#rip to whoever’s bike this is

[lillypadcrochet]

I CAUGHT A BIKE!!!!

Today magnet fishing I pulled a whole ass bike out of the lake! It was like right off the dock, but was so heavy my magnet kept detaching and dropping it. It took a while but slow and steady did the trick! All the people waiting for sunset over the lake were bewildered lol!

[diseaseriddencube]

girls literally only want one thing and it's fucking disgusting

[life size replica of Courier's bike]

[areyouwell]

Athazagoraphobia

Noun: An extreme and irrational fear of forgetting. Children or adults with this condition tend to experience nausea, raised heart rate or panic attacks when attempting to remember someone they don't.

Ch.5

Ch.4, Ch.3, Ch.2, Ch.1 <--

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader

Warnings: MDNI, sexual content, talks of suicide, suicide attempt, descriptions of extreme bodily harm, needles, this chapter gets dark, reader discretion is advised

Word Count: 13.7k

A/N: i have been looking forward to this chapter for so long oh my GOD i am vibrating. this is the shit i love, although the absolute BATTLE i just fought to get this post off the ground was long and arduous so rip my formatting tumblr didn't like it :( god gives his hardest battles to his silliest soldiers. also kurt and hank are here because i felt bad leaving them out timeline WHAT TIMELINE?

Taglist: @badbishsblog @reidsworld @idioticstar @toogaytofunctiondangit @ghostyv @wolviesgirl @over-bi-the-wayside

To say Logan hadn’t gotten much sleep was an understatement. Sure, he’d dozed off here and there, but he would jolt awake every time you held so much as a sleepy breath. He couldn’t shake the image from his mind. Seven of them. The way their heads cocked at an unnatural angle. The way they silently stared, faceless, voiceless, seemingly just watching. Waiting. The way they sank back into the shadows the moment you stirred. They must have been from you, some subconscious product of your mutation. Still, he’d be lying if he said it didn’t creep him out a little. 

Though, he didn’t know what else he expected. You could manipulate and walk through shadows. You were bound to have some creepy quirks, as well as constantly looking tired, apparently. 

Sunlight streamed through the curtains, dust mites floating in the golden beams filtering through the leaves of the various plants near your window. You’d told him a while ago you’d named them all, something about giving them a voice making them grow faster, or something else equally as ridiculous. He still didn’t quite know which one was Molly and which one was Dalia, but he could tell his Herberts from his Judases, which was a start, he supposed. 

Fucking hell he was down so bad.

You still slept soundly against his chest, occasionally a soft snore would melt his heart, or a discontented pinch of your brow only to smooth out when you nestled closer. Part of him wished neither of you ever had to move. Actually, scrap that, he wished you didn’t have to move with his whole being. He silently thanked whoever came up with the idea of Saturdays and the knowledge that the two of you could spend a lazy morning in bed without the approaching threat of teaching a class. 

Maybe he would take you out today, steal Scott’s bike and escape for one peaceful moment. There were a few lakes nearby he wouldn’t mind visiting with you, end the day at a bar or something. The image of you perched behind him on the bike, your arms wrapped around his middle, cheek resting against his back made up his mind. He was definitely going to take you out today. Get away from everything for a while. Away from teaching, training, the possibility that if you didn’t get your mutation under control you could be lost to the shadows for good…

That kind of thing. 

He gazed down at you, your mussed hair and twitching features. He loved you. Logan knew that. Two months and he was already certain. It was just saying it, he struggled with. Admitting it out loud. That’s where the problems started. It was like he was cursed, the moment he uttered those three words, some kind of catastrophe would strike and he’d lose everything for good. 

He hoped you knew. Fuck, he hoped you knew. Hoped you knew that with every waking moment, he burned to be near you, seared with the need to touch you. Even innocently. A hand on your knee, an arm around your shoulder, anything. Sure, he’d happily spend the rest of his life with his face between your thighs or his cock submerged in your cunt, but that didn’t seem realistic. And, if nothing else, Logan was a man of realism. 

A sigh escaped your slightly parted lips, eyes fluttering slightly as you started to wake. He brushed the stray hairs from your face, your features scrunching, blinking awake. 

“Good mornin’,” he smiled, and you groaned in response, closing your eyes again and hiding your face in his chest.

“No.” your response was muffled but audible, and he cocked a brow.

“Bad mornin’?”

You shook your head slightly. “No morning. Wake me when it’s midday.”

If there was one thing Logan had learnt about you, it was that you were not a morning person. ‘Too much light’ was your typical excuse, and he couldn’t say he blamed you. He used to drag himself out of bed with the promise of a strong cup of coffee before he became a teacher. He didn’t know why he was shocked to learn you were a night owl, it made a shit ton of sense considering your mutation. Though he chalked it down to the fact that your smile shone like the sun itself.

“Coffee?” He asked, and that silenced your protests. Your clock was still discarded on the floor, but flicking his wrist up in front of his face, he grinned seeing the time. 8 am. Oh, you were going to be furious. Especially since it was a Saturday. 

“What time is it?” you asked, raising your head from his chest and turning your head to your window as if the sun had personally offended you. You had half the mind to storm over to the curtains and snap them closed. If only you hadn’t been so comfortable, you’d really show the sun what for.

“A little after eight…” he said tentatively, and your head whipped back to look at him, face a picture of utter disbelief. 

“You’re fucking joking.”

“Nope, sorry sweetheart, the clock doesn’t lie.” he showed you his wrist with the time, and you groaned in frustration, your forehead hitting his chest in defeat.

“It’s a goddamn Saturday, not even Jubilee is up this early on a Saturday.” You lamented, pulling the covers up and over your head. Logan chuckled slightly, finding your detest for mornings amusing as you hid from the sun. “Fucking curtains not being closed for the fucking light to get in fucking god fucking damnit.”

“Yeah, you tell ‘em.” His hand rested on your covered head in faux protection, feeling you shift beneath the duvet, your angry huff fanning his chest. 

“I will.” He could almost hear your pout, shuffling forward to poke your head from the covers like the world’s most gorgeous groundhog, the duvet wrapped tightly around your head so he could see only your face. “Did you say coffee?” You asked, and even if you didn’t have the hope of a child being offered a lollypop dancing in your eyes, he still would have nodded. Though with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. 

Couldn’t appear too keen to bend to your every request.

“What’ll you give me for it?” He smirked, knowing full well there were very few lengths you’d go through to acquire a fresh pot of caffeine in the morning. And your narrowed eyes confirmed that knowledge. 

“I’ll suck you so hard you’ll see fucking stars.”

Logan choked on his own saliva. He didn’t know what he was expecting but it certainly wasn’t that. “Fuckin’ freak…” he muttered, failing miserably at hiding his smile. You flashed him a toothy grin, knowing you had him in a box. Honestly, you’d do it anyway just for fun and maybe to tease him a little. 

Logan threw back the covers on his side of the bed, waiting for you to move so he could sit up and start his coffee-making mission. Only, you didn’t move, just blinked at him expectantly. “You gotta move, hun.” 

“Why can’t you be telekinetic, so inconvenient.” You grumbled, reluctantly releasing him from your arms and rolling onto your other side, only to huff once again as sunlight invaded your eyes. “Fucking sun!”

Logan watched with no small degree of admiration as you angrily threw one of your pillows and the window, eyes tracking the trajectory as it hit the curtain with a slight thump before falling to the floor. “You showed him.” He quipped, receiving a small kick to his side. 

You looked over your shoulder as he stood, watching his naked body shamelessly. Shit, he was so fucking hot. Your mouth almost watered as he stretched his arms above his head, his back flexing, muscles tensing. You sat up a little against the headboard, sandwiching your thumb between your teeth as he flexed his back again, and this time you knew it was on purpose.

“Enjoyin’ yourself?” he didn’t even need to look to know your eyes were on him. He could feel them, for fuck’s sake. And your maniacal little laugh confirmed it all.

“You’re nice to look at, excuse me for finding you attractive.” There wasn’t even a hint of guilt in your voice. You really were a freak weren’t you? 

Logan slowly turned to face you, watching as your eyes dragged up and down his body, your mischievous smile only widening. He cast his gaze skyward, folding his arms across his broad chest. “Ya done?”

You clicked your tongue. “Not even close. But, I really want a coffee, so I guess I am for now.” You shrugged as if you hadn’t just been fucking the shit out of him with your eyes. Logan huffed a laugh, shaking his head in fond disbelief. As if you couldn’t be any more endearing. Yes, you were a grumpy little shit in the mornings, but you were his grumpy little shit. And he had a sneaking suspicion you might feel exactly the same about him. 

You rolled your eyes as he shrugged on his singlet, pulling up his briefs and jeans before looking around the room, unable to locate his belt. He spun in a slow circle, eyes scanning the floor. He swore it had fallen with his jeans. “Have you seen my–”

Hearing the telltale clink of metal, Logan looked back at you holding up the leather by his buckle. That was not where he thought he’d left it. He raised a brow of questioning, and you shrugged again. “I had it on hand. In case…” you trailed off and his eyes widened in scandal, brow furrowed.

“In case of what?!” 

“Just, in case.” You pursed your lips in an attempt to hide your filthy grin and failed spectacularly. Logan barked a laugh of disbelief, skirting around the bed and snatching the belt from your hands, tossing it on the covers as he trapped you in his arms.

“You,” he started, before pressing his lips to yours. “Are such,” he kissed you again. “A freak.” He finished, moulding his mouth against your own in a lingering, lingering dance. You giggled into his lips, your hands finding the soft strands of his hair. “Only two months in and you already want me to tie you up?” He drew back with a smirk, just far enough to see the perversity in your eyes.

“Who said anything about tying me up…?”

He blinked. How many fucking surprises were you going to spring on him this morning? “Hate to break it to ya darlin’, but if that’s your intention then a thin strip of leather ain’t gonna cut it.” 

Your irises sparkled with the realisation that he wasn’t saying no. “Well, in that case, I’ll just have to get something stronger.” You murmured, closing the gap between the two of you once again before breaking it almost immediately. “Maybe some of those metal zip ties… or just a really thick wire. I dunno, how strong are you?”

“Real fuckin’ strong.”

Your brows furrowed in thought, and he ruffled the top of your head. “Don’t strain yourself.”

You gaped in mock offence. “So rude. Go get coffee, I don’t even want to look at you right now.”

“Weren’t sayin’ that earlier, were ya?”

“Yeah, but now your shirt’s on.” 

“Face not good enough for ya?”

“Not when it’s insulting me, no.”

“And when it’s doing this?” Logan leaned into your neck, his tongue darting out to lick along the side of your throat, teeth gently nipping at your soft, bruised skin from last night. You gasped a strangled moan, still sensitive from where he’d left his marks on you. 

“That’s more forgivable.” You breathed as he drew back, a smug smirk plastered across his face. “Go, before I drag you back into bed and have my freaky little way with you, belt and all.” You wiggled your brows and he chuckled darkly, as if anything you said could be seen as a threat. But he acquiesced nonetheless, feeding his belt through the loopholes of his jeans, securing the clasp. 

“I’ll be back in a few.” He placed a kiss to your forehead and you hummed a soft, contented smile before he turned away and headed out down the hallway. You were right, it was far too early for anyone to be awake on a Saturday. As far as he could hear, nobody was up yet, which just meant he got a good few more hours to spend with you before the rest of the mansion started to think you were either dead or missing. You weren’t a morning person, but that didn’t mean you weren’t up most mornings, just with a face like thunder. 

He loosened a contented sigh, cracking open the door to the kitchen before crossing to the kettle and flicking the switch, listening to the low hiss of the water heating up before he pulled open the overhead cupboards to retrieve two mugs, a glass one for him and your favourite one for you. Logan realised with no small degree of shame that he didn’t actually know your birthday, and come to think of it, nobody else had mentioned it either. He hoped it hadn’t already been and gone, seeing your small collection of mugs had given him the perfect idea. 

He rifled around for a bit, before locating the larger, cáfetier. It was easily big enough for two cups and then some. Popping open the steel lid to the coffee grounds, he spooned four heaps into the glass, guestimating the correct amount. Two heaps each seemed about right…

It had been too long since his biggest worry was something as domestic as how many heaps of coffee should he put in a cáfetier for two. It gave him a sense of peace, despite the events of three days ago. And with nobody else up and about yet, it really did feel like the two of you were alone in the world. 

And honestly, he’d be fine with that.

At least, it did feel like, before the fantasy was shattered by approaching footsteps. Logan groaned internally, knowing that gait and heft anywhere. He didn’t even need to turn around to know it was Scott. Why, of all people, did it have to be fucking Scott.

“Logan… I didn’t know you’d be in here so early.” His tone was curt, stunted almost as if he was allergic to being nice. Logan simply grunted, pouring the freshly boiled water into the cáfetier and placing the lid on. 

“I was just leavin’.” He responded gruffly, hooking his fingers around the two mug handles and carefully lifting the coffee pot, making for a quick escape before Scott cleared his throat. 

“I uh… Look man, I wanted to say I’m sorry,” Logan paused, giving Scott a sidelong glance, a silent suggestion for him to continue. “About what happened the other day. The Professor was right, it wasn’t the time for us to fight.”

Logan grit his teeth. “That’s what you’re apologising for? Not for suggesting we should just get rid of her?” he snarled, his fingers tightening on the mug handles. Scott sighed, running a stressed hand through his hair. 

“It’s not– It’s not that simple, Logan. She’s done this before, and last time it resulted in the death of one of our teammates. Jade was so kind. And she–”

“Loved her, yeah I know.” Logan finished, and Scott started in surprise.

“She told you that?” he asked, disbelief lacing his tone.

