' for me." She says. I squint.

"Are you trying to blackmail me?" I murmur. She nods.

"Yep. I have a fence that needs fixin', along with some stuff in the house and fields. If ya help me I won't tell Slenderman I found ya creepin' around my property."

What the hell does this woman take me for? I'm not going to let her blackmail me! I glare at her and cross my arms. "Absolutely not." I say before turning and walking away. Hah! That'll show her! I'm simply going to walk away from my problems!

"Aren't ya forgettin’ somethin'?" I turn and look at her and stare in horror. She's holding my beloved mouse from her tail, swinging her from side to side like she's a toy rather than a beloved pet!

"LICORICE!" I yelp and run towards her to grab back my poor pet. Kate moves out of the way with surprising speed. I suppose that's why her nickname is 'The Chaser'. 

"Ah ah ah." She wags a finger at me, teasing me. "Not until you help me."

"What?!" Licorice is being held ransom now?! I stare at Kate in horror. She smirks. "...fine! Fine, I'll do it! Just- don't hurt licorice...please…"

"That's the spirit, jacey-boy!" She chirps. Dear god I hope she never calls me that again. She stuffs licorice back into her pocket and smiles smugly. "Now c'mon."

Begrudgingly, I follow her to her home. It’s a large country house, with a spacious wooden deck. Inside is just as cozy as you’d expect. This is actually a nice place- I wouldn’t mind living here myself if it wasn’t on a farm. I don’t like farms. They smell bad.

‘’Alright, here we go.’’ She leads me into the kitchen. There’s a toolbag on the kitchen table. She picks it up and holds it out to me. ‘’There’s some broken bannisters on the stairs. Think you can fix them up?’’

‘’I guess if there’s replacement bannisters.’’ I grunt. 

‘’In the shed out back. And after you’re done that, you can fix some holes I found in the walls upstairs,’’ she shrugs at me. ‘’I think the past owner had a teenage son. Punched the shit outta the place.’’

‘’Of course he did…’’ I take the toolbag and sigh. ‘’Fine.’’ 

 I march out the backdoor and find her shed. Walking inside, the bannisters I need are laying on a table. It smells of fresh paint in here- I actually quite like that smell...I grab the bannisters and march back inside. The bitch is making coffee instead of- you know, working like I am. I glare at her as I walk back into the hallway. Her stairs are completely missing several bannisters- six to be exact. With a sigh, I put down the bannisters and rummage through the bag for a drill. Why does she think I’m qualified to fix stairs anyway? Because I’m a toymaker?? I mean- yeah I know how to fix things like this- but still! My skills are more in carving and painting and sewing...ugh…

I pull out the drill I need and get to work. It’s a simple process. Drill a nail into the stairs, drill a matching hole into the bannister, then screw it on. Nothing too difficult- the only bad part is the sawdust that gets everywhere. Not my problem though- at least I hope it isn’t. If she makes me clean it up I’ll be mad.

‘’I finished.’’ I growl to Kate as I walk back into the kitchen. ‘’What next?’’

She’s eating fucking banana bread. Taunting me with the fact that I’m doing all of her work for her. Fuck you, Kate. Fuck you. If I was in a room with Slenderman and you and I had one bullet, I’d shoot Slender and beat you to death myself. Fuck you AND YOUR BANANA BRE-

‘’There’s plaster and newspaper upstairs. You can stuff the holes up and plaster over ‘em.’’ she smiles at me. Ah. I didn’t need to come in here at all. I could have avoided seeing the accursed banana bread…

I go upstairs like a good slave laborer. The bucket of plaster and stack of newspapers is sitting right next to the top of the stairs. How did I miss it? Ugh. Whatever- ripping up the papers to stuff up the holes in the walls is actually kind of fun. I haven't made anything with paper mache in a while...it’s kind of time consuming to make but still fun! 

Thinking about paper mache makes the time go by much much faster. By the time I’ve patched up every single hole in the wall I’ve almost completely forgotten why I’m so angry! It’s nice- being productive always helps me calm down and forget why I’m so stressed…

‘’Hey, Jason!’’

Ah. I remember now. I look down the stairs at Kate. She smirks a bit. ‘’Ya done?’’

‘’Yes.’’

‘’Good! Ya can help me with the fence then!’’

Ugh. With a huff I walk downstairs and follow her outside. She leads me to a wooden fence that’s broken down and barely standing. Next to it is a shovel, some timber and more tools. She picks the shovel up and starts digging around the fencepost. Together, the two of us remove the rotten wood from the bottom of the post, fill up the hole, and replace the rest of the rotten and broken wood. By the time we’re done I’m covered in dirt, and sweaty. I huff and take off my jacket, holding it under my arm. Kate does something similar, tying her flannel shirt around her waist. She stretches, cracking her back and grunting. 

‘’Are we done yet?’’ I growl. Kate smirks. 

‘’Almost. Just need ta water some crops.’’ she strides past me. ‘’C’mon Jacey. It won’t take long.’’ 

‘’Don’t call me Jacey.’’ 

She laughs and leads me over to the field I was watching her in. There's a short pipe with a hose attached to it just by the gate leading into it. She picks up the hose and hands it to me. ‘’Just sprinkle some water over ‘em, got it?’’

‘’I know how to water plants. I’m not dense.’’

Her lips curl up into a smile. ‘’Good. I’m gonna go check on Marigold.’’ she says before wandering away. I frown.

‘’Who’s Marigold?’’ I call after her.

‘’My cow!’’ she yells back. ‘’Now get to work before I feed your mouse to her!’’

Cows don’t even eat mice...stupid bitch. Hmph. begrudgingly, I walk along the small paths in between each line of crops, sprinkling each one with water. She has all sorts of things growing according to the small wooden signs stuck into the dirt. Carrots, potatoes, tomatoes...being a farmer sounds like a hellish lifestyle, but having your own fresh ingredients for cooking does sound appealing...

‘’Jason!’’ 

Just as I’m watering the last of her plants she calls me. I glance over at her. She waves at me from the other end of the field. With a sigh, I walk all the way over to the gate where she’s standing.

‘’Yes?’’

‘’Ya wanna feed the chickens?’’

‘’No.’’ 

‘’Great!’’ she grins at me. Great, now I have to feed the bloody things. As if hiding amongst them earlier wasn’t degrading enough. I put the hose back where I found it and turn to her. She holds out a bucket filled with seeds, grain and berries. I take it and frown.

‘’What is this?’’

‘’Chicken feed. Duh.’’ she rolls her eyes. ‘’C’mon. This is the last thing, promise.’’ I follow her back to the accursed chicken coop. The chickens, there’s seven of them, are just wandering around, pecking aimlessly at the ground. Kate claps her hands and the demon birds all look up. Kate looks at me and gestures to the chickens. ‘’Well c’mon. They’re waitin’.’’

