#resident bird brain over here

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[alnilaem]

I don't know how much it fits but, keeping with the theme of butcher!simon's neighborhood being a bit dangerous:

where I grew up (rough neighborhood) there were often bars/pubs and even gas stations nearby that operated all afternoon/night and guys often congregated outside smoking cigarettes and what not. they never bothered the residents, but they damn well worked as guard dogs and warded off strangers.

so... idea: simon and his buddies hanging out outside the corner pub when reader is coming/going to her second job in the weekends, watching closely to make sure she makes it from the bus/train stop to the building door, especially after dark.

OR

alternatively!! simon who stays up and checks out of his window when reader is coming home after dark and doesn't let himself go to sleep until he hears her door unlocking and her making some type of sound (like closing her rickety door or whatever).

i dont think you understand….. reading this altered my brain so viscerally. guard dog simon. yeah.

-

“Still got yer balls in her purse?”

Simon lights his cigarette. The soft smoulder of it barely offsets the flickering streetlight above them, scarcely illuminates the sidewalk. It shines over his face, hanging from the threshold of his lips.

“Yup,” he hums. “Right where I want ‘em.”

Johnny cackles through the plume of smoke curling up and out of his lips. He pats Simon on the back, taking a long drag of his cig, and bumps his shoulder with Kyle’s.

“When’d’ya reckon he’ll let us meet the Bird?”

Kyle rolls his eyes. “When he finds someone to pay.”

“Put a sock in it,” Simon snarls. Taps the ash off his cig. 

Photo is a generous word for it. But it was the only thing Simon had to testify to your existence. A blurry, smudgy picture taken on his phone. Half-eclipsed by his thumb which was accidentally in the corner of his camera. A picture of you leaving the lift—a shallow angle of you walking in some leggings, returning from work. 

It was privy to Simon. A likeness to indulge in during his work days. But in a flitting moment, Johnny laid his eyes on it. Read him to filth for it.

And now, they’re here. 

Off-white sheets of rain running off the canopy they’re situated under. Each holding a cigarette to their lips, resting against the wet brick of a hole-in-the-wall pub. The warm hum from inside pooling into the empty streets of Manchester.

A thin sound arises from it. The chime of a shopkeeper’s bell, signifying the door is being opened. Into the diving rain, you step out, clutching a backpack against your shoulder, your uniform sticking to your skin.

It’s a heavy mass of muscle you almost run into. You stop yourself with a hand split against their chest, against the fleetly rise-and-fall of their jacket.

You have to hoist your neck up to see him. It takes you a while to reorient yourself, to recognise the depthless copper of his eyes. And it takes you even longer to register the underside of his face. Bare, flooded under the soft light of streetlights. 

“Simon!” You squeak. The succession of his heartbeat pumping under your palm. Two men hovering behind him, exchanging puckish smirks. “What are you doing here?”

Simon’s eyebrows purse like he’s confused. He tilts his head, looking at you like a puppy, and shrugs. “I’m here to pick you up.”

“Pick me up–” a chord of bemusement strikes you, collapsing your sentence. Your reservations catch up to you, hitting you like bricks. “Pick me up?”

Simon grunts. His eyes flicker down to your skirt, how it flurries in the wind, and pulls you beneath the awning. 

“Getting y’rself all wet under there,” he grumbles. “Brought you this.”

Simon holds up an umbrella. He waits for you to take it before splaying his big hand on the hind of your spine and turning you around, shepherding you forward.

Your voice is warped with bashfulness when you speak. “Where’re we going?”

“Home,” he says. Three pairs of footfall tread on your heels. Each one more intimidating than the other. Sticky and wet as they trail behind you.

“Just keep walking, Trouble,” Simon mumbles. “‘m here.”

It’s a shield that keeps everyone away. The invasive eyes, the creeping men that usually accompany you on your walk home after work. But today, they’re silent. 

The three men are a pack of dogs behind you. 

Simon, kissing the ground before you walk on it.

[yallthemwitches]

House Guest

“Potter—what are you doing here?”

“Happy Christmas! I know I could have waited until we got back to school but—”

His voice trailed off. What should he say? But I missed you? But I’ve been thinking about you night and day since the moment I met you? But we left for holidays just after you kissed me in the common room unprovoked and I really really would like to do that again?

Another extra fluffy, 6th year xmas fic for @jilytoberfest Day 8, Prompt “Maybe we can find out what the hell your problem is over dinner sometime”

AO3 Link Here

 James stood in the garden memorizing the wood grains of the Evans’ front door. He shifted his weight back and forth, hoping that his parasympathetic nervous system would kick in before he possibly made a complete ass of himself. Like a hum in his ear, Sirius’ voice pushed him on.

“Birds love surprises, Prongs—she’s gonna be chuffed.”

But then again how many times had he steered him wrong? A lot.

He closed his eyes, tight enough until it hurt and felt his hand hover over the door before making a few raps with his knuckles. Courageous…Gryffindor…not at all nutter behavior…

The door swung open. A girl older than Lily with mousy blonde hair stared up at him, mouth set in a frown. 

“Yes?”

James cleared his throat. On a second scan of her face, he could see the same shape of almond eyes as Lily, same slender nose, like looking at some completely flawed interpretation of her. 

“Uhm, Is this the Evans’ residence? I’m looking for Lily.”

The girl’s eyes narrowed, teeth clenching before slamming the door in his face, making his glasses go askew. James just stared back at the wood again, wracking his brain if Remus had ever mentioned very specific muggle etiquette for house calls. 

He heard a shrill voice loud enough to pierce through the wall and the shuffle of bodies. The door reopened. It felt like one of those muggle style magic tricks he had seen on the Lupin’s TV once. Instead of the other girl, Lily stood in her place, all her features righted back to their natural form. 

“Alright, Evans?” His hand jumped into his hair on instinct. Lily blinked at him, hand grasping the knob.

“Potter—what are you doing here?”

“Happy Christmas! I know I could have waited until we got back to school but—”

His voice trailed off. What should he say? But I missed you? But I’ve been thinking about you night and day since the moment I met you? But we left for holidays just after you kissed me in the common room unprovoked and I really really would like to do that again?

Instead, he didn’t say anything, opting to extend the gift he held against his chest towards her. Lily eyed it, then flitted her gaze back up to him. He tried his best smile, hoping she couldn’t tell that his confidence was waning the longer he stood on the stoop. 

She ignored the gift, leaving her hand firmly on the door knob.

“How do you know where I live?”  

James shifted again. He was hoping she wouldn’t ask—it was the part of this outing he wasn’t very proud of.

“I–uh.” He knew if it had been any other time he would have been able to think of a million lies that would have suited as a response. Instead, the truth fell out.

“I knew you lived in Cokeworth,” he began, “so I took Sirius’ motorbike here and—”

“Sirius’ what?”

Her arms were now crossed, incredulous. 

“Can I explain that one later? That might take a bit more time..”

“Fine–so you came to Cokeworth.”

James sighed, his Gryffindor courage was not coming in handy. 

“--So I came to Cokeworth and wandered around for a good hour until I found a bookshop–and I said to myself hey, Evans likes books—so I went in and I asked the bloke behind the counter if he had seen the most beautiful redhead to ever exist with an incredible pair of–”

“What the fuck, Potter.” She took an indignant step towards him. 

“--pair of green eyes, Evans. I know I’m a randy teenager but cut me some slack…”

It shouldn’t have, but the rhythm of banter brought new life to him. He was starting to feel back to form, though still very much making a fool of himself on the stoop. Lily tried to say something multiple times, but clipped off her words with each attempt, completely flabbergasted. 

“---but anyways turns out he did know you so here I am.” James finished his ramble, finding himself now rather pleased. 

Lily looked at him for a while, eyes searching for some sort of answer he wished she’d just ask for. Finally, she let out a defeated sigh, stepping further out onto the stoop and a bit closer to him. She was only wearing a light sweater, and she wrapped her arms around herself to hold out the cold. 

“I guess fighting you on this is useless.”

He could have been hallucinating, but a smile twitched on her face. 

“So will you accept my gift?” It might have been snowing out, but he was starting to feel incredibly warm. 

“I’ll accept your gift.”

Lily took the package, turning its bulbous shape in her hands. Some pink formed at her cheeks and her eyes flicked up to his before shucking off the wrappings. An ornate china teapot with etchings of leaves curling their way through wind scrawled around its base. 

“Mum helped me pick it out–told her you were a fan of art nouveau. I charmed it so all you need to do is add water and it will automatically make your drink of choice—I couldn’t help but notice you have a whole beverage routine in your day.”

Lily twisted the pot in her hands, eyes soft and adoring. 

“Beverage routine, you say?” An eyebrow disappeared up into her fringe. 

“Well, sure,” he cleared his throat, “In the mornings you drink black tea with milk. To study you drink coffee–an espresso with foam if possible but black works too. When you read in the common room you like either mint or ginger tea depending on the season, and on the rare occasions I’ve seen you and Marlene put on a muggle film you have hot chocolate or cider.”

Lily looked up again, mouth slightly agape. James felt his confidence wane. 

“--- not that I’m paying attention or anything.”

Lily burst out laughing, holding the teapot close to her body with two hands.

“You are an absolute nutter Potter, you know that?”

“I’ve actually been told I’m a pretty normal bloke until I’m around you.”

Lily dropped her gaze, her cheeks were burning from an equal mixture of laughter, embarrassment, and the cold.

“Thank you,” she stammered, “It’s incredibly sweet.”

 A part of him wanted to start in on everything: ask why she had kissed him the night before holidays, demand to know where they stood or what to expect once they returned to school. Instead, he reached out a hand and placed it on her cheek, feeling the sting of the winter wind on her skin. 

“You should go back in, it’s bloody freezing out here.” 

He moved to drop his hand but she placed hers against it, leaning her cheek into the warmth of his palm. Turning her head slightly, she tucked her lips into his hand, cold lips pressing into calloused fingers. 

“Have you had dinner?”

Her question zapped him back to reality. From the feel of her lips, he had been completely transported out of body, fighting all urges to curl his arms around her, kiss her like she had kissed him in the common room and then some, and wrap her inside his coat until all the cold melted away.

“Uhm, no I haven’t.”

She removed their hands from her cheek, and they dropped between them, fingers now interlaced. 

“Would you-”

She didn’t even need to finish the question. He squeezed her hand and with a laugh she pulled them both through the front door, no longer cold.

[alienpossession]

Continuing the Dubai aliens story a bit after some additional inspo by the one and only @cleanstatevessels

The Prince

Story by cleanstatevessels with revision and add-on from me

The alien now in charge of the Prince's body smirk at the reflection of the very handsome, fresh-from-workout Prince looking back. It tried to get comfortable in its new vessel, making several silly and sexy expression interchangably, pushing the Prince's usually stoic and calm demeanor to be borderline unhinged and certainly not Prince-like. But again, he's the Prince now, not the biggest or the most important one in terms of influence among his half-siblings, yet it's not like plain commoner can tell him what to do. Certainly not his brain-fucked bodyguards too, as the whole security details and servants of the Prince in his residence already turned into empty husks that run on autopilot, empty but ready to be filled by any sludge that needed human bodies to ride on.

After inspecting the body's internal organ condition post-takeover, the sludge tried to get lodged in comfortably within the brain and wholly encapsulated it for full control. The movement caused the Prince's eyes rolled back from it socket as his mouth gaped in an unusual size as black sludge was seen coming out of his throat. It oozes out from his mouth like an oil flow and the alien's vision activated alongside the vision from its vessel's eyes, making the sludge able to see the world in a much-more enhanced view as it combined its vessel's vision and its own. The bird in the very far distance, the shade of colors only captured by the alien's eyes, the vision of the alien is better to capture things in the distance rather than close proximity so the takeover actually completed the vision. While doing all that, the muscle of the Prince's body tensed as the alien made the Prince flexed his arm to give access to the black sludge to reach his pits as the sludge lapped up all the leftover sweat from the Prince's workout. It seems like the movement of the sludge all over his body turned him on as the outline of the Prince's cock straining its brief and had a damp patch on the tip. But of course that was not the case since the Prince is nothing but an empty husk, it was all the alien doing after absorbing all the info from the Prince's mind about the things that turned him on, and the alien just simply enjoyed playing with its plaything, showcasing his control over its vessel. The black sludge eventually withdrew back to the Prince throat and his eyes went back to normal as his gaped mouth also closed. Then, he grinned deviously,

"Ahmed, Yahya, come in here. Your Prince needs some services from his brainless slave!"

Piotr the Firm Owner

After the hard-fought takeover eventually proven to be successful, Piotr resumed the realty business as usual.

It's never a hard day to find new client as Piotr's firm already well-known beforehand anyway, and with Sander, Mike and Andrei spreading the word to their friends, high-powered clientele always walked in and out of the door of the firm. Of course they don't convert everyone that walked in, but with the alien in control, they sharpened the type of client they provided their services for. In his first client after the takeover, Piotr met with discreet entrepreneur named Dusan Kovacevic.

The alien inside Piotr cannot find any information about Dusan, nor the search on the internet resulted in something that can explain how on Earth this person seemingly ready to pay 55 million USD in cash for this 3-level penthouse that has the entire 360 view of Dubai. But mid-way on the tour around the unit, Dusan's phone started ringing. As the built Serbian hunk excused himself to the balcony after saying some Russian words, the black sludge oozed out from Piotr's ear and started snooping to know what is he talking about with the caller. To get the best of both senses, the sludge dangled itself right on Piotr's ear in order for it to not only captured the conversation, but to also utilized Piotr's ability to speak Russian to translate the conversation. The phone call revealed to the alien that Dusan is a major arms dealer with the cover of working on fitness startup and crypto trading and that caused the little black sludge to be excited, which translated into Piotr's hardening cock as the alien mind already filled with plans to advance their effort for Earth's domination

It returned back inside Piotr's brain after satisfied with the intel despite Dusan seemingly continued his conversation. Then, the alien quickly split itself and merged its half into Piotr's saliva that then he spits on the glass of whiskey Dusan asked for earlier. With a smirk, he waited for the phone call to be finished and upon return, he casually offered Dusan with the tainted liquor. With no suspicion whatsoever, the arms dealer chugged the whiskey and not for long, the glass shattered to the floor as Dusan realized something's off. He tried to run for his life to the bathroom he saw earlier, trying to grav whatever is blocking his airway and seemingly filled his mouth too. Yet, his resistant proven to be futile as he slouched head first to the floor right in front of the bathroom. His body wriggled and convulsed wildly like he's being possessed by some demonic entities while Piotr watched in delight of his apparent success. The twisting, stretching and turning caused his tight-fitting shirt to be ripped apart and then soon after, the Louis Vuitton jacket followed suit, revealing tattooed body and sheen of sweat that showcased the internal battle the sludge faced from Dusan's body.

Several minutes later, and in a faster manner compared to the way Piotr's body taken over and recovered, Dusan already on his feet looking at Piotr with a mischievous grin. He looked at the destroyed fabric around him and let out a chuckle as he started to flex his muscle in delight. Piotr beamed with pride looking at his first successful acquisition, certainly the first out of many.

----

Not even 15 minutes after the whole handover process, as Piotr arrived in the apartment's parking lot, an Instagram story from Dusan's account already popped. Piotr smiled with delight looking at Dusan's immaculate form, is this a hookup call for the masses or something? Is he really going to work on his plan to get one new body every day to the cause literally from tonight? That guy seemed ready to rumble though

When Piotr finished with some paperwork of his own in the office and ready to hit home, a DM notification sent by Dusan entered his phone. A picture, followed by a caption that said

"Like moth to flames, everyone want a piece of this heat, not knowing it hurts them in the end of the day. Bet you can guess who is the moth here hahah,"

And then another ominous DM followed suit

"One down, more to go,"

Sander & Andrei + Mike

"Let me go! Fuck, I know there's something up with you two freaks! Ugghhhh get that shit away from me!" screamed the tied Mike as he tried to wriggle himself free while pushing away the cum-soaked socks that belonged to Andrei that Sander teased right in front of his flushed face. As Mike tried to push the socks away one more time, Sander instantly went violent and choked the handsome rich brat until his head hit the headboard behind him. Gagged and gasping for breath, Mike's opened mouth suddenly stuffed with the damp socks that Sander shoved violently that almost lead to Mike's jaw to be broken. Andrei then raised his voice in anger

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? YOU CAN KILL HIM!"

"Oh shut up, when I'm inside him, he will be fucking fine anyway. It's not like he's being destroyed by cannonball or something, relax, he's still breathing,"

Sander then stared at the half-conscious Mike with eyes that clearly indicate something bad is about to happen.

"Yeah, you heard it right. I'm going to get inside you, making you just another dumb muscle puppet to control around. Your body will serve greater purpose rather than this vapid existence you currently have, so you should be thanking us,"

Mike frowned in his last few seconds, the image of a black sludge coming out of Sander's mouth and nose become the last vision he encountered before the world goes dark for him

----

Mike cracked his neck and jaw, opening it wide and closing it in quick succession as he tried to ensure that it's not broken or anything as he looked at the two "realtor" that taken him captive since a couple hours ago. His first word to them

"Fuck you,"

And the three of them just laughing loudly right after, with Mike directly standing up and proceed to hug his two brothers

"What a fine stud this guy is. You two have keen eye for the strong and delectable," he said as he then dropped his grey sweatpants to reveal a dangling 7 inches beer can of a meat

"What can we say? We are bunch of narcissist, so we know the standard of good body and good looks as we based it on ourselves. The brain's good?" asked Andrei as he gently grabbed the dick for quick inspection before he let it flop as he now focused his sight to Mike's face

"Perfect. A smooth talker, with killer looks too. Deadly duo for the humans near him. The wealth certainly put him into an even higher level of privileged brat. Such a blessed young man. Well, I am such a blessed young man," Mike said as he proudly flexed his biceps while his cock goes rock hard. A rather massive grower, as it reaches close to 10 inches when hard and that hardening dick casually grazed Sander's dress pants

Sander found the dick to be highly intriguing because not only it's uncut unlike what he and Andrei have, it's also curved slightly. But despite of the tempting thought to test that dick and see how different of a sensation it's going to be, Sander just coughed instead as he said

"Hmm....as much as we want to help you get acquainted with that body of yours, what we learn best is the fact that self-discovery is more fulfilling and can help accelerate the memory absorption, so here's the key of this unit and we'll let you have your fun. See you next week in our office for consolidation with the Prince, okay?"

Mike just said "hmmm" in understanding as he let the two realtors left him while he checks his own reflection in the wide bathroom mirror. He decided to wrap a towel around his waist, a vision he gained from absorbing the memories that belonged to Mike, and checks his reflection. Like an instinct, he fished out his phone from his pants right outside the bathroom and then posed for a selfie, just like the real Mike would do everytime he stumbled upon a new gorgeous mirror that can reflect his sculpted physique beautifully

The more memories of Mike it absorbed, the more aroused the alien become. When the memories of the countless volleys of load that Mike's massive cock shot into those tight holes and even faces and hands started to fill his mind, the alien couldn't help itself but mimicked the memories as it guided Mike's hands to tug his massive meaty pole. As it gets faster and faster, more and more memories poured into his mind and when it feels this impending pressure right on the tip of his cockhead ready to explode, he let out a massive roar as his body trembled violently with the release of what it could remember as the biggest load Mike ever shot in his life. It went on and on for 1 minutes straight before his body simply slumped back to the bathtub, panting for breath as the coagulating load started to sink and stick to his body. He let out a chuckle

"Guess I'm doing a better job than you ever did throughout your life, maybe you like me in control after all,"

[definitelynotafurinasimp]

Them reacting to reader using their vision in weird ways

Characters: Ayaka / Furina x gn!reader (separate)

warnings: none

a/n: When I updated my masterlist yesterday, I noticed that I hadn’t written for Ayaka in a long time, so I decided to use my 3 brain cells and think of something to write for her. Why is Furina here as well? Easy, since I love her and want to dig myself into an even deeper hole for when it inevitably turns out I got her whole personality wrong once Fontaine comes out in a few days.

Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Ayaka

Crossing paths with you while walking around the Kamisato Estate was as common as seeing a bird fly over the horizon. You were everywhere, from filling out paperwork in the garden, running errands for her brother or sneaking off to pet whatever pet you had laid eyes on to rushing past everyone to fetch Thoma before he could waste more of his time trying to fulfill one of Ayato’s impossible assignments. And although you seemed to be in a hurry most of the time, you always made sure to stop and chat with Ayaka whenever she passed you.

Your conversations were brief, but that didn’t mean that the young Kamisato didn’t appreciate them, making sure to keep an eye out for you whenever she could, so when she finally spotted you while talking to another resident of the estate, her eyes immediately began following you, not wanting to lose track of you before she had the opportunity to at least greet you. Something that had to wait until her current conversation was over.

Your face was as red as it could be, not that she held it against you. It was a scorching hot day and Ayaka was lucky enough to have her fan with her whenever she felt it became too unbearable. You however, having both of your hands full with paperwork you were presumably carrying to her brother’s office, weren’t so lucky. But just as she thought about offering you her fan, you carefully put your chin on top of the papers, pressing them between it and your right hand before quickly grabbing your anemo vision with the other and creating a wind as an impromptu fan.

“Miss Kamisato?”, her conversation partner called out her name in a worried manner, probably noticing her space out when she failed to answer a question, causing Ayaka to snap back to reality as a small blush formed on her cheeks, quickly apologizing. Luckily, the other person didn’t seem to care too much, asking the question again.

“So, about your order…” However, their voice quickly faded into the background as her attention once again shifted towards you, your previous stunt seemingly having caused a few papers to fall to the ground, leading to you silently staring at them, probably thinking about what to do next. 

Instead of bending down and picking them up however, you once again used your vision to create a breeze that caused them to fly just high enough for you to catch them without having to move an extra muscle, smiling to yourself as you put them back on top of the other papers before your gaze met hers.

Before Ayaka knew it, you were waving and smiling at her, your vision still in hand , and before she managed to stop herself, she was waving back, only to be dragged back to the present once again when she saw her conversation partners confused look, causing her face to grow even redder than last time, especially when she heard a snicker escape your mouth.

Furina

Furina had hoped for a million different things to spice these mind bogglingly boring days up, a sudden mysterious criminal causing chaos while evading police and setting off an intriguing investigation, a comet filled with alien lifeforms crashing into the surrounding area, a judge pronouncing a word embarrassingly wrong… ANYTHING.

So when she noticed a person throwing their pyro vision into a pot of water to heat it, she couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle, continuing to watch them with rising interest as it became increasingly clear the water had gotten too hot for the vision to be fished out, her smile only growing larger with each bubble that rose to the water's surface.

“You need something or are you just here to watch and smile?”, you eventually asked as you turned your head towards her, your face portraying a miffed expression, one bringing her even more amusement. Meeting a stand owner that was accidentally more entertaining than most shows she visited in the last couple of weeks wasn’t exactly on her bingo sheet for that day, but she definitely wasn’t complaining.

“No, I’m just watching”, she stated, not even attempting to hide her amusement. Only for you to look back down at the pot with an increasingly worried expression.

“You got a cryo vision or something that I could throw in to cool it?”

Your question earned you nothing but a deadpan expression, only for the silence between the two of you to suddenly cause it to shatter within an instance, Furina breaking out in laughter as it became increasingly clear that you were being serious, eventually ending up in her having to wipe away her tears, stopping her laugh several times to look at you with a face nearly begging you to say you were joking before continuing even more uncontrollably.

“If you intend on continuing to laugh instead of helping, then please go away”, you eventually stated, your face withholding any emotions as you stared at her, only for her to finally calm down enough to speak.

“Just pour out the water”, she managed to say between her laughs, causing you to shake your head.

“Great, and where do I quickly get new water from then?”, you asked sarcastically.

“Hello? You’re talking to the Hydro Archon here, water should be the least of your concerns”, she wheezed. Only to immediately stop when she heard a laugh coming from you, her expression darkening as it was your turn to laugh at her.

“Yeah right, good one. Let me help you find your parents, I’m sure they must start to get worried about you”, you laughed and laughed until you buckled over holding your stomach, not able to stop for even a second.

It took Furina all of her willpower not to take the boiling pot and pour it over you, the only thing stopping her being the knowledge that doing so would rob her of one of the few entertaining people in her country.

[from-memphis-with-love]

Songbird - Chapter 5 - The Final Curtain

Summary: It's been four weeks. Elvis' residency is coming to a close, but not without a bang. Ann-Margret and Priscilla are in attendance, and Valerie's gotta face some hard truths... and a hard question. Hilarity ensues thanks to Dean Martin and Tom Jones' hijinx.

The phone rang at precisely 7:13 AM, yanking me from dreams where Elvis' hands were finally doing more than just hovering near my skin. I fumbled for the receiver, still half-lost in phantom touches and promises.

"Valerie? Thank Christ." Joe's voice crackled with barely contained panic. "We got a situation."

I sat up, instantly alert. In Vegas, a "situation" could mean anything from Elvis deciding to redecorate his suite at 3 AM to the Colonel having another one of his nuclear meltdowns over seat assignments.

"What kind of situation?"

"Frank's coming."

"Frank who?"

"What do you mean 'Frank who'?" Joe's voice climbed an octave. "Sinatra! Chairman of the Board! Ol' Blue Eyes! He just called to say he's coming to E's last show."

My sleep-addled brain took a moment to process this. I winced, remembering my horrendous audition. "Isn't that... good?"

"Good?" Joe laughed, but it had a slightly hysterical edge. "Yeah, sure, it's good. Like having God show up to critique your prayer technique. Elvis is already doing karate in the suite. He's broken three lamps and Sonny’s about ready to sedate him."

In the background, I heard a crash followed by Elvis' voice: "Goddamn! The energy's all wrong in here! We gotta move everything southeast!"

"Not the piano again, boss," Sonny’s weary voice floated through the line. "Remember what happened last time?"

Another crash. Joe sighed. "Look, just... get up here? Maybe you can talk some sense into him before he rearranges the whole damn hotel."

"On my way." I hung up, already reaching for clothes. That's when my door buzzed.

Standing in the hallway was Tom Jones, looking distinctly un-Tom-Jones-like in a rumpled suit, holding what appeared to be...

"Is that a dove?"

"Peace offering." Tom thrust the cage at me. "For Elvis. Thought it might help smooth things over after... you know." The dove inside cooed mournfully. “He is with you, isn’t he?”

The dove tilted its head, studying me with one beady eye. Its feathers were the exact shade of Elvis's jumpsuit.

"He’s down the hall. And how do you even know my room number?” I sighed. “But Tom," I tried to keep my voice gentle. "Why would Elvis want a dove?"

"Well, peace! Unity! Plus they're very spiritual creatures." He scratched his head, causing a concerning amount of glitter to fall from his hair. "Though this one's a bit snippy. Bit me twice on the way over."

As if to demonstrate, the dove lunged at the cage bars with surprising violence. Tom yanked his hand back.

"Right." I carefully didn't take the cage. "Maybe we should focus on getting you sobered up first?"

"Not drunk!" Tom protested, swaying slightly. "Just... enthusiastic. About peace. And birds." He squinted at me. "Did you know doves mate for life?"

"Fascinating." I glanced down the hallway, where I could hear more crashes from Elvis's suite. "Look, Tom, this is very... thoughtful. But maybe—"

"Mr. Jones!" The Colonel's voice boomed down the corridor like judgment day. "What are you doing here at this hour?"

Tom straightened, attempting dignity while listing noticeably to port. "Bringing a peace offering!" He thrust the cage forward again. The dove made a sound suspiciously like a war cry.

The Colonel's face went through several interesting color changes. "A bird. You brought a bird. To Elvis Presley. On the day all the stars will be here."

"It's a dove!" Tom insisted. "Very spiritual!"

The Colonel's mustache bristled with indignation. "Get that feathered menace out of here before—"

But it was too late. The dove, apparently having picked the lock with its beak (which I wouldn't have believed possible if I hadn't seen it), burst from its cage like a feathered missile. It shot past the Colonel's head, leaving him spinning like a top, and disappeared down the corridor toward the service elevator where Lamar was just stepping in.

"Oh hell," Tom muttered.

The elevator doors closed on Lamar's startled face, the dove now apparently his traveling companion.

"Well." I looked at Tom. "That's one way to make an entrance."

Before anyone could respond, another crash echoed from Elvis's suite, followed by what sounded suspiciously like a karate yell.

The Colonel's face went from red to purple. "If you'll excuse me, I need to go prevent my boy from rearranging furniture according to mystic energy patterns. Again." He jabbed a finger at Tom. "You. Sober up. And find that bird before it decides to redecorate someone important."

As the Colonel stormed off, Tom slumped against the wall. "Thought the dove would be romantic. You know, symbolic." He looked at me hopefully. "Elvis likes symbols, right? All that spiritual stuff?"

"Sure," I patted his arm. "But maybe next time try flowers. Less likely to assault Lamar in an elevator."

That's when the fire alarm went off.

Welcome to Elvis's last day in Vegas. It wasn't even 8 AM.

*

By early evening, the International's lobby had been transformed into what looked like a military operation. Hotel security had cordoned off the main area with velvet ropes and potted palms, creating an exclusive island in the midst of the usual Vegas chaos. Outside the barriers, tourists pressed their faces against the brass posts, cameras flashing, while inside, some of the biggest names in entertainment moved in their own separate universe.

Four weeks ago, I'd been on the other side of those ropes, just another face in the crowd. Now here I was, watching Dean Martin hold court at the bar while Sammy Davis Jr. sat in deep conversation with his people at a corner table. The Colonel moved between groups like a conductor, orchestrating conversations and photo opportunities with practiced precision.

I couldn't help but remember my failed audition for Sinatra's people earlier in the month - how I'd bombed so spectacularly they'd stopped me halfway through. Back then, I'd thought that was the end of my Vegas story. Funny how life works sometimes.

And then Frank himself arrived.

He didn't make a grand entrance - Frank didn't need to. He simply appeared, flanked by two men in sharp suits, and the energy in our privileged little bubble shifted like someone had flipped a switch. Conversations quieted. Heads turned. Even the slot machines beyond the barrier seemed to ding more softly.

I watched from my spot near the elevator as he crossed the lobby, his shoes clicking against marble with metronomic precision. He moved like a man who had never doubted his right to be anywhere.

"Evening," he said as he passed, those famous blue eyes finding mine. His voice was cool, professional. "Better luck with Elvis than with 'My Funny Valentine,' I take it?"

First, I couldn’t believe he knew who I was. Second, the casual mention of my disaster of an audition made my cheeks burn. But before I could respond, the Colonel materialized at Frank's side, all false charm and calculated deference. "Mr. Sinatra, what an honor. Elvis will be down shortly—"

"I'm sure he will." Frank's attention had already moved on, dismissing me as easily as he'd noticed me. "Tell me, Tom, what's this I hear about a loose bird in the hotel?"

From his spot at the bar, Tom Jones made a sound suspiciously like a whimper.

I leaned against one of the marble pillars, taking in the surreal scene. Through the velvet ropes, I could see regular people - people like I'd been just weeks ago - straining for a glimpse of these legends. Now here I was, on the inside, existing in this rarefied air that still didn't quite feel real.

The Colonel's voice cut through my thoughts: "Everyone, please, if you'll begin making your way to the showroom. Elvis will meet us there directly."

As the celebrities began to migrate toward the elevator banks, I felt that familiar flutter in my stomach. Tonight was Elvis's final show. After this, everything would change. Memphis waited like a promise - or maybe a threat - on the horizon.

"Quite a view from this side of the ropes, isn't it?"

I turned to find Sammy Davis Jr. beside me, his smile knowing. "Different than looking in from the outside."

"That obvious, huh?"

"Only to someone who remembers what it feels like." He gestured at the slowly dispersing crowd of legends. "All this? It's smoke and mirrors, baby. Every single one of them puts their pants on one leg at a time - even Frank." He winked. "Well, maybe not Frank. Pretty sure he has someone for that."

I laughed, grateful for the moment of normalcy in this decidedly abnormal evening. But as we moved toward the elevators with the others, I couldn't help wondering: how long could I keep straddling these two worlds? How long before I had to choose between being on the inside looking out, or the outside looking in?

The answer, though I didn't know it yet, would come sooner than I thought.

*

The backstage area of the International's showroom had its own hierarchy, as complex and unspoken as any royal court. I'd learned its rules over the past weeks, knew my place in its careful choreography. Tonight, though, everything felt different. The usual pre-show chaos had an edge to it, like a guitar string wound too tight.

"No, no, NO!" The Colonel's voice boomed from the direction of the dressing room. "Those photographers go in the front row, not the back. And where's the seating chart? We need to—" He broke off as he spotted me. "Ah, Miss Pedretti. A word?"

My stomach dropped. The Colonel never wanted "a word" unless something was about to change, and never in my favor.

He drew me aside, mouth twitching with what might have been sympathy. "Slight adjustment to tonight's arrangements. We'll need Elvis's usual booth for some special guests. I'm sure you understand."

I understood, all right. "Of course, Mr. Colonel, sir." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Where would you like me to—"

"Joe will show you to a table. Good view, just... more discrete." He patted my arm, already turning away. "Better for everyone this way."

Better for everyone. Right. I watched him bustle off, barking orders about sight lines and photo angles. In the mirror-lined hallway, my reflection looked small and uncertain, like a girl playing dress-up in someone else's life.

"Don't let him get to you." Mary Lacker of all people appeared at my elbow, his face sympathetic. He was one of the quieter members of the Elvis crew, and I thought he didn’t like me. "Politics, you know? Gotta keep up appearances."

"Sure." I managed a smile that felt like plastic. "Appearances."

Joe, too, materialized. He squeezed my arm. "Look, I know it's not ideal, but—" He stopped, eyes fixing on something over my shoulder. "Well, hell."

I turned to follow his gaze. Down the corridor, a small commotion was building. Security guards appeared from nowhere, earpieces crackling with urgent whispers. The Colonel bent the corner like a ghost, moving faster than I'd ever seen him move.

"What's happening?"

"Change of plans," Joe muttered. "Big ones." He straightened his tie, professional mask sliding into place. "Showtime, kid."

Red appeared, looking harried. "Marty and Joe, we need you. Now." His eyes flicked to me. "You might want to make yourself scarce for a bit, Val. Things are about to get... complicated."

I should have gone. Should have found a new, more discrete table and let the machinery of Elvis world do its work. But something made me hesitate, lingering in the shadows of the hallway.

That's when I heard it. The distinctive click of expensive heels on marble, the rustle of designer fabric, the particular quality of silence that follows real star power. And underneath it all, a woman's laugh, low and knowing, like smoke given voice.

Ann-Margret was coming to Elvis's last show.

And from the urgent whispers now filling the corridor, she wasn't the only surprise guest expected tonight.

I pressed myself against the wall, suddenly very aware of my borrowed confidence. The hierarchy was shifting, and I was about to learn exactly where I stood in it.

Welcome to the real show, where the drama in the audience would rival anything happening on stage.

*

Ann-Margret breezed into the backstage area like a warm wind off the desert, all red hair and easy grace. She moved differently than the other stars I'd met. There were no calculated gestures or practiced poses, just natural vitality that made everyone else look slightly artificial in comparison.

The Colonel appeared instantly, mustache twitching with barely contained anxiety. "Miss Olsson, what an unexpected pleasure—"

"Oh, stop fussing, Parker." She waved him off with the casual confidence of someone used to getting her way. “It’s Mrs. Smith now, anyway. You know that.” 

Her eyes swept the corridor, taking in everything, missing nothing. When they landed on me, something in her expression shifted. Recognition, maybe, though not of my face.

She paused mid-stride, studying me with sudden interest. I couldn't read her expression, but something about the way she tilted her head reminded me of a card player spotting a tell.

"Well," she said softly, more to herself than anyone else. Then, louder: "You're not what I expected to find backstage at an Elvis show."

Before the Colonel could intervene, she'd crossed to where I stood. Up close, her face was more interesting than beautiful - mobile and expressive, with laugh lines that suggested she used her smile often and meant it.

"I'm Ann-Margret," she said, as if I couldn't possibly know. "And you are?"

"Valerie," I managed, trying not to sound as starstruck as I felt.

"Valerie." She tested the name, her eyes never leaving my face. "Not the usual..." She gestured vaguely at the corridor where various showgirls and admirers lingered. Then, surprising me: "Join me for a drink later? After all this circus is done?"

The Colonel cleared his throat. "Miss Ols–Smith, about the seating arrangements—"

"Oh, any front booth will be fine," she said firmly, turning that megawatt smile his way. Then, lower, just to me: "Some things you don't have to give up." She squeezed my hand once, a gesture that felt like both welcome and warning.

She moved off down the corridor, leaving behind the scent of expensive perfume and something earthier - motorcycle leather, maybe. The Colonel hurried after her, still fretting about sight lines and photo ops.

A commotion erupted near the main entrance. Ann-Margret paused, her posture changing subtly. Something in the air shifted, like the pressure drop before a storm.

Priscilla Presley had arrived.

I retreated to a shadowy alcove near the stage door, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs. Through the gaps between passing bodies, I caught glimpses of her arrival.

Priscilla Presley moved like a queen, each step precisely measured. No wasted motion, no nervous gestures. She wore a white dress that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, her dark hair swept up in a style that somehow managed to look both elegant and effortless. But it was her face that stopped conversations mid-sentence, turned heads, made the air itself feel different.

God, she was beautiful. Not in the obvious way of showgirls or movie stars, but in some otherworldly manner that made everyone else look slightly unfinished. Every feature seemed carved by an artist with a very particular vision in mind - those huge eyes, that perfect mouth, that jawline that could cut glass.

I touched my own face unconsciously, suddenly aware of my too-wide mouth, my strong nose, my stubbornly unruly hair. Four weeks of living in Elvis's world, and I'd managed to avoid feeling like this - like a sparrow that had wandered into a peacock's garden. But watching Priscilla glide through the corridor, accepting greetings with small, regal nods, I felt every inch the nobody.

She paused to speak with the Colonel, her voice too low to catch. Everything about her was controlled, contained. Even the way she held her cigarette seemed choreographed, the smoke curling up like a question mark. The perfect wife, the perfect picture. Elvis's living doll.

Red appeared at her elbow, murmuring something about her assigned booth - my usual spot, I realized with a twist in my gut. She nodded once, dismissing him with the practiced ease of someone used to managing staff.

From the direction of Elvis's dressing room came the faint sound of gospel music - his pre-show ritual, centering himself with the hymns of his childhood. Did he know she was here yet? Could he feel it, the way everyone else could?

"Quite something, isn't she?"

I startled. Ann-Margret had appeared beside me, her eyes on Priscilla.

"She's..." I struggled to find words that weren't tainted with jealousy or awe.

"Perfect?" Ann-Margret supplied, a hint of something sharp in her voice. "She should be. Took years of careful work to get her that way." She glanced at me. "Makes you wonder what she looked like before. When she still moved like herself."

Before I could respond, Priscilla's head turned our way. I shrank further into the shadows, but her eyes found Ann-Margret anyway. Something passed between the two women - some private communication in a language I couldn't read. Then Priscilla's gaze swept past our hiding spot, cool and assessing, like winter sunlight.

I held my breath until she moved on, following the Colonel toward the showroom. Only then did I realize I'd been gripping Ann-Margret's arm.

"Sorry," I muttered, releasing her.