“I’m startin’ to think you’ve never actually had a conversation with her.” He bit, keeping his self-control intact. Though he didn’t know how annoyed you’d be if he told you he’d smashed your favourite mug over Scott’s head. 

“She was my teammate before you were, Logan. I– It’s not easy to be the one to make these decisions, or even suggest them. But sometimes we need to do things to protect other people. You know that.”

Logan nodded in confirmation. He did know that. He knew that better than anyone. “And you should know that there is nothing I won’t do to protect her. So you come at her again, spoutin’ bullshit about neutralising a threat, and there’ll be no Professor to stop me from tearin’ you apart. Got it?” He snarled, subconsciously baring his teeth. Scott sighed again. It wasn’t uncommon for Logan to threaten his life, when they first met it was almost on a daily basis. 

“I don’t want to neutralise her. I just want her under control,” he explained wearily. “Sure, the first time this happened and she killed Jade, I’d been the one to suggest that. But we were scared. We were damn terrified of her. It was only thanks to Jean that she came back.”

Logan paused for a moment. He knew Jean was keeping something under wraps. “How? What exactly did she say?”

Scott shrugged, pulling out a chair and taking a seat. “No clue. She wouldn’t tell me. She told me to ask the Professor, but we were all a little caught up in grief to ask questions at that point, and by the time we’d all managed to move on, it didn’t seem to matter anymore,” Scott paused, evidently debating his next words. “But she responded to you. We all saw that. So, what I’m trying to say, is keep doing whatever it is you’re doing. None of us want her gone, Logan. We couldn’t help her, but maybe you can.”

It was the closest thing to a compliment Logan had ever received from the man, and he honestly didn’t know what to do with it. So he nodded in silent acknowledgement. It wasn’t exactly an olive branch, but something had definitely shifted in their dynamic. But before he could contemplate it further, Scott piped up again. “I’m happy for you two, by the way. You really complement each other. Or maybe I’m just happy you haven’t been making eyes at Jean for the last two months.”

Nevermind. He hated the prick. “Go fuck yourself, Scott,” he uttered with disinterest, and if he had either of his hands free, he would have flipped him off as he left. Heading back up the stairs, Logan wondered when it would ever just stop. When everything would finally come to a halt and he could have just one day for the two of you and not think about anything catastrophic happening. Yet here he was, climbing the flight of stairs up to the third floor, contemplating your mortality. He fucking hated it. 

And he was having such a nice morning, too. 

Shouldering open the door to your room, he was greeted by an empty space and the sound of running water coming from the bathroom, steam rolling out of the small gap where you’d left the door open a crack. Maybe he could still salvage this morning after all. 

Settling down the coffee and mugs on your nightstand, he left the grounds to soak in the water before briskly stripping off his clothes, leaving them in a collected pile at the foot of your bed and slowly opening the bathroom door a little wider. It was like a sauna in there, steam fogging up the mirror, the walls sweating. You hummed a soft tune, one he recognised after a beat.

It was the same song he’d asked you to dance to. 

His heart inflated as he opened the steamed-up door to step in behind you, wasting no time in wrapping his arms around your waist to your small jump and gasp of surprise.

“‘S’just me, don’t worry,” he soothed, burying his face in the crook of your slick neck. Your hair hung limp, freshly washed as you leaned back into him, holding his arms against you.

“Mmm, was just thinking about you.” You hummed, and if Logan wasn’t already half hard at the sight of your dripping naked body, that low, sultry tone of your voice would have been enough. 

“Yeah?” he loosened his grip so you could turn around to face him, your arms slinking up his body and around his neck. “What about me?” he asked, biting back his groan as you swapped places with him, warm water cascading down his back. 

“‘Bout last night… all the things I didn’t get to do…” You teased his lips with whispers of kisses, barely making contact as you held his gaze hostage, your eyes darkening with each passing moment. He felt lightheaded already when you bypassed his mouth altogether, your teeth instantly biting down against his collarbone. 

“Like what?” he strained, his hands skirting up and down your waist, your lips trailing up the hollow of his throat, over to the side of his neck where you sucked a harsh bruise that, to your irritation, faded instantly. You knew doing it again was a losing battle, but that didn’t stop you from sinking your teeth into his flesh, feeling his rising groan on your tongue as you smoothed over the unmarked skin. Your hands braced against his chest as you rose up on your tip toes to breath into his ear.

“I wasn’t joking earlier.” Was all you muttered, nibbling at his earlobe and leaving the side of his head tingling before you travelled lower down the curve of his fuzzy jaw, back down the path you’d carved for yourself, pressing kisses down his chest, your nails lightly scratching down either side of his ribs, following the curve of his hip bone and to his hard cock. 

Logan inhaled as you took him in your wet palms, squeezing around his shaft, delivering pinches with your teeth around one of his nipples, clamping down around when you teased his already leaking tip.

“Shit…” he gasped as you sucked against his shockingly sensitive bud, the scent of your own arousal heightened in the steamy heat, driving him mad with need. Releasing him from your mouth, you giggled softly as he thrust into your grip, his hands sliding from your waist to your hair as you sank to your knees before him, making sure you kept eye contact. 

  Sticking out your tongue, you waited for what felt like an eternity to him, before you delivered a small kitten lick to the underside of his cock. His jaw fell open as he watched you, all your attention now stuck on teasing the fuck out of him, not going any further than small, short swipes. He didn’t want to push you but holy shit were you testing his self-control. 

“Fuckin’ tease.” He huffed, gritting his teeth when your malleable tongue traced one of the thick, pulsing veins down the side of his shaft. His fingers tightened in your hair, though not to move you, rather just to feel you beneath his fingertips. 

Logan’s head fell back as your lips enveloped his sensitive tip, and he realised he would happily drown in this shower if it meant you didn’t stop, water washing away the sweat from his brow, bouncing off his closed eyes. A gravelly moan bubbled from his chest, echoing slightly off the walls. “Jus’ like that, baby,” he whispered almost to himself as you took him further, your pointed tongue dragging down the underside of his cock, one of your hands pumping what you couldn’t fit, the other braced against his hip to hold him still. 

You bobbed your head slowly, tasting the distinct musk and salt of his ecstasy as you flattened your tongue, hollowing your cheeks and humming lowly. The bathroom became an orchestra of gravelly groans and airy gasps, all drowned out from the outside world by the running water. Sinking into a comfortable rhythm, you looked up at his head thrown back, one of his hands had moved from your hair to the wall as he all but leaned against it.

Opening your throat, you slipped him further in your mouth until your nose was nestled comfortably against the coarse hairs at his naval. There you held him for a moment, swallowing around his cock and he fucking whimpered at the feeling of your throat squeezing him. You gagged slightly, and Logan looked down, his jaw slack as he took in possibly one of the hottest things he’d ever seen in his over a century of being alive. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, and he made to pull away to give you a moment to breathe. But the moment he shifted, your nails dug sharply into either side of his hips, holding him against you. 

He stuttered moaning of your name and you knew he was close, so you hummed around him again, the vibrations of your voice travelling his throbbing length. The hand in your hair tightened as he slowly thrust his hips into your wanting mouth, gently fucking your face. 

“Jesus Christ you feel good…” he uttered breathlessly, tensing his jaw as he approached his peak. You smiled wickedly around his cock, dragging your slick tongue down that same vein you were paying attention to earlier as he moved back, your teeth ever so slightly scraping atop his length, and it was his undoing. 

Pleasure flooded his senses, fire coursing through his blood as he went to pull from your mouth, only to have you angrily shove your head forward, swallowing again around his member as he threw his head back to embrace the stream of the shower. “Fuck, fuck!” He stuttered a long, drawn-out groan as he spilled into your mouth, painting your throat white as his hips bucked uncontrollably, the tips of his claws poking through his knuckles as he fought to keep control, stars dancing behind his eyes.

The waves of ecstasy receded with each pulse, leaving him dizzy and gasping, his head falling forward to catch his breath and steady himself. Looking up from your knees, you drew back, leaving a lingering kiss on the head of his cock, your hands gently squeezing his thighs. 

“You okay?” You asked, rising to your feet, palm softly cupping the underside of his jaw and moving his face to look at you. He was stunned, dazed almost, as he wordlessly searched your eyes for an answer to a silent question. You laughed a little, and he drew you in with a thumb and forefinger pinching your chin, claiming your mouth with his lips in a delicately passionate kiss. The way he tasted himself on your tongue almost had him hardening again. 

“You almost suffocated yourself and you’re asking if I’m okay?” he asked with subdued disbelief, and you grinned wildly. 

“You seemed out of it for a moment, wanted to make sure I didn’t kill you.” You responded with airy innocence, and Logan huffed a laugh.

“Murder attempt number two. Not a great track record, huh?” He teased lightly, and you narrowed your eyes at him. But before you could come up with some witty retort, he sank to his knees before you, throwing a leg over his shoulder so bruskly you had to steady yourself against the wall. “Fuck you’re so hard to ignore when you smell this fuckin’ sweet, darlin’.” He murmured, before wasting no time in devouring your cunt until you were whimpering his name and gushing all over his tongue. 

Consider the morning salvaged.

“This is going to be insanely strong coffee.” You called from the bedroom as Logan dried his hair with a spare towel, draping it across his shoulders before padding out the join you. “Someone didn’t want to leave the shower.” You shot pointedly with a small grin. He simply shrugged in response, trying not to be too disappointed that you’d thrown on a baggy t-shirt and a pair of boxer briefs. 

“Not sure how I’m to blame for that.” He crossed the room to stand behind you, towel wrapped dangerously low around his hips and circled his arms around your waist, setting his chin atop your head. “You started it.” 

You leaned back into his chest, basking in the warmth of his embrace. It was these little moments of soft domesticity that you craved with him. Yeah, the sex was great. Mind-blowing, in fact, and teaching and training with him was a fantastic excuse for the two of you to spend time with each other, but it was these moments you valued. Swaying in the kitchen to whatever song blared from the radio, your head resting on his lap as you dozed off to some shitty reality tv-show, or vice versa. These were the moments you’d remember when you were old and grey and he was–

Still looking gorgeous and young. Fuck, you hadn’t thought about that. How had that only just occurred to you? You pushed the thought into the furthest corners of your mind. Now was not the time to be entertaining such things. 

“Why did you take so long, by the way? I was halfway through the intended length of my shower by the time you got back.” You asked, mourning the loss of his contact as you went to pour the coffee into the two mugs, your heart expanding when you saw he’d picked your favourite one. The one Kitty gifted you. 

“Ran into Scott in the kitchen…” You snorted at the irritation in his tone, clearly not a fond memory. 

“What’d he have to say for himself?” A hand extended behind you, clasping the top of the glass mug between your fingertips as you handed it to him, pouring yourself a mug of your own before you turned to sit on the bed.

“Thanks. He was just runnin’ his mouth, to be honest with ya. Though he did apologise, which felt weird.” Logan returned to his side of the bed, sitting up against the headboard and raising his arm as a silent request for you to join him. You shuffled closer, ducking beneath his arm and cosying into his side, making sure to hold your full mug of coffee steady. 

“He did? What for?” 

“We argued the whole training thing. He was apologising for the timing of it.” 

You snorted a laugh into your mug. “Trust Scott to apologise for the thing that mattered least. But it’s a start, I guess. He say anything else?”

“Not really. Said he was happy for us and that we complemented each other, which also felt weird.” He didn’t think you’d be thrilled about the Jean comment, so he left that in the past like he had his feelings for her. 

“Huh. Strangely nice of him.”

“‘S what I thought.” 

You sipped on your drink, pleasantly surprised it was still warm, savouring the bitter-roasted flavour. “Yeah, a little too long, think the beans are a bit burnt, but it’s still good.”

“How’dya know the beans are burnt?” 

“You can taste it. Or I can. I was a barista for a while, dontcha know?”

He raised a brow. No, he didn’t know that. “How many jobs have you had?” He asked, impressed that you had such a wide range of skills. You thought for a moment, it was actually a pretty good question. 

“Ya know what? I have no idea. What’s funny is that I never remember quitting them either. I’d just wake up one day and bam! New job. I guess I liked to bounce around a lot. Still do.” You elbowed him, wiggling your eyebrows suggestively and he groaned in exhaustion. 

“Terrible.”

“You liked it.” You stuck out your tongue and he huffed in amusement. Yeah, he did. And he wasn’t about to deny it.

Logan paused for a moment, knowing the next topic he wanted to talk to you about was likely going to be a sensitive one. You hadn’t told him for a reason, and if you didn’t want to talk about it, he wouldn’t push you, but he wanted to let you know that he knew. “Can I see your wrist…?”

Predictably, you shot from his side, muttering a curse as your coffee sloshed from your mug and onto your hand. It wasn’t like you’d made an effort to hide your scars, it was more that you banked on the fact that people, generally, were too afraid to ask. But you should have guessed Logan of all people wouldn’t shy away from something like that. Not where you were concerned anyway. 

Tentatively, you set your mug down on the nightstand, turning back to him and offering one of your wrists. He did the same, shifting to set his own mug down before slowly taking your outstretched hand in his own, inspecting the deep, faded scar with the pad of his thumb. “When?” He asked gently.

“Years ago. It’s all kind of a blur really, and I don’t remember much of it. I just– I was terrified of being a mutant and couldn’t see a way out. I think my brother found me, and took me to a hospital. I don’t know why they’re still there, honestly. I’ve used my mutation countless times since, but I guess scars are as part of the mind as they are the body. Or something like that.” It was the only explanation you had for the marks littering your body, not just the ones on your wrists, but your chest, thighs, and neck. You were a scrappy kid, always picking fights with the wrong people. 

Logan brought your wrist up to his lips, ghosting featherlight kisses down the raised line. “I’m so sorry.” He murmured, and your heart bled. He had nothing to apologise for, you hoped he knew that. 