With a sigh I reach into the bucket, grab a handful of feed, and toss it to the ground. Immediately it’s swarmed by bloodthirsty- er- bloodhungry chickens who peck the ground aggressively. Out of fear for my safety I continue tossing feed at the birds. Admittedly it is fun seeing chickens rapidly look around in confusion when they’re hit on the head with their own food. This isn’t actually too bad. These chickens aren’t all that ba-

‘’Ow!’’

I TAKE IT BACK ONE OF THE FUCKERS JUST PECKED MY FOOT. I kick at the aggressive bird. It flutters back and I give it my best sneer. Kate clicks her tongue and I look up at her. 

‘’Bad idea, Jacey.’’

Huh? Wha- ‘’OW-’’ I stumble back and away from the flock of chickens pecking at my good nice boots. I drop the bucket of feed, stumble on a rock, and fall straight into the muddy ground. I stare at the sky, eyes wide. What- what the fuck...since when are chickens so- aggressive?? I sit up slowly and stare at the demon hens in fear, then at Kate who is aggressively laughing. I glare at her, regain my lost dignity out of spite, and stand up.

‘’Can I go now?’’

‘’Mmm…’’ she rocks on her heels, smirking and considering it for a moment. ‘’Sure. I think ya’ve done everything I need.’’ she pulls her hands out from behind her back and holds out a tupperware container as I walk over to her. What- why is she-

Oh.

Oh if she put licorice in there-

‘’Licorice!’’ yep she did. Bitch. I pick up my beloved mouse and cradle her in my hands, dropping the container in the process. ‘’Oh there you are sweetie...I’m sorry- did the mean lady trap you in there? You poor thing.’’ Licorice squeaks in distress as I pet her gently and kiss the top of her little head. ‘’I know, I know- don’t worry Jason’s here, she isn’t going to hurt you anymore my sweet.’’ 

Licorice rolls up onto my shoulder and snuggles up against my collar. I pat her again and glare at Kate. She smiles sweetly at me.

‘’Get off my property.’’

‘’Gladly.’’

[maddiefriendlovesbilly]

If you feel up for writing more ever all I crave is Ghost angst Constantly S a d //it can have a happy or sad ending if you want I just need to agressively throw my emotions at a fiction character who is also sad//

So anon, I know its been like a few Months or something since you requested this, but here it is,,, Ghost angst!! I can’t tell you my plans because that would spoil the surprise but what I can say is: MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

I present to you:

Once More, This Time With Feeling

Rating: PG-13 (but rating may go up), SFW for now

Ship: Ghost/Spooker

Warnings: Angst, emotional turmoil, Ghost being an idiot feelings-wise, dark/intrusive thoughts, blocking others out, next chapter may have more warnings

Summary: The P.I.E. team head out for a seemingly normal case, but things quickly spiral out of control, and Ghost ends up in quite a unique circumstance, to say the least.

Word Count: 3,516

Nothing unusual happens, before it all starts, nothing that would indicate how utterly to shit everything goes in a mere matter of hours. There are no red flags, or bad omens, or warning signs. Everything seems as normal as it can be when you’re a paranormal investigator for a living - so when the call comes in for a fairly simple job, Ghost accepts and gives the woman an ETA before shouting a quick, “We’ve got a job!” down the hall and slinging his satchel over his shoulder as he makes his way to the door. He hears a distant whoop from Spooker just before he exits, to which he rolls his eyes.

The car ride is uneventful, save for some antics with Toast’s driving license - or lack thereof. They reach the large office building a few minutes before he said they would, and the woman has a look like she’d be pleased if the situation weren’t so distressing - he’s been met with similar looks much more than one might expect. He walks over and introduces him and his team, all business, and only grimaces slightly when he introduces Spooker, though he thinks the woman might have noticed nonetheless. 

She’s mocha-skinned, a fraction taller than Ghost and perfectly kempt, with a perfectly trimmed bob and rigid posture that scream, “Inconvenience me, I dare you.” An immaculate suit and tie complete the look.

Her name is Christine Hemmingway, and she explains that she works in the office behind her as a supervisor - during a recent trip to the basement, she discovered a strange new door leading to a series of branching underground tunnels reaching lengths she can’t accurately estimate without entering them - an idea she wisely rejected outright - but, from what little she saw from the entrance, might span the entire downtown area. She heard noises, possibly talking, along with a faint ebbing glow, coming from one of the tunnels on the right, but shut the door before she could see who, or what, it was when the sounds went quiet and she heard footsteps approaching. When Ghost asks, she’s adamant the door wasn’t there before, and has replaced a water cooler and a stubby filing cabinet too short to conceal the door, both of which have disappeared completely.

Looking up at the building Ghost notes that it looks completely empty, and asks Christine if she has a way inside, to which she nods and pulls out a key card with her face on it, handing it to him while saying, “Lose this, and you’ll regret it - one, because you won’t be able to get out, and two, because you’ll have to explain to security why you’re inside a business outside office hours, and while I’m sure they’d just love to hear the story of a spooky new door in the basement, I doubt it will save you from being charged with breaking and entering.” Ghost nods and after unlocking the front door and jamming his foot in the crack, he tucks the card safely inside his bag. He hears Toast mutter something like, “Wouldn’t be the first time,” and snorts inelegantly.

Christine looks like she’s starting to rethink her decision about hiring them, so Ghost spits out something professional sounding along the lines of, “We’ll do our best to find the cause of these tunnels, you can count on us ma’am,” and it seems to work pretty well, until Colon breaks the silence with a sharp cough that sounds suspiciously like laughter. Ghost fails to suppress a side-long glance his way, and does even worse at keeping a single brow from arching in question; Colon only “coughs” again, louder this time.

For the sake of his likely rapidly declining paycheck, he just sighs and opens the door, holding it there and waving the others inside. “After you.”

The others enter and he takes the rear, letting Toast lead them towards an elevator with a “1” printed beside it. Pressing the down arrow, Spooker comments, “Nice to use a normal, functioning elevator for once, usually they’re either busted or do something crazy, like move diagonally or something, and are bringing us somewhere that’ll probably try to kill us.”

They all huff varying degrees of laughter, and Ghost replies, “I hate to burst your bubble, but I don’t know what you expected when you answered the job request, because “normal” stuff isn’t something we have an abundance of in the “paranormal investigation” line of work. It’s sort of in the name.”

Spooker shrugs and smiles at him dopily, and the elevator dings beside him, announcing its arrival as the door slides open. He flinches at the volume, smile faltering, and they quickly shuffle inside. Colon hits the ‘B’ button, cringing when it beeps too. The elevator shifts and, with a groan, begins its descent. They’re silent on the way down, apart from the occasional tapping of Toast’s foot, or the click-click of Ghost making sure his flashlight works. Spooker looks up at this, and Ghost can practically see his thoughts when he starts, and fumbles at the one clipped to his belt, mouthing “Oh!” He grabs it, looking quite pleased with himself.