"Don't be." She rubbed her arm, but she was smiling. "First time I saw her, I hid behind a potted palm. Least you picked a better spot."

Through the stage door, Elvis's voice rose in the chorus of "How Great Thou Art." The sound wrapped around us like smoke, like memory, like all the things we couldn't say.

Somewhere in the showroom, Priscilla was taking her seat in the booth where I'd watched every show for the past three weeks. Soon, Elvis would emerge from his dressing room, would see her sitting there, would have to navigate this minefield of past and present while hundreds - thousands - watched.

And I would be... where, exactly?

The answer to that question suddenly seemed very important indeed.

I ended up with three choices, each worse than the last.

The Colonel's "discrete" table was tucked in an alcove near stage right - the kind of spot reserved for Elvis's backup singers or lesser opening acts. From there I'd be able to see everything: Elvis commanding the stage, Priscilla in my old booth directly center, Ann-Margret holding court stage left. But sitting there felt like accepting defeat, like being officially relegated to the category of "someone who didn't matter anymore."

Then there was the empty seat at Ann-Margret's table. She'd made the offer casually as she'd passed me again: "Plenty of room where I'm sitting, sugar." It was tempting - a sort of subtle rebellion, aligning myself with the woman who'd chosen her own path over Elvis's version of perfect. But even I knew that would be playing with fire. The last thing I needed was to give the Colonel more ammunition.

The third option had come from Sammy Davis Jr., of all people. "Got a spare chair in the wings," he'd said, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. "Best view in the house - see everything, everyone sees you, but you're not really part of the show. Know what I mean?"

I did know what he meant. The wings were typically reserved for performers and close friends - people who belonged backstage but needed to watch the show. It was a sort of liminal space, neither fully public nor completely private. From there, I could observe without being obvious about it, stay close to Elvis without making a statement about it.

The crowd was filling in now, their excited chatter rising like steam. In the center booth, Priscilla sat like a photograph waiting to be taken, everything about her arranged just so. Stage left, Ann-Margret lounged with the easy confidence of someone who had nothing to prove. A man who I assume to be her husband sat next to her. They held hands. And somewhere behind me, Elvis was getting ready for his final show in Vegas, probably unaware of the careful choreography being executed in his name.

I had about ten minutes to decide where I belonged in this tableau.

Less than two months ago, I'd been a struggling singer slinging pancakes by day and working the bar circuit by night. I also taught music lessons in my free evenings. Now I was caught in some complex dance between Elvis Presley's past, present, and possible future. The thought almost made me laugh - would've, if my throat wasn't so tight.

The house lights began to dim.

Time to choose.

I found my spot in the wings just as the house lights went down. Sammy was right - you could see everything from here. The angle transformed the showroom into something like a diorama, every table its own small drama waiting to unfold.

"Coffee?" Jerry appeared beside me with two cups, looking grateful to have someone to hide with. "Got a feeling we're gonna want to be alert for this show."

From this vantage point, I could see the subtle shift in Priscilla's posture as the opening acts began - the almost imperceptible straightening of her spine, like armor sliding into place. She sat alone in the booth, a subtle but clear statement. No Memphis friends, no handlers, just her and whatever she'd come to prove.

Ann-Margret, by contrast, had drawn a small court to her table. She threw her head back laughing at something Dean Martin said, the sound carrying even over the warm-up act. But I caught how her eyes kept drifting to that center booth, something almost like sympathy in her expression.

The air changed as Elvis's entrance neared. You could feel it in the crowd, that electric anticipation. Behind me, I heard the familiar sounds of his pre-show routine: the soft murmur of prayer, the rustle of gabardine and silk, the quiet clicks of rings being put on like armor.

"Quite a crowd tonight," his voice came low near my ear. I hadn't heard him approach - he could move like a cat when he wanted to. His hand found the small of my back, warm through the thin fabric of my dress. "You okay back here?"

"Are you?" I kept my voice equally quiet, not turning. From the corner of my eye, I could see him looking out at the audience, taking in the scene I'd been studying.

He was silent for a moment. "Well," he said finally, "ain't this a fine mess."

That startled a laugh out of me. "That's one way to put it."

His hand pressed slightly firmer against my back, and I knew he'd spotted them - both of them. The wife he'd shaped into perfection, and the woman who'd refused to be shaped at all. The air felt suddenly thick with unspoken things.

"Elvis," Red's voice came from behind us, "two minutes."

Elvis's hand slid from my back, but he leaned close first, his breath warm against my ear. "Watch me tonight, okay? Just... watch me."

Then he was gone, leaving behind only the lingering scent of his cologne and what felt like a thousand questions.

The opening bars of "Blue Suede Shoes" began to thunder through the showroom. Elvis's signature entrance music, chosen because the crowd loved it.

From my spot in the wings, I could see everything:

Priscilla, perfect and still as a painting, her face giving away nothing.

Ann-Margret, leaning forward slightly in her chair, a small smile playing at her lips like she knew something no one else did.

And Elvis, about to walk out into what might be the most complicated audience of his career.

The music built towards Elvis’ cue. In the half-dark beside me, Jerry whistled low.

"Well," he murmured, "this ought to be interesting."

That, I thought, was putting it mildly.

Elvis hit the stage like a force of nature, all controlled power and dangerous grace. The screams were deafening, but from my spot in the wings, I caught the subtle tells most people missed - the extra beat before his signature smile, the slight tension in his shoulders.

"Well, well, well." His voice rolled through the room like distant thunder. "Looks like we got ourselves a party tonight."

The audience lost their minds, but I watched his eyes do that careful sweep of the room. They landed first on Priscilla, just for a moment - enough to acknowledge but not linger. Her face remained perfectly composed, though her fingers tightened slightly on her champagne glass.

Then Ann-Margret, who raised her glass in a small salute that somehow managed to be both warm and slightly wicked. The ghost of a real smile touched Elvis's lips before the showman's mask slipped back into place.

He didn't look at me. He didn't need to.

The band struck up "I Got A Woman" and Elvis was off, moving like lightning trapped in human form. But something was different tonight. There was an edge to his performance, a barely contained wildness. When he hit the line "She's there to love me both day and night," it came out almost like a challenge.

"He's showing off," Jerry murmured beside me. "Haven't seen him like this since Ann-Margret used to come watch him film."

When he launched into "Polk Salad Annie," it was with barely controlled violence. His karate moves were sharper, his hip thrusts more deliberate. It wasn't just performance anymore - it was exorcism.

"Jesus," Jerry breathed. "He's really going for it tonight."

He was. Every song felt like a statement, every move loaded with meaning. The audience ate it up, oblivious to the deeper currents moving through the room. They couldn't see what I saw - the way Priscilla's knuckles had gone white around her glass, the knowing look in Ann-Margret's eyes, the slight tremor in Elvis's hands that had nothing to do with withdrawal.

I watched Elvis prowl the stage like a caged panther, all that raw energy focused into something almost dangerous. Later when he went into "Suspicious Minds," the irony wasn't lost on anyone. His voice took on that rough, hungry quality that made the air feel electric.

"We're caught in a trap..."

In the center booth, Priscilla's perfect composure cracked just slightly. Something flickered across her face - memory maybe, or recognition. For just a moment, she looked impossibly young.

"I can't walk out..."

Ann-Margret was no longer smiling. She sat very still, watching Elvis with the focus of someone reading between lines.

"Because I love you too much, baby..."

Elvis dropped to his knees at the edge of the stage, pouring his heart into the microphone like it was confession. Sweat made his skin gleam under the lights, and that ever-present tremor in his hands was more visible now. 

During "Can't Help Falling in Love," he finally looked toward the wings. Found me standing there in the shadows. His voice softened on the bridge, became something more intimate.

"Take my hand, take my whole life too..."

Priscilla's followed his gaze. For a moment, our eyes met across the darkness. Something passed between us - understanding maybe, or recognition. Then she looked away, her face once again a perfect mask.

The show built toward its climax, Elvis burning brighter with each song. He was magnificent and terrible, powerful and vulnerable, real and artificial all at once. Everything that made him Elvis Presley was on that stage, raw and exposed.

But watching him perform for this particular audience - his wife, his former flame, and whatever I was becoming to him - I realized something. Elvis wasn't just singing tonight.

He was choosing.

Or trying to.

The real question was: what exactly was he choosing between?

The last notes hung in the air like smoke. Elvis stood center stage, breathing hard, his chest slick with sweat. For a moment, the mask slipped completely. He looked lost, almost surprised to find himself there under the lights.

Then the thunder of applause crashed over him and the showman snapped back into place. He threw his arms wide, accepting the adoration like a benediction. His scarves were gone, given to screaming fans. His rings caught the spotlight as he took his final bow.

"Thank you very much. Thank you very much indeed." His voice was rough, spent. "You've been a beautiful audience. Until we meet again..."

He backed toward the wings, still playing to the crowd. But as soon as he crossed into the shadows where I stood, something changed. The tremors were worse now - he'd pushed himself too hard, gone on too long. His breath came in short gasps.

"Joe," he called softly, urgently. "Need my..."

But it was Red who appeared, pressing something into Elvis's palm. The pills disappeared so quickly I almost missed it. Almost.

"Boss," Red's voice was careful. "Mrs. Presley would like a word. She's heading to your dressing room."

Elvis's jaw tightened. His eyes found mine in the darkness. "Give me five minutes. Need to..." He gestured vaguely at his sweat-soaked state.

"And Miss Ann-Margret?"

"Christ." The word came out like a prayer. "Tell her... tell her I'll see her at the party."

Red nodded and disappeared. Elvis stood very still for a moment, like he was gathering strength. Then, surprisingly, he laughed. 

"Some mess, huh?" He touched my cheek briefly, his fingers still trembling slightly. "You okay?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice. He studied my face for a moment longer, then straightened his shoulders. 

I decided to change the subject. “Elvis, your show was amazing.” And it was true. It really was. 

"Well," he said softly, "time to face the music."

He moved off toward his dressing room where Priscilla waited. I watched him go, noting how he seemed to grow with each step, rebuilding his armor as he went. By the time he turned the corner, he was Elvis Presley again.

"Come on," Jerry touched my elbow. "Let's get you somewhere less complicated for a bit."

But as I let him lead me away from the wings, I caught one last glimpse of the room: Priscilla's empty booth, the champagne glass still sitting there like a question mark. Ann-Margret rising from her table, red hair catching the light like fire. And somewhere down that corridor, Elvis preparing to navigate between past and present while his pills kicked in.

The night wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

*

The International's penthouse suite had been transformed into a living map of 1969's star system. The gathering would have been remarkable enough on its own - Dean Martin, Tina Turner, Johnny Cash, Harry Belafonte, Petula Clark - any one of them could have filled a Vegas showroom by themselves. But they were all here for one man. Only Elvis Presley could pull stars into his orbit like this, could make legends act like fans.

He was the sun around which all these other stars revolved, and everyone knew it. Even Frank, the Chairman himself, had shown up to pay tribute. In Vegas, that meant something.

"Look at this crowd," Jerry murmured, appearing at my elbow with a fresh drink. "The Colonel's about to burst a blood vessel trying to keep track of all the egos in here. And Tom Jones is still apologizing to everyone about that damn dove."

Sure enough, Tom was making his way through the room, slightly rumpled and profusely apologetic, explaining to anyone who'd listen about his "peace offering gone wrong." The bird in question had apparently taken up residence somewhere in the hotel's ventilation system, occasionally making its presence known through well-timed coos during quiet moments.

"Watch this," Jerry murmured as Nancy Sinatra headed for the powder room at the same moment Priscilla stood up. "Three, two, one..."

The Colonel materialized like a mustachioed guardian angel, somehow managing to redirect Nancy's path without seeming to. Crisis averted, at least for now.

"What was that about?" I asked.

"Hoo boy." Lamar's eyes lit up with gossip. "Let’s just say those two hate each other..." He whistled low. "Priscilla found out. How could she not? Every magazine in the country was running pictures of ‘em looking cozy on set."

"The kicker," Jerry cut in, "was Nancy showing up to a movie premiere wearing the exact same dress as Priscilla. Custom-made, mind you. Cost a fortune."

"No accident either," Lamar added. "Nancy knew exactly what she was doing. And Priscilla..." He shook his head admiringly. "Didn't even blink. Just smiled for the cameras and made sure she was photographed from better angles."

Tina Turner commanded attention near the piano, her presence electric even in repose. I was absolutely starstruck. Her laugh carried over the crowd as she worked with Elvis on some new dance moves, showing him how to make his famous hip swivel even more dangerous. "No, baby, it's all in the knees," she called out, demonstrating with characteristic fire. "You're thinking too much!"

Ike hovered nearby, his attention sharp whenever anyone got too close to Tina, though she seemed oblivious to his watchfulness.

"Ain't that something," Jerry muttered. "Tina's been teaching Elvis all week. Driving Ike crazy, but what's he gonna say? It's Elvis."

Glen Campbell and Johnny Cash held court by the bar, both of them looking slightly out of place among the Vegas regulars. Their country-boy authenticity stood in sharp contrast to the Rat Pack's polished performance of casualness. Though even they kept glancing Elvis's way, drawn like moths to his flame.

In one corner, Sammy Davis Jr. and Harry Belafonte were deep in conversation, their heads bent together like conspirators. The Colonel kept casting nervous glances their way - any gathering of stars discussing business made him twitchy.

And then there was Dean Martin. He grew progressively more theatrical with each drink. "So there's Elvis, right? Standing there in nothing but a towel and his guitar, and who walks in but—"

"Dean." Frank's voice carried that special note of warning that could cut through chaos.

"What? It's a great story! The towel fell right off and—"

"Maybe we save that one for later," Sammy suggested, breaking away from his conversation to play peacekeeper.

The Memphis contingent huddled on the terrace like displaced royalty, trying not to look overwhelmed by the Hollywood crowd. Red and Sonny ran interference, making sure no undesirable elements got too close to their territory.

Petula Clark breezed through the space between groups like a diplomat, equally comfortable chatting with the Vegas showgirls or the Memphis wives. She'd just finished a run at Caesars and carried herself with the easy confidence of someone who knew how to navigate these waters.

And then there was Priscilla, holding quiet court in a corner, her beauty making even the most seasoned stars do double-takes. The camera crews the Colonel had let in kept gravitating toward her, drawn by that perfect poise.

Elvis pinballed between groups with the kind of energy that suggested his post-show pills had well and truly kicked in. One moment he was practicing Tina's dance moves in front of an amused Tom Jones, the next deep in conversation with Johnny Cash about gospel music, then vanishing only to resurface telling stories to Harry Belafonte about his movie days.

The night spun on, a kaleidoscope of fame and careful distances. Each star carried their own gravity, but they all orbited Elvis. He was the reason they were here - the King, the star of stars, the center of this glittering universe.

And somewhere in the building's ventilation system, a wayward dove continued to provide inadvertent commentary on the proceedings below.

*

I tried to watch it all with anthropological detachment. That was safer than feeling.

Elvis moved through the room like quicksilver, but I noticed how he kept circling back to Priscilla. His hand would find the small of her back as he passed. He'd lean in close to whisper something that made her smile despite herself. Once, he even kissed her temple in full view of everyone, casual and possessive.

Each gesture was perfectly calculated for the cameras, yet held a strange intimacy that made my stomach twist. They had a shorthand, these two. A language built from years of shared space and secrets.

"Rough, isn't it?"

Ann-Margret had materialized beside me, a champagne flute dangling from her fingers. Her eyes tracked Elvis as he draped his arm around Priscilla's shoulders, playing the devoted husband for a photographer.

"He's good at that," Ann-Margret continued, her voice low. "Making each woman feel like she's the only one in the room. Even when she isn't."

"I'm just observing," I said, aiming for professional detachment and probably missing by miles.

Her laugh was surprisingly earthy. "Honey, nobody in this room is 'just' anything."

Before I could respond, Elvis's voice carried across the space: "Baby?" He was looking at Priscilla but had shifted slightly, unconsciously, toward where Ann-Margret and I stood. "Remember that night in Cincinnati when we..."

He trailed off, suddenly aware he was straddling worlds. For a moment, the mask slipped. I saw him register all of us - his wife, his ex-lover, whatever I was becoming - and something like panic flickered in his eyes.

The moment passed. Elvis recovered smoothly, finishing his story about Cincinnati. But something had shifted in the air. I watched Priscilla's perfect smile tighten almost imperceptibly. Watched Ann-Margret take a slow sip of champagne. Watched Elvis's hand fall to the small of his wife’s back.

"He loves her, you know." Ann-Margret's voice was gentle now. "Always will, in his way. Just like he loved me. Just like he..." She stopped, reconsidered. "The trouble is, Elvis's heart is like Vegas itself - there's always room for one more bright light, one more chance at hitting the jackpot."

"I'm not trying to hit anything," I said.

"No." She studied me over the rim of her glass. "That's probably why you're the most dangerous one of all."

Across the room, Elvis had moved on to entertaining Johnny Cash with karate moves, but his eyes kept finding me in the crowd. Each glance felt like a match strike against dry paper.

So much for detached observation.

The dove chose that moment to make another appearance, this time directly above Dean Martin, who was mid-story about that infamous towel incident.

"Jesus Christ!" Dean yelped as white feathers drifted down. "Tom! Your bird just..."

"Actually," Tom said with dignity, "I believe it's the hotel's bird now."

And just like that, the tension dissolved into laughter. Even Priscilla cracked a genuine smile. But as the room returned to its careful choreography of fame and friendship, I caught Elvis watching me again. In his eyes I saw everything I was trying not to feel reflected back at me.

As the night wore on, I found myself fascinated by the subtle dance of fame and power playing out before me. Frank Sinatra, who'd spent the evening treating most people with casual indifference, actually stood up when Elvis approached his table. The gesture was small, easy to miss if you weren't watching for it, but in a room full of stars it spoke volumes.

Even more telling was how the others reacted to that tiny show of respect - Johnny Cash's eyebrows rising slightly, Dean Martin pausing mid-story, Petula Clark hiding a smile behind her champagne glass. In Vegas's careful hierarchy, Frank Sinatra standing for anyone was like watching the Pope bow.

"Would you look at that," Jerry murmured, appearing at my elbow. "The Chairman rising for the King."

The two men spoke quietly, heads bent together like old friends rather than rivals. When Elvis laughed at something Frank said, it was his real one - not the practiced one he used for the cameras still circulating the room.

"Never thought I'd see it," Jerry continued. "Few years back, Frank was telling anyone who'd listen that rock and roll was just noise. Now look at them."

The dynamics shifted constantly as the night progressed. When Tina Turner spoke, even the loudest voices quieted. When Harry Belafonte moved through the room, the Memphis contingent tried a little too hard to appear comfortable. And when Ann-Margret laughed, every head turned - some openly, some trying to pretend they weren't looking.

But it all came back to Elvis. He was the center everyone else arranged themselves around, like planets finding their orbit. Even Frank, for all his own gravitational pull, seemed to understand this was Elvis' night.

A burst of laughter drew my attention to where Dean had cornered Tom Jones by the bar. "Listen, you Welsh wonder - the thing about that dove of yours..."

"Oh God," Tom muttered. "Not the bird again."

*

The party spun on, each star shining in their own way, but all of them - even the brightest - caught in Elvis's light.

Dean Martin's drink seemed to fall in slow motion. One moment he was gesturing wildly, telling some story about Frank and a missing toupee, and the next his martini was arcing through the air like a crystal waterfall. It splashed across Priscilla's white designer dress with devastating precision.

The room didn't exactly go silent, but there was a subtle shift, like everyone simultaneously holding their breath. Priscilla looked down at the spreading stain, her perfect features freezing in a way that made the temperature drop ten degrees.

"Oh God," Dean stammered, suddenly soberer. "Mrs. Presley, I am so..."