“‘S’okay. I… learned to accept what I am. Rowan helped me with that. That’s his name, don’t know if I ever told you. After he was done being mad at me, that is. Not that I blame him. I don’t know what I would have done had the roles been reversed.” 

“You got on well, didn’t ya?”

You sighed. “Yes and no. We did when we were kids, but as we got older we started to drift apart. I think the grief over our parents changed him, and he got more cautious, whereas I got more reckless. We would fight a lot, but that didn’t mean I loved him any less. I just wish I could remember what our last argument was about. We were so fucking mad at each other, I left and deleted his fucking number.” You huffed a sigh of past frustration, turning to retrieve your mug of coffee. 

That was news to him. He didn’t know your parents had died. He knew they weren’t around during your teen years, but he didn’t know they’d died. But the way you just casually mentioned it told him it was a topic that didn’t need discussing right now. 

You settled back against him, his arm draping over your shoulders, your head dropping to the dip in between his collarbone and neck as silence settled back over you. You appreciated the way he didn’t press you for more. You doubted you’d be satisfied with such a brazen explanation, and you knew he most likely had more questions for you, so when he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, you smiled against his skin. 

“‘M gonna take you out today.”

“Like on a date or with a gun?”

You felt his snort of laughter against your cheek. “Have you always been this dark?”

“I’m a shadow weaver, comes with the territory.” You responded nonchalantly. 

“‘S that was you’re calling yourself now?”

“Nah. I still kinda like Phantom. But who knows, maybe I’ll change my mind someday.” You raised your head to take another sip of your coffee, grimacing as the liquid had gone from piping hot to lukewarm.

“On a date, dumbass. Thought we could get away for a while.” He brushed a strand of your hair back from your face, smoothing over your eyebrow with his thumb. 

“What’d ya have in mind?” You asked, leaning into his touch a fraction. 

“Take a drive, head to one of the lakes in the area, grab a drink after. Things normal couples do.”

You huffed in amusement. “We’re not a normal couple, Lo’.”

He smirked slightly. “Yeah, I know. You’re a freak.”

“And you’re not? Mister ‘I can smell your arousal and it gets me going’.” You poked the centre of his chest and he flicked your forehead in retaliation. 

“You up for it?” 

“I get to spend the day away from the kids and visit a super scenic lake with my second favourite mutant in the mansion? Followed by an evening of drinking in a bar? You might as well have asked me to marry you here and now.” 

“Don’t get too ahead of yourself, we’re n– wait second favourite?”

You nodded, looking at him like the answer was obvious. “Well yeah, Kitty bought me my favourite mug so she reserves favourite person rights.” 

“S’that how it works?”

“Bit slow on the uptake aren’t ya?” Logan pushed you off him, careful not to shove you too hard so you spilt any more coffee on yourself.

“I take it back. We’re gonna spend the day here.” You gasped dramatically, setting your drained mug to the side before trying to cosy back up to him, only for his arm to hold you at bay.

“I lied, I lied! You’re incredibly smart and quick and my favourite person I’ve ever met ever!” You exclaimed through fits of laughter as you tried to fight through the wall of sinewy muscle. 

“Didn’t hear ya. Come again?” He held you off with one hand, the other effortlessly raising his mug of coffee to his lips. It was a testament to his strength how he could keep you back with just one arm.

Maybe metal cable ties weren’t strong enough after all…

You conceded, flopping down onto the pillows next to you, bubbles of laughter still popping from your chest. “When do you wanna leave? What time is it actually?” you asked, taking him by the wrist only to see he wasn’t wearing his watch. Must have taken it off to shower.

“Lemme check, hold on.” Logan leaned down off the bed where the poor alarm clock still lay completely abandoned, retrieving your lamp at the same time and setting them both on the nightstand. “Just gone nine. Leave in an hour? I think it’s roughly three hours by car, but Scott’s bike shaves off at least half an hour so…” He shrugged with a cheeky grin, and you laughed at the mischief in his eyes.

“Gives us around six hours to ourselves, minus the journey. Sounds perfect to me.” Being unable to withstand a lack of physical contact with you for any longer than three minutes, Logan lifted his arm for you again, and you returned to the home you’d built next to his heart.

“We should get out more…” he lamented softly, his hand holding your shoulder, thumb stroking your soft skin beneath the short sleeve of your t-shirt. 

“If we had the time, that would be great.” You sighed, feeling his slight despondency. If only your circumstances had been different, and you were just a normal couple that could do normal couples things. But now, you had to teach younger mutants how not to accidentally kill the wrong people, and how to effectively kill the right people. Not only that, but you had to train to ensure you didn’t accidentally kill yourself in the process.

Fuck’s sake.

A fist knocked at the door three times, and you braced for Kitty to simply let herself in. But the longer the silence after lingered, the surer you became that, whoever was on the other side of the door, wasn’t Kitty.

“Come in!” You called, not making any efforts to obscure either yourself of Logan. The whole mansion knew by now, it wasn’t like you were trying to keep it a secret. The door opened to reveal Ororo, her white hair neatly tied back from her face. 

“Morning! Just wanted to– oh. Hey Logan…” she eyed the two of you suspiciously and you shared a glance with him. The fact he was only dressed in a towel and you in a loose tee and boxer briefs didn’t exactly help your case of innocence. “Right… anyway, I guess this saves me two trips. Xavier has a conference in Connecticut, Jean’s going with him. They’re giving a talk on starting up a new school for both mutants and humans to start coexisting, so you’re both on babysitting duty.”

Your heart sank. “What the hell are you and Scott doing?!” You asked accusingly, sitting up from Logan’s chest. Storm’s brows pinched like she seemed genuinely remorseful this was how things had to be.

“Tying up some loose ends for Kurt and Hank before picking them up. They’ve been away for a while now, but they’re back today. That and Scott has some errands to run, so we’ll be back late.” She explained sheepishly, and you groaned in frustration. The one day off you thought you could have and you’ve been stuck with babysitting.

The gods really like shitting in your dinner, don’t they?

“Alright… but you owe us.” Logan piped up, and you whipped your head to him in exasperation. He read your face instantly. ‘Are we really going to do this?’

‘Like we have a choice.’ he silently communicated back, and he knew you’d understood what he’d said when you sighed heavily, dragging a hand down the side of your face.

“Fucking fine, but Logan’s right, you owe us. And I was wondering where those two had got to, how long’ve they been away?”

Ororo loosened a breath of relief. “Thank you. And next Saturday? All your’s, I promise. As for Kurt and Hank, around a year or so? Xavier sent him off on a private mission not even we knew about until a couple months ago, just before you came back. We’re going to pick them up just to make sure they get here safely.” She didn’t seem too confident about wherever Nightcrawler and Beast had been.

“That dangerous, huh?” As if the mere mention of a dangerous mission set him on edge, Logan’s arm wrapped back around your shoulders protectively. Neither of you had been required for one since your return, and he was honestly dreading the day. 

“Kurt’ll explain more when he gets back I’m sure, but yeah, that dangerous. Hank doesn’t like to go on missions like these, but apparently, Charles needed his diplomatic expertise and Kurt’s quick getaways, so who knows?” Ororo shrugged, before looking pointedly at Logan’s bare chest and then your bare legs. “Do I even wanna know what you guys were up to before I knocked…?”

You laughed, waving off her concerns. “Having a coffee and chatting about the day we did have planned before being landed with babysitting duty, nothing exciting don’t you worry.”

“Unless you wanna talk about the shower…” You shot Logan a scandalised look, mouth and eyes wide in utter shock.

“Ew, no, I’m good, see you later.” Ororo shielded her eyes as she left as if she could unsee the mental image Logan had just planted there. As soon as the door shut you smacked his arm with the back of your hand.

“What was that for?”

“Did it look like she was gonna leave anytime soon to you?” You took a moment to think about it, and Logan’s expression shifted to self-satisfaction. “Exactly.”

Well, you couldn’t argue with that. You offered him a little, defeated smile. “Guess our day off will have to wait.”

He leaned forward, tucking you into his side before relaxing back against the headboard. “I’ll take you out soon, ‘kay? Promise.”

“Like, on a date or w–” You couldn’t even finish the sentence before he clapped his hand over your mouth, stopping you midway through.

“Enough. It wasn’t funny the first time, why did you think it would be funny again?” 

You stuck your tongue out to lick his palm, a foolproof method of removing someone’s hand from your mouth. Or, at least it had been foolproof in the past. But you raised your eyes to his face, and he looked at you with disinterest. “Not gonna work, firefly.” 

You adored that nickname. He never explained where it came from or why he started it, but it didn’t matter to you. As long as he never stopped. 

Thick black boots pounded the floorboards as you raced through the hallways of the mansion, vibrations humming up your legs with every step, your breath like fire in your lungs. Shouts and screams echoed in every corner, flashes of torchlight illuminating cones of white against the walls like searchlights. The Professor was away. Why was the Professor always fucking away?

Sliding to a halt as you heard footsteps around the corner, you quickly slipped into the shadows, hushed voices muffled as if underwater as you jumped to the ceiling. Light separated the shadows, and four silhouetted figures walked cautiously beneath you. You could make out the outlines of their guns as the torch shifted before the hallway was again drenched in darkness as they continued their search.

Morphing to the floor, you reformed from the black, stealing a quick glance behind you to where they’d disappeared. There were no students that way, Logan and Scott had made sure of that. The moment Logan had sensed something was off, the evacuation had begun, escorting the students silently from their beds and through the hidden channel behind the panel wall. You knew there were stragglers, but you focused on the knowledge Ororo and Kurt were with them.

How had things gotten so out of hand so goddamn fast? You’d woken up on Logan’s chest this morning feeling like a whole new mutant, comfort wrapped around your heart like an embrace. Now, the opposite couldn’t be more true. You cursed the fact that Jean followed Xavier around like a lost soul. You could really use her help right about now. 

A piercing, shooting pain rushed through your head as you clamped your hands down over your ears, crouching to the floor. Your eardrums throbbed as you recognised that ability, gut knotting at the realisation that Theresa was still inside somewhere, her sonic scream sending waves of agony through your mind before it stopped abruptly. Fuck.

With a new sense of urgency, you sprinted through the entrance hall, taking the stairs two at a time. If you’d been a little more focused on your surroundings and less hellbent on saving the girl, perhaps you would have noticed the line of guns pointed in your direction. One moment you were racing full speed down the first-floor hallway, the next you’d frozen solid as torches flared simultaneously, erasing any easily accessible shadow. You braced, knowing after they “killed” you, they’d turn away and leave you to sink into the darkness and reform. 

But they held fire, your strained pants the only sound in the eerie silence of the bedroom corridor. 

“They were right…” you whipped your head back to the voice behind you, knees bent in anticipation as two figures stepped from the room you knew to be Jubilee’s, and you prayed to whatever sick, twisted gods above that Logan or Scott had got to her first. The torches behind you revealed a man you thought to be in his thirties, a pair of thick, round glasses perched on the end of his crooked nose. He was taller than whoever was next to him and unnaturally thin. “We missed you dearly.”

You cocked your head to the side. “Come again?” You spat, eyes darting between the two.

The man just laughed heartily, opening his arms as if offering you a hug. “Of course, how could I be so rude? I’ve read the reports… Subject Five, if you could be so kind.”

Panic surged through your body as Subject Five stepped forward, a golden glow emanating from beneath its clothes. Your eyes closed instinctively as the hallway lit up as though the sun had risen, your hands flying to shield your face. 

“That’s a bit better. You look good, Eight, but you always were the resilient one.” You were barely listening, still caught up in the dawning revelation that you knew that mutation. You’d know that mutation anywhere. “We’re here to take you home. Subject One isn’t here, sadly, so I’m afraid you’re just going to have to take my word for it, but we really have missed you.”

“The fuck are you talking about?” you managed to grit, your eyes adjusting to the light as you cracked them open a little.

“I have to say, when I received word you were a teacher now, it almost made me laugh. You hated kids! Why on earth would you surround yourself with them? But then it dawned on me. A mutant school. If only my great-grandfather had thought of that at the start.” He continued as if you were engaging in nothing but a pleasant conversation in the park.

“Ya know, for someone who talks so much, you really are saying very little.” you quipped, finding a nugget of solace in the fact that this man didn’t want you dead, at least as far as you could tell. “Let’s start with introductions, yeah?”

He chuckled again. “You’re absolutely right. My name is Doctor Kreva. This man here, why you should already know him, even without Subject One to help out.” he was almost condescending in his tone, and you hated the fact he was right. You did know the mutant. And your heart bled for him. What the fuck was he doing here? Why was he raiding the school with this chucklefuck?

“Means nothing to me. The fuck do you want?” you snarled, to his further amusement.

“Were you not listening, darling? We want to take you home. My father was so stupid for letting you go,” it was the first emotion you’d seen on his face beyond sadistic joy. His eyes filled with frustrated hatred. “He never had the stomach for science. And after Seven somehow managed to kill my mother, a problem you so kindly took care of, he started to pity you all.” He spat like the word was venomous before he took a breath of collection. “Seven years it’s taken to track you all down and rebuild what he destroyed. Seven long years. But we’re nearly there. All we’re waiting for is you.”

Your breath got stuck in your throat. Seven years ago, you and Jade were picked up by Jean and Ororo on the side of that highway. How could he possibly know any of this? “You got the wrong gal, sorry bub.” Oh, you’d been spending way too much time with Logan. Dr. Kreva sighed, holding out his hand expectantly. Like a king’s attendance, one of the guards stepped up from behind you, making sure to keep his shadow far from your reach, before he slung a heavy pack from his shoulder, dropping it into Kreva’s waiting hand. 