Ghost feels something pool in his chest at the sight, much too fond for his liking, and when his lip twitches upwards in amusement, whatever was swelling in his chest immediately curdles. The not-quite-smile sours and congeals, writhing, until he’s left with a deep scowl and an aching where something softer once lay. Despite its unpleasantness, Ghost still finds the feeling easier to deal with; bitterness and discomfort were familiar, they kept him grounded in reality, rather than letting him get his hopes up only for them to be crushed yet again. He doesn’t know how Spooker stays so positive despite how often he’s rejected and let down, especially by Ghost - he doesn’t think he could completely bounce back from many of them, let alone do it as quickly as Spooker does.

As the elevator chimes its arrival to the basement, Ghost feels a sharp pain on his bottom lip, and swears under his breath when he realizes he’s worried his lip hard enough to draw blood. The other two are too far to hear it, but Spooker glances back from where he stands in the doorway, concerned. His eyes flick to Ghost’s lips - the bottom of which now has a small bump, and Ghost swipes his tongue over it unconsciously, tasting iron - and when he meets his eyes again Spooker seems even more worried. “Are you-” he starts, but Ghost interrupts before he can finish, responding, “It’s fine - just a cut,” and Spooker looks like he wants to point out that that isn’t what he was asking, but isn’t sure how, but it doesn’t matter because it’s shut him up for now. He slides past Spooker, deciding to just put aside the whole elevator ride for the time being - he can deal with it after they’ve completed the mission, once he’s alone. He schools his features to neutrality and makes his way across the room to where Toast and Colon are examining an old wooden door, ill-fitting in its modern surroundings. “I understand what she meant by ‘strange’ now,” he comments as he approaches.

“Yeah, definitely stands out, doesn’t it?” Colon shoots back, and rolls back onto his heels, taking in their surroundings.

“All I can really think about is all that paperwork they’re going to need to redo,” Toast interjects.

Ghost snorts, pushing past them, announcing, “Alright, let’s get this shit over with,” and gripping the rusty handle and turning it. He swings open the door to reveal an empty, narrow tunnel, too long for his flashlight’s beam to reach very far ahead, with archways presumably leading to similar tunnels. Spooker, being the last one in, shoves a nearby chair into the gap between the door and frame to keep it open, just in case.

They make their way down the main tunnel, shining their lights down the branches as they pass, every once in a while coming across a room, which they poke their head into, or an iron door - often locked, each with a small, barred window to see inside, and most leading to another seemingly identical tunnel, some complete dead ends, others to (sometimes totally barren) rooms - with no apparent rhyme or reason to their placement. Something about it all plants a growing seed of dread in the pit of his stomach, but he can’t place what it is that bothers him so much. None of these things are unusual to see in their investigations, and are all pretty by-the-book as entities’ lairs go, but maybe it’s the way it’s all laid out - there’s no practical way for them to search every single tunnel, that would take days, maybe weeks, so there’s no real way to know what to expect, and the door placement is so sporadic that it’s impossible to tell if something is locked because it’s important, or just another meaningless path to who-knows-where; maybe it’s that they’ve been walking for at least fifteen minutes and nothing has changed, other than the fact that he can’t see the door anymore, just a wall of darkness at their backs. There aren’t any lights, though Ghost does spot an empty sconce every so often, and Ghost isn’t afraid of the dark by any means, nor is he claustrophobic, but he can feel the darkness behind him like hands on his back, and the tunnel is carved just wide enough to almost fit two people side by side, with flawless smooth stone on all sides, and a ceiling that arcs just above Toast’s head at its peak, so close that Ghost worries it might come crashing down any moment. He doesn’t even know if these are even actual tunnels in the ground, or if they’re in another dimension, or between them - and he’d rather avoid repeating that experience, thank you very much.

Glancing around, the others don’t seem to be any more on alert than they usually are on missions, so he’s probably just overthinking it - but that explanation does little to quell the panic rising in his chest, which only grows larger, filling the space his lungs need to expand. He realizes he’s chewing on his lip again when the cut stings from being reopened. He digs his nails into his palm to bring himself back to the present, but the hands on his back have morphed into something colder, darker, and he can’t focus when, logically, he knows there’s nothing behind him but an empty tunnel and eventually an old door, but every instinct in his body is screaming that something is very, very wrong, and they need to leave right now, but he can't even tell if there’s still an available escape because the tunnel is so completely void of light and there’s nothing he can do about it.

He doesn’t see Colon take out his detector, and clearly jumps about a foot in the air when it shatters the silence with a shrill beep - and just when did it become so deathly quiet that the only sounds are their footsteps on the smooth, stone floor? - and when they look at him like he’s grown a second head he laughs awkwardly and says, “Warn a guy next time!”

Colon takes it at face value, and apologizes before turning back to the beeping machine in his hand; Toast gives him a look of “everything okay?” to which he shrugs, and Toast nods in understanding, probably planning on asking him about it later. Spooker seems unconvinced though, and while he doesn’t say anything, he steps just a fraction closer to Ghost, and maybe by doing so he’s admitting it’s not really fine, that nothing is, but nonetheless, he doesn’t move away. It’s not obvious with the close confines of the tunnel, but Spooker notices, and he smiles a little, but it’s tinged with sadness and something else Ghost can’t name.

That’s when the detector’s beeping spikes, turning frantic.

Everyone is on alert immediately, but Toast is the first one to motion in the direction of what sounds like approaching footsteps, bare on the cold stone floor. They all turn around to face whatever’s coming down the passage, the beeping steadily increasing as the footsteps get louder. A pale foot inches into the beam of one of their flashlights, quickly followed by another, and with it, the rest of the short, petite girl, a mop of tangled black hair hiding most of her face and slim shoulders. Her white dress drags behind her in chunks, shredded and stained from dragging across the ground.

Ghost feels his eyes widen, and realizes he’s stumbled back, pressing into Spooker, who’s practically holding him up by the shoulders. Through the strands of hair he can see a single eye staring out at the bodies crowding the narrow hall, and he knows it’s stupid, but he can’t shake the feeling that it’s staring straight into him, even though she hasn’t glanced up once yet. He’s pretty sure he’s shaking now, and can only hope that Spooker hasn’t noticed, for the sake of his pride.

The ragged figure stops just inside the beam, finally looking up. She meets Ghost’s stare, and holds his gaze - they stay that way, matching each other in a silent battle of ‘who will crack first?’

“K-” he starts, “Katrina?”

Spooker shifts behind him, Ghost thinks he might be staring at him too. He doesn’t break away to check.

Katrina says nothing, only stares.