"It's quite alright." Her voice could have frosted glass. But her hands - those perfectly manicured hands - shook slightly as she dabbed at the fabric with a cocktail napkin. "This is only a thousand-dollar Givenchy."

The Colonel materialized with fresh napkins and profuse apologies. Priscilla's expression remained fixed in place, a porcelain mask of composure even as her eyes betrayed barely contained fury. A photographer moved in, scenting blood, but Red intercepted him with practiced ease.

"Here, let me—" Dean started forward with more napkins, managing to trip over his own feet in the process. His fresh drink went flying.

Right onto me.

The gin was cold and the olives hit me square in the chest, but something about the sheer absurdity of it all - the tension, the fancy dress, Dean's mortified face - just struck me as hilarious. I burst out laughing.

"Well," I said, plucking an olive from my dress and popping it in my mouth, "at least it's a good vintage."

Dean's face transformed with relief. "God love you, girl." He draped his arm around my shoulders. "See? She gets it! It's just a dress, right? Just a little..." He trailed off, catching Priscilla's arctic stare.

"Just a dress," Priscilla repeated softly. The words could have cut diamonds. She turned on her perfect heel and glided toward the powder room, the crowd parting before her like the Red Sea.

I was still fishing olives out of my cleavage when I caught Elvis watching from across the room. His expression was strange - something between amusement and revelation, like he was seeing something clearly for the first time.

Then Priscilla emerged from the powder room, somehow looking even more immaculate than before, and his face smoothed back into careful neutrality. But I'd seen it - that moment of recognition, of comparison.

"Come on, honey," Dean was saying, steering me toward the bar. "Let me buy you a fresh dress worth of martinis. And maybe one for your cleavage, since it seems to have developed a taste for them."

I laughed and let him lead me away, very aware of Elvis's eyes following us. Let him look. Let him see the difference between porcelain perfection and someone who knew how to roll with life's messier moments.

Behind us, I heard the Colonel trying to soothe Priscilla's ruffled feathers. "Now, Mrs. Presley, about tonight's photos..."

A distant coo from the ventilation system seemed to punctuate the moment with avian commentary.

"Not. One. Word." Tom Jones muttered to no one in particular.

Dean was good as his word, setting me up at the bar with a fresh martini while regaling me with increasingly outrageous stories about cocktail disasters through the years. "So there's Sinatra, right, wearing what's left of the Manhattan, and Ava Gardner just looks at him and says—"

"Dean." Frank's voice carried across the room. "What did I tell you about the Ava stories?"

"Spoilsport," Dean muttered into his glass. Then, brightening: "Say, Pedretti - that's Italian, isn't it?"

"From the old country. On both sides," I confirmed. "My grandparents never let us forget it."

"Ha! I knew it!" Dean's face lit up with ethnic pride. "We Italians, we know how to handle our liquor with style. Well, except maybe Frank over there..." He raised his voice on the last part.

"I heard that, Dino," Frank called back.

"You were meant to!" Dean turned back to me with a wink. "You're alright, kid. Not everyone can take a martini to the chest with such style." He studied me over his glass. "You know something? I get it now. Why he’ been looking at—" Dean's eyes flicked meaningfully toward Elvis, then back to me. "Well. Let's just say some people wear their spirits better than others, and I don't just mean the kind you drink."

From across the room came the sound of Priscilla's carefully modulated voice: "No, Colonel, I don't think another photo will be necessary. I believe we've documented the evening sufficiently."

I glanced over to see her positioned perfectly beside Elvis, not a hair out of place despite the earlier incident. The photographer was getting shots of them with various combinations of stars - Elvis and Frank, Elvis and Priscilla with Tom Jones (who still looked vaguely haunted by the dove incident), Elvis with the Memphis contingent. A careful catalog of approved moments.

But Elvis kept finding excuses to glance my way, his eyes carrying questions I wasn't sure I could answer.

"Know what your problem is?" Dean said suddenly, surprising me with his clarity despite the late hour and numerous martinis.

"What's that?"

"You ain’t fake yet." He said it like it was both a blessing and a curse. "And that’s dangerous in Vegas. Especially around—" He gestured vaguely with his glass toward Elvis.

Before I could respond, a commotion near the piano drew everyone's attention. Tina Turner had finally had enough of Ike's hovering and was telling him exactly where he could stick his "helpful suggestions" about her performance style. Her voice carried over the crowd with characteristic power.

"Now there's a woman who knows how to handle her spirits," Dean observed sagely.

The party's energy was shifting, winding down in that way Vegas parties do - not with a bang but with a series of negotiated retreats. The Memphis crowd was already thinning out, overwhelmed by so much Hollywood. The photographers were packing up their gear. Even Frank looked like he was calculating his exit.

That's when Elvis broke away from the official proceedings and made his way to the bar. He moved differently now - the post-show pills wearing off, that manic energy settling into something more subdued.

"Dean," he nodded. "Mind if I borrow Miss Pedretti for a moment?"

Dean's eyebrows lifted, but he stood with surprising grace. "All yours, amigo. Just... try not to spill anything on her. Girl's had enough dry cleaning bills for one night."

Elvis's hand grazed the small of my waist, still damp from Dean's martini. The touch felt electric even through the wet fabric.

"Come on," he said softly. "Let's find somewhere quiet before the Colonel remembers there's one more combination of stars he hasn't photographed yet."

I let him guide me toward the terrace, very aware of Priscilla's eyes following us. The night air hit my gin-soaked dress, making me shiver. Elvis shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over my shoulders in one smooth motion.

Behind us, Dean's voice drifted out: "So anyway, about that damn bird..."

The terrace offered an illusion of privacy, though the glass doors did little to shield us from curious eyes. Elvis leaned against the railing, his presence slightly dulled by fatigue and fading adrenaline.

"Listen, about tonight..." he started, then stopped. Through the glass, I could see Priscilla talking with the Colonel, both of them stealing glances our way. "Cilla's staying at the hotel. For appearances." He said it carefully, like defusing a bomb. "The Colonel thinks... well, with all the press..."

"Of course." I was proud of how steady my voice sounded. Of course she was staying. She was his wife. I was just... what? The girl in the gin-soaked dress?

A burst of laughter from inside made us both turn. Through the glass, I saw Ann-Margret watching us, something like recognition in her eyes. She'd stood on a terrace once, maybe, having this same conversation. She raised her glass slightly - to me? To Elvis? To the whole damn situation? - before turning back to her husband Roger with a small shake of her head.

"It's just for show," Elvis continued, his hands fidgeting. "You know that, right? Just playing the part, like always."

Like always. I wondered how many women had heard those words on this terrace.

"Elvis." Priscilla's voice came from the doorway, perfectly modulated. "The photographers want one last shot before they go."

She didn't look at me. Didn't need to. Her presence filled the space like expensive perfume, making me acutely aware of my damp dress and smeared mascara.

"Be right there, baby." The endearment slipped out automatically, practiced. But his eyes stayed on me, pleading for understanding.

I nodded once, pulling his jacket closer around my shoulders. He moved toward Priscilla, his posture shifting into performance mode. But at the door he paused, turned back.

"Valerie—"

"Go on." I managed a smile. "Your audience awaits."

I stayed on the terrace long after they'd gone inside, watching Vegas glitter below like a jewelry box full of broken promises. The night air carried the scent of gin and Desert Flower perfume - Priscilla's signature scent, I realized. It clung to Elvis's jacket like a claim.

Inside, I could hear the final photos being orchestrated. The Colonel's voice carried through the glass: "Now, Mr. and Mrs. Presley, if you could just..."

A soft coo from above made me laugh despite everything. Even Tom's wayward dove knew a performance when it saw one.

"One for the papers!" someone called out. "Give us a kiss!"

It was the moment every photographer had been waiting for - the perfect finale to Elvis's triumphant Vegas run. The King and his Queen, wrapped in each other's arms like a fairytale ending.

I turned back toward the party just in time to see it happen. Elvis drew Priscilla close, one hand at her waist, the other cupping her face with practiced tenderness. She tilted her chin up, camera-ready, and their lips met to enthusiastic applause. The kiss lasted exactly long enough for every photographer to get their shot.

"Beautiful!" The Colonel's voice boomed. "Now that's how you end a Vegas engagement!"

The room erupted in congratulations - for the successful run, for the perfect couple, for the whole glittering fantasy. Tom Jones started singing "Love Me Tender," because of course he did. Dean Martin wiped away what might have been real tears, though that could've been the martinis talking.

Through it all, I stayed on my terrace, still wearing Elvis's jacket, clapping softly. How could I not? It was like watching a movie I'd seen before but somehow forgotten the ending to. The way Elvis's thumb stroked Priscilla's cheek. The way her fingers curled possessively into his shirt. The way they fit together like two pieces of a puzzle I'd never be part of.

"Rough stuff, isn't it?"

I hadn't heard Ann-Margret join me. She stood just inside the doorway, holding two fresh drinks.

"I'm fine," I said automatically.

"Honey, nobody's fine watching the man they love kiss his wife in front of God and Frank Sinatra." She handed me one of the drinks. "Trust me on that one."

Inside, Elvis and Priscilla were making their way through the crowd, accepting congratulations like visiting royalty. His hand stayed at the small of her back, proprietary and familiar. She leaned into him exactly the right amount - not too much, not too little. They'd perfected this dance years ago.

"The thing is," Ann-Margret said softly, "he probably means it, in the moment. That's what makes it worse."

A distant coo from above sounded almost sympathetic.

Elvis's eyes found mine through the glass. Just for a moment, his perfect mask slipped. Then Priscilla said something, he laughed, and the moment was gone.

I downed my drink in one go.

Welcome to life with Elvis Presley, where even the hurt looked beautiful under Vegas lights.

*

The party began its final descent. Stars peeled away in careful order - first the Vegas regulars, then the Hollywood contingent, each exit timed to maintain proper hierarchies. Frank made a point of shaking Elvis's hand again, that small gesture speaking volumes. Dean had to be practically carried out, still trying to teach Tom Jones the "proper" way to sing "Return to Sender."

Tina and Ike left separately, which said everything about their evening.

"Come on, baby." Roger appeared at Ann-Margret's elbow. "Our car's here."

She squeezed my hand before going. "Remember what I didn't say," she murmured, and I nodded, though I wasn't sure which unspoken truth she meant. “I’d still love that drink anytime you want.”

The Memphis crowd lingered, uncertain in this glittering territory. They kept looking to Elvis for cues, but he was busy posing for endless last rounds of photos with Priscilla. The Colonel supervised every angle, every gesture, like a painter touching up his masterpiece.

"You need a ride home, Valley?" Jerry asked quietly.

Home. As if I knew where that was anymore.

"I'm on the same floor, Jerry. I think I can manage."

"That's not what I meant."

Before I could respond, Elvis's voice cut through the thinning crowd. "Nobody leave yet! I want to thank you all..." He was using his stage voice now, fatigue making him a little too loud. Priscilla touched his arm gently, adjusting his volume with practiced ease.

I took that as my cue to slip away. Let him have his moment with his people, his wife, his perfectly orchestrated life. I shrugged off his jacket, meaning to leave it with Red, but Jerry stopped me.

"Keep it," he said softly. "He'll want you to."

The walk down the hall was quiet except for the sound of my heartbeat and - incredibly - one last coo from that damn dove, somehow following me even here. Tom's peace offering had turned into the world's most persistent Greek chorus.

"Oh, shut up," I told it, and immediately felt better.

My key stuck in the lock three times before I realized I was trying to open the wrong door. Maybe Dean's martinis had hit harder than I'd thought. Or maybe it was just that everything looked different now, in the harsh fluorescent light of reality.

When I finally made it into my room, I caught my reflection in the mirror - smeared mascara, gin-stained dress, Elvis's jacket hanging off my shoulders like a question mark. Behind me, through the window, Vegas kept right on glittering, indifferent to the small dramas playing out in its showrooms and suites.

Someone had slipped a note under my door while I was at the party. The Colonel's handwriting was unmistakable: "Meeting tomorrow, 2 PM sharp. Re: Memphis arrangements."

I let it fall to the floor and went to wash off what was left of my makeup. In the bathroom mirror, I could still see the girl I'd been three weeks ago, before Elvis and elevators and doves with bad timing. She looked at me like she knew something I didn't.

"Don't say it," I told her, and turned off the light.

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[pricegouge]

Fatted Rabbit Part Eleven on AO3

Contents

Bear!Price x reader | explicit

Admittedly, he doesn't get much done. But he's so sated and happy, he's fairly certain Simon could come in and quit right there on the spot and John would just let him go, happy to see the big man moving on with his life. Instead, when Simon barges into John's office, he does not bring such joyous news as 'I'm getting out of your hair'.

John's daydreaming about sex in the first paragraph. It's not overly explicit but if that's not your thing just skip it :)

also, some cannon-typical violence in this chapter! It's gonna get worse from here lmao

By Wednesday, John's so blissed out on love hormones and rabbit cum he doesn't even mind doing payroll. He sits at his desk dutifully, never even once wandering off in search of some menial task to help him procrastinate from the mind numbing desk work, content to stare blankly at his screen and replay getting his rabbit bent over his counter for breakfast. She'd made him keep his hands to himself at first, but it was her mistake; the grip he had on the farside of the counter gaining him enough leverage to set her soft body bouncing, have her drooling onto the counter top. She'd been so pretty. A right bounty, just for him, and when he'd told her as much, she'd finally let him paw at her, get his arms under her soft belly to be sure he wasn't hurting her with how roughly be pressed her hips into the surface.

Admittedly, he doesn't get much done. But he's so sated and happy, he's fairly certain Simon could come in and quit right there on the spot and John would just let him go, happy to see the big man moving on with his life.

Instead, when Simon barges into John's office, he does not bring such joyous news as 'I'm getting out of your hair'.

"Got something you need to see, cap." He slaps a manila folder down onto Price's desk, stuffed with about a quarter ream of paper.

"Not reading a resume that long, Si. If you think they're worth it that's good 'nough for me."

"Man came in asking about your bird last night."

John's eyes dart to the folder in front of him. Some animal instinct compels him to eat the damn thing and be rid of it, but he manages to keep such urges at bay as he reaches his pen out, snags it under the folder's cover.

Inside is a right dossier: birthday, job description, hometown, summary of residencies and former employment. John barely glances at any of it, eyes locked instead on the photo Simon's attached of his bunny standing stiffly in the embrace of a fox-faced blond with a scar on his cheek. 'Phil Graves,' the report says across the top and John attempts a laugh, manages a growl. "You're having a laugh," he mutters, more at God than Simon. His voice is muddled with excess saliva, jowls heavy.

"'M'not that funny," Simon counters, completely deadpan. "Anyway, he came 'round yesterday and asked Soap if 'e'd seen 'er because they were 'supposed to meet up.' Johnny didn't think much of it and told him she'd probably be by sooner or later." John's lip curls in frustration and Simon's quick to go to the man's defense. "Not like 'e knew, cap. Anyway, guy stuck around for 'bout four hours, asking Johnny all sorts of questions about her -."

"And?"

Simon blinks at him balefully. "And, nothing. Johnny got wise quick and didn't tell 'im anything. Then our friend 'ere started asking about you."

"Me?" John asks, lip curling in distaste.

"Think 'e's been keeping tabs."

John slams the folder closed, unable to stand his bunny's sad eyes staring up at him anymore. "Tabs?"

"Gaz managed to get some of his banking info -." He pointedly ignores John's raised brow. "You'll see some transaction summaries in there. Man's been in the area for a bit, probably gathering info. Slow about it," Simon scoffs, and John would probably find that funny if most of his brain function wasn't currently dedicated to suppressing the spontaneous growth of seven centimeter canines.

"He's in Glacier?" John repeats, stupidly. He's trying to follow along, truly, but he feels like a dog chasing its tail; thought process cycling rapidly between general bloodlust, finding his rabbit immediately, and holding his bear at bay at least until he's away from Simon.

"Looks like."

"Since when?"

"At least a week."

"I haven't seen this fucker."

Simon squints at him. "Well, you wouldn't've, cap. Would you?"

"Christ," John hisses, burying his face in his hands. They still smell like the rabbit. Distracting. "What else did he say?"

Simon grunts. "Next bit's the weird part. 'E sad 'e figured we all - that's you, Johnny and me - all knew each other real well, and that we're bad people, so we should know why 'e didn't want ''is girl' 'round us."

"He said we're bad people?"

"So you do know 'im?"

John huffs, shakes his head. "Know of him. Know she just got out of a bad break up, that she sleeps in a car. Know she gets all flighty if I say or do anything that could even be perceived as angry -." I know she doesn't like me to touch her during penetrative sex. "It was pretty easy to figure out, but then I overheard her talking to an old friend on the phone." He motions at the folder in front of him illustratively. "She was asking if a blond guy with a southern accent and a scar on his cheek had reached out to ask about her. From the sounds of it, he had. She told him all about how Phil here controlled her finances, isolated her… got physical. She asked the friend not to mention to anyone that they'd heard from her, and that Phil here was probably keeping tabs on social media."

"He does have a lot of ghost accounts."

John peeks at the picture again, closes the folder just as quickly. "Think I'm gonna kill him, Si."

To his credit, the man doesn't even blink. "Why's he think we're bad people?"

"Fuck if I know, mate. Probably saying some shite to -."

"More specifically, cap, why does he think you're dangerous?"

"Pardon?"

"Well, I figure, this guy can't be spending too much time looking into either Johnny or me. 'E just assumed we all knew each other, before - were all friendly - because we all work together and happen to be European. Bit of an idiot like that, it seems. But see, Johnny has no sense of self preservation. 'E's got pretty much his entire life posted online and even a cursory search would've shown 'im 'e was wrong. So, 'e's not looked up either of us, which means 'is assumptions are based off what he dug up on you." Simon tilts his head curiously, doesn't bother voicing the question that lingers between them. John spends so much time avoiding Simon's silent, omniscient glower he forgets sometimes that the man's tongue is often worse.

John squints, for the first time actually considering Phil's words. He's an idiot, and a lying bastard, most like, but if he's been hanging around town, keeping tabs…

"Sure I don't know."

"Final answer?"

"I'm not in the habit of entertaining the allegations of women beaters, mate," John growls.

Simon doesn't even blink. "And you think you're gonna kill 'im?"

Fuck. He can't even bring himself to deny it.

Still unblinking, Simon nods once in acceptance. "Olright. I'm gonna go double check some browser history. Tell Gaz to do the same." He snags a sharpie out of John's pen holder, turns the folder to himself and marks it with his spidery scrawl as he keeps talking, "Your bird sleeps in 'er car, you said?" His eyes flick up just long enough to see John nod. Briefly, John thinks that if Simon weren't so… Simon, he'd have lovely big cow eyes. "It occurs to me that vandwellers gotta sleep off the beaten path. And if Phil's been following 'er, 'e's probably found 'imself in some… backcountry areas." Done writing now, Simon turns the full force of his upsettingly perceptive gaze on John. He looks like he's waiting for something - some spark of recognition - but John's got maybe two brain cells to rub together currently, and none of them are devoted to interpreting Simon Riley's vague, cryptic, often c-grade horror movie related references, so he just stares blankly back until the man continues. "That's bait."

"Huh?"

"If Graves were just 'ere for the girl, 'e never would've shown 'is hand. 'E wants to draw you out. So, 'e's got something on you, and 'e's trying to manipulate you." Simon ticks them off on his fingers, turns the folder so it faces John again, and stands with a scraping of his chair. "Don't be stupid."

John huffs, adjusts his seat as an excuse to feel his limbs flex. "So he just left? After showing up and being all ominous?"

"No." The conviction with which he denies it would be better suited to a murder trial. "Threw 'im out on 'is ass, didn't I?"

When he's gone, John stares balefully down at the folder for a moment, brain only recognizing the kind of carte blanche Simon has given him when he finally registers the note left there. 'Burn after reading'.