The doctor took a knee, removing one of the thickest folder’s you think you’d ever seen, and holding it up. It was old. Incredibly old. Whatever colour it had been originally had faded to a pale grey, the edges frayed and splitting. He placed it on the floor face up, and your eyes caught sight of a label, though it was too far away for you to read accurately. 

“Everything you think you know is a lie, Phantom. Didn’t you think it strange your memories are jumbled? Important moments of your life scrambled or forgotten. Loose ends never tied, arguments never resolved? But this, this holds everything. Your entire life, in one folder. All eighty-two years you were with us.”

You scrunched your face, slightly offended. “I’m thirty-two, asshole.” You spat back, your skin starting to burn under such intense lighting, those threads in your body begging to be released into the shadows to escape. 

“So that’s the age he decided before releasing you. Interesting. Well, I’ll have Subject One rectify that when you’re back with us. Tranq her. Now. Subject Three, begin evacuation.” Before you could even turn around to defend yourself, a sharp pain spiked the side of your neck. You froze, blood draining from your face as you realised you’d been pierced with a needle. Heartbeat rising, you fought the urge to throw up. You didn’t know where your fear stemmed from, but you assumed it was when you were taken for blood tests as a child.

If… if that even happened. Because if you were to believe anything this dickwad said, maybe you didn’t even have a childhood. 

Your vision started to swim, and you angrily blinked the grogginess away. “Rowan… wh– what’re y– what’re you doing…?” You could barely finish the sentence as the tranquiliser entered your bloodstream, taking quick effect on your mind as you struggled to stay upright, your knees buckling as you threw your arms out to catch yourself. Shadows. You needed a shadow. But there was nothing to morph into. Nothing you could reach to rid yourself of this feeling. Everything became muffled, as if you were underwater, only barely able to hear a gut-wrenching roar before your vision went dark, and you were out cold. 

Logan raced up the stairs, fury pumping through his blood. He’d been looking everywhere for you, crashing through doorways and slicing through skin and muscle to find you. Hank had mentioned he’d seen you sprinting toward Theresa’s room after she’d screamed, and he didn’t wait to hear the rest of what he’d said before he took off at a run. He crested the first flight just in time to see three figures halfway down the lit hallway, obscuring your unconscious body. He didn’t even take a minute to acknowledge the light was emanating from the figure on the right, rather than the lights themselves. The man in the centre turned just as Logan bellowed a cry of pure, unadulterated rage, offering him a curious tilt of his head before the one one the left took hold of each other their shoulders, and they disappeared before his eyes.

He didn’t care. They were gone and you remained. That was all that mattered. Racing to your side, he saw the cause of your condition, pulling the tranquiliser out from your neck and cautiously lifting you into his lap, checking your pulse just to be sure. 

You were alive. Your heart was still beating. He almost shook with relief. 

“It’s okay, I got you firefly, I got you.” He soothed, brushing your hair back and cradling you against his chest. “You’re safe now. You’re okay.”

“Logan?” He turned his head back down the hallway, heightened sight able to make out Kurt and Scott by the stairs, Kurt wringing his hands with worry. “Is she–”

“She’s fine, just out cold. Theresa’s still in her room if you wanna make sure she’d okay.” He gestured to the room a few doors down, and Kurt jogged passed him, pausing as he saw the file on the ground. 

His eyes widened slightly, gaze flickering from the file name to your unconscious form, then back again, before looking at Logan. Crouching down, he flipped the folder so it was facing him, before continuing to Theresa’s room.

Logan froze as he read the scrawled, ink-smudged handwriting on the front of the file, his blood turning to ice in his veins. 

NLMO. Subject Eight. “Phantom”.

Logan paced as he waited outside the med-bay, chewing at the cuticles of his thumb. Scott, Jean and Charles were having a heated debate in the room to his right, he could hear raised voices even with the doors closed. Ororo and Kurt had chosen to wait with him, Kurt crouched against the wall opposite and Ororo fixed her hair every two minutes. A nervous twitch, he noticed.

Since Jean was currently held up in the furious discussion, Hank had offered to perform the routine checkups on all the mutants they’d managed to tranquilise, yourself included. It had been four hours since the attack, and he still hadn’t shown his blue furry face. Then again, there were quite a few students who’d been targeted, not just you. 

The meeting to his right went quiet before the doors slid open and Scott stormed out, a face like thunder. Logan couldn’t blame him, he had his own anger on a tight leash, simmering just below the surface. What the fuck was going on? Who the hell were you? Did Charles know about this? Did Jean? Was that why she’d been so strange lately after the training incident? The idea of the two of them knowing and not telling anyone made him want to tear apart the whole fucking mansion, and it seemed Scott was on the same wavelength as him for once. 

“Scott wait!” Jean called after him, running after the furious man, but not before casting Logan a cautious glance. He just glared at her in response, before she hurried to catch up with Scott.

“You should have told me, Jean. I’m supposed to lead this goddamn team, how can I do that without knowing who I’m dealing with. No wonder she can’t control her fucking mutation, and I’ve been made to look like a monster for wanting the situation sorted when you knew about this the whole time!” He heard Scott rage, and it was the first time he’d actually heard him raise his voice to her. It would have almost been refreshing if he hadn’t just answered one of Logan’s most burning questions. 

She did know about it. Oh, he was going to have a little chat with her later about that. 

There was a beat before Charles wheeled from the room, his face a grim picture. He loosened a breath upon seeing the three of them still waiting, his eyes lingering on Logan, the file held in his lap. Logan grit his teeth.

“Did you know?” Was all he asked, and Charles said nothing, moving his gaze to the med-bay doors. That just pissed him off further. “Did. You. Know?” he spat every word like venom, balling his fists in an attempt to keep his anger in check. 

“Yes,” Charles replied softly, as if speaking any louder would set him off. But Logan didn’t need him to raise his voice. That was all he needed to hear for his trust in the Professor to shatter completely. “Some memories are better off forgotten, Logan. You of all people know that.”

“Not her entire life!” He clamoured, causing both Ororo and Kurt to jump a little in surprise. He took a deep breath. It wasn’t their fault. They were as in the dark as the rest of the team. Except, it seemed, team telekinesis. “What’s in that folder, Charles? And tell me honestly. No more bullshit.” He seethed, though, to his subconscious surprise, Xavier held the file out to him. 

“That’s for you to find out. If you wish. But I’ll warn you, Logan. Nothing in that file is good. Nothing is happy. Everything that’s happened to her in the last eighty years or so.” He explained sombrely, and Logan didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or scream. Eighty years? How was that possible? You were thirty-two. You’d said so yourself. None of this made any goddamn sense. How could you just forget the fact you’d lived at least eighty years of your life? As if Charles had read his mind, which he most likely had, he spoke up again. “A powerful mutant with a focus on memory altering known as Subject One, or Obscurity. From what I could gather, he could alter and re-alter memories, planting ones that never existed and pushing those that deep to the farthest reaches of their minds. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best they had at the time.”

The best they had? The best they had? Logan wanted to punch something. Or someone. Preferably someone bald and in a wheelchair. But he refrained himself when the doors behind him whooshed open, and Hank stepped through. 

“All stable. Took a little longer than I thought it would. I think Jones will be out for another few hours, maybe a day or so. The poor little guy barely sleeps as it is, so a tranq knocked him for six.” Hank explained before sensing the tension in the room. Logan said nothing, almost knocking Beast to the ground as he breezed past him, uncaring as he was once again greeted by yet another sight of you lying unconscious on a metal table.

This was becoming a bad habit of yours.

“She should wake within the hour. The tranqs weren’t too strong, only designed for short knockouts rather than extended periods of unconscious.” Logan was barely listening, his heart clenching as you slept peacefully, hooked up to another fucking machine. How many of these have you been hooked up to in your life? How many other machines have you been monitored on? Was that how you received the scars? Or had that part of your story been true? Did you know anything about this? Or had you been lying to him the whole fucking time?

He had too many questions for you, but he knew how he could answer them. He extended a hand behind him. “Hand me the file.”

“Logan, you should–”

“Hand me the fucking file.” His arm shook impatiently, and there was a beat before Ororo took the folder from Charles and placed it in his waiting hand. Christ, it was hefty. Though, he supposed there was eighty years worth of information within its pages. Storm hovered next to him, sparing him a worried glance as he opened the first page. 

Well, any hope that it was another Phantom was quickly dashed as the faded type described you perfectly. From the texture of your hair and the colour of your eyes to the size of your feet and the length of your legs. His heart caught in his throat as he flipped a few pages, hearing Ororo’s gasp of horror next to him.

4th September. 1932 Ex.3 – 12 pm - 9 am. Deprivation / Indulgence Subject 8. “Phantom” / Subject 5. “Solaris” Observer: Doctor R. Kreva.

Removed all objects from Sub.8’s and Sub.5’s observation chambers, and installed flood lighting on all surfaces. Sustain peak lighting in both chambers for 24 hours and record findings. Since 8 and 5 have similar DNA, they have both been selected for this experiment. Their mutations, whilst similar, are opposites. Two sides of the same coin. Will repeat experiment with darkness at a later date. 

Hour 1 – No change in any subjects. Sub.5 seems extremely content with the change of atmosphere, it’s skin emits some kind of glow similar in colour and frequency to the light around. 

Hour 2 – Still no notable changes. Sub.8 raised its head to look around the chamber, perhaps seeking refuge from the light. Only movement in the last two hours.

Hour 5 – Sub.8’s behaviour has become noticeably erratic, its eyes flickering all around the room, has yet to make a move. Sub.5 has remarkably begun creating its own lights, I have included a sketch of my findings below.

Hour 8 – Due to the lack of shadows, Sub.8’s movements have become peculiar. At times, fast and frantic, searching the room for refuge, whereas other times it would be slow and sluggish, barely able to lifts its head to look around. 

Hour 10 – Much the same as Sub.8 in the dark, Sub.5 had disappeared completely. We can only assume, due to the similarity in their DNA, that Sub.5’s body has disintegrated into the light. Sub.8’s vitals are spiking and dipping seemingly randomly. Its body lags when it moves, almost glitching into shadow with every movement. Is this the molecules trying to release?

Hour 17 – Sub.5 has returned, its hair is now elevated above its head and its eyes no longer resemble that of a human’s. Where there should be an iris and pupil, there is now nothing but smouldering light. Sub.8 has begun writhing, parts of its body disintegrating and reforming where it lies. Is it in pain? 

Hour 19 – Sub.8 has started to scream. It’s interesting. With every breath, its entire body shudders as if trying to phase through the fabric of light itself, like Sub.5 can do. Its fingers bleed from frantically clawing at the ground and blood is leaking from its nose. Will need a cleaning crew in hereafter. In contrast, Sub.5 Is now levitating approx. 5 inches from the ground. 

Hour 20 – Sub.8’s condition has rapidly declined in the last hour, its skin seems to have veins of black spiderwebbing across its face, hands and feet. Must make notes to strip both subjects next experiment, but for now I must assume this continues across its body. 

Hour 21 – Sub.8 has ceased all activity and now lies motionless. Vitals have dropped well below human sustainability, heart rate of 20 BPM, and blood pressure of 90/60 mmHg. How is it still alive? Sub.5 has begun wielding the light from its body. It seems as surprised by this as I am. It has been able to form duplicates of itself, objects, and what could be interpreted as a pair of wings. Could Sub.8 be capable of such things?

End of Hour 21 – Leaving the lights on for 24 hours would most likely be the death of Sub.8. With the slow decrease of light intensity, Sub.5 settled back to the floor, its eyes dimming before returning to what we shall now call the default state. Sub.8 remained motionless for another 2 minutes and 42 seconds before their body disintegrated. Interestingly, it couldn’t disappear before the lights were off completely. Saved footage of Sub.8’s disappearance, the infra-red camera pinpointing the moment its body broke apart. Fascinating. Placed them both back into the observation house, and monitored them for the next few days. Sub.5 is already up and around, behaving regularly. Sub.8 still rests in bed. How will this affect its interactions with other subjects?

Ex. Duration: 21 HOURS Ex. Outcome: Success Findings: See above. Memory erased: Last 21 hours Replacement memory: Cooking lesson, NLMO bonding Comments: Must remember to use the same memory for Subjects 2,3,4,6 and 7

Logan felt sick, bile rising in his throat as he blew out a shaky breath, checking the date three times to ensure his eyes weren’t deceiving him. Ororo whimpered a small sob next to him, her eyes scanning the page, her hand covering her mouth in utter devastation. Kurt looked between the two of them, not knowing if he wanted to be involved in whatever horrors lay within that folder. 

He couldn’t stop reading, some pages had notes about the life they made you believe you were living, a simulation world with the other seven, not dissimilar to the danger room. Only, every time you ‘went out on an errand’, or ‘went to work’, it was just a replacement memory for when they pulled you out for experimentations. Those were the pages that had shattered his very soul. What they did to you… How could they have been getting away with this for so long?

He continued flicking through, thumbing stacks of pages at a time before he settled on a less faded sheet, dated much more recently. He only read the first line before Ororo looked away, her head in her hands, Kurt bamfing next to her to hold her as she sobbed.

22nd September. 2008 Ex.1,243 6 pm-6:50 pm Pain Tolerance / Resilience Subject 8. “Phantom” Observer: Dr. J. Kreva

It has been noted that Sub.8’s tolerance for pain is exceptionally high. It can easily disappear with surface-level wounds and reappear as good as new. I want to test its durability to its limits and discover how deep we can wound it before we start leaving scars. In order to accomplish this without endangering Sub.8’s life, it will be stripped of clothing and strapped to the operating table and I have given us ten-minute windows. Using the same light-flooded room as Ex.3, a team will be entering the room with various appliances, following the strict instructions of careful harming, before leaving for the lights to be shut off. Sub.8 has been known to fight back, unlike its counterpart Sub.5, and we have lost good people to its unpredictability. So we will be using Sub.5 as a bargaining chip. It has been noted these two have some kind of relationship similar to that we would typically see in siblings. If Sub.8 refuses to cooperate, the team has permission to harm Sub.5 to whatever they deem necessary.