He takes a quivering step forward, feels Spookers hands fall from his shoulders, reaches out. Katrina still doesn’t look away, but she also doesn’t move away, so he takes another step towards her, then another, then another, until he’s right in front of her, hand merely an inch away from making contact. The flashlight in his hands quakes violently in his death-grip, but he drops a hand onto her shoulder, which is surprisingly solid. This seems to break Katrina from her trance though, and she screeches - not unlike a banshee, Ghost thinks distantly - clawing at him. 

He veers back, not quite quick enough to avoid the talons that just catch his cheek, leaving two shallow claw marks behind. The other three behind him break from their stupors and begin shouting, pushing themselves bodily between the two of them in an effort to protect him. Spooker makes it his job to confirm that Ghost is somewhat okay, before turning back to face the enemy in front of them.

Ghost’s cheek oozes blood, but not enough to really be worried, so he just holds one sleeve up to the cheek, letting it soak up the sticky liquid. The others have their guns trained on Katrina, but he can’t manage to make himself do the same, so he just ends up standing at the back, watching. He feels like a coward. Bile still threatens to claw its way out of his throat as he stands there numbly.

Behind her ratty tangles, she catches Ghost’s eyes once more, before disappearing altogether. He hears himself sobs her name under his breath, feels his legs wobble beneath him, but somehow manages to stay standing, despite the sickening dread swimming in the pit of his stomach. It doesn’t last long though, because soon, the group of them are hit with a wave of vertigo so strong, they fall to their knees collectively. Ghost chokes on his nausea. He squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to block out the swimming feeling, and when he opens them again, the long, narrow hallway is gone, replaced instead by an inky black room.

He fumbles blindly at his belt, whipping out his flashlight and flicking it on. He pivots, but his flashlight quickly collides with an obstacle - one that responds with a sharp “Ack! Dude-!” in Spooker’s voice.

“Shit!” Ghost spits, stumbling back - not very far, mind you, being that he hits the wall behind him not two steps back - and proceeds to shine his light directly into Spooker’s eyes until he shields them. “Jeez-Jesus, dude, Jesus.” He finally lowers the light, dropping into a crouch. “I gotta-I can’t, man. Shit!” He takes in a shaky gulp of air and tries not to scream.

Spooker probably has that look he gets when he’s trying to play it cool and seem unconcerned - but just ends up looking confused instead - because Ghost can hear it in his voice when he says, “Are y-?” He clears his throat. “Do you uh-need me to-er take care of that scratch? It could get infected if we don’t uh, do that. Yeah.”

“It would probably help to find some light,” he says, with more bite to it than either of them were expecting, “Y’know, so we don’t blind each other in this pitch-ass-black room?”

Spooker wisely does not comment on that statement, simply takes out his own flashlight and sweeps the beam around the room, eventually coming to rest beside Ghost. He looks up, realizes his head is inches away from the door handle, and sighs wearily before rocking forward and up into a standing position, opening the door.

He’s sure that neither of them are expecting to be met with a completely foreign corridor, still narrow, but seemingly lived in, at least in the past. Dim lights flicker overhead, implanted in a tile ceiling, a stark contrast to the empty sconces and carved stone of the previous tunnel.

They glance at each other once, before shuffling into the hall. Ghost sees three other doors lining the hall - one on the end and two on the opposite wall - and makes his way to the closest one. He moves to try the knob, but is impeded by Spooker catching the hood of his jacket and dragging him back, tutting, “Nope! We’re dealing with your injuries before we do anything else!”

Ghost feels himself pouting, and quickly changes his expression into one more neutral before turning around; Spooker seems to see it nonetheless, because he placates him by saying, “It’ll only sting for a second, promise!”

He pulls him to the ground, and Ghost crosses his legs, resting his uninjured cheek on his hand. He’s very much not sulking right now, even if Toast would tease him for it if he were present. He especially doesn’t glare at the alcohol as Spooker pulls it out. He does hiss as Spooker dabs at his cut, and he can see how much Spooker is struggling to not roll his eyes.

Finally, he’s allowed to do actually important things, and walks to the door, gripping the handle. It rattles, staunchly denying him entry, so he moves on. The next one does the same, and he moves to the one at the end of the hallway, which thankfully swings open with a grating creak, revealing a dimmer, but otherwise identical hallway to the one behind him. He repeats the process, with the exact same result as the previous section. He glances back at Spooker before pushing open the door at the end, to reveal a slightly dimmer version.

Again, he tries the doors. Again, the one at the end is the only one that opens. The next hallway is slightly darker than the last.

Ghost’s stomach churns nervously, and he glances once more at Spooker, whose expression is starting to match his own.

The light quickly diminishes, and soon enough they’re flicking their flashlights back on. “Crap-” he hears behind him, just before their lights flicker once, twice, and die simultaneously. A familiar giggle echoes throughout the small corridor, and Ghost shivers, moving minutely closer to where he last saw Spooker. Ghost shakes himself and fumbles toward the end of the hall, using the walls to guide himself. “Try the other doors, I’ll try the one at the end of the hall.” He hits the end of the hall a little harder than he meant to, and is a little glad for the dark, even if it can’t hide the soft ‘thud’ that bounces through the room. The door rattles in its frame, unbudging, so Ghost throws over his shoulder, “This one’s stuck, what about the others?”

“No luck over he-Woah!” A slam ricochets throughout the small place - presumably the door meeting the wall in a less than pleasant fashion. “You good?” Ghost manages to get out without his worry peeking through, falling just short of nonchalant.

“Yeah...yeah, I’m alright, just caught me off guard. Let’s go.” They hobble through the doorway, which slams shut behind them. Ghost’s mind swims with deja vu for a second, but he can’t place the reason for it, so he decides to put it aside for the moment.

Ghost thinks later that if he had to choose the moment everything truly started going to shit, he might choose this one. Like the calm before the storm, or the eye of a hurricane, or some other cliché crap.

Either way, the soft click of the door locking behind them feels like an omen of things to come.

Or maybe it’s the axe swinging directly toward Spooker’s head.

[msjr0119]

The Unexpected Roommate

Part 1

What happens when your roommate of many years falls in love and moves out unexpectedly? Drake Walker was in this situation, until his friends fiancée suggested that her friend moved in to replace her fiancé. The new roommate is causing tension already. Will they be able to survive living together? What’s the worse that could happen?

Drake x Riley

Leo x Olivia

Warnings: Swearing, tension, mention of smut.

Tags- using combined tag list for this, as always if you want to be removed please do let me know. I won’t be offended.