First, he has to secure the rabbit.

***

John doesn't even bother texting first, sniffing her out among the gaggles of tourists growing like mushrooms in the late spring rains. It's easy enough to find her, the distinct honey and strawberry scent that had first attracted him is beginning to change to reflect their bond. Soon it will be strong enough that even humans will be able to tell she's spoken for, if only subliminally. It only serves to make him antsier, upsets him to know she's even been allowed to wander so far when he'd known another man was after her.

Graves' unread file taunts him from the passenger seat. Clearly, Graves was adept enough to track the girl clear across the map. John should have taken the time to figure out what he was up against; but the notion that Graves already knew where his bunny was was disconcerting. If Graves was just biding his time, he could decide at any moment that he'd had enough of waiting.

And John didn't even know what his plan was.

He had to find her first, secure her. He wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything until that was done, anyway.

Her scent leads him to a coffee shop downtown, and she nearly jumps out of her skin when he slides into the chair across from her. "John -?" she starts. Doesn't make it much further.

"We have to leave."

"Pardon?"

"Come back to my place, please, honey. Now."

She squints at him, tetchy. "Why?"

John fidgets, frustration boiling under his skin. It's not her fault, of course, but if he doesn't get her locked in his den in the next thirty minutes, he's going to end up getting himself put down by animal control. He'd had a plan - when he left the office - a script to follow to get her to listen to him. He can't remember more than two words now.

"Graves's here," he blurts, knows he's fucked up when her brow knits ominously.

"Phil?"

John nods, tries to reach for her hand. She yanks it away from him. Distantly, he's proud to see her so suspicious. It's well-earned and a better alternative to the blind panic he'd half expected.

"How do you know about Phil?"

"Heard you talking about him to your friend that day, bunny. I'll explain everyth -."

"You were listening in on me?"

"Didn't mean to. Have good ears -."

"I never mentioned his last name."

John wishes he could follow along better, think clearly enough to find the words she needs to hear. Instead, all he manages is a dumb, "Huh?"

"I never mentioned Phil's last name on that phone call, John. How'd you know it?" His brain feels like it's being pulled in twenty directions, but he still manages to note how pretty she is when she's spittin' mad.

"Came into the bar looking for you. Soap ID'd him." He may as well be talking to the wall because there it is. Late to the party but reliable as the sun. The second he says Phil had been at the bar, the rabbit's eyes go big and round, darting around the cafe as if she expects to see him watching them from the next table over. "Sweetheart," he hedges, but the sound of his voice just makes her squirm.

"I have to go. Goodbye, John," she says, and something about her tone betrays the finality of it.

"Bunny," he pleads, lurching out of his seat to follow her. He can't keep his voice level enough not to scare her; tries placing a soothing palm on her arm instead.

It's as if he'd slapped her, the way she flinches away from him. John holds his hands up when she wheels on him, finds himself murmuring soothing words she doesn't listen to. There are people watching now, but he doesn't care, just needs his rabbit to listen.

She doesn't. "Goodbye, John," she hisses, and then hightails it out the door.

She's a quick little thing. John gets stopped by a well-meaning couple who think he means her harm and by the time he manages to barrel past them, she's already made it to her Jeep. He tries to call after her, but when he opens his mouth, all that comes out are coughs as his lungs attempt to shrivel up within his chest. He needs air. Get's pain instead. There's a hissing noise; it takes him a minute to realize he can't identify it because his eyes are closed. When he opens them he thinks maybe the jelly of his eyeballs have been boiled off; coagulated and cemented to his eyelids like overcooked jam. Still, he catches the barest hint of an aerosol can, stream pointed right at his face. He bats blindly, gets his hand knocked away violently. John grabs the offending hand and yanks, but it only serves to drag the person - and therefore the canister - closer. He gets a mouthful the next time he gasps for breath, and he nearly throws up, bile adding to the acidic taste he can't dislodge.

"Dude, enough!" someone shouts. Closer, muffled, a twangy accent tells them to mind their business. The snarl John emits scares even himself, voice broken and guttural as it is. He opens his eyes just enough to catch the conniving blue gaze hidden safe behind a pair of goggles, identifiable scar visible above the thick facemask he's using to protect himself. John can't keep his eyes open any longer than that, but he doesn't need to. He swings a heavy hand, catches him at the nape of his neck. He draws Graves closer, forgets what form he's in and tries to wrap his maw around the man's head. Human, he only manages to snag his ear between his teeth but that's a good start so he bites clean through it, shaking his head to tear the stringy bits of flesh loose when he pulls away. He can't even taste the blood for all the capsaicin coating his tongue. There's screaming - maybe Graves, probably onlookers. John hears the aerosol can run out and snarls in victory as the grip on Graves' neck turns crushing. Keeping the man close, John tries using his size to tip them both over but Graves is quicker, has the added advantage of being able to fucking see.

Graves turns, converts John's inertia to dump him across the pavement. A boot falls heavy on John's chest. He grabs it, tugs, only succeeds in pulling Graves' knee down onto himself. The weight shifts and then Graves' voice is close, maybe only an inch above him. "You're lucky there are witnesses," he hisses, dodges the mit John blindly swings at him. "I ever see you again, I'm putting you down like the rabid beast you are."

And then he empties another can of mace straight up John's nose and things go hazy for a while.

Next>>

[scullysexual]

We'll Meet Beyond The Shore.

Somewhere beyond the sea, she’s there watching for me, and if I could fly like a bird on high, then straight into her arms I’d go sailing.

Tags and Warnings: Major character death, enemies to friends (to lovers), doomed lovers.

n/a: People seemed interested in this so I thought I would make this official and give it a go writing it. I have four chapters written already so hopefully I'll stay on top and keep writing more. Please read the warnings and tags carefully; you'll probably hate me for this (and this fic) so I'm very sorry in advance but I'm evil and this is literally my playground. Anyway I hope you read and enjoy :)

Chapter One: The Reaping.

Fox Mulder awakens from his nightmare in the dank, dark basement he has called home for the last year. Skin clammy, heart hammering against his rib cage, he swings his legs off the bed and breaths in and out slowly, counting to 10 each time, willing his heart to slow down.

It was just a nightmare, he repeats to himself.

But it wasn’t just a nightmare.

A memory. Old but still as fresh in his mind as it was two years ago. District Seven’s town square, the smell of wood and sweat as the sun beamed down on him, a bowl full of names- girl names- and one called out.

Samantha Mulder.

In his dream he teleported, in the way one does in a dream, and he was right there, helpless, watching as his 12 year old sister was bludgeoned to death. She didn’t even make it past day one’s bloodbath.

He watched as his mother sunk away, a shell of herself, his father leave not 3 weeks later.

Mulder left himself, eventually, vowed to kill the Capital as they had killed his sister but he was just one boy, grief-stricken and angry, and his cries for an uprising went unheard. Mostly. The Peacekeeper’s had come down on him hard, punished him severely for it, but not executed, not as Mulder wished to be, his father’s influence was far too strong.

So Mulder left completely, snuck away in the dead of night with a band of merrymen. They had a boat and a dream to get far away from Panem as they could.

Their boat and their dream capsized on day 5, a strong wave knocking their tiny boat to pieces. Only Mulder survived, clinging on to a plank of wood, drifting unconscious for 3 days, into the territory of District Four.

A ship found him.

At first Mulder thought they were Peacekeepers but upon closer inspection he found they were dressed as simple fishermen. He was pulled aboard, introduced to the captain, the father of the boy who helped him up, who introduced himself as William Scully and his son, Bill.

Captain Scully took him to a pub, fed and watered him, and didn’t ask where Mulder had come from.

The pub became his job, the basement his bedroom. A week later he registered as a resident of District Four and his name was entered five times.

He hadn’t escaped. The hadn’t destroyed the Capitol. He never would.

Mulder shakes the dream, and memories of another life, from his brain. He puts on the clothes he wore yesterday and climbs the staircase leading to the pub.

He finds Wade at the bar, pouring drinks for the old sailors who have nowhere better to be. Mulder nods once at Wade who nods once back, a mutual good luck said between them. Wade is 18- the same age as Mulder- but his name sits waiting in that bowl 35 times to Mulder’s meagre 5.

Mulder bypasses the bar and heads towards the kitchen. He almost smacks into Kehlani, hands and arms full carrying three plates food. She knows exactly what he is here for.

“You’ll have to get in line, Mel’s backed up and it’s only half 7,” she tells him before she’s rushing towards her table. Mulder looks around the near-empty pub before he pushes on the kitchen door.

Melvin is frying fish in a pan. It stinks and Mulder resists the urge to cover his nose.

He really, really hates fish.

“Get lost 7,” Melvin shouts over his shoulder. “I’m backed up in here, you’re gonna have to wait.”

“Yeah, Kehlani said,” says Mulder. He throws the fish in the pan a distasteful look. “You got anything other than fish on the menu?”

Melvin smiles at him and Mulder counts one less tooth from yesterday. “This your first time in Fish District?” He cocks his head towards the door. “Saw a tree on my way in, maybe you can eat some bark?”

“Ha-ha maybe you should’ve been a comedian, Frohike,” Mulder says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He nabs the bowl of fruit sitting on the counter and leans against it.

Frohike and Kehlani were the only ones who knew where Mulder came from. Sat in the basement, the expensive bottle of whiskey between the three of them, Mulder finally told them he had been born in District Seven after their constant prodding. More questions and he told them what it’d been like living there. They stared at him in awe, soaking in every bit of information. They’d asked him which he preferred, Mulder hadn’t answered, keeping that one to himself.

“Hey,” Melvin calls, a sudden seriousness looming over them. “How’re you feeling today?”

Today.

“I’m good. One more year, right?”

Melvin nods. “One more year.” Then. “I found Kehlani crying this morning. I didn’t know what to say to her.”

“What did you say to her?”

“Nothing. What do I say to her? This shit’s fucked.”

Mulder looks towards the door, conscious of who could hear them, then quietly whispers. “Yeah…”

Kehlani bursts in then and looks at the two of them.

“Slacking off, Mel?” she admonishes , hands of her hips, the perfect imitation of Laguna the landlady.

“No!” yells Frohike turning bright red. “Just waiting for the fish to fry.”

Kehlani turns her attention onto Mulder and her eyes narrow, staring at the bowl of fruit.

“That was my fruit Mulder,” she tells him with a pout, dropping the imitation.

“Shit, sorry Lani.” Mulder holds the fruit bowl out to her. As her hands touch it to take it, Mulder says, “Good luck today, yeah?”

Kehlani looks to Frohike who quickly casts his eyes away. She turns back to Mulder and gives him a small smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah, you too.” Mulder lets go of the bowl and she steps back. “I’m gonna go eat this,” she says to Melvin. “Mulder can be a waitress for a bit.” Then with a smile backed by a memory. “Don’t drop the plates this time, yeah?”

“I’d forgotten about that,” says Frohike with a laugh.

Mulder tosses him a glare and watches Kehlani leave wondering if this could be the last time he ever sees her.

.:.:.:.:.:.

The gulls caw, flying overhead. Dana watches them, committing them to memory. Her bare foot grazes the water, committing that to memory also, along with the breeze and the smell of seawater and sand. A ritual each year because what if it’s the last?

“Dana!”

Dana sighs and turns her head down the pier. Melissa approaches slightly out of breath.

“Mom’s looking for you. She wants us to eat before we go.”

Dana turns away to look back out into the ocean. “I’m not hungry,” she says.

Missy sits down opposite her. They used to do this all the time, sit out here together. Dana found her one time, when Missy had just turned 12 two days before the reaping, her eyes red from crying. It became tradition, each year 11 and 13, 12 and 14, 15 and 16…all the way up to last year when they were 17 and 19, when Melissa was free but Dana was still stuck with her name in the bowl 14 times, double the amount it should be.

“You have to eat,” says Melissa with concern.

“I’ll eat after the reaping.”

“Dana—”

“I’ll eat after the reaping,” Dana repeats louder and harsher. If she eats now she’ll throw up and that’ll be a waste, not when Melissa, Charlie, their mother can have more servings.

Melissa sighs, resigning herself. She looks out towards the ocean.

“I hate it,” she says.

“What?” asks Dana.

She points to beyond them. “That. The ocean. I’ve hated it for 3 years.”

“I love it.”

Melissa looks at her. “Only because Dad loved it.”

Dana shrugs. “You should come out with me and Billy on a ship some day.”

Missy shakes her head. “I’d just get in the way.”

That was true, Melissa wasn’t made for ships. But still…Dana smiles at her.

“What are you smiling at?” Melissa asks her, weary.

“If I’m not reaped, you have to join us on the ship.”

Melissa looks at her, aghast. She frowns, conflicted, and then relents.

“Fine…” And Dana smiles some more. “But only because I really don’t want to wish you were reaped.”

They both look out towards the ocean again, their smiles fading.

“I’ll see it again, won’t I?” Dana asks quietly.

“Yeah,” says Melissa with so much confidence Dana actually believes her. “And who knows, maybe Isla will finally be reaped.” Missy’s smile is cruel.

“You’re really going to hold that grudge forever, aren’t you?” Dana asks, shaking her head.

Melissa nods. “Yep, never letting it go.”

They smile at each other once more before movement on the other side catches their attention, hoards of people making their way towards the town square.

Dana’s stomach twists. It is time.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

People flood in like waves. Mulder navigates his way to where the cluster of 18 year olds stand. He finds himself next to Wade who’s eyes are down and he is white as a conch shell. His eyes meet Kehlani’s across the way standing with the other 15 year old girl’s. He smiles, she smiles back. He pulls his eyes away and looks down.

One more year.

.:.:.:.:.:.

She holds onto Charlie’s hand for as long as she can, until the Peacekeeper blocks their path and pulls them apart. She watches as Charlie walks towards the other boys before she is gently shoved towards the direction of the girl’s. Dana glances at them only briefly before she is staring straight ahead, eyes on the bowl, a bowl that holds 14 pieces of Dana Scullys.

One more year.

.:.:.:.:.:.

The Mayor, Walter Skinner, Monica Reyes.

The Mayor, Walter Skinner, Monica Reyes.

The Mayor, Water Skinner, Mon—

“The boys!” Monica Reyes calls out, as she does every year. She always starts with the boys. Mulder clenches his fists, tries to tamper down his nerves. Wade is shaking beside him, Mulder can feel it rolling over him in waves. Reyes places her hand into the bowl, searches around. Mulder glances at Wade, the other boy is…crying? Reyes pulls her hand out, unfolds the piece of paper. It’s Wade, Mulder thinks. That piece of paper has Wade’s name written on it.

“Fox Mulder!”

It’s Wade Firth—Wait. Mulder freezes. All eyes on are him.

Did she just say Fox Mulder?

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

It’s not Charlie. Thank god it isn’t Charlie.

Dana releases her breath, one of two she holds.

It isn’t Charlie.

Instead it is Fox Mulder.

Dana had heard of him, a strange boy. It was rumoured he was the boy her father had found out at sea the year before, the boy from another place. His surname was familiar. 6 years ago a girl with the same last name had been pulled from the bowl, 12 years old, she had died almost immediately, everyone around her was just thankful it wasn’t their own.

Fox Mulder was the boy tribute but who would the girl be?

Monica Reyes places her hand in the right-hand bowl. Dana holds her breath, watching. She wants to close her eyes, hold her hands over her ears and be anywhere but here; sat on the pier watching the waves in the water, sailing on the ship pulling up nets of a hundred fishes, anywhere but where she was standing right now.

Monica pulls her hand out, unfolds the piece of paper. The name is said crisp and clear, there was no mistaking it. Somebody familiar cries out just as it all sinks in.

Dana Scully is the girl tribute.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Fox Mulder and Dana Scully stand on the stage. Mulder looks towards Dana, she can feel his eyes on her, she stares ahead. Scully, is all Mulder can think as he stands there, like William Scully? He wants to know but Dana gives him nothing, she can’t.

Reyes tries to get the crowd to clap but there is nothing but dead faces staring back at them. This isn’t District 1 or 2 where celebrations are held. District Four might not be the worst of the Districts but one will still find no jumps for joy here. All are still scared. All are still angry.

The doors close and they are all submerged in darkness.

[alexiswritingstuff]

Saved by the unexpected.

Pairing: Frank Castle x teen! reader (Gender Neutral)

Other appearances: Micro, aka David Lieberman. 

Summary: Your run to the grocery store goes sideways on the way back home that leads you to being at the wrong place at the wrong time, and with a fresh gunshot wound. Upon waking up you find yourself somewhere unknown with people you had never seen... Or so you thought.

Warnings: gun fights, murder, gun shot wound, mentions of other injuries like cuts and bruises, implied parent loss. 

Be aware of possible spelling mistakes or sentences that are worded wrong. I read over my writing before posting but stuff still manages to slip under my radar!

A/n: Bro I really am bad at creating titles for fics. Anyway, I watched The Punisher a few months ago, and previously finished DareDevil, and I wasn’t able to stop thinking about a certain Mr. Castle. That man in general already activated my daddy issues and then I watched season 2, and... Yeah, that was a lot, but this is what my brain created! 

Like I say whenever I write for new characters, because this is my first attempt, the way portray them and the characteristics may not be a 100% accurate, so bear with me while I find my footing.

Either way, I hope you enjoy reading! 

It was supposed to be a morning like any other. One that started with a bright sky and chirping birds before slowly melding into the warm afternoon. 

You had just done the weekly shop, collecting everyday items, things that would give the most important nutrients, with basically the same amount in snacks and drinks. 

I mean, what else could they mean by a balanced diet?

The main route you would usually take had been closed off by the time you had finished with the store, the road cracked from something unknown, meaning that you had to take a detour. 

It was one that you had walked through many times before, leading you almost directly towards where your trailer was stationed without having to wind round block after block of apartments. 

So, the decision to choose it was simple. 

You took off down the pathway between two very large buildings that almost looked as if they could reach the sky from your angle.

This part was more commonly known as the run down area. The complexes on either side of you were empty. Most had the windows boarded up, due to the lack of repair, and the walls themselves were stained from a plethora of things. 

Some parts even looked about ready to fully crack and crumble. 

It was a lot harder to get funding for these buildings the further they got from the main street. The only people even coming here were probably residents from some that managed to become apartments. But the rest was pretty much just abandoned property.

You had moved under an overhang section created by the walkway above, connecting the two opposing buildings. It honestly sort of felt like a tunnel due to its width, but definitely not by length as you were quickly welcomed by the next area. 

To the left, behind a wall that separated a descending pathway from the ground levelled with your own feet, was a car park. 

The size of it would give the implication that there was a mass of vehicles coming in and out during the week, easy access for people working in the surrounding buildings. 

Though now, it was always empty.

… Or it was supposed to be. 

In the furthest corner was this very specific looking handful of cars; big and black, almost blocky in structure. A sight that should have been acknowledged as the first sign. Your first warning. 

But not fast enough.

Out of nowhere, there was this echo that felt like it drilled through your ear drums. It was a violent sound, one that rung for almost a full minute through the complex to your left. 

It wasn’t something you really questioned off the bat, somehow. I mean, the building was old. 

It could’ve been a loose panel finally deciding to break free from the ceiling, or a cracked wall weighing in on itself. Maybe even someone trying to fix up the damn building.

In fairness, those assumptions weren’t exactly bad... 

They were just the wrong ones. 

The sounds repeated, and whatever it was reverberated from the broken windows in a way that properly allowed it to be heard in its entirety. It was closer this time, more full. “What the...”

It was a series of bassy pops, collectively almost imitating the blast of fireworks, but within the sounds were these clinks like something was falling on the floor right after. 

And though it was a very muffled detail, that took a moment for your brain to register, it didn’t stop the cogs from making their final turn. 

“Oh, shit.” 