Each ten-minute window will be referred to as a cycle, due to the nature of the lighting we are implementing here. 

Under no circumstances should either Subject be killed.

Cycle 1 – Team TS8 managed to coerce Sub.8 onto the table, strapping it down with efficiency. It has yet to fight back, but it has noticed Sub.5 in the corner. It likely knows the terms already. A small cut has been made on its left arm, with no visible response from Sub.8, however, Sub.5 flinched. Interesting. Team TS8 left the room, lights still on. Nothing to note, Sub.8 disappeared and reappeared with the lightning, with no sign of the small cut. Though it is no longer strapped to the table. I am glad we brought along Sub.5. After seeing its capabilities in the mirrored experiment of Ex.3 (please see Ex.4), Sub.5 will be an excellent bargaining chip to ensure those abilities are not put to use.

Cycle 2 – Team TS8 has already threatened to harm Sub.5 to get Sub.8 to cooperate. Nothing physical yet, only threats. It understood and climbed onto the table itself, allowing itself to be strapped down again. It has said nothing in these moments, simply stared. Due to our already collected knowledge and the two-hour time limit on this experiment, I have had to jump a few levels of pain. I have provided Team TS8 with a conical flask of concentrated hydrochloric acid. It seems the jump was necessary, Sub.8 reacted with subdued screams and desperate tugging on restraints. With the skin tissue of its right calf burned away, I can see its muscular system is almost identical to our own, tendons working in the same way. Though this is no groundbreaking discovery, it is still important to note. Team TS8 left the room along with Sub.5, who seemed reluctant. Sub.8’s breathing is erratic, and it claws at the table in a similar way it did during Ex.3. Does this have any practical benefit or is this simply to ease the pain? It disappears once again along with the lights, a burn scar remains on its leg when it returns.

Cycle 3 – Sub.5 had to be harmed. I didn’t want it to come to this, but Sub.8 wasn’t cooperating as well as I hoped it would. We removed Sub.8 and Team TS8 from the room and turned out the lights. Sub.8 thrashed against restraints as it watched Sub.5 be beaten from behind the door. It agreed to continue swiftly after. Sub.5’s wounds healed as the lights returned. Their bond is a fascinating one, and one I would like to explore further. Sub.8’s Trypanophobia has been noted in its records, having an extreme reaction to the sight of needles. I have provided Team TS8 with various sizes of serrated needles with a diagram of its body. The idea was to see whether Sub.8’s mutation could remove things from its body by disappearing and reforming, or whether obstructions could prevent this. Sub.8 seems panicked by the sight of needles, surely triggering its trypanophobia. Once again it thrashes on the table with each insertion, though it only cried out when pierced in the side of its neck and its inner thigh. Perhaps these are somewhat erogenous zones? Or particularly sensitive places? I will have to make comparisons to Sub.5. Team TS8 left along with Sub.5, who seems to be doing very little to stop the process, though is exhibiting signs of great discomfort. Once again, Sub.8 disappears along with the lights, and interestingly, the needles are left behind on the bed, along with copious amounts of its blood. Not sure the cleanup crew could get those stains out. 

A sob wracked from Storm behind him, though Logan couldn’t find it in himself to tear his eyes away. They exploited your fears and used you to record responses for their sick, twisted gain. He grit his teeth, his jaw threatening to crack as his eyes continue to scan the page. 

Cycle 4 – We have recorded Sub.8’s behaviour on the brink of death in Ex.3, however it was due to lack of shadow. There were no threats necessary to encourage Sub.8 back onto the bed, the needles having been carefully removed. The next stage is incredibly simple. Team TS8 sliced through each radial artery on either side of Sub.8’s wrists. I am not a man easily haunted by much, however I do believe Sub.5’s scream will live in my memory for quite some time. I have made sure to set the cutting of the lights long before Sub.8 has time to bleed out. Sub.5 had to be dragged from the room, however, I can observe Sub.8’s body performing the same motions as it was in Ex.3 around hour 19, however, there is a complete lack of vocal response. Its body keeps attempting to disappear, though it has nothing to dissolve into. It’s fascinating to watch, parts of its limbs shimmering jet black before settling again. It’s like the molecules want to disperse. The lights have dimmed far quicker than the last three times. Sub.8 has not moved from the table. It has not disappeared at all, but it is simply lying in wait. Does it wait to die? Perhaps we underestimated its resolve. I have sent Team TS8 back into the dark room, a knife held against Sub.5’s throat. If it doesn’t dissolve, I have instructed them to make a small incision against Sub.5’s neck. It didn’t need to get that far, Sub.8 saw the consequences and immediately dissolved, though it took far longer for it to return. Perhaps the more severe the wound, the longer it takes to reknit the body back together. Will have to perform further experimentation on this. Two more scars have reformed on either wrist. Interesting. Will need to inspect needle incisions later.

Cycle 5 – It’s dead. I’m certain. Due to the ignorance and fear of man, I have lost one of my most valuable subjects. A terrified guard shot it in the chest several times and burst into the experiment. He didn’t exactly aim for it, but rather for Sub.5. It seems the bond between 5 and 8 ran deeper than even I could comprehend, 8 didn’t think twice about putting itself between the guard, taking several bullets to the chest. Four, to be exact, before he was apprehended. I couldn’t get the lights off fast enough, having to override the system I’d set specifically for this experiment. I wasn’t fast enough, and 8 suffered for it. It’s been here for the last 80 years, and one man ruined everything. Its body is still in the room. I haven’t found the heart to move it yet. Sub.5’s memory of the incident has been erased by Sub.1 once again, and replaced with a severe argument between it and 8, resulting in 8 leaving. I will most likely be dead before I find a subject as valuable for mutant research as Phantom. 

Ex. Duration: 50 MINUTES Ex. Outcome: Failure (subject fatality) Findings: I fear Mutants and Humans can never coexist Memory Erased: Experiment above, Sub.8’s death (for Sub.5 only) Memory Replacement: Severe argument. Comments: A devastating turn of events

Logan swallowed as he reached the bottom of the page. Was that how you escaped? Was that how you got out? They thought you were dead only for you to be able to heal from bullet wounds? Did you slip through the shadows? It took him a moment to think it over. No, that wasn't possible. The dates didn't add up. He turned the page over, seeing further notes scrawled on the back in pen rather than type.

22nd September, Ex.1,243 – Continuation. 1932, 11:42 pm.

The body has disappeared. I have kept the lights off since the incident at 6:50 and made the mistake of closing my eyes for a few minutes. When I opened them again, Sub.8 had disappeared. I sealed the doors immediately, hoping this meant it had somehow found the strength to dissolve back into shadow. Looking into the infrared camera, I have noticed the projectiles of bullets scattered where Sub.8 had fallen. Does this mean it’s recovering? Is it possible for it to recover from four bullet wounds to the centre of its chest? 

12:08 am

Sub.8 has returned. Remarkable. Though there are clear scars on its chest and wrists, it seems to have almost completely healed from the incident. This is a staggering discovery. Will need to alter Sub.5’s memory once again.

Logan dropped the file, pages still spread apart as he took a step back. This couldn’t be real. None of this could be real. What you’d endured, what you’d suffered. The scars that remained. You were right, what you’d said this morning. Mental scars leave the same marks as physical ones. Your body had altered to the memories they’d forced into your mind. They couldn’t remove the scars, so they made you think you’d attempted to take your own life. Made you think you remembered getting into fights as a kid. He knew what mutant experimentation was like. He’d had a firsthand experience. But this was on a whole other level. What the fuck was this all for? 

Now Charles’ words made sense. Some memories were left forgotten. He glanced back to the Professor, who nodded grimly as if to confirm all he’d seen. “My first act as headmaster of this school is to tap into the minds and memories of its students and teachers. Logan, trust me when I say, some things are better left in the past.”

He didn’t know what was right or wrong. Keeping this from you felt wrong but at the same time, you were happy with what you had. Was it already too late? Was that glasses-wearing motherfucker Dr. J. Kreva? How much had he told you? How much did you know?

“They were looking for her, weren’t they?” It was the first phrase he’d spoken since reading the file, pieces of your puzzle clicking into place. Charles simply nodded again. 

“It’s not safe for her to be here anymore. For the students and her. They know where to find her now.”

“Then what to we do?” Ororo asked through heavy sniffles, teary eyes looking between you and the Professor. 

“We take her off grid,” Hank said, setting down his glasses. He’d picked them up to read whatever was in that folder but quickly decided against it after seeing Storm’s reaction.

“But we can’t do that without good reason?” Kurt chimed in, casting worried glances around the room.

“Two years ago, I received signals from an environmental research facility we all believed to have been destroyed in a freak accident seven years prior. I sent Jean and Storm to assess the situation after the explosion, and that’s–”

“That’s where we found her and Jade… Oh my God, that was the site?” Ororo finished, her voice dripping with dread. “But… how did they escape? What happened?”

Charles sighed with resignation. “We don’t know. It would take searching her locked memories and risk pulling them to the surface to answer that question, and that wasn’t a gamble I was going to bet on, not after what I’d glimpsed in the past.”

Logan could barely hear any of this. His ears were ringing, white noise clouding his senses as he just stared at you. Your whole life had been a lie. A jumble of nonsense knitted into your memories by another mutant, reality locked away within the darkest depths of your head. He didn’t know what to do. His urge to protect you from this new threat fought with the urge to protect you from your own past. 

“The decision should be hers.” He interrupted the ongoing conversation, moving to take your hand and press a kiss to the scar on your wrist. “Whether she remembers or not. Explain to her what you said to me, and let her decide.” It was the only course of action he could see. The room fell into silence, all contemplating the suggestion before Charles moved forward to the file on the ground, picking it up and closing it. 

“Wherever you take her, wherever you hide her, take this with you. You can’t tell me where you’re going, and I won’t search for you. The less people who know, the better.” He instructed, and Logan nodded, setting the folder to the side. “When she wakes up, we’ll–”

“When she wakes up, you’ll what?” 

The room had been too caught up in their conversations to notice you stirring from your tranquiliser-induced nap. “You know, I seem to spend a concerning amount of my time unconscious these days.” You sat up slowly, the heel of your palm braced against your forehead as if to help the slight pounding at your temples. 

Logan was at your side in a single stride, his hands cupping the sides of your face delicately, as if holding you any tighter would cause you to break. Your relieved smile when you saw him broke his heart. “Hey Lo’.” 

Though that smile faded as he didn’t return it, his eyes brimming with an emotion your groggy head couldn’t quite place.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He responded, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, and it was as if that was all you needed for your headache to fade. You held one of his palms against your cheek, leaning into his touch.

“How long was I out?”

“Around four hours or so. You feelin’ okay?” Concern. That was the emotion you couldn’t pinpoint a moment ago. Concern and… heartbreak?

“Yeah… ‘m fine. Who died?” You asked, trepidation lacing your tone as you stole glances at the others in the room. Ororo had tears in her eyes, Kurt’s arm still wrapped around her shoulders in comfort. Hank looked more bleak than you’d ever seen him, his hands clasped together as if in mourning. You continued scanning the room, Charles offering you a look of sympathy before your eyes landed on the folder Logan had set down. It was like a trigger had been fired in your brain, hazy memories of before you fell unconscious rushing back to you in one big hurricane.

“Oh.” Was all you could say, and Logan wrapped his arms around your head in response, smoothing gently touches against your hair as you basked in the comfort of his embrace.

“How much do you know?”

[mono-blogs-art]

one of my favourite things in revue starlight is how winning a battle just does not matter.

in the beginning, it's pretty easy - you snooze you loose, your star is knocked down, and it's curtain call. whoever wins also has the emotional and narrative victory.

they start to break this down almost from the start. in episode two, karen comforts junna after beating her, and it brings them closer as friends. in episode 6, "winning" for kaoruko is ultimately secondary to gaining futaba's attention, and the two are chummier than ever after their battle.

hell, hikari's entire existence in the story is after she lost all her brilliance - by all accounts, she shouldn't even be in a condition to participate at all. but she got a second chance to fly to tokyo and to set things right, despite being severely disadvantaged. only when she's able to overcome her doubts and starts believing in her and karen's joint future, her weapon is transformed and upgraded. and of course, karen looses everything as well, but she literally claws her way back into the theater to get her rematch. for a series that tells you from the very beginning that you will loose everything if you don't win, and that there can only ever be one top star, in the end, winning the battle is secondary.

gekijouban really takes this to its extreme; every battle has a very clear winner and loser - but the loser always gains something more. futaba wins, but kaoruko not only gets her bike, but also a promise for the rest of their lifetime. hikari gets her ass beat in like, minute 2 of the performance, but is granted a literal medal and a second chance by mahiru to go do things right, for real this time. nana loses against junna, but what she gains is the brilliance she's been looking for all this time since episode 1. claudine properly defeats maya by simply besting her and knowing her weaknesses, and what does maya lose? exactly nothing - instead, they promise to play another round, and infinite rounds as partners. another promise for a lifetime.

karen dies. the protagonist literally drops dead, no heartbeat, and loses her life on stage and it does not matter in the end. she is stabbed, beaten, costume ripped apart, her body and soul emptied out completely and yet she gains her life and passion back. because it's not about winning or losing. it's about giving it your all, barring your soul to the art and to your partner. that's why the losers don't lose. that's why karen was able to "trick" the giraffe's system in the series, and also why the revues in the movie don't even abide by this system anymore.

i just really like it, and the more i realized that, you can really see the progression of the battles throughout the series.