@pedudley @kacie-0156 @loveellamae @annekebbphotography @burnsoslow @ladyangel70 @kingliam2019 @bascmve01 @drakewalker04 @drxkewalker @kozabaji @texaskitten30 @i-bloody-love-drake-walker @kimmiedoo5 @nikkis1983 @gnatbrain @walker7519 @lodberg @cmestrella @hopefulmoonobject @addictedtodrakefanfic @angi15h @liamxs-world @rafasgirl23415 @notoriouscs @yukinagato2012 @nz1091 @cordonianroyalty @custaroonie @seriouslybadchoices @rainbowsinthestorm @princess-geek @jared2612 @desireepow-1986 @twinkle-320 @queenjilian @forthebrokenheartedthings-blog @princessleac1 @scarletreesex @bebepac

******

“So why is your roomie such an arse... what’s up with you, Riley? With every other roomie you’ve used that charm. He can’t be that bad?” Riley rolled her eyes back, knowing that no one would fully understand the extent of Drake’s awful attitude. Most people would assume that she was over exaggerating- wishing deep down that she was. Ordering another tray of shots for herself and her friend Daniel- she believed that this would numb all the negativity at home, even if it was only going to last for a few hours. I hate him. Or do I? Hate is a strong word. I think I’d have a closer friendship with a serial killer. Yes, I hate him. He doesn’t deserve me to be nice to him. He hates me too, so the feelings are mutual.

“He’s just... so frustrating. He’s horrendous towards me. He hasn’t even given me a chance- you know to get to know me.”

“It’s still early days, moving in with a stranger is going to be tough at first especially as you don’t know each other. Maybe when you are both off work, sit down and talk. Find out what each other like, what you both dislike.” Daniel had his own thoughts regarding his friends new roommate but wouldn’t dare expose this. Not needing to give her an excuse to pour alcohol down his new Armani shirt. In his mind, he believed that the man possibly actually liked Riley rather than hate her. Using the ‘hate’ as an excuse to not confess his true feelings- Daniel believed this way the reason why. Daniel himself had been in the same situation with a previous relationship.

“He wouldn’t even give me the light of day, so he’s definitely not going to talk to me like that. Fuck him. Is there any overtime at work? The less time I spend at home, the better.”

“I’ll text Carlos and find out. But for now, let’s drown our sorrows. Let’s drink!”

****

Fumbling through her bag for her key, she soon regretted having far too many shots with Daniel. Squinting her eyes, she was staring through the keyhole rather than inserting the key. Not knowing how long she had been stood up attempting to complete the ‘difficult’ task of opening a door- she believed that there was a god, saving her from any embarrassment if anyone was to walk by. As Drake opened the door, he caught her before allowing her to face plant the floor. For fuck sake, muttering to himself- he helped Riley stand up. As soon as she regained her balance after a few wobbles- he soon let go of her.

“Heh. Thanks, roooomieee.” Giggling like a naughty school girl, she was grateful that he was still awake in a way. That was until she saw his body tense, and the anger that surrounded his face.

“Past your curfew! It’s a good job that I’m still awake. Get inside now!” Shrugging her shoulders, she wasn’t his child, but she damn felt like it. Deciding to act like a teenager, to suit the ‘role’ allocated to her- she decided to become cocky and back chat him.

“Technically, I could stay outside for another minute. It’s 2.59am. So I’m back before my curfew. Arsehole.” Checking his phone, she was in fact correct- much to his annoyance.

“Just get inside before you vomit everywhere. I’m going to bed.” Following his commands, she walked into the kitchen- turning the kettle on she knew that she needed to sober up. Mainly to be able to provide Drake with any insults back- insults that would actually make sense, rather than them being garbage. Removing her dress, once it had reached her ankles- she kicked it through to the living room. Landing in the bin, she spun her body around in circles- even her drunk mind was contemplating doing a back flip to celebrate. “Goalllllll....” She cheered, before becoming silent hearing that all familiar stomp echo around his room.

Impatiently waiting for the kettle to boil in her matching lacy underwear, she was wondering if she had actually turned it on- knowing full well that didn’t trust herself when intoxicated.

I will wait, I will wait for youuuu 🎵.... to boil. I’ll wait for the boil to kettle. Maybe I should become a songwriter? I’ll send the updated lyrics to Mumford and Sons. She laughed to herself.

And I'll kneel down 🎵 ... oh fuck how am I getting back up?

Wait for now 🎵.... did I even turn it on? I need to stand up!

Struggling to stand back up, she pulled the drawer handle off, rather than stand up. I’m a dead woman, he’s going to kill me. Get up Ri! Eventually after a few attempts she stood up, and held on to the side for the dear life. Finding some gum in her purse, she hoped that it would hold the drawer handle in place- for now at least. Continuing to sing, random songs to herself-the noise of the door swinging open with full force, muted her- she was prepared and ready for Drake to comment with some sarcasm or a insult. One, two, thr...

“Will you shut the fuck up! You sound like a strangled cat! Put some fucking clothes on too! Jesus Christ, Riley! I don’t want to see all your flab.” That’s a lie. Fuck, she’s gorgeous. Just be nice to her. Remember the letter. Shit. Where did I put it?

Flab? Who the fuck does he think he is? What an insensitive comment to make.

“Yeah, because I’m a fucking obese whale aren’t I? I don’t really want to see your face or smell your whiskey scent breathing down my neck, insulting me every fucking goddamn opportunity that you get!”

“At least I can handle my drink. Stick to one drink next time and you won’t stumble around...” Actually stumbling as if on cue, she regained her balance yet again- losing count of how many times she had been in this situation. Making sure that the coffee was black she picked up the mug and began making her way to her room.

“What the fuck do you want from me Drake? I stuck to the curfew; I cleaned up whilst you was at work, I replaced all of your food. Just get a pen and paper, write down your likes/dislikes- anymore rules and I’ll fucking abide to them. Goodnight!”

“Oh, I will do. Another rule. Don’t leave your clothes scattered on the floor, or in bins. I dislike you and your attitude.”

“Ditto!” Unable to prevent her bottom lip from trembling, Drake soon realised that he had upset her. Did he care? He wasn’t too sure.

“Riley... I’m sorry. I’m tired, you keep disturbing me. I’ve got work in a few hours. You are being pretty damn selfish.”

“Don’t. I didn’t ask for you to fucking be a parent to me- I didn’t ask for you to be my babysitter. Good fucking night.”

“I need to be a fucking babysitter, you’re a loose canon! You couldn’t even insert the key into the keyhole. Good fucking morning, you idiot!” Slamming the door like some stroppy teenager, Drake slightly jumped realising that he had once again become the bad guy. Picking her dress up from inside the bin, he lift it up to his face as he inhaled the sweet perfume that was on it. Throwing it into the washing machine, he shook his head not knowing why he insisted on wanting to be close to her by smelling it.

****

Has he gone to sleep?

Yeah, I think. Come up now. I’ll sneak you in. He’s a wanker.

Ten minutes later Daniel text her, informing her that he was waiting outside. Since she had her spat with Drake, she had sobered up a bit- seeing her friend at the door, she soon realised that the hangover was due back on the agenda for the next day.