Within the same moment that you had made the decision to practically slide to the side, trying not to completely slam into the wall that you ended up behind, the doors of the building burst open with such force that it echoed.

There was a chorus of yelling, even more shots, and heavy boots that practically skidded against the concrete as they moved. Like you had just stumbled across a damn army.

You were sat on the ground, one leg stretched out from your hurried movements while the other was still bent at the knee, ready to move if necessary. The backpack was still strapped around your shoulders meaning that the further you tried to press against the brick wall, the more certain items began to stab into your back.

Your heart was hammering, chest heaving, as you continuously looked up and down the path you sat on. 

It was the only thing you could see. Everything was happening on the other side of the wall, so pretty much all you could do was just sit and listen for the people that might decide to come your way.

You fought the urge to cry out when bullets skimmed the top of the wall, causing little clumps of rubble and dust to hit the top of your head. “Why me, why me, why me!” you hissed through a whisper, trying to ruffle the stuff out of your hair. 

Hurried shouts were passing back and forth across the huge car park like a game of tennis, though it seemed that due to the other sounds that followed, and the panicked state of your mind, all of them were unintelligible. It sounded like they were coming from everywhere.

The multiple objects in your bag had started to make your spine ache so, at the same time as yet another shot, you leaned forward. Quick enough that the sound of items unsquashing themselves would ring at the same time as the bullet. 

You reached back, making sure that your bag wasn’t going to hit any surface, and then took it off one arm at a time before the bag was finally placed in front of you.

Your fingers immediately unzipped it to begin the search. You wanted some kind of weapon, or if not that then at least some form of protection... But you had in fact just gone shopping. 

I doubt a banana would be useful in a gun fight. 

So, you moved onto the pockets that sat on either side of the bag. A huff of air passed through your lips while your hand shuffled through the left pocket. You felt around, following the lining of stitches for at least something, but the most found was a wrapper from some candy or gum. 

So, it was on to the next. 

This time, to do the same routine, was a bit more difficult as this pocket was where you kept your water bottle. A more careful process as you started to comb through the compartment. 

And then, finally, you felt something.

In that moment it was hard to tell what it was. It felt long enough to at least administer some form of damage, or maybe only threaten someone from a distance, so your stressed mind just chose it. You began pulling your hand out. 

But, despite what you wanted, it wasn’t going to be that easy. 

Right as the item had been tugged vertically, an attempt to make it easier to pull it out, the movement had caused the bone of your wrist to hit into the bottle.

Ordinarily, it was something that you wouldn’t think twice about. You were just trying to get an item out of a pocket, surely you could do that without something bad happening... 

However, half of whatever you were trying to grab had been stuck under the bottle in a way that already had it tilting. And then the impact landed. Your wrist hit near the top of the bottle and that was all it needed. 

It started to tip out of the pocket. 

A sharp breath sucked into your lungs at the feeling, but with no ability to catch it in time, the metal cylinder simply fell to the floor from a very unfortunate height for you. 

In fact, even after the sound echoed in a way that most definitely had already blown your cover, the world seemed to have other plans for you as after yet another bounce and a few more smaller ones, it was starting to roll. 

You leaned to the side as fast as you could, reaching your arm out to its full extent with your hand wide open. But it was like trying to catch a fly, and soon, it just rolled right passed your fingers, moving even faster the more the water sloshed inside of it. 

The only thing you could do was watch in utter horror as the bottle travelled right passed the edge of a wall for the whole world to see. 

And eventually, about halfway through the path, it ran into a rock or a crack in the ground. The bottle bounced about one more time before it finally stalled. Though, at this point it didn’t really matter. 

The shots had placated a bit, the only ones being fired sounding farther away, as murmurs of confusion had dispersed through men on the other side of the wall. 

“What was that?

“Did you hear that?

“Where did that come from?” 

Your eyes squeezed shut, teeth biting into the skin of your bottom lip as your body just purely froze no matter how much your brain was telling you to make a run for it. 

“Okay, okay, all of you keep moving! Spread out more while I check it out. We’re not alone out here!”

“Yes, sir!”

“Okay, sir!”

However many people were on the other side of the wall scattered within the next beat of your heart. More shots and shouts began to ring out with the same loudness, now joined by the heavy smacking of boots as they moved further away...

But a pair of footsteps still remained. 

Now, your heart was purely thumping in your ears. It was by far the most prominent thing you could hear in that moment, though the sound of those harsh shoes kicking up stones without care was an active competitor. 

Especially when they started getting louder. 

Your eyes flicked to the open backpack in front of you, an ache beginning to pulse through your forehead while you stared at the contents. 

There was this sort of desperation, and almost disappointment, that built in your system at the thought of losing the freshly bought items. Though, what was the point in trying to save the food if you wouldn’t be alive to eat it. 

Within the next second, and after a very deep breath, you propped your hands firmly against the path below on either side of your body. You pushed your strength into the unstretched leg until it was folded under you. 

By now you looked like some kind of runner getting ready to do race, and honestly it was pretty much how you felt. The thought was the only thing suppressing the panic active in your chest, so you indulged.

There was this internal count down as you moved your other leg behind, even if there wasn’t that much space to do so. And then the timer went off. 

You were about to push yourself onto your feet. About to get up, adopt a sort of hunched over posture so that no part of your body could peak over the wall, and run like hell.

But again. It wasn’t going to be that easy.

A movement was caught from the corner of your eye. 

You had barely even started carrying out your wanted movements when a man suddenly appeared right round the corner of the wall, slow and intense. 

He was pretty decked out from what your panicked mind could comprehend. There were a multitude of weapons that clung to his belt, and he was in fact holding this massive gun. 

Initially, his focus was on your bottle. The barrel of the gun was pointed directly at the object of confusion, as it didn’t really look like the standard water bottle from afar, his finger hovering over the trigger. Ready to fire at any moment. 

At this point you had resumed this sort of weird crouched position, stuck between wanting to stand up and staying frozen to the ground as if you could just meld into it. 

Either way, it was the kind of stance that didn’t provide a sense of balance. And soon, despite how much the dread utterly pooled at the bottom of your stomach like it did on a rollercoaster, you fell. Right on your ass.

The gun, that you had pretty much only seen in movies or on the news, was pointed right in your direction before you could even blink. 

You attempted to crawl backwards, winding round your backpack, eyes wide and fully open as they trained on the man who in turn had started to follow your movements. And then you stopped, knowing full and well what was coming even if you got to your feet. 

Your breathing was erratic, arms moving stiff and slow as you raised them above your head with your palms open, facing the man who made no implications that he was going to put that gun down. 

“Listen,” You gulped, “I didn’t see anything, I swear-- Look, there. My bag is there-- Take it. Take anything.” 

“Anything you want.” 

It was no use. No matter what way the words tumbled from your mouth, that finger never tried to move away from that trigger. 

You closed your eyes, feeling the way your body heaved with every breath, the way your hands shook. Your ears listened out for the wind, the wildlife that had most definitely moved on from here already, or just something that wasn’t from guns. 

But then a shot rung out. Right in front of you.

It was an indistinctive reaction when your body jolted at the sound as it echoed through the large area and pinged within the windows of the abandoned buildings. You had almost fallen, your arms springing down even if you thought there was no time to protect...

You could still move?

Your eyes snapped open, the ability to take in full breaths yet to come, and you looked down at yourself. You tried to scan across what you could see of your body, that was somehow still alive, and leant on a hand to further support yourself. 

However, just as your brain attempted to register a lack of a gunshot wound, the sound of something hitting the ground stopped your investigation. 

Your head sort of bobbed for a moment, the want to continue your search fierce in your veins, before your gaze finally tore away.

The man before you had tumbled to his knees. His hands were moving around for a few seconds, desperately trying to grab a part of his chest as if in disbelief of what just happened. 

And then another shot fired. 

Like before, your body had jolted in response, still having no idea which gun it was coming from. 

However, when a particular part of you scrunched, the shock in your system decided to completely drain, your pain receptors activated in a way that you weren’t at all ready for. 

It was hard to pin point exactly where the feeling had originated as it spread like a wildfire, but it was intense enough that the arm you were leant against almost buckled within seconds. 

Sharp burning. A sensation that made it feel like you had been bitten by thousands of fire ants over and over again. 

Or, when you finally managed to get yourself to look down again, it was because you had in fact gotten shot. “Oh...”

He got you.

“Oh, shit.”

There was this hurried voice that bounced through the walls. Your head attempted to snap up like it had previously done, but this time it was just unsteady. Almost like it was moving in points.  

By the next blink, that practically didn’t even feel like one, another man had made his way round the corner. He also had a gun raised... but, it seemed different.

His general stance, the way he carried the weapon, the expression on his face even if you could only see half of it. It was clear that he had a lot more experience than the last guy. 

They weren’t from the same group. 

The man lowered himself onto one knee beside the body, head still raised cautiously to make sure to keep full awareness of his surroundings while he searched over any pockets he could see. 

And then he stilled. 

You didn’t have to move, or even make a sound, for this guy to spot you.

Within about a millisecond the man had the gun right back in his hands in a way that had you immediately raising your own despite the pins and needles that ached through your muscles.

The world around you was starting to spin, making it more difficult to pay attention to the mans movements. “Don’t... Don’t kill.” Your lips were heavy, the ability to even part them becoming some kind of workout. 

And then, like someone just flicked a switch, it was like all the strength and power in your body decided to dissipate at once. 

For the second time now, you fell. Though, in this instance, it was your back that collided with ground in a way that had your head smacking into the concrete path right afterwards. 

Every inch of your skin felt hot, yet cold at the same time. You were trying to move, wanting nothing more than to get back up and go home. Just curl up in bed and forget this ever happened.

But the ability to even budge a limb had faded from your brain until you couldn’t even feel if your arms were lifted in the air or not.

So, you just laid there, eyes staring blankly up at the sky while your eyelids acted like they had forgotten their main function. “Hey!” 

And right before you gave into that nagging want for them to close, something blocked whatever view you had left, “Kid? Hey, kid, are you... Oh, no-- Kid, can you hear me?” 

You could feel hands on your arms, and soon, one had pressed onto the wound in a way that urged a gurgling sound from your throat. 