[sugarlywhispers]

Thinking about best friend, biker!Bakugou, who always goes for you to pick you up in his big ass bike; no matter where, no matter when, he's outside waiting for you sitting in his bike with his arms crossed over his chest, a permanent scowl on his face for whoever looks disapprovingly at him because of his bad boy appearance. Piercing in the right side of his bottom lip, piercings in his ears, black leather jacket, black ripped jeans. You need him to pick you up from work? He's there. You had to stay late doing extra hours? No matter what time it is, he's there waiting for you to take you home. You need to go buy ladies stuff to the farmacy? He's there ready to take you, and then bring you back. You woke up at 3 am and want a snack? He'll call you an annoying pain in his ass when you phone him, but he tells you he'll be there in ten minutes.

One day, he picks you up at work because you have talked about going to see the fireworks show that was going to take place due to some celebration. He takes you to a place closer to where the whole show will be, people already around waiting. You sit on the grass next to each other as you keep talking about the events of your day. He mmhs and ahhs and pffs and tsks to everything you say, smiling and frowning when it needs to.

The show is about to start, and he sees your discomfort. He knows that even though you love the colorful lights, you hate the sounds of explosion; he knows it's a small trigger for your anxiety, so he takes out he's special airpods that he uses when he's riding his bike for longer periods of time and the loud engine actually annoys the hell out of his ears and they cancel every sound from the outworld but the music in them. He doesn't say anything as he gives them to you and you smile thankful at him while putting them on.

The show finally starts, you don't hear anything but the chill song 'Apocalypse' by Cigarettes After Sex as the spectacular shining in the sky illuminates above you.

Bakugou, even half way through the show, can't take his eyes out of you. Your face enjoying it it's even brighter than the lights. Your smile it's the biggest he has ever seen, and he has known you since you dropped a weight next to him by accident at the gym three years ago–you became instant friends since then. He has seen you at your best and at your worst, and vice-versa. But he has never seen such… beauty in your whole demeanor before as he does in that moment. Content. Fascinated. Relaxed. Happy. And your eyes… he can practically see the show reflecting on them, and he thinks it looks much better that way.

That's when he realizes. How relaxed he also is next to you, how he enjoys much more your reactions than the show itself, how the pit of his stomach flutters when you suddenly wooow to a big bright explosion that almost whiteness the whole sky. He realizes how much he wants to hold your hand, to kiss your cheek for how cute you look at that moment. To actually kiss your lips to discover if your taste is as cute and sweet as you look right now. To hold you in his arms to protect you from the world, because it doesn't deserve a person like you walking on it. You're precious.

The show ends, and the shine still glows in your eyes when you look at him, smiling big as you give him back his airpods, talking how amazing the show was and how cool and pretty all the lights were. You're pretty.

And as he can't take his eyes out of you while you speak, he realizes then.

"I'm falling in love with you." He blurts, and he has never said anything as sure as that.

You immediately shut up, completely taken aback. "W-what?"

His vermillion eyes don't leave yours, and he repeats, "I'm falling in love with you. Hard."

You don't know what to say. He can see the surprise and confusion in your face, but if there is something Katsuki isn't, it is a man that backs aways from his own actions or words. But he understands that probably this is too much now, yet he needs you to know.

"I'm not saying this for you to do something about it. I just want you to know it. Because from now on, I'll be whatever you need me to be. A friend, a lover, your driver, your fucking servant if you need me to. But I won't back away from trying to make you like me back. It's on. I'll convince you to let me be yours and you be mine."

Your eyes fill with tears, emotional tears that don't mean something bad but either something good and you don't know what to say, what to answer. But you do realize something…

He's always there. And he will always be. The butterflies in your stomach wake up and start fluttering around.

[celestialprincesse]

how about a reader x simon riley but reader has a big family. im talking 4 brothers and 2 sisters type shit. loving parents and a pet dog or cat for whoever still lives in the house. i already planned out backstories and stuff but i wanna see your take on this

this is so cute baby, but I'm like the least qualified person to write this I've got no siblings, although I do have two dogs, a cat and a horse.

I feel like, for Simon, he really doesn't want to meet readers family at first. His own were ripped away from him and he still struggles to accept that he'll never het them back.

But, for his partner, he'll do anything, even if that means going and staying with their family at their massive farm for a week, then that's what he'll do.

Obviously, they warn him well in advance of their hectic family, tell him that if it gets too much at any point to just tell them and they'll take a breather, maybe book a hotel for the night, or hell, even sleep in the barn like they did when their siblings fought.

Upon arrival, Simon's first thought is just how homey readers childhood home is. A big converted barn with a wraparound porch and a woman sat on the swing in the shade with a baby on her hip and a collie at her feet.

Reader perks up immediately, running to their sister and their niece, being wrapped up in a huge hug, the type that Simon (although he'll never admit) will always miss.

Reader will give Simon, who looks like a lost puppy, a little nod to join them, and readers sister already has him in a bone crushing hug, surprising for a woman of her size, and one holding a baby at that.

"Si! This is my sister Cassie, and her daughter Emmeline." Reader'll muse, squishing the tiny toddlers cheeks between their fingers, before pottering inside with an "We're home!" We're.

Reader's parents are equally as welcoming, and their two brothers also take a total shine to Simon, asking if he's ever Benn quad biking or if he wants to play paintball.

The lot of them come in covered head to toe in fluorescent blue paint, all except for Simon, who just stands there smugly, giving reader a little wink like his paintball skills are some strange attempt at wooing them.

Mealtimes are always wonderful, despite the ruckus of all - however many there are - of them.

Simon also learns where reader got their cooking skills from, and their mom is constantly plying him with inordinate amounts of food.

He also perpetually has to look at where he's walking, lest he step on a cats tail or dogs paw or kids toy.

He and reader spend their days laying in the sun and picking vegetables for their mom to cook with, taking the dogs for a walk or babysitting their siblings kids.

Simon realises, perhaps for the first time in his life, that just because he had one family taken away, it doesn't mean that he doesn't deserve another.

⊹˚. ౨ৎ

Did not mean for this to go in the direction that it went in but oh well !

[loverboykirstein]

biting the bullet // kinktober pt. 4/5

sam (sdv) x afab! reader

wc: 7,574

mdni -> warnings: mentions of addiction/neglect/throwing up/mental illness, unprotected sex, breeding, possession

***“go. whatever happened, whatever-“ he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “whatever happened, fix it. go-” another sigh, covering up his lack of words. “you can’t claim a broken heart that you broke on your own,”. 

you can’t claim a broken heart that you broke on your own. 

you did break his heart, right? 

you..

a deep breath, the last swig from the bottle that had mixed with the night sky’s tears of solidarity. 

on his feet, another deep breath for the road. 

“samson, go,”.***

the mismatched pattering of his heartbeat in his ears began to close his throat, chest cavity torn apart by the weight of a passing phrase. 

“can we do tomorrow? i’m taking them to the look-out on my bike tonight,”. 

what..? 

it was happening again. he let his guard down for just a moment, a fraction of a second, and his lungs and heart and every nerve ending were spilling out of his ripped apart being, invisible to all but him. 

you..seb..? of course you want seb. everyone does. we each have a role, right? just like mom? like dad? 

is there something that wrong with me? how do i atone for my sins in my past life to mediate the bullshit i’ve drug into this one? that’s the only explanation, right? 

it followed him everywhere, a sick joke that didn’t even have a punchline. in its wake, it simply stole his soul away, piece by piece, a sick treasure hunt of trying to rebuild and rebuild and rebuild. 

for what cause? to sit up and stare at his ceiling, snapping the rubber band on his wrist over and over and over again, a piss-poor attempt to calm himself down that never seemed to work. 

what was he supposed to do? he hadn’t even been handed the short end of the stick, simply tempted with it like a dumb dog and locked in a collar for the rest of time as punishment for his greed. 

the desperate, aching, bruising desire for a life. 

to be more than a secondary, to figure out who he was. 

to fall in love and not get hurt. 

to begin to trust without losing his joints in the process, left a brittle mess of grinding bones at the end of it all. 

to make the decision to live for himself, not for the need of the image of others. 

to make it out of a war-torn cage, to never follow in his fathers footsteps. 

to build a family that was wanted, unlike his. 

he wanted that with you. 

he never knew why he existed, or what the point was. 

then he heard your laugh for the first time, handing him an extra maple bar you had made and he nearly collapsed at the life that made his fingers numb and filled his lungs instantaneously. 

but now,  quiet trembles rustled through his bloodied fingers, too busy taking out anything he could on anything he could. 

near the edge of the valley, beyond leah’s quaint home lied a hidden little cave, behind bushes and trees and the occasional critter or two. 

his blood stained parts of the exposed rock, the only thing he could hit without feeling bad. far enough away, no one ever finding him out there. 

for no one to hear his violent sobs, his screams out to whoever was behind all of this, why, why, why. over and over and over, prayers for a reason as to why things had to be this way. 

but if he wasn’t home to set the table, his mother would lose her temper before the oven timer even rang. the sun finding its way back to the never-ending horizon was her queue, the so-called ‘acceptable’ time of day to numb the sorrow crawling near, pushing it onto the son she never wanted in the first place. 

which left vincent to his own devices, luckily not alone, but he knew he wasn’t doing well, penny not focused enough on teaching, more on playing, as she glued herself to the novel of the day, explicit enough to be banned from the library entirely. in front of the kids? really? 

so he would swallow his heartbeat, coughing up a stable voice through his constricted windpipe that built a facade good enough to fool just about everyone. 

he sat on his floor for hours. the hum of the washing machine was echoing through the paper thin walls. 

everything was else felt silent, felt quiet. 

except the unrelenting grave digging itself wide open in the middle of his messy bedroom. 

because things weren’t quiet. dad was fighting for god knows what, narrowly missing shrapnel with each breath. 

mom was mixing pills and booze, manic-depressive in nature and waiting until the very edge before it was too late. 

but the worst was knowing that you and seb weren’t being quiet. you weren’t asleep in your bed, cuddled up with your cat under a quilt and your childhood blanket held close. 

you were clinging onto him, body pressed against his. sharing a spot of the world that he had only seen once, seeing the city ahead of him that he could barely remember being a part of. 

the most he could remember was his childhood therapist, the only one who saw past his so-called laxidasical disposition and class-clown behavior. struggling with reading, a common case of adhd and anxiety all jumbled up inside of a first grader. 

a hint of dyslexia, and the guilt of his mothers cries he could hear against the locked doors, mourning a life without children. 

nothing a child should have to bear, tiptoeing as to not crack the paper thin ice that made up his floorboards. 

craving attention from the ones who created him, from the one who carried him in her womb. 

father rarely around, making up for the lack of stability in the form of a paycheck and health insurance. 

reprimand after reprimand, the only way to get his mother to look him in the eyes. 

acting out as a cry for help, at validation, at fucking anything. 

from the comedy covered pain,  he learned to always know how to make someone laugh. to make sure they could exhale a little bit of whatever was holding them back, even if it meant that he had to let it settle in his lungs so it wouldn’t fall back into theirs one day. 

he promised himself that he would never open up the small little lock on his exterior for anyone. ever. 

maybe he didn’t notice, or maybe you tripped the wires first, but the alarm bells never rang. no emergency protocol, no swot team to barricade his entire being shut. 

you left the door open, not even bothering to worry about the heat being on, letting all the cold air in. 

or maybe you didn’t even know, the key hidden in the corner of your room, under your bed mixed with dust and other lost memories. 

how was he supposed to face you again? he had planned on inviting you to the band’s first show, your excitement bouncing off the walls at the thought, when he mentioned the idea. 

even though they only had a few songs, rough drafts at best, poor attempts at writing lyrics in an attempt to give abi and seb the spotlight. 

also in fear, knowing someone would put the pieces together, that someone would connect the dots. that they would see the unrepairable shattered glass of his being behind it all. 

that you would figure it out, never looking at him the same way again. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖

weeks flew by in aching stretches, avoiding contact with anyone,  his only bandaid over the wound. declining invitations that could maybe bring you close, making your laugh ring in his ears or the smell of your perfume that would replace his train of thought. 

all his time spent sleeping, the sun becoming his worst enemy. 

braving the light only upon vincent’s summertime pleas, just to lie and say that dad was okay, that there was nothing to worry about. 

flickering his eyes between his brother and the beach entrance, hoping, praying, you wouldn’t appear behind him, or anyone for that matter. not strong enough to explain his absence, to explain the proverbial last straw that chewed up and spit out his barricaded soul. 

you would stop by, questioning his mother on his wordless disappearance. she didn’t have an honest answer, blaming it on music school? 

weeks turned to months, watching the seasons pass by. he couldn’t figure out why it hurt so goddamn bad. 

trying to process two decades worth of grief, wrapped up in his dna as he grew inside his mothers unwanting body. 

every effort, every last ditch grasp with a mildly politically incorrect joke, another brick laid on his wall of lies. 

why did this become his downfall? the dramatic, be all end all suffocating downfall. 

what did his subconscious craft while he wasn’t fixing up the cracks? too busy lost in your stories that filled him with a mix of worry and thrill all at the same time, the small scrunch of your nose, and the way you bit your lip when you lost your train of thought. 

two weeks after the attempt harvey made to check up on him, to ‘have a talk’, a government letter arrived through the mail slot on the door. 

kent was coming home. dad is coming home. dad is coming… home..? 

arriving in a week, realizing he had a week to build the wall back up. 

to rid his eyes of the rubbed-raw corners, saltwater leaving a red hue around his lashes. 

to cover up his sullen cheeks, too fucked to get up and take care of himself beyond the minimum. 

the hole in his chest mirrored the grave he had to step around when he got the courage to move, too deep and vacant to see the bottom. 

he couldn’t figure out why you were the one to kick all of this off, you weren’t even that close? sure, friends who saw each other all the time, near habitual meetings that would worry the other when routines changed. 

but you weren’t together, did he even have the right to blame you? 

you didn’t cause every ounce of pain he had endured through the fabric of his life, you didn’t stitch pain into the pattern of his fingerprints. 

but every goddamn thought came back to you. you, you, you. 

all he fucking wanted was you. 

it was pathetic, a childlike reaction to not getting something he made no effort to get. to try and make, to try and prove himself to you. 

you were probably waiting for the next rain by now, already modifying your cabin to accommodate your soon to be husband. 