“I’ve brought alcohol! Alcohol is fun. Nice place.” He whispered, as he tip toed inside.

“You are the best! It would be nicer if he wasn’t here.” Quietly they snuck off into her room, Riley reiterated what had happened when she had returned. Also explaining about Drake’s silly rules- one that made Daniel laugh was ‘no visitors without permission’.

“Well you’ve broken a rule. He’s going to go apeshit.”

“So?” They both provided each other with a mischievous grin.

****

Drake stirred in his bed, many thoughts were roaming through his mind. One, where the fuck did he put the letter that he had wrote after supping a full bottle of Jack Daniels. Two, his obnoxious attitude towards Riley- again, making him feel slightly guilt ridden. Three, why the fuck had he woken up at four in the morning? Knowing that he must have only shut his eyes for a slight moment- they were heavy and he wished that he could just fall asleep instantly. Forcing his eyes closed, the banging and the noises suddenly awoken him.

“Oh. My. God. Yes!! Right there... harder Daniel!”

“You like that baby? You like my big hard cock inside of you...”

“Yes.... give me more! Please!”

What the fuck? Shooting out of bed, the noises increased- attempting to block it he couldn’t. Riley was getting fucked, she wasn’t his but he couldn’t help but feel disheartened. Why do I wish it was me instead? I hate the girl. Hearing her continue to moan, gave him a slight stiffy. Get down, Walker. We hate her. She’s an annoying bitch. Talking to his cock didn’t help the situation, no matter what he did- it was still growing thinking about Riley.

“Riley! Shut the fuck up!”

“Do you want to join in Drake?”

“Do I fuck! You’ve broken a fucking rule! Some of us have work in a few hours! Shut the fuck up!”

“I’m... I’m so close... oh.... Drake? I’ll be quiet soon.... I promise....go and get some beauty sleep babe!” Punching the door, he stormed back to his room- practically suffocating himself with the pillow, he was thinking about how he was going to get revenge on her.

****

Riley bit her lip as she listened to Drake stomp off to his room. Daniel was sat on the edge of the bed practically hyperventilating due to the reaction of Drake. They were the best of friends, colleagues - most people believed that their friendship was odd. On many occasions when they had been drinking they often masturbated in front of each other not giving two fucks. It turned neither of them on. Tonight she was debating whether or not to use a dildo for that extra effect, to make their prank seem sincere and real.

“Imagine his face if he finds out that I’m gay and that I actually would never fuck you. Fishy fannies. No, thank you. Big hard swollen cocks- yes! They are welcoming. What are we doing with these condoms then?”

“I have just the plan. But first, more shots!”

****

Drake had never been able to sleep in late, unless he was on a bender. Usually he would have an early night and be an early riser. Despite the annoying disturbance only a few hours ago, he was fully awake- deciding to work at home rather than go into the office, he was grateful that he had the option to do this. Sneaking quietly out of his room, through to the living area- his eyes widened. Firstly noticing the mess that Riley and her one night stand - as he assumed - had caused. Then he saw her half naked on the couch, his previous anger had deteriorated- instead he was admiring her. Placing her into a more comfortable position than she originally was in- he grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around her. Caressing her cheek, his hand lingered there for a moment. Kissing her on the forehead, he was unsure as to why she was like a magnet pulling him closer to her. Fluttering her eyelashes open, shock was written all over her face. Why is he so close? Has he found the condoms? Oh god, he’s going to kill me.

“Drake! What the actual fuck? You pervert! Have you just kissed me?” Using all of the energy she had in her, she pushed him away- forgetting how she ended up in the living room, she quickly scrutinised the room for clues. Empty bottles on the floor, my bra is on the floor- when did Daniel leave? Fuck, my head hurts.

“Have I fuck? Why the fuck would I kiss you? I hate you! I was just checking your pulse. I don’t really want to have to hide your corpse down the laundry chute!” Feeling slightly embarrassed that she called him out for something that he would always deny doing- he opened the curtains and decided to do something productive- work.

“Soz to disappoint ya but I’m very much alive! Get me some pain killers please.” The constant ache surrounding her head felt as if someone was hammering at her brain. Wrapping the blanket around her, she didn’t really want to move from the couch- however her dry chapped lips and the dehydration couldn’t be ignored for much longer.

“Enjoy your hangover, darling. I have work to do. And thanks to your antics, I need a lot of caffeine- get off of your arse and get your own pain killers.” Rolling his eyes back, he just wished that she would leave him in peace- at least until she was sober. Remembering that he wasn’t her ‘babysitter’ he didn’t owe her anything as far as he was aware. Standing up, the room was spinning and her body was swaying- Daniel you mother fucker- why is he such a bad influence? Drake typed away on his laptop- every so often he looked over towards her, quietly laughing as she was struggling to cope he had no empathy for her.

“Hey, Drake?” She turned to face him, as she swallowed the pain killers and water- not really knowing what she wanted to tell him. In the back of her mind, she felt slightly guilty for her drunk antics as she noticed that he was knackered. Feeling like she had to apologise, she decided against it- he deserved it in a way.

“For god sake what?” Slamming the cup of coffee on the table as he shouted, she flinched. No he definitely doesn’t deserve an apology.

“If you want to kiss me, all you have to do is ask.” Smirking at him, he returned the smirk followed by the middle finger gesture. “Oh so you prefer fingering a girl, I see.”

“No, that was my polite way in saying fuck off.”

“I am. Don’t worry. I’m tired. Sorry, by the way.” Pausing, she noticed his perplexed expression. Sorry, that’s a start- he thought to himself.

“I used all of your stash of condoms. I also gave my lover your ‘Tom Ford’ aftershave too, to thank him for the passionate night that we shared together. I’m sure you won’t mind, it’s not like you need it. It’s only aftershave. You’re a boring bastard so don’t need it to pull. No girl in their right mind would go on a date with you.” Waving to him, she left the room- looking smug with herself. Drake assumed that she was lying about the aftershave, after a while he walked into the bathroom- it was indeed missing. There was however a lingering smell of it, as if it had been sprayed.

“Fucking bitch!” Condoms were scattered around the bathroom, each filled with different things such as; shampoo, shaving foam, toothpaste and Drake’s aftershave. Cleaning the mess up, he wasn’t sure as to why he was doing this- she made it, so she should do it. But he didn’t have time to argue, he needed to complete some work today. When he believed that he had finished, his eyes filled with anger as he looked into the mirror. Riley had left him a message on it with what he assumed was lipstick as well as a ‘kiss mark’ - his teeth grit together as he read the message.

Don’t fuck with me Drake, this is only the start! Be nice, and I’ll be the most sweetest roomie. Ri 💋

“Enjoy your hangover and work Riley, because when you return home later- I’m going to get payback.”