“Kid!”

~~~

It took your brain a significant amount of time to realise that you had awoken when the time eventually came. 

The sensations within your body were either mild or piercingly intense. There was no in between. 

Every muscle in your face was rigid, aching in a way that made the want to move diminish within seconds. You were trying to blink, your eyelids remaining heavy and ignorant no matter how many attempts were made. 

It hurt to breathe. Any movement within your torso would stretch the skin closest to your armpit and immediately sent a crackle of fire spreading through it like a shock of electricity. 

Your muscles flinched, almost spasming, as you slowly reached back, trying to grip onto some part of whatever lay beneath you so that you could push yourself up.

There was no attention aimed at any sound that spilt through your lips and it was only when a harsh pain erupted, engulfing your shoulder, that you had realised how loudly a sort of strained yelp had burst from your throat. 

You fell back onto the pillow, the agony in your body burning so hot that it had you light headed.

If it wasn’t for your current state the sudden echo of quick footsteps would’ve registered a lot faster through your ears, and in your mind. 

There was words passing across the air, some may have been aimed at you for a response, but this was the first time you had fully managed to open your eyes since you had actually woken up.

Your head slowly turned as voices continued to echo, muffled no matter how many times it rung in your ears, until your right cheek met with the pillowcase. Your eyes cast through a metal wall, more so the frame of one, which looked as if it previously had some sort of murky glass within.

The place was massive. 

This dim lightly spread throughout most sections as the source above couldn’t reflect on any surface due to the fact that everything around was either a form of black or a gloomy grey. The lights themselves were also the kind of ones that aimed straight down, meaning that it would only cover what was directly beneath. 

“Hey.”

In the centre of the main area was this sort of ring. There was a walkway that cut through the middle so that people could get from one side to the other, and on either side were desks that followed the rim, a plethora of monitors and electronic devices cluttering the surface. 

Some you hadn’t even seen before.

“Hey, uh, kid?”

Your head snapped back into its previous position in a speed that felt like it shook your brain. You squeezes your eyes shut for a good minute before they opened again. 

And after blinking a few times, your vision came back into focus. 

There was this dude stood to your side. He was tall, slim in width with curled mid length hair and a beard that wasn’t connected to the moustache covering his lip.

“Oh, yeah-- Must be pretty disorienting to wake up in a place like this.” The way he sounded matched almost exactly like you had guessed. It was nice. Not harsh and not too soft. 

He held your gaze in such a way that made it seem as if he could see right through you, even taking a slight step back when he noticed how wide and cautious your eyes were set on him, “It might take some time for you to believe us, but I assure you that we don’t want to harm you. You’re all good... Well, I mean, apart-- apart from your injuries.”

“Generally, you’re good-- Or like... Yeah.” 

Your hand lifted from where it had previously flopped and you reached it to your left shoulder, slow and steady. 

Your fingers travelled lower, gliding across the exposed skin before it reached the edge of tank top arm slot. Your movements halted in the space between the end of your shoulder bone and the beginning of your chest. 

Finally, you realised where the source of pain was coming from.

Somehow, the shot taken at you had landed right above your first rib. And from the uncomfortable feeling, constantly there, from what you were guessing was another bandage on your back. It had gone all the way through. 

The dude that had been previously talking cleared his throat after a moment. He was sort of shifting the weight back and forth from one foot to another, unsure of what to do or say which then ended up with him looking away. 

Your attention landed back on him, your arm happily moving back to lay by your side. Though, your eyebrows then furrowed, realising that the guys eyes had settled on something, and it even looked like he was asking a question.

So, after allowing yourself to give into your curiosity, you followed the direction he was looking in. 

You almost jumped out of your skin.

There, leaning against the thing you could barely call a wall, to your right was a guy stood perfectly still with his arms tight across his chest. 

It was that man from earlier. The one that found you. Saved you?

His eyes were already on your own which left the questioning gaze from the other dude unanswered. At first the muscles in his face were visibly tense, crinkled eyebrows, slightly narrowed gaze, jaw clenched tightly. 

And then you looked at him. 

In an instant it was like everything taking over his features eased. He raised his head a single time before it lowered back to where it was usually held. A greeting. 

“I’ll bet your hungry, huh?”

Your attention snapped back to the other dude once again to find that there was this gentle smile pressing into his lips once your eyes met his. 

The question circled round your mind for a good few seconds before it fully processed. It had you thinking, a silence falling within the little room while the hum of electricity barely caught your ears. 

In all honesty hunger had been the last thing on your mind. To solve the sudden mystery was even more difficult since you couldn’t even remember the last thing that passed through your body, other than a bullet. 

Though, right before you could even try to figure out the wanted response was to be, it seemed like your stomach decided to do it for you as it suddenly rumbled through the quiet. 

It may have not exactly sounded like some kind of missile, but considering the building was very echoey and your lack of answer had created a pause within the people stood in the room, it was louder than any other sound at that moment. You were horrified.

The man with his arms crossed dared to huff a quiet laugh through his nose and before you could even send him a look, or give any sort of reaction for that matter, the other guy took a step back with this expression on his face.

He was practically beaming as he clasped his hands together, “Good answer.” 

Your eyebrows furrowed once again, gaze now following the man as he moved round of what you now realised was a cot underneath you and out through the doorway a moment later.

You were going to attempt to continue watching him, wanting to know where he was walking despite the context clues, but after trying to look through the empty frames in the wall, the figure of the quiet dude blocked your view.

And for the first times since your initial meeting, if you could even call it that, your eyes properly took him in. 

Regardless of the position of his spine from the leaned pose, his posture was sharp. Straight like he had to practice it many times. He was tall too, though a little shorter than the other guy. 

The hair on his head looked like it was just growing out from being shaved, the sides a lot shorter than the top. It looked like a marine cut. 

Admittedly, he could’ve done his hair that way cause he simply wanted to. But you saw him earlier. 

He knew the ins and outs, every little detail, of the gun he held strong in his arms. You saw his stance, one that could more commonly only be from having to do it 24/7. 

And where was the most known place where you had to stand at attention almost every day?

Any item of clothing that covered his body was full black, including the shoes and his belt, which was a drastic contrast to any skin that was exposed. It also meant that you could spot any cut or bruise he had very easily. 

There was a good few on his face. Some had become scabs already, looking like they had been there for some time, while others almost looked fresh. The most noticeable appeared like it followed his cheekbone. 

Your eyes immediately snapped away upon realised that you had been looking at him for so long that he had in fact noticed it. I mean, there wasn’t really anything else to occupy his mind. 

You tried to shift your body against the cot, a mixture of wanting to distract yourself and a test to see how much you could move without it hurting. 

But either way, it was hard to do anything without being able to properly use a side of your body.

So, ultimately, you were stuck. Trapped under a blanket which forced you to lay flat on your back, against something that you wished had the same feeling as your bed, while sounds started to echo from what you were guessing was the kitchen. 

“Hey, kid.”

The voice that hit your ears was a lot gruffer than expected, gravelly enough that it almost sounded like it was hurting his throat. The way the words passed through his lips were clear, but also hushed as if he was trying not to be loud for an unknown benefit. “What were you doing out there, hmm?” 

With his stance, you half expected that whatever he wanted to say was going to come out harsh. That he was going to yell and tell you off for something. But he didn’t. He was... actually concerned?

“It’s a decent walk from the store you went to.” he then added on, and now that seemed to get your attention. 

Your head rolled to the side, narrowed gaze finding him with a newfound cautiousness. 

The man in turn must’ve realised the suspicion his wording caused, so he simply gestured to the side with his head, “I got your bag.”

Sure enough, as you moved your lower against the pillow, it was in fact there. The first familiar thing you had seen all day was sat on the ground beside the guy. It may have had some slight rips, some of the material had even been scuffed enough that it was visible. 

But it was there. Zipped up and everything.

Your favourite backpack.

Despite your distance, the bag looked plump with some of the contents clearly poking against the sides of it. All of the items were still in it. Hell, even the water bottle was back in the same side pocket you always put it in.

“We couldn’t find your name in the system,” the man spoke again, and honestly you had forgotten that he was there regardless of the fact that he stood next to where you eyes were aimed. “Did your parents know where you were?”

You looked at him within seconds of the question catching your ears and that dread from earlier began to pool at the bottom of your stomach all over again. 

I mean, you should’ve expected the question at some point.

It was common for you to forget that other people could look at you and see a child, ask the whole ‘where are you parents’ when you had to buy stuff that apparently didn’t seem normal for a child to get, even if it was just household items. 

You will never forget the time you tried to buy scissors. 

But the question still stung. It would make all of the memories of countless things flood right back until it was fresh in your mind, creating a wave of nostalgia that you hated at this point. 

Your head slowly rolled back to its previous position, your gaze now cast up at the rotting, grey ceiling while a deep breath seeped through your nose. Your body practically deflated when it went back out. 

Like before, you didn’t need to say anything for the guy to understand the situation.

Obviously, from your position, you couldn’t clearly see him as anything more than a blurred blob from the corner of your eye, but he had sort of loosened his crossed arms. Was the look of loss that clear on you?

How could he even notice it that quick?

Your body almost jolted when he cleared his throat and pain shot through your shoulder that had you biting back a grunt.

“Listen, we’re not-- We’re not going to hurt you... all right?” His tone was different this time. Lighter in a way that reduced the grumble of his voice, even if it didn’t sound unpleasant. “You’ve been here for a few days so that the, uh, big guy could fix up your shoulder.”

“That’s all.”

From the feeling of his gaze aimed in your direction, you could tell that he was doing what you had done, except he was more so trying to analyse your movement no matter how miniscule. 

It made you nervous enough that your mind was trying to zone in on the sounds coming from the kitchen, fiddling with the fabric of the blanket. But that just meant that a silence had started to layer. 

“Can you speak?”

Your body stiffened within a matter of seconds. 

At this point there was no reason for you to remain quiet. It was unclear as to why it had even been done in the first place. Was it to conceal your voice? Hide your identity? 

Even then, they had already ready seen your face and might possibly have looked through your backpack. The things they’ve could’ve known about you were unknown.

Maybe it was that thing you were told as a kid that kept you holding your tongue. You know, the whole stranger danger thing? Do not interact with people that you don’t know unless absolutely necessary. 

People seemed to get stuck on specific moments in the past regardless of it directly links to a moment of stress, or trauma, if you remembered correctly what that article said. Maybe that was your thing?

Your contemplative eyes flickered over the ceiling above for another moment before they finally made the decision to move, and so did your head. Once again, it rolled to the side until your right cheek touched the pillow.

You met his eyes. His gaze anything but harsh no matter how long a silence remained.

This guys wasn’t strange. 

I mean, the concept of waking up in some massive building that you didn’t recognise with two other dudes that you had never met before was in fact a little, sure.

But there was no reason given beyond that as to why you should fear either of them. Be scared of them. 

After all the dude talking to you had in fact saved your life.

You sniffed, that same feeling of nervousness making a comeback the longer the eye contact was held. It had you needing to look away for a few seconds before your eyes went right back. You stiffly nodded your head. 

The man straightened his back against the metal, his spine probably tired of the frame digging into it. His gaze sort of narrowed for a moment. Maybe a few questions sprung into his mind? Maybe he was judging you, or needed to sneeze? Who knows.

“You just won’t.” He nodded his head once, the look in his eyes switching to something unreadable as he got the message despite the lack of words, “That’s... No. No, I get it.”

“Well, I’m Frank. Uh,” he began, dragging out the last sound for a little bit as he tried to locate something through the wall behind you, “Dude in the kitchens name is David. I usually call him Lieberman, that’s... It’s his last name-- He’s the big guy I was talking about. Dude who fixed up your arm.”

“I tried to help too, but, uh... Not exactly my field of expertise.” 

You were about to figure out some kind of gesture to make in response so that you wouldn’t leave him hanging again. And had even started to move your arm. 

But then that name cycled through your head once more. 

Frank... Castle. 

Frank Castle.

It seemed that the cogs had made their final turn once again. His face found their link to certain memories in your mind.

Holy shit. 

He was the guy on the news a while back. The dude had been deemed a vigilante as he had been running around and killing bad people-- Well, it was practically only you and a few other people that thought they were the bad guys.

Either way, after that trial thing, the man that was currently stood to the side of you had supposedly died. Killed in an explosion on some kind of boat, if you remembered correctly.

I mean, it could be that you were the one who died and this was just what came after. And honestly if you were still as delirious as you were before it might have been believable, but that pulsing burning in your shoulder said otherwise. 

So, it was true. He really was here in the flesh, and all in one piece. 

Frank Castle was alive. 

Your expression, and maybe how intensely you had been staring at him, must’ve given away your thought pattern as he sort of tilted his head when he noticed the shift in your eyes, “You know me?” This time your gaze remained unfleeting in the line of attention. 

Frank didn’t seem at all worried about the realisation of his identity. In fact the only change in his expression was done to display his curiosity to the new information. 

Sure, worst comes to worst, he has the upper hand at this moment and it would probably be the same at any other. He could do whatever he needs to do to make sure that you wouldn’t blab before you blinked even once. 

But from his worn out state, and the way he interacted with you, it was visible that he wasn’t going to do that. He must’ve been fighting for quite some time before he had stumbled upon you. 

Why the hell was he even there? Out in the open in a place like that?

Who were those other guys?

Regardless of the want to let your mind flow down that rabbit hole, you were fronted with your previous realisation as your eyes actually focused on Frank again.

You were right. Frank  Castle wasn’t the bad guy.

Without paying attention to it, there seemed to be this smile that began to curl at the corners of your mouth. You moved your head began to move back to its your previous position, your eyes wanting to find the discoloured ceiling to zone out on in a way that further made you forget about your pain--

Shoes suddenly scuffed against the hard ground in a way that stilled all over your movements. Your gaze flickered to whatever had joined you in the room as apparently you had missed the approaching footstep.

It was David, the height difference between the two guys now a lot clearer as he had stopped beside the man whose arms were yet to uncross. “Can you hold this for a second?” Until now. 

Frank sort of looked at the man for a moment, eyebrows furrowed again before he complied to the request. And the moment the plate had been taken into his hands, David moved as if on autopilot. “All right,”

He wound round the foot of your cot, taking back the same position he stood in when you woke up, “Gonna need to sit up so you can actually digest this shit.”

He felt a little bad when he saw the look on your face, though he remained still while you prepared yourself, starting to fidget with his hands. He didn’t want to touch you without permission, but it appeared that your eyes were already closed.

You slowly but surely moved the arm of your injured shoulder to sling across your torso, hoping the position would stop it from moving about too much. And then you braced yourself, awaiting whatever sensations were about to come. 

By the time a hand had been placed on your body, your teeth were already gritted. One was placed on your back, a way to properly bring guide you into the needed position, while the other gently cupped the back of your head so that everything would move in unison. 

“Deep breath.”

The pain was immediate. It was such a thing that purely seared up a side of your body. Engulfed everything in its path.

It was impossible to see from your closed eyes, but there was a reaction from the man stood to the side when a slight whine escaped your throat. He had stepped forward, looking as if he was about to reach out if he didn’t have something in one of his hands. 

It was thoughtless. A movement that he had undone the moment he had realised by pressing back against the wall. But it happened nonetheless. 

David was muttering stuff of assurance, many forms of sentences letting lose into the air. You couldn’t hear it. Couldn’t catch onto a singular word. 

All you could think about was the pain. How stupid it was that you made the decision to take that route. How you didn’t run back the way you came after that first shot. Or how you didn’t even end up trying run until it was too late. 

Your legs bent at the knees the more your torso raised, as if trying to protect it of something, which slightly kicked up your blanket and made the heels of your feet dig into the cot below. “There you go, there you go!”

It was like a ripping of a band aid. 

At first, it was the stage of holding onto the edge, trying to hype yourself to get it over and done with. And then it was off. It may give a twinge of pain that lingered more than wanted, but overall the act had been complete.

“Right on, that’s you done.”

And so had yours. 

The biggest breath of relief huffed out of your mouth in a way that had David wanting to lightly pat your back, but it could accidently hurt you. So, instead, he resorted to turning his attention Frank, hurriedly gesturing towards the thing he held.

The man in question seemed to shake his head as if trying stifle his amusement, though he took a step forward to hand over the plate either way.

And then, by the next time you had blinked, it was held out in your direction. You just looked at it for a moment. 

It was a sandwich. One that may have been made with the most simple ingredients, and was probably the exact replica of what you would picture in your head upon hearing the name, but for some reason your whole body yearned for it. 

The plate was in your hands within seconds.

David took a step back, a slight smile reappearing on his lips at the progress. He gestured to the plate you held in the same position and then towards your mouth, seeming like he couldn’t get himself to stand still, “Eat up.”

You were. 

Oh, a thousand percent, you were getting ready to chow down on something, since the last time solid food had been eaten was probably the day you had gotten shot. And even then, you had no clue as to when that was.

However, right as you were about to bring the plate onto your lap, grab onto the sandwich and consume it with the upmost excitement... You paused. Stopped right in your tracks. Eating by yourself felt a little weird.

You looked back at David. 

It took him a moment to realise that your eyes were on him again. But when he did, he sort of rocked on his feet. His eyebrows furrowed as he sent a look towards Frank, “What, um... Is it-- Is it bad, or something?”

There was a mixture of confusion and almost offence tugging at certain features and it had your head shaking immediately.

Within the next minute, it was almost like a game of charades as you attempted to relay the words in your mind. 

The plate remained in the hand it did before. You bent your left arm at the elbow, trying to avoid any movement that would attack the area surrounding your wound, and you gestured. 

The first time you pointed your index finger at him and then at the plate, but he merely blinked. So, you then did it in reverse, directing the line of attention to the plate and then him. 

Frank even seemed confused as he watched with narrowed eyes, apparently unable to deduced the situation himself which still left David with nothing. “Kid, I don’t... I can’t understand what you’re trying to say, are you-- are you allergic to something?” 

“Are you asking me what’s in it? If I made it, what--”

Biting back the biggest sigh of your life, and in the fastest way that you could in that moment, you restored to just holding out the whole plate towards him. Even repeated the previous gesture one final time to make your point. 

“Oh,” David dragged out the sound as he began to nod. Finally, he understood, “Yeah, man, I’m boutta make my own.”

He remained for only a moment more, watching as your plate slowly lowered to your lap so that it wouldn’t drop. And then he started walking again, moving back around the edge of the cot before making his way through the doorway.

Franks eyes were already on your own by the time your head turned in his direction, as if he expected it to happen. 

This time without accompanying the movement with gestures, you simply held out the plated food towards him. Franks head shook instantly, he even waved a hand, “It’s for you, kid. Need to get that strength back.” 

His eyes directed towards the kitchen almost immediately after. He was either counting on David possibly making him one or waiting for him to leave the kitchen so that he could do it himself.

Thing is though, he only gave you a reason as to why you should keep the sandwich held for yourself.

He didn’t say no. 

The plate was brought back to your legs, flat against your thighs, and then you began looking around. Your eyes scanned across any close surface for something that could be used as a cloth, something to wipe your hands with, but there was no luck. 

You resorted to just scrubbing your palms, and more importantly your finger tips, against the cleanest clothing you had under the blanket. And then you grabbed the sandwich. 

Despite what Frank thought was going to happen by the time his attention was once again redirected towards you, when the sandwich was held horizontally in your grasp, instead of bring it to your mouth and taking a bite. You began... pulling at it each side? 

It started to rip.

“What are you doing?” he questioned pretty much immediately, his face and voice both riddle with confusion. And maybe even a little disturbance. But that didn’t stop your movements at all. 

In fact the only time you had stopped was when the entire thing had been torn through the middle, completely halved. However, even after that, you reached for one of the parts. You took it from the plate, stuffing it into the hand of your unmoving arm.

And then you held out the plate all over again to the man with very furrowed eyebrows. 

He just looked at the poorly halved sandwich for a moment, a part of it being more of the contents that the bread, and then his eyes found yours. There was an unreadable expression within them.

When he still didn’t take it, and due to the fact that your arm was starting to get tired, you redid your act of holding it out towards him. 

And this time he couldn’t withhold a response. 

Frank scoffed, shaking his head in the same amusement from earlier while he stared at the plate calling his name, “You’re very persistent, aren’t ya.” 

Despite his point still standing, the consistent want for you to get the nutrients needed to fully recover, it was like he couldn’t say no to you. At least to your face. So. Frank took the plate.

The next few minutes were spent by the two of you choosing the perfect side of the sandwich and then going to town, chowing down on it like it was the first one either of you had ever had. 

And man, that David could sure make a meal, even if it was just slapping ingredients between slices of bread.

“Damn!”

Seemed like someone else agreed with you.

“So, this is what you’ve been doing all this time, huh, Lieberman? Cookin’” Franks words were incredibly muffled despite his constant chewing, but either way the sound still echoed. A laugh soon followed while something poured, “What else would I do, man? Wasn’t just gonna do nothing.”

“Well, you can add cooking to your... I don’t know, list of talents or something.” Every time that man spoke, his head lowered right back down so that he could see the plate, taking another massive bite that you were just waiting for him to start choke on.

“Why did you... Why did you say it like that?” David's voice was more monotonous than usual, either playing fake offence or he was too preoccupied with arranging the order of his sandwich ingredients. 

You took another bite, a piece of lettuce almost falling onto the blanket without you knowing. Frank turned towards the kitchen again, speaking midway through putting a part of the sandwich in his mouth, “Like what?” A plethora of crumbs fell onto the plate in a way that made your nose crinkle.

“Like... Are you lying to me? Lying isn’t very nice, Frank.” 

“Nah, come on, man, I wouldn’t-- I wouldn’t say that If I didn’t mean it, you know that-- You could put these in a-- a--  a sandwich shop--”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, okay,” David practically grumbled at this point, placing down what sounded like a butter knife on the counter before he sniffed, “That at least mean that our little friend likes it too?”

Frank turned to you, placing the little chunk of sandwich he had left onto his plate before he rubbed the fingers that touched it together. 

You swallowed down your bites, the act proving to be a little harder to from the lack of eating solid food, and noted the fact that he was awaiting some form of answer to relay to David. 

Your sandwich was finished by now. It wasn’t a contest but it was almost wild how fast it had been consumed. And now you sat there, wiping your hand against your trousers while attempting to get any food stuck between your teeth. 

And then you cleared your throat, your nose scrunching for a second when the action ended up shaking your chest a little too much, “Y/n.”

Frank had turned his towards the kitchen moments prior. He had parted his lips, even slightly leaned back against the wall to get a proper view of the man awaiting an answer through the empty frames. 

Now his head snapped in your direction, eyebrows raising more than you had even seen, “What was that?”

You may have made the ultimate decision to use your voice in the first place, however, having that gaze of his on you once again caused this overwhelming feeling to surge through your body. 

Your spine had straightened, this time managing to ignore the shock of pain that hit your system, while your eyes widened just a smidge.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

The echo of David's voice had caused you to turn to where he stood in the kitchen, still busied with making another one of his masterpieces. It was something done half out of anxiousness and just wanting to distract yourself.

And then it made you think.

Surrounding you was this big, more empty than full, abandoned building. The only other people there was Frank, a man who was supposed to be dead, and David... who you presumed was also most likely to be the same due to their team up. 

If they were going to kill you, or hurt you, they would have done so already. 

But even then, when you woke up this morning you hadn’t been restrained or anything. There was nothing keeping you there other than the fact that they wanted to treat your wounds. 

A deep breath filtered through your nose as your eyes slowly met with Franks again. 

His expression was practically the same as it was before you had looked away, giving you a patience no one ever had. The gaze he held was warm. Encouraging. 