FUCK. 

the 7 letters managed to make him ill, rushing past the all consuming ending cornering him against his wall. 

knees melting the cold tile, reaching to turn on the sink and the fan so that no one could hear him try and expel the hell of that idea. 

that he would get to sleep next to you every night, he would want love songs about you, he would get the chance to see the most intimate parts of you and so much more. 

everything sam wanted, gone. stripped away. 

but it was never his to begin with, was it? 

⊹ ࣪ ˖

a blur of days meshed together, world now sideways as a version of his mother he had never seen cleaned every corner of the house, paint chips repaired, hiding every dark secret she tucked away in his absence. 

the dread made him want to hurl, want to really disappear. how was he supposed to face a version of his father he didn’t know at all? 

two bags in hand at the doorstep, his mother and vincent sobbing in unison at their reunion. but he saw it. the visions in his eyes, the forced image of being alive was like looking in a mirror. 

he didn’t know what to do. he was stripped of anything he ever knew. any hopes of his life ahead. 

except his was lost in a real war, fighting for some sort of cause that came with a paycheck and praise and thank-you’s. 

sam’s was a selfish mess, ruining himself over the idea of something that wasn’t real over a goddamn sentence. 

a look of unblinking eyes, both bloodshot and sad, a nod of mutual understanding but also complete confusion. 

kent wondering what went wrong with his eldest as he was gone, mouth running dry when he recognized the look plastered on his son. 

a hot meal, the first real one kent had eaten without the threat of an air strike in god knows how long, mixed with his favorite beer he could finally share with his eldest. 

despite the distaste, sam took the opportunity to drink, no reprimands on something that would make him feel less. 

but it seemed to do the opposite as he stepped out into the pouring rain, clouds appearing out of nowhere as the sun took its leave. 

letting the cold, wet air settle the heat of panic in his stomach, he jumped half to death when his father tapped his arm with an open beer bottle. 

“take it,” kent tipped the bottle towards him, watching the rain patter on the glass. 

he nodded, nearly losing his grip as he swung back far too heavy of a drink, not wanting to taste it anymore. it tasted like guilt, disappointment. 

“kid, spill it. i didn’t stay alive to see the same look in your eyes,” kent’s demand knocked sam’s brain around in his skull, stunting his breathing and blacking out his vision. 

“what?” he coughed, knowing it wouldn’t work worth a damn on his unhappy father, who seemed to already know what happened, yet equally clueless as he had never asked about sam’s feelings before. 

“samson, c’mon kid. i-” he sighed, eyes tracking the rain on the porch make its way to the sidewalk. “i want to help you. i want to be a father, at least a friend. i realized that, alone out there. i can smell it on you, so talk,”. 

a lingering, sulfur filled silence crushed his passageways, nearly collapsing into his father like a small child after scraping his knee on the playground. 

‘i want to be a father’. 

“look kid, if you don’t wanna talk, that’s fine,” kent leaned up against the painted exterior of what felt like a new home. “just, whatever it is, you can’t run away forever. it doesn’t wor-”

“I DONT KNOW WHATS WRONG WITH ME, DAD,”. 

the first time he had ever spoken up to his father, that he had raised his voice. 

a cracked voice still managed to let the sorrow spill, pooling over his lash line and mixing with the rain. 

“i can’t fucking take it anymore-i-FUCK,”. 

his syllables were broken, caught between desperate gasps for air in his first cry for help. 

paper mache hands disappearing under the diluted salt, crouching down as if to save them. 

“she’s-” his words barely coherent, choking up his pathetic admittance. “she’s probably already gotten that stupid fucking pendant god damn it all,”. 

broken laughter, a mix of every feeling known to man, choked up with gravel and acid. 

“i never fucking did anything about it, either,” running his arthritic bones through his sopping wet hair, he looked up at the man who had just been through the troubles of war. 

real war. 

not the emotional one, the near psychosis-like state of a few months passed. 

“so do something about it,”. kent was cut and dry, the only way he knew how to cover up his heartache. 

his eldest, the one he held the most guilt for, the most agony for. the one he prayed for every night, the one who was his first thought every time a bullet flew past a little too close. 

he didn’t want to break, knowing that if his son watched him collapse at the sight, he would never forgive himself. 

“what?” nothing more than a scoff, but a halt of accidental waterboarding at the gasps for air. 

“go. whatever happened, whatever-“ he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “whatever happened, fix it. go-” another sigh, covering up his lack of words. “you can’t claim a broken heart that you broke on your own,”. 

you can’t claim a broken heart that you broke on your own. 

you did break his heart, right? 

you..

a deep breath, the last swig from the bottle that had mixed with the night sky’s tears of solidarity. 

on his feet, another deep breath for the road. 

“samson, go,”. 

his fathers gruff tone, eyes sharp and stern sent his feet moving, running. 

barely able to see in the dark, pouring rain, letting nothing but his burning blood carry his body to the place you called home. 

i have to fix this i have to fix this i have to- 

over and over and over again, repeating like a broken record, the only words left engrained. 

even though you didn’t know that anything needed to be fixed, he needed to fix things for him. he couldn’t look at his father the same if he at least didn’t try. 

soaking wet, hair in his eyes and catching on his tear stained blinks, out of breath and on your front porch. 

the only shield left was your front door, metal handle illuminated from your porch light. 

do it, you already got here, do it. 

scattered shallow breaths from running turned to shaky heavy ones, raising his still-bruised hand to your wooden door. 

two knocks, two seconds, two more. the way he always did before his self-inflicted imprisonment. 

“sam..?” you rubbed your eyes, shocked awake by his unnerving knocks in the dark. “what are you-come in, you’re soaked,”. 

you looked panicked, not bothering to worry about anything other than him being soaking wet and out of breath. 

he took his sopping wet shoes off at your door, leaving them to sit on your porch next to your rain boots.  with less than a passing second, you had disappeared and returned with a towel and a change of clothes. 

“sam what the fuck-are you-” running around in your pajamas, a short pair of flannel shorts and a tshirt that nearly covered them entirely, turning the heat on and running a kettle on the stove, his drying eyes were too focused on you. 

questioning why you weren’t out as late as you used to, knowing marlon had found you passed out cold on one too many occasions. 

“y/n it’s-it’s fine, i uh-” he stood still, shaking his head as if to force himself to blink. 

“go, go change before you freeze half to death in my house,” busy standing on your tip-toes to reach the top cabinet, barely able to grab the box of tea you kept specifically for him. 

peeling his eyes from your strained calves and your ass peeking out of the bottom of your sleepwear, he hurried off the other way towards your bathroom. 

the sight of your overly exposed legs was enough for him to twitch, his mind such a goddamn mess that he couldn’t really even remember what he was going to say. 

suffocating in your perfume that had soaked into your walls, he forced his rain soaked clothes off his shivering body. the purple hue on his lips, aching joints. 

hands on either side of the counter, flushed cheeks and sunken eyes, sam caught his breath, stealing any strength he could from the hardwood holding his hands. 

i have to fix this. don’t be a fucking bitch. suck it the fuck up, you fucking moron. 

hanging his clothes over the bathtub, towel still in hand, he caught sight of you pacing back and forth in your kitchen. 

chewing on your thumbnail, something you only did when you were stressed. brows furrowed, only snapped out of your endless loop by the kettle whistling loud. 

“better?” you asked, back turned to him as you poured him a mug full, adding a bag of his favorite tea from the traveling merchant in to simmer. 

“y-yeah. thank you,” rustling his hair with the towel, worn and faded, trying to rid it of any extra sorrow carried inside. 

“sit, mister,” you pointed at your couch, eyes stern almost like a mothers. 

he did as he was told, slowly caving in on himself as he felt like a bigger burden than ever before. 

“here, i’ll be right back,”. 

gently handing him the warm blue ceramic mug, the one vincent had given you after you spent your afternoons helping him learn to read, the corners of your mouth turned up slightly at the lax in sam’s shoulders once his joints found warm relief. 

grabbing a comb from under the bathroom sink, you came back wordlessly, floorboards creaking below your hurried feet. 

in a matter of minutes, you went from fast asleep on the couch, tv paused  from lack of activity when asked, cuddled up closely to your cat and your blanket, to wide awake and flustered, worried beyond belief. 

you knew that kent had come home, and you had planned to introduce yourself in a few days, allowing him time to settle in. 

rattling your skull was the fear that something horrid had happened, so bad that sam had run in the fucking rain to your cabin of all places after the endless era of radio silence. 

“so,” you sighed standing behind him, a small shadow casting over him as your body blocked the light in your entry way. “you gonna tell me what the hell has been going on?” 

your words were harsher than you wanted them to be, but fuck man, you hadn’t seen him in months, no matter how many attempts you made. 

pulling his head back a little, you began to comb through his incredibly tangled hair, feeling him dissolve under the slightly bit of affection. 

“can-can i ask a question..first?” his eyes were closed, mindlessly rubbing his thumb into his opposite palm. 

“only, if you pinky promise to tell me everything after,”. you stuck out your pinky, and he didn’t hesitate to reach yours. locking in his fate, peeling away the plastic film that was the only bit of his shield still remaining, your fingers crossed and released as the promise was sealed. 

“how are uh, how are you and seb?” it felt like blood came up as he spoke, riddled with sorrow filled expectations of what your response would be. 

“what?” you hands stopped their attempt to comb through his tangled blonde mess, stunned at the question. “were..fine? have you not talked to him recently?” 

huh? 

“no i uh- no i haven’t. i thought you guys were like…” 

“sam, you don’t think we’re dating, do you?” 

you-

“you’re..not?” covering his face with his hands, trying to hold any bit left of him together. 

“no? sam i-”. your breaths were deep, focusing all your downright confusion into releasing the knots through his hair. 

“oh,”. 

oh. 

“alright, now that your speculations on my nonexistent sex life are over can you please explain why you are here right now?” 

a black hole, all consuming, everything everywhere all at the same time. the inside of his skull, spinning, spinning, spinning. 

“i um-fuck, im so sorry, y/n. i’m so sorry,”. leaning his head back, fully into your overworked fingertips, soaking in every ounce of touch he could. 

“why are you sorry? sam you didn’t do anything, other than give me a goddamn heart attack,”. 

how are you not mad? 

how are you so casual about this? 

“i-” 

“if this is because of seb i swear to god i’m going to beat the shit out of you samson,” he could feel you shake your head in disbelief, as if he should have known or as if there was this big sign that was supposed to be placed in front of him that he managed to look right through. 

“y/n, i-”

he couldn’t cough the words he wanted out, embarrassment flooding his entire being, shame mixing in at a searing rate. 

he felt you silently leave, pulling his airways closed the further you went. 

so pathetic, so goddamn fucking pathetic. cant even tell her, what am i doing- 

“sammy, come back from whatever planet you're on please,” you were sat on the coffee table, knees touching his. two shot glasses in one hand, a bottle of liquor in the other. 

you set them both on the table, filling them each to the brim. dark amber syrup, so foolishly innocent, burning its way all the way past your lips. 

as if your voice didn’t make him dizzy enough, the liquor you kept on hand was always the strongest, outshining anything else he had ever had before. 

“each shot, we each share something. okay?” 

handing him his glass, clinking them together and kicking it back. 

he winced at the burn, the warmth bubbling in his stomach. 

he watched you drink it far too easily, better than you did the last time you drank together. your eyes, your soul looked tired, gone unnoticed in his own self-pity. 

soon the heater was shut off, both of you warm enough from the poison seeping into mutual bloodstreams. 

shot after shot, losing track in storytelling as he listened to you speak on your adventures in the newly found desert, all of the new weapons you learned to use. 

how he had tried to teach alex to skateboard, his first time getting high, struggling to find any reason to talk about himself when you were sat in front of him, inches away. 

he was simply infatuated, beyond infatuated, soaking up every breath to make up for lost time.

“oh! sammy, sammy,” you nearly whined, placing a hand on either one of his thighs. “will you pleaseee tell me where you’ve been all this time?” 

your slightly jutted lip, flushed cheeks and steadfast grip on his legs froze his surroundings, eyes locked on your pleading heart. 

just fucking bite the damn bullet. 

“i-seb canceled on me, that night he took you to the lookout. and i-” he leaned forward, heaviest sigh blowing fear out of the way. “i realized i couldn’t handle that. i couldn’t handle you being with-”

“sam-”

“i couldn’t handle seeing you with someone else when all i ever wanted was you, i just,”. 

“sam-”. 

“i knew that wasn’t fair to you and i just, i didn’t realize how much i-”

guilt ridden words cut short, your liquor stained lips shutting his. entire body pushed into him, not even enough time for him to fully register what was happening. 

is she..? 

“you’re fucking stupid,” you pulled away for a moments time to mutter that to him, pressing your forehead against his. “it has been you this whole time, idiot”. 

what? 

“what?” his eyes forced rapid blinks, unable to process what you had just said, what you had just done. 