[empressxmachina]

Patients Zero - iii. by Imperial-Radiance

~Also on Wattpad~

*gasp* *cough*

Oh, good god. What? I thought I was— But, how am I—? Didn’t I get—? Wait, where am I?

Hard: I’m on something hard. Hard, flat, slick, and cold. My back hates this. I’m guessing it’s a floor. But I feel grooves, not just one that takes up my entire hand. It almost feels… made for me. Impossible. My eyes; they’re closed. It’s dark, behind and in front of the lids. Yet, there’s a glow: a… soft one? Not the blinding white from before? It’s cool, still, but not as much somehow. I wait for a voice to give me any sort of insight of where I am, and all I get back is just the gentle hum of a… a… Wait, is that a fan? No, is that a heater? Even on the hottest days outside in the real world – real because this is a fantasy, still, especially if I’m alive – it never went past room temperature. I… I’m boiling like I’m stuck in an oven.

Oh, my god. Am I being cooked in here? No, screw that. I’ll accept going out in plenty of ways in this diminutive state, but I will not go out as someone’s di—!

Well, this is… new? I finally lift my back up and open my eyes, and I’ve found myself lost… and in pain. Holy crap! Everything hurts! Ugh. But that’s the least of my worries. I’m alive, somehow, for some reason. But, why, and why here, wherever here is?

Am I crazy? This sure looks like a living room: not very different from my one at home. There’s a sofa, a table, and works of art that admittedly caught my vision immediately. I’ve liked to think that I’m not a leech for moving media, so not seeing a television or the like here is pleasing. There are dimly lit LEDs as large as me, a rug across the ground over there as large as me, and an actual fan even larger than me. Sure, it nearly takes up a whole wall like a fireplace would, but the latter would be unconventional. It’s blowing out heat, so it must switch between hot and cold. The only thing missing is a collection of literature of varying genres, but I doubt printing that small is even possible. Besides that, it’s like it was made for me.

But that’s just it. That’s fucking weird. It’s made for me, and how small am I now?

I must be going insane. This can’t be real. This room can’t possibly be mine—Oh. Oh shit.

That’s a kitchen over there behind me. A real kitchen – well, as real as it can be with its counters and cabinets. But it’s the actual cooking stuff that made it real: the primitive tools in the corner for refrigeration and cooking – some solar funnel/pot thing, I think – and the bruised yet familiar food scraps from my past life stacked in a triad of pyramids next to them. Wait, past life? I say that like it’s been forever since I was… ambushed… by someone big enough to make a place like this if they’re careful.

I’ve got to get out of here. But what is here? First things first, I should probably get my ass off the floor: this uncomfortably perfectly-sized floor.

O-Okay. Up and at it. The floor isn’t an ocean anymore. Appliances don’t have as much of a chance of killing me now. If I go this way, then I can sit at this table right here and contemplate all the dumb stuff I did to get here… wherever here is, not to mention there are enough chairs to fit a whole family or a group of housemates. Housemates. AmI alone here? Why am I here? Why do I keep asking myself these questions rather than just looking for the answer?

I’m irrational. This is irrational, but I must make the most of it. No, screw it, do I even have a choice? Well, with all these grabbable, sharp things around, I guess the answer’s technically a ‘yes.’ But. I’m not that depressed. I’m not. Not *sigh* that depressed. I’ve fought this long for others’ lives before and my own at this level, so why stop now? It’s not like I’m not used to being like this. It’s just this current situation that’s new… and heaven knows how much I love surprises… and rambling. Where was I? Oh, right.

If I go that way, now, then I can go to a surprise upstairs with who-knows-what… or who-knows-who. Would they really bunk me with someone else? I wasn’t one for strangers at full size, so how would they think I’d manage one on this scale!? They’re the ones that are short-sighted, not me. Ugh, I can’t wait to deal with that possibility. Though, maybe I don’t have to.

There’s the door. Huh.

I know I just got out of some stasis a moment ago, but it only just occurred to me that all the windows are covered and presumably closed. There seems to be no light peeking out of anywhere, either, so either it’s still nighttime, or I’m enclosed somewhere cut off from the world. No, the latter’s always going to be true here, now that I think about it. I don’t know where here is, but I do know it sure isn’t out there. There’s no use in not verifying it, though.

I guess that I shouldn’t be surprised how what should be a small door doesn’t have a lock. Yet, it has a hinge – two of them? Okay. Am I too dumb for not checking the windows? No, just crazy, but I knew that already. What’s crazier, though, is how I’m simultaneously right and wrong upon opening this door.

This is a small house, and this sure doesn’t look like a lab, a ward, and especially not that basement. To be honest, I kind of expected there to be grass or an equivalent on the ground here. Ground. I say that like this place containing me isn’t on a freaking table right now. Well, to be fair, they brought in real grass, plants, and stuff for the diorama dwellings, so I guess it’s not that weird. But those were for hundreds if not thousands of people on several stations. This is just me… and a house for me… on a table.

A table in what looks like a… a bedroom? I mean, I think I can make out the mountainous shapes of a bed, nightstands sandwiching it, and I think a dresser across from them, but it’s freaking dark in here. I’m surprised I can see that far away. Those LEDs boxed in my walls shouldn’t be able to reach that far, even if their brightness was somehow magnified through the cracks between windows and the door, yet here they are. Despite that, there’s no denying I’m in some resting place for some giant somewhere. Somewhere.

I could be freaking anywhere, but where?

I do know one thing: it’s damn fine that I don’t have a fear of heights. That helped me back there with the commons, so it’ll help me here, too. But, god, damn it, that drop is large. I bet it was intentional, along with my placement here. With the back edge cut off by the wall and the front sharply opening to this no man’s land of a room, I don’t have many options of escape.

I hear a heater running like a radiator under a window on one side of this table, and I’d rather not get burnt to cinders today. I could test my luck descending the curtains, but I don’t think I’m in proper form to climb or slide down. The opposite side is blocked by a chair in the corner. Falling onto a cushion might not be a bad idea. Maybe there’s a vent I can get through behind there. Hmm.

Screw it. I’d rather risk seeing my maker than wait for them to come to me. Chair, it is. It seems like the only way to go. But, should I take a leap of faith or weigh my options? Eh, watch with my luck, and this room’s patron comes back in and throws something atop of me – maybe even themselves. A smudge on somebody’s ass: that’s not legacy worthy. At least if I’m up here for some time, then I can probably make it back in the house and use it for even a smidgen of protection.

Hopefully.

Huh. Should I be bothered by how my steps aren’t clicking across this surface? I mean, they never did in the basement, but there were plenty of people around causing noise and whatever. Here, I’m alone… at least for now. That should be calming, shouldn’t it? Alas, as I continue forward, the curve of what-now-looks-like-an-accent-chair crests over the horizon and—

Oh, curse me.