Thus, you swallowed once again.

“My... name.” Your voice was hoarse from waking up not that long ago, but also from it’s lack of use. There was always this feeling in your throat as if something was stuck in it, and you coughed, the urge to squeeze your eyes shut presenting itself yet again when it shifted your shoulder.

But you composed yourself, sucking in another breath and rubbing your hands against your legs while David was still left with no answer, “It’s Y/n.”

Franks head had already been nodding before you had finished saying your set of words. He pursed his lips, finally swallowing down the bite he had previously taken.

Frank sniffed, turning his head towards the kitchen yet again. Though this time it seemed like he did so to conceal the change of his facial expression more than to get David's attention. “You hear that, Lieberman?”

Regardless of his attempts to hide his reaction, the smile was clear on his lips. Such a one that it had even reached the skin around his eyes as they started to crinkle.

He looked back at you. There was this emotion on his face that remained unchanging. It seemed like a fondness, but at the same time he almost looked... proud?

“Y/n likes it.”

[no-name-blu]

A thought. John turning evil by some entity promising him a way to protect his friends and Melissa. But he’s just doing the right thing g but the wrong way

When they used to be Welcome Home OCs, that's literally John's plot in my AU, Gameshow Host! Wally XD

But it's more of a fun side plot that can be taken out/ignored. This plot shows more on what the real world is like, how the cult fans of the show are formed, and also shows what happens to the winners of the gameshow. Because according to Wally, they usually turn into a threat to Humanity.

Here's an old comic that I never finished, glad it gets to see the light of day now :D

You can get their lore explanation down here!

I figured to reveal it since they're not Welcome Home OCs anymore and I'm not gonna draw all of this

CW: VIOLENCE AND CHARACTER DEATH, A LOT OF READING

Melissa, John, Briella (My OCs) and Sunny (that bird character), are a friend group together. Briella was the very first contestant of the show and dies, making Melissa wanting to investigate it and she's been non stop working about it.

And then, maybe 3-6 months later? idk, John got picked to be the contestant and won, so he asked his prize to have the ability to help Melissa. So Home gave John this opportunity to have a tour in the studio with Wally. So the day that happened, Wally showed him around, the problem with foreign objects going to the studio, it starts to deteriorate, especially for one's sanity. John eventually runs off Wally's tour and try to find more secrets in the studio just to accidentally found the void where Home resides in. His brain did not recover from seeing Home, he doesn't remember what happens after that. But John got Home's powers now YIPEEEE

Also his mind is in shambles in a way it's like an "enlightenment" to him. He sees it like the show is actually a good thing, weeding out the evil in the world. And he wanted to help more than anything.

John finds more people to see this show the way he sees it. He somehow got Melissa convinced too (old idea was that he can do hypnotism) When he tried to convince Sunny, he disagreed, leading to John to think he's evil and such, ended up killing him. Both the idiotic and crazy couple basically going on a killing spree to form a cult fan club of the show :D Honestly, imagine JD and Veronica from Heathers, but they're both JD. They're what killed the dinosaurs, they're the asteroids that's overdue /lyr

Eventuallyyy Melissa starts to snaps out of it, telling John she doesn't want to do this anymore, noticed Home has been watching them and she wants to make a deal with him. Home says something like "make one big sacrifice, and I'll give you what you wish for" Not very helpful but still she took the deal. Then the comic above is what's next. After that, they fought.

John was about to kill her but held back and gave Melissa a chance to fight back, so she starts punching, beats him up until the marionette puppet stops being alive.

Somehow the result of this made Home gave Melissa her own powers with the glowing eyes and Home's pupils too. Basically saying, now she serves for Home and that she's also gonna go crazy, like what had happened to John.

But Melissa didn't take over the cult, that'll be someone else. What she did is help Wally find a suitable contestant for the episode.

This plot probably got some holes and not that fleshed out since I stopped writing into it. It was fun tho :D

If you wanna know the other nickel, it's their Reboot AU lore. John was also cray cray for a different reason.

[volterran-wine]

I love the idea of the newest (human) resident of Volterra, let’s say someone’s mate moving in before their transformation, being some kind of medical professional (doctor, nurse, surgeon, mortician, even a biologist of some kind, etc.) being completely unfazed by blood cuz they see it all the time but fretting over mundane moments (by vampire standards).

Things that do not alarm the new human: Bottles and bottles and bottles of human blood. A cellar of it.

Things that do alarm the new human: Corin grabbing a tray straight out of the oven with her bare hands, Demetri running down wet cobbled steps after it rains, Chelsea lifting up something impossibly heavy… using her back and not her legs.

Bonus points if they’re still like that for a while after turning cuz their brain is still wired to recognise human risks.

(Do you know that vine of the little girl playing with plastic/toy power tools and when her mum says ‘be careful’ she runs the toys tool over her fingers on purpose while staring into the camera and flips the bird? I can see that happening somewhere here with real power tools. Either the terror trio or the twins)

I think it is hard for any of us mortals to fully grasp just how uncanny vampires within this universe are, and this poor hypothetical mate had to experience the otherworldly behaviour up close.

For most of us seeing blood is not a strange thing, especially if you are fortunate enough to bleed every month.

But the hardwired fears that are drilled into the back of our minds? Those are the ones we would struggle with the most when observing vampires. From grabbing severely warm things to jumping from heights that would certainly shatter kneecaps to the lack of blinking; vampires are terribly strange and unnerving when they are not putting up a human facade for a mortals comfort.

Personally I would have such issues with the disregard of heights, I would be a nervous wreck watching these beings leap around and fall without a care in the world.

That and their limbs being torn off and reattached, I would simply faint.

[jmdbjk]

Tumblr anniversary

It's been TWO years since I chose to take up residence here on this hellsite/app.

Last year, when I posted about my Tumblr anniversary, Jungkook had just dropped his thirst trap birthday greeting to Jimin. And Yet to Come Busan had not happened yet. No one was enlisted yet. We had no idea that we were about to have our hearts ripped out by Jin's enlistment announcement.

My, what innocent babes we were.

So much has happened since last October other than the afore mentioned Yet to Come Busan concert and Jin's enlistment announcement.

We watched the members emotional sendoff to Jin in December. We watched them do it again for Hobi in April. We didn't see but we know Yoongi has begun his service. We don't need to see it. We are pretty certain within the next two months we will be sending another 2 or 3 or maybe even the rest of them off to do theirs as well.

We got The Astronaut, Dreamers, Indigo, a Christmas song from Tae, Vibe, Face, D-Day (and a tour and I saw Yoongi!!), Angel Pt. 1 & 2, The Planet, another version of Jack-in-the-Box, Take Two, Seven, Layover, 3D and we anxiously anticipate Golden. What am I missing? More collabs that Namjoon did with others. We got so much music I can't remember it all.

We've seen the clothing come off of every member. Some more than others. But still. Chapter Two is not about taking their shirts off, as Tae said...yeah, whatever Tae... it is about transitioning to a more mature image including taking control of their professional and personal images, their bodies, their autonomy, their maturity and sexuality. And boy howdy...

We got a very complex and far-reaching BTS 10th Anniversary Festa celebration that took place across the world.

We got Kook Cooks, Flying Yoga, Wootteo, Suchwita, Namjoon on Big Brains and Many of them Sitting at the Same Table Talking (or whatever the name of that show was), Dior Jimin, Tiffany Jimin, Calvin Klein Jungkook, Valentino and NBA Yoongi, Louis Vuitton Hobi, Bottega Veneta Namjoon, Cartier and Celine Taehyung, dance challenges.

We inadvertently got Jungkook's TikTok through his own error and now we are pretty sure the other members INCLUDING JIMIN are lurking on all the soc med platforms.

We got so much Jungkook being himself. And we watched him go from being fine with his couch potato cushion existence to being Mr. World Traveler who can't stay in one place for more than a few days before he's off again to who knows where and adding to Jimin's list of things to fret over.

We got a nice quantity of sweet quality interaction of Jimin and Tae just yesterday. This healed me.

We have heard over and over how each member is anxiously excited to get back and hurry up and show us they still have it.

There has not been any lack of things to talk about. There has not been any lack of controversy. We've seen things we probably weren't meant to see and we've seen things that are dubious as to their authenticity and things that were obviously made for us to see.

Like one of those of flying bird flock murmurations, the fandom is shifting and changing, spreading out and coalescing and doing all this repeatedly as we navigate this period of time before they get back together in 2025.

I hope we don't run off the rails this next year and that we all can find some common ground so we can stand together at the threshold of 2025 in anticipation of their comeback.

And sooooo many more of you have chosen to follow my weird ramblings, rantings and odd posts. Thank you for taking time to give my blog any consideration.

[noorahqar]

Hi, I recently found out you're Qar and I love your fics.

Can I ask about People Pleaser Sky and Angsty Twi and Depression Sky?

Hi ajscico!! I see you around a lot! Thank you and welcome to the blog officially, LOL.

I answered People Pleaser Sky in another ask. You can click here to look at that.

Angsty Twi is one of these docs where I have to do a little sleuthing to figure out what tf I was thinking. I specifically remember it being four ideas I'd written down for later. The first line is Four Angst. The second and third line... I can't tell whose POV it is, and it's driving me nuts:

It's strange, and undoubtedly awful, to be constantly surrounded by other people and yet feel profoundly alone. It's one of his more miserable thoughts. When he thinks it, the tiny little avatar of the Captain that's taken up residence in the corner of his brain doubles over laughing at how quintessentially edgy it is. Doubtlessly, the original would act just the same.

WHO IS THIS. WHO ARE YOU. WHY ARE YOU LONELY.

The fifth line is touch-starved Sky angst. The fourth line is the actual Twi Angst, and even that - I can't remember what I was thinking, LOL. I don't think I had a plan. It just says:

Twilight had grown up a feral child. Surely,

That's it. That's the Angsty Twi. I'm very unimpressed by my organizational skills. The actual angsty twilight is in "destroying your loved ones duo" - that's Twilight angst from the manga, him and Legend bonding over evaporating full villages they were attached to!

DEPRESSION SKY. This fic is my baby at current moment - Warriors and Twi notice that Sky's Loftwing is sad as fuck while being roped into helping build houses, despite Sky seeming to be okay. Cue them trying to force Sky to accept their love. It's fun. It'll probably be the next fic I post, although that'll probably take some time, LOL - I am still recovering from Life. Here's a snip, though!

“Well, that ain't good.” Twilight purses his lips. Warriors keeps petting the bird absently, neatly arranging her feathers into straighter lines. She hooks her giant beak around his shoulder. “I'll tell Sun about it. Sky's off recently, have ya noticed?” “I have, but I wasn't sure if I was imagining it,” Warriors says. He frowns thoughtfully. “Sky's normal and Sky's off are remarkably similar. I worry he's bottling something up.”  Crimson lets out a mournful little noise. Twilight's face twists into a concerned grimace. “…Do ya remember how Sky said Loftwings are extensions of their souls?” “I do,” Warriors says. Realization dawns in his eyes. “Wait, do you think…” “Yup.” They sit in silence for a moment, the laughter of others in the distance and rustle of the wind permeating it. Sky's nearby, in a meeting in the main village. Twilight had thought that he'd be happier in his own era, because he'd certainly looked it. The air here gave him a little more life.  “We should keep an eye on him,” Twilight suggests.  “Of course,” Warriors says. Crimson caws sadly again.

[yallthemwitches]

The Golden Rules

When he slipped up on the house rules they tried to be understanding. Who cares if every once in a while they heard a little breathy, feminine sigh come from the other side of James’ bed curtains? Or sometimes the shower was running for hours with sounds of slippery, awkward movements and muffled laughs floating out from under the door? Lily wasn’t some bird that James wanted to get off with, he was in love— and they knew that because he told them so many many times a day.

Sirius is having a big two days in my Jily universe! Written for @jilytoberfest day 18 Prompt :Neighbors (because bunkmates are like neighbors right?)

This one is rated T/M for one short depiction of sexual activity-nothing too crazy though.

Living side by side with a marauder was somewhat of a balancing act. Each boy had their own idiosyncrasies that needed to be attended to. Each one had a different sleep schedule, grooming habit, general idea of cleanliness…and that wasn’t even getting to the teenage boy of it all. In short, the boys had a deal: when in doubt, use a silencing charm or do it somewhere else.

This had become important to denote early on in third year when Sirius started to think that Adelaide Willow’s body looked too fit to handle. By fourth and fifth, things got even more complicated. With love notes piling up for all parties and snogging the new favorite activity, amendments needed to be added to ensure peace.

They had all been very diplomatic about it. Warn a bloke, don’t take ages, and always remember the golden rule: silencing charm or expect no mercy.

This would be all fine and good if it didn’t involve fuzzy brained, randy teens. Peter would constantly forget his silencing charm when he “felt sleepy” at 19:00 some nights, only to get berated before he did anything too crass to himself. Sirius intentionally or unintentionally forgot a few times with various shagging partners, some of which ended the date rather abruptly when books and quidditch goggles got thrown past the bed curtains. The only two that were pretty consistent were James and Remus—mostly due to the fact that Remus refused to date and James preferred other locations that didn’t involve the intimacy of his bedroom.

That wasn’t to say that either of them were angels: after Hogwarts, Sirius would still laugh about the time James was overheard saying a certain name into his pillow, presumably half asleep and unaware that his hand had wandered below the proverbial belt. But it was all good fun—they were sixteen, who could blame them? The system was working, a bit busted, but continuing the status quo nonetheless.

That is, until Lily entered the equation.

The boys knew they had a big storm coming with the onset of Lily and James’ relationship. The bloke had pined after her for years and they all just assumed he had a backlog of emotion he was going to need to dispel. 

As promised, the two were inseparable. Conjoined at the hip, the hands, the chest, the lips—and that was just when they were in public. James was never a fan of bringing girls back to the dorms because he found it too intimate, but for Lily it was a completely different demon. He wanted her in his personal world, so much so that he would do anything to get her closer to every aspect of his life—his four poster bed being just one example.

 The first night she ever stayed over was a telling moment for the Marauder’s residence. Already tucked in for the night, the equilibrium of the room was knocked off course by a frantic and mussed looking James bursting in the door, tie hanging from one shoulder and a crazed look in his eyes. 

“I love you all, but get the fuck out. Evans agreed to come up here. This is not a drill.”

Sometimes mates had to make sacrifices—like sleeping in the common room. 

The boys were happy for him—really, they were. It was a long time coming and it felt good to see their mate feel really good. So, when he slipped up on the house rules sometimes, they tried to be understanding. Who cares if every once in a while they heard a little breathy, feminine sigh come from the other side of James’ bed curtains? Or sometimes the shower was running for hours with sounds of slippery, awkward movements and muffled laughs floating out from under the door? Lily wasn’t some bird that James wanted to get off with, he was in love— and they knew that because he told them so many many times a day.

But even with love involved, everything had its limits. 

When reflecting on it later, Sirius knew that it was purely karma that led him to the dorms that day. A sacrificial moment, brought on by one too many missteps with the status quo. In many ways he considered himself a martyr.

He should have seen the clues. For one, the room was locked and silenced— but that had never stopped him from entering a room before. It might have been the golden rule, but it was his room after all and he figured anything happening at lunch hour couldn’t possibly be too scarring. 

Clue number two: James was on his knees between Lily’s legs. 

They hadn’t closed the bed curtains. Lily’s head tilted back so she had barely a view of the door, making small languorous noises that reminded him of similar muffled sounds he and the lads had once heard before behind the safety of their own beds and the darkness of night. 

With every slight movement of James’ head, her voice reacted. His hands grasped her thighs apart, head tilted upwards, watching his girlfriend’s expressions like a marker of approval. 

Clearly, neither had heard the door open. 

Sirius was there barely a second before Lily’s head rolled back to the top of her spine, eyes dilating in slow motion. Registering her audience, she let out a shrill cry. 

He relocked the door behind him.

*******

James knew he had fucked up. Did he regret it? No— but he did know it wasn’t his best hour. 

To be fair, he hadn’t intentionally set out to break the golden rules of the dorm. It was just like that with Lily. At one moment they could be listening to records and then the next she could have her hands down his trousers. It was as predictable as a game of chance…if 100% of the time the chances led to some form of snogging. 

He trudged out onto the lawn beside the lake where Sirius was lying with Peter and Remus, face tilted towards the sky. As James’ shadow curled over him, a smile pulled at Sirius’ lips.

“Alright, Let’s get this over with– how long were you standing there?”

Sirius’ grin widened, still basking in the sun.

“Don’t know what you are referring to.”

“C’mon pads, I’m not in the mood–I know you just want to hear me say it.”

His eyes blinked open and James tried to remember a time where he looked more smug.

“Oh, are we talking about you licking out your girlfriend? I’d say I was there about a second longer than either of us would have liked.”

Peter made a choking noise into his parchment, Remus sighed and closed his book. 

“Alright James. Too far—“

James’ hand jumped to his hair.

“I-I locked the door Moony, I swear it! He just came barging in!”

“Didn’t lock it well enough,” Sirius snorted and  Remus lightly kicked his leg into his rib.

“Still James—it’s kind of been escalating…I feel like I know Lily a little bit too well nowadays.”

“Yeah mate, the other day I didn’t even know she was in the room. Scared the living shit out of me when she walked to the loo with only your jersey on.” Peter said, ears turning a bright pink.

James sat down and put his head in his hands.They weren’t that bad… 

“Then there was the time where you two practically fell through the door tearing each other’s clothes off—“

“Oh–and remember the other time after NEWTS –”

Ok, so maybe they were. 

“Fine fine,” James waved his hands in the air, “—so what do you want? Do I need to swear we won’t use the dorms again, because I don’t think I can make that promise.”

Sirius turned himself on his side, sporting a grin so dangerous looking James had the urge to run. They both knew that with Peter and Remus on his side he was the essence of pure power, a rarity to have such an upperhand.  

“I just want to know if our sweet Lily got to finish—“

James' face flushed. Tosser.

“—But I don’t want to take your word for it,” he raised his voice,“Evans darling, would you say you were satisfied with Prongs’ performance today?”

James whipped his head around. Sirius must have seen her coming towards them earlier because she was more than halfway to the boys, stopped in her tracks. From around them, groups of students glanced over, knowing a good show when they saw one.

But if Lily was embarrassed, she didn’t show it. Her eyes sunk into slits.

“Why do you ask, Black? Do you need some lessons? I’ve heard your head is shite.”

[citruslllad]

Love your qsmp au, it’s been haunting my brain for the past few hours. Jacob questioning his sanity makes me cackle. Love the concept of a character having a prominent person in their life being lost or replaced and having to find them. I’m particularly curious as to the dynamics Jacob has with the other qsmp members once he arrives on the island. Anyone they like, despise? How do they interact with a certain cat boy conspiracist and our resident eldritch care bear?

Also unrelated, love how Jo is just a concerned observer in all of this. His friend went from pretty okay mentally to “No Jo I’m telling you I’ve definitely had a roommate this whole time! You’ve met her in real life several times by now! Stop gaslighting me about the plushies I’m not a plush guy I wouldn’t buy these on my own. Fine, if there’s no roommate JO, then why is there a drawing tablet in that other room? There is a LIVE BIRD IN MY LIVING ROOM and yet I’ve never expressed interest in owning one. Worse yet, I haven’t MONETIZED IT?! THIS ISN’T FUNNY JOE MY LIFE HAS BECOME A TWILIGHT ZONE EPISODE”

ANON I LOVE YOU THANK YOU FOR THE INBOX RAMBLE <<<<33333

the thing is, they first realized something was off when they were on stream and chatting w/ friends, said something along the lines of "yeah haha it's been so quiet without Jaiden around, hope she's having a good time" and someone goes oh who's Jaiden? and you can practically see the gears in his head turning. at some point he's like we'll they'll HAVE to believe me if i bring them over and they all see her room and setup and stuff right? and then some of their buddies arrive and go lol Jo you had such a weird setup before you left and Jo's just going along with it like yeah haha I don't even remember it, it was a weird time in my life and Jacob is FUMING

regarding dynamics, focusing on Cellbit + Jacob first, I don't think they trust each other at ALL at first. they're both nice to each other for the sake of being polite, but they literally CanNot trust the other, Cellbit because last time he trusted an "ally" he became employee of the month, and Jacob because not trusting anyone on the island comes with the package. over time, they begin to bond over their shared stressful experience, but it's a while till then

(taking this ^^^ into account, Cellbit is secretly ECSTATIC to have Jacob around. not because of Jacob himself, but because they can remember everything about the outside world whereas Cellbit cannot. they bring him a small sense of closure)

he definitely get along better with some of the other members, though. the first people that come to mind are Slimecicle, Roier and Baghera. other than that, he doesn't exactly have all the time in the world to interact with everyone on the island, so he's mostly neutral (except for those he knows has willingly worked with the federation, like Foolish or Elq. he doesn't trust that in the slightest)

with Cucorucho it's a bit of a different story. they've never interacted with it, and all they know about it is from Cellbit, so it's safe to say they'd rather keep off of it's radar. when he DOES meet with it, however, he's very offput by it. they laugh at first, yes, because Cucorucho literally looks like a life sized stuffed animal, but he very quickly gets disturbed by it, something made to look so friendly and undeceiving being capable of so much. he isn't a fan.

(here are some refs i doodled while watching jaiden vods btw <3)

[hebuiltfive]

Just in case the last ask failed:

Sickness prompts:

snoozeville: [character] falls asleep somewhere that isn’t their bed. With Scott please

Thank you @janetm74! I hope this suffices!

Snoozeville (feat. Scott Tracy)

Scott was undoubtedly an early bird. He preferred sunrises over sunsets, and he found something refreshingly cleansing about early morning air. Whenever duty wasn’t calling him, Scott often found himself down in the gym, purpose-built on the island to cater to all their needs and to save the residents trips to the mainland every time they wanted to pump some iron. 

This morning was no different. 

Nor were the bags that he carried under his eyes, the dull throb of a headache just beginning to form or the feeling of limp muscles.

Perhaps burning the candle at both ends wasn’t the best idea these last few weeks. Rescue call after rescue call, a mountain of work for the business that kept everything afloat and then general insomnia on top of it all because God only knows why… Scott was tired. 

Of course, he could have slept through the morning if he really tried, but he had things to do, and a Scott who hadn’t managed to fit in a morning work-out was like a Virgil who had gone without coffee. So, yes, whilst he was beginning to feel sleepy now the birds had started their tweeting, Scott actually getting some sleep didn’t seem like his most favourite of options. Thus, the gym.

It was the aching, dull muscles that had Scott choosing the bench press over the treadmill once he’d limbered up as his first work-out of choice. The weights would help his body wake up, right? Somewhere in the depths of his mind he heard a voice, that sounded a lot like Gordon’s, telling him that his choice was a dumb one, but Scott chose not to listen. He was too tired to listen.

He loaded up the barbell, choosing weights that were just under his normal tolerance (because he wasn’t a complete idiot, give him some credit), and laid himself down on the bench. The lights of the gym were set to a soft glow, bright enough to light up the space but not too bright to blind him, though that had been considered as an option to help him wake up. 

Now, lying there, he was thankful he decided against that. Scott breathed deeply as a pain shot across his forehead. Perhaps he should have taken some painkillers before coming down here. Perhaps he shouldn’t have come down here at all. Ugh, whatever. He was too tired to care. Besides Scott was certain the aches would pass in a moment and then he could start his work-out… in a minute… he just wanted to close his eyes for a second first…

“Scott! Are you insane?”

To his credit, Scott did not jump up and hit his head on the barbell that was still cradled on the stand above him. He did, however, jolt awake.

Awake? Hold on…

“Actually, don’t answer that.” His brother continued, coming to to a stand beside the bench. Virgil hovered a scanner over him as Scott blinked his eyes into focus.

“… Virg…?”

“How many times have I told you not to use the gym unless you’ve had a proper rest before?”

Scott’s brain had a hard time catching up. Had he… fallen asleep? Impossible. Surely he hadn’t been that tired. “I was only resting my eyes for a few seconds.”

“Under the weights?”

“He’s been in here for over an hour.” The unmistakeable tone of EOS echoed through the hall from Virgil’s handheld monitor. “I told you he was acting recklessly again.”

“Hold on, you used EOS to spy on me?” Scott’s attempt to sound offended fell flat due only to his still sleepy head.

“Not spy…” Virgil quickly clarified, his eyes darting to the weights on the end of the bar in guilt. “She woke me up after seeing here and… This isn’t about me. Stop deflecting, Scott!”

Scott sighed, carefully sitting himself up despite his body’s protests to just stay there for a little longer. He didn’t dare chance a glance at his brother, who’s eyes Scott could already feel were staring him down.

“Bed. Now.”

“It’s seven in the morning, Virg…”

“I don’t care if it was midday.”

“Virg, I am fine.”

“These readouts don’t back up your theory. You need to sleep, Scott.”

Scott knew when to pick his battles, especially with medic-mode Virgil. Denying the evidence that was now being put before him — ouch, those are a lot of red areas — he knew that this was not a battle he would win. 

“Fine. I’ll… try and get some rest.”

But Scott didn’t move.

Virgil waited a moment. “Now, Scott.”

A sharp intake of breath and Scott was back. Had he almost just fallen asleep sitting up? Yikes. “I’m fine, I’m fine, I just.. need a minute.”

“Do I have to carry you?” Virgil lightly swatted at his shoulder. “Do not fall back to sleep. You’ll fall backwards and hit your head on the bar.”

“I thought you wanted me to sleep.”

“Scott.” Virgil pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly exasperated. “Do not start. Get your butt to bed and, for the love of God, please stay there until you’ve had a decent amount of sleep.”