So, I was right in being worried about possibly being suffocated to no end in colossal clothing. But, of all of them, did it have to be scrubs? I’m no color aficionado, but I do think that’s how that health-centric blue is supposed to look in this lighting—er, lack of light, I should say. Of course, they’re not just any scrubs, either. Any sensible physician would know to discard of their scrubs in at least a hamper to be washed after use or just use a new pair. These look like cast-offs like mad.

I’d put money down on them being his. That monster brought me here, didn’t here? Then, me being here would make sense: I’m where he lives or, at least, stays so he can watch me like some project.

Looking back at this rather extravagant house for a subspecies like me, who knows how much other preparation has been done since he acquired me? Is he why I’m hurt like this? Speaking of hurt, wasn’t I beeping before, and that led to all of this? It’s stopped now, and so was I, but is replacing it with pain much better? If I run away, then how do I know that the beeping won’t restart and lead to an even greater demise?

I’m curious, though, considering he could’ve ended me earlier while I was presumably incapacitated if that were his goal. But what if he may have plans for me, instead? What if he’s planning for me to run away, and that’s why he’s away, probably watching from afar? The basement had cameras whether they wanted us to know they were there or not, and I bet there’s some in here, too, with night vision, thermals, and all that other fancy gobbledygook. Ugh, it’s dark and distant in here, but damn it, I’m going to find one if it’s the last thing I—

Are you kidding me?

Do not tell me that’s been him this whole time. Him, and he’s that? Well, that’s poetic as hell, isn’t it? He was going to take me out beforeall this crap started. Now, he’s going to do me in here, instead, screwing me sideways and 1-upping me even more so.

In my visual pursuits of a camera, the last thing I expected to find was an I.D. To surprise me even more, I recognized the face on it. I remember my first time seeing it.

I was on a lunch break, just reading in my journals about Match Day – how it had been the largest amounts of matches in history or whatever – and then Doc Adams suddenly broke the fun and excitement, coming in with a list of our future interns. One of them was him. If it had been just a few years prior, then I would’ve been excited. After all, there’s nothing wrong with more doctors, right? But, Adams, the louse, has… had been trying to get me out of the doctoring game since.

It’s because he knows that I’d be better at his job than him, and the supervisors at the system H.Q. have been telling us both this. I can’t help that I love – loved– helping people directly so much to not replace it with a tedious desk job, even if it looks over pretty much everyone else in the hospital. Thus, his solution was to put more and more people in our ranks to dilute the focus away from me. It worked for a while until someone had a symptom that they didn’t know how to treat, but I did.

Despite my knowledge, this new guy was perfection, though, and from across the ocean, no less. I bet Adams creamed his pants at him on the list: this—What’s his name again? Oh, yeah: this ‘Mikul Merchant’ or whatever. I wonder how many bribes Adams had to make to get him. But that doesn’t matter now, does it? The first day for the interns would’ve been months ago, and the kid and I are both here, apparently, with him ruining my life just as much if not more so than he would’ve been without this wretched disease.

Though, if he was already on this continent way before then, then he must’ve been excited, too. After all, I’m sure his home country has its own center like this where he could’ve been. Why was he here, and how in the world did he turn out to be a carrier, too?

Upon registration, everyone is given I.D.s, but rather than having the random number sequences and barcodes the others get until they’re rendered useless by dwindling heights to where they can’t carry the damn thing, carriers’ listings are just ‘zeroes’ with a Q.R. code. I’m positive that’s how that self-deprecating squad of bugs found me and put their emotions out on and into me. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one here, so why would they charge me rather than someone like him? Well, besides his youth, foreignness, and relative handsomeness that may correlate with them, unlike me, he’s a carrier of and might as well be immune to both strains.

Curse this minute minutia. Curse my imperfections. But, most importantly, screw this—!

*CLICK* God, no.

Before I can even blink, a beam of light blinds me, revealing the previously dark side of the room and thus allowing me to see that this isn’t just a bedroom but more like a hotel room. A vanity adjacent to a closed closet appears. It’s spanning across the wall opposite me, this table and chair, that house of mine, and the window. How I didn’t see the reflection of this house in the mirror beforehand is beside me. But, no other reflection aside from my own hasn’t yet come into view, which makes me wonder if this is genuinely that giant’s room.

I know I used to come across my team’s scrubs in my office on occasion, so who’s to say that a lead person isn’t just keeping subject/’Doctor’ Merchant’s clothing with them for testing or safekeeping? Though, I don’t think that just throwing them across a chair shows its direct importance or proper sanitation practices. Or, maybe there’s another type of experiment going on. Perhaps it’s just dealing with me and what I do in this new location? Either way, that doesn’t answer whose room this is or why—

Never mind. There, he is. I’m here with him. I should stop doubting myself. No, this is the one time I should challenge anything and everything I’ve ever known.

Emerging from what I assume is a bathroom, a lanky, lean embodiment of a supposed human comes through. Supposed. Humans aren’t meant to be that large. It’s almost godly – the glow of his mostly bare, solely-pants-wearing, towel-draping-necked form – but I’m not glorifying a monster, checking his face and onyx hair over the sink and counter like he hasn’t done anything wrong. His auburn skin with no marks in sight is so nourished like he’s been able to bathe sensibly and get proper sunlight. There’s not one eye bag or wrinkle like he’s never had a single stressor in his life: the pampered, pompous prick. I’d almost say he’s prettier in person, but beasts are never pretty.

If you’re here, then you should be under all the stresses. Yet, here you are, flouncing around almost naked like you aren’t contracted with and spreading disease! If that’s the case, then why the hell am I here, trapped with you—!?

You… You… You’ve got to be kidding me. I mean, it was only a matter of time, but… don’t fucking dare.

Before I can even comprehend it, his almond gaze snaps on me like a locked crosshair in a gun’s sight. I try freezing in place, but I’m sure the vanity lights are making my eyes glow like a beady animal’s, so it’s all in vain. Aside from that, I didn’t think he had even noticed me at first, but then he had squinted his eyes and cocked his head like an inquisitive dog trying to hear. Just to test my luck, he even acknowledges me… or whatever he thinks I am if he doesn’t know for sure for some reason,

“H-Huh?” He sounds so soft, almost… Nope, I’m not going to say that. There’s no way he actually cares. I… I’m nothing in comparison. He’s taken out souls larger and smaller than me, so what difference would I make? “Is something there?” See? ‘Something.’

I’m a thing now.

I almost thought he’d salivate for his new toy, treat, or whatever I am to him. He’s already been a predator in public upon thousands of eyes. How much craftier will he be, all alone? I’m not going to wait to find out. Even if that’s what he’s expecting me to do, I don’t care. It’s fight-or-flight, and the former is definitely out of the question.

“W-Wait!”

Like hell, I’m doing that.