“i-god damn it all sam LISTEN TO ME, i never went with seb that night, i wanted to do that with you,”. 

shock was the only way to think of it, the world frozen on its titled axis as it listened to your confession, to his heart that was on the brink of collapse as it beat so hard it shook the ground. 

a few short stutters, words falling flat. months of self-imposed torture, losing everything he knew, breaking his father’s heart, really was selfish, too scared to do anything. 

if he had swallowed his fear, faced the music, done something, anything. 

don’t let this get away. don’t fuck it up. don’t fuck it up. 

lifting his hands from his awkward side, roughly placed on either side of your hips. 

using a newfound strength, he pulled you from the table, right into his lap. 

falling into his wordless surrender, you let your body collapse into his, legs straddled on either side. 

your clothed cunt immediately rolled against his length, pulling all of the blood from his body to an aching throb under you. 

addicted to the sheer desperation in the air, gravity itself forced your lips back together, making up for months of time apart. 

feverish from the first touch, wildfire to a field of wilted grass, burning oxygen faster than it could be replaced. 

each heavy breath another exposed confession, his grip pushing you into him even harder another apology for leaving you for so long. 

tongues fighting for a chance at forgiveness, soaking up the words that were too hard to exhale. 

he let out a soft whine at your separation, instant drop of his stomach as you pulled away from his bruised lips. 

dropping your head to the side, he shivered under your heated breaths against the side of his neck. heartbeat nearly visible, your swollen lips pressed slow praises down, not leaving an inch untouched. 

opposite hand keeping his jaw turned, you trailed your tongue back up, a smirk hitting your lips at the twitch you felt against your spread legs. 

no permission, no hesitation, just a gasp from his aching lungs as you sucking a mark of sheer possession in the form of broken blood vessels. grazing your teeth along with your vampiric latch, leaving a bruise dark enough no amount of makeup could cover. 

your hips now indented with the lines of his fingerprints, permanently etched into your skeletal structure. 

“bedroom,” you whispered into his ear, sin coating your voice in blatant need. 

body driven by nothing but lust, he stood from the couch as you wrapped your legs around him, one hand cupping your ass while the other was itching to open the door to a new life. 

it was all happening so fucking fast. 

you wanted him. 

this whole time, you wanted him. 

letting your head hit the plush of your bedding, he loomed over you with two devilish sparkles in his eyes. 

one glistening as his broken heart glued itself back together, your touch ensuring that every piece was perfectly aligned. 

the other shimmering in primal greed, suffocating any thought other than possession. to not lose the chance to keep you all to himself. 

a needy look twitched in your jutted-lip pout, a wordless plea for him to take what was his this whole. time. 

now fluid joints, unphased by the ache in his tortured hands, hooked under your shorts, no underwear in between. 

warm fingers against exposed skin, the small bit of decency on the floor with one swift effort. 

cold air hit your already wet cunt, a small trail of your sticky pleads following your clothing to the floor. 

“can i..?” he looked up at you for a moments time, not wanting to lose sight of your glistening slit like his life depended on it. 

you nodded, not letting the small voice of insecurity speak up before your aching heart did, unprepared for intimacy to this degree. 

or intimacy at all for that matter. 

a touchy subject, too used to getting hurt. leaving your life behind in the smog coated city, one night stands back in the poorly painted walls of your studio apartment. 

you thought you knew what love was, the overwhelming panic, the world ending promises to be better, to be prettier, to be someone they wanted. 

forcing the thought out of your mind, each synapse in your aching brain going fuzzy at the first swipe of his hesitant tongue. 

it had been so long since you had been touched, too afraid to ruin a friendship in such a small town. to not overstep your place as the new addition in an already woven community. 

too exhausted to do it yourself most of the time, the thoughts only settling in when it came to him. 

a single brush of your fragile bud make your ears buzz, the sheer ache to feel it again, and again, and again. 

silent prayers answered, waters tested, sam’s tongue writing apologies and months worth of confessions in your pooling slick, feeding him the first meal of his life. 

placing your hand over your mouth, muffled whimpers replaced exhales, sharp inhales through your nose not providing nearly enough oxygen to your racing heart. 

“don’t hide, pretty girl,” his slightly slurred voice stuck like honey, pulling your hand away without a second thought. 

his plea a few octaves deeper, your walls clenching around nothing at all and with his drunken confidence. 

like he would die of hunger if he strayed away any longer, you lost sight of him between your legs, tongue teasing your pleading hole. 

“sammy please,” you couldn’t do anything but whine, a fistful of his hair in your shaking fingertips. 

pushing his flushed face deeper, nose pressed against your clit, shoving his tongue in as far as he could. 

muffled vibrations of his satisfied moans shook your core to near collapse, the slight movement of his nose making your legs quiver against the side of his head. 

thighs increasing their strength, ensuring he couldn’t pull away even if he wanted to, the telltale that you were already on the brink of release. 

the first of many, just the beginning to a man who would never forgive himself for leaving you for what felt like an eternity. 

no time for warning, words broken into a mess of jumbled up letters, your salty-sweet slick flooding his overworked taste buds at an alarming rate. 

nerve endings twitching, spine forced to endure repeated bolts of serenity with each spasm. all ten of his fingers bruising your thighs as he held onto them so tightly, a feeble attempt to keep you still until you rode out your first high of the night, your first in so, so long. 

finally able to breathe at the weakening of your hips, legs shakier than you would have liked them to be. wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, more than enough of you on him, and he loved it. 

meeting your blown out eyes, you couldn’t stop the nervous giggle that bubbled over, dragging his long lost smile out of the dark with each little sound. 

both hands covering your face, embarrassed, nervous. 

how a man like him, so gorgeous, so gentle, would want a single thing to do with you, you didn’t understand. 

hiding away your feelings for him for what felt like ages, heart shredded when he took his reclusive leave, without a word on why. 

weeks spent spiraling, wondering what you did wrong, how you could fix what you didn’t even know. 

“nuh-uh, no thank you,” his tsks were so thick, so heavy as he pulled both your hands away from your face, eyes softening just enough at the sight of your embarrassment. 

“do you want to keep going?” question so very gentle, not assuming like you had always known. 

and it was fucking hot. 

a quick nod, a little shy at the urgency in your reaction, but needing him anywhere was all you could think of. 

you watched him stand beside you, a better angle to strip himself of his clothes. 

nearly drooling at the sight, you could have died and gone to the highest bits of heaven, and it wouldn’t compare to the feeling of him looking down at you with his hand on his cock, thumb tracing over his pre-coated pink tip, silver bar glistening. 

oh fuck. 

each scar that covered his arms, each muscle contracting with labored breaths, made a whimper fall out of you, like a bitch in heat. 

“needy girl, aren’t you?” he climbed on top of you, urging you to sit up just a little so he could tear away the fabric hiding the rest of you. “haven’t been touched in so. very. long. huh?” 

usually, patronizing teases would have angered you to the third degree, but it had you melting into his palms like ice cream on a midsummers day. 

feeling his fingertips graze over your whole body, thumbs baaareely drawing circles around your nipples, another guilty whine for more, more of him. 

“think you can take me without stretching ya out?” his demeanor turned a little cocky, nearly pulling a bratty remark out of you, just to run his tongue against your over-sensitive chest. 

palming one tit, mouth fixed on the other, you nodded without thinking. a muffled ‘mhm’ and a handful of hair, pulling his fixated mouth away. 

“tell me if it hurts, okay?” a sliver of seriousness caught in the bubbling excitement pooling inside his blood, you knew he really did mean it. 

length in hand, he lightly traced his leaking head up and down your already swollen cunt, a small attempt at teasing you before he plunged inside your screaming walls, begging to pull him in and not let go. 

both hitching in air through gritted teeth, holding onto the last molecule you could manage as he slid inside, so. goddamn. slow. 

maybe in fear of hurting you, but really trying to gather himself at the sheer grip you had on him, regretting his own choice to not stretch you at least a little before letting his greed take over. 

so warm, so wet, better than any drug he had ever taken, or ever would. 

“s-sam, m-more, please?” you begged, batting your lashes ever so slowly to not give him a choice, but needing him so, so much deeper. 

any sense of restraint lost as your pleading eyes surrendered to him, and who was he to say no? 

he would never say no to you, not after what he did. 

an obedient dog, snapping his hips into you, flush against you. knocking the wind straight out of you, only thing you could feel was him. 

settling in, head dropping as he lost all of his strength, losing it all to restraining his urge to breed you right then and there. 

“fff-fucking hell,” his sputters were whiny, causing a slight spasm around him. the sound of struggling, barely keeping it together drove you fucking. insane. 

feeling full, feeling whole, wanting nothing more than for him to destroy you, molding your walls to the shape of him. 

“sammy, please,” you shifted your hips slightly, pushing against his hip bones, brushing the sweet, sinfully sweet spot you don’t think had ever been reached. 

his blacked out eyes, taking photos of the scene to never forget how goddamn angelic you looked under him, committing a cardinal sin. 

white-knuckle grip on your sides, bruising your bone marrow with his desperate grasp. 

jaw slacked, eyes locked on the mess of slick you coated him in, a slight clench in his jaw. 

free of his chain link leash, a feral animal let free for the first time since its previous carnation, learning to live again. 

focused on nothing else but you, your pleas for him to claim you, to mark up your insides far beyond recognition, begging for him at every breath beyond this moment in time. 

his whimpers mixed with low hums and exhales with each violating thrust, veins pulsing, a sick smirk pulling on his lips as he ruined you. 

instinctually squirming away, the urge of another trip over the edge already settling in, overstimulation hitting you like a bullet train without its lights on. 

feeling the slight quiver of your legs against his hyperactive body, a hand released your side, pulling one of your legs over his shoulder without a falter in rhythm. 

held hostage, you swore you could feel him in your chest as he fucked into you again, and again, and again. 

hypnotized by the furrow of his brow, glossy lips swollen from his hyper focused bite, holding back his own profanities as he tried to hold back his own release, never wanting the moment to end. 

if heaven existed, it was buried deep in your cunt, chest bouncing with each relentless thrust. it was the dig of your nails, grasping on to whatever they could. 

it was your fucked out eyes, watering at the corners in desperate need, in submission to his every want, his every dream. 

since that very first day, you were the thought at hand when he was fucking into it, edging himself for hours as punishment for thinking of you that way. 

but your innocent glances, and hard to read gestures every friday, the time you wore a that dress, dancing along with abi at the flower dance. 

taking the masculine role while dressed in a white skirt, a little too short for such a windy day, excusing himself to the depths of the forest. 

back against an oak tree, knowing seb would come looking for him at any moment, and god did it excite him in such a twisted way. 

he couldn’t fuck his fist hard enough to get the thought of taking you then and there out of his mind, flipping up your skirt and pulling your panties to the side. 

making you carry his cum around all day, slowly dripping out of you as you spoke to his mother. 

but this, the real thing, was better than any fantasy he could ever imagine, the sound of your sopping wet cunt pornograohically loud, each wall of your unpainted cabin holding onto your sobs for more, more, more. 

hiccups caught in your throat, back arched and nails leaving crescent moon cuts in his arms as your second snap pulled him in harder, deeper. 

watching you fall apart was the sweetest thing, spilling out onto your bedding as he refused to let up. 

a dangerous game, knowing he was teetering on his own edge from the start. 

“m-‘ya gotta let me know if this is gonna be-”, his words cut off by the purposeful squeeze of your walls, offering a raised eyebrow and your bottom lip bitten. 

nearly knocking the wind right out of you, he flipped you onto your stomach, forcing you onto your knees. 

“you think it’s funny, huh?” leaning over you to purr in your ear, only focusing on how empty you felt, needing his pierced tip beating the life out of your cunt. 

“mm-no,” you shook your head, face red, pushing your ass into him just a smidge, hoping he would grant you your wordless wish. 

a palm to your ass, red hot and stinging, a startled gasp slipping out as he lined himself up with your dripping hole. 

without a warning, his hips were pressed against your ass, one hand forcing your arch deeper, the other holding your hip to keep you upright as he rammed into you. 

mine, mine, mine. 

over, and over, and over. 

sobs of overwhelming everything spilled out of you, moans nearly cut silent by the permanent bruising to every inch of you. 

sucking him off so well, pulling him back in with a force greater than gravity itself, his jumbled profanities mumbled under his breath only making it that much harder to hold on to reality. 

“wanna-” stuttered breathing, feeling the twitch of his cock buried inside you flash like a warning sign. “wanna fill you up- m-make you mi-mine,”. 

higher pitched, through clenched teeth, you had never heard a man so shattered, so beyond steady that his eyes blurred. 

the most you could offer was the push of your ass against him, too close to your own unraveling again  to remember a single word. 

his hand slid from your hip to your swollen, battered clit, squirming against him as the warm pad of his middle finger matched his sacrilegious pace. 

a matter of seconds is all it took, suffocating his overworked length that much tighter, too lost in your own ecstasy to feel the ropes of sin inside you, met with a loss of rhythm and short gasps for air. 

a weak attempt to catch your breath, feeling him slowly relax inside you, blood making its way back to his shaking hands and overworked core. 

releasing himself from your now relaxed grip, his fingers ran small circles on your back, delicate whispers that slowed your heart rate to normal. 

drained, all the energy stored in the form of internalized anxiety depleted, no control over your emotions anymore. 

a silent sob, tears of everything allowed to flow free at your relaxed inhibitions. 

“shhh-shhh it’s okay, it’s all okay,”. he pulled you up from your knees, gentle fingers moving you to his lap. 

head against his chest like a child, he rocked back and forth ever so slowly, biting the inside of his cheek to hold back his own tears at the sight of you upset. 

what happened ? is she okay ? what- 

“never-” your muffled words caught behind a screen of hyperventilation. “never run away like that again,”. 

your heaving body against his, his heart paralyzed at the sheer heartbreak rooted in your syllables. 

so goddamn mad at himself for bringing you to tears, but so fucking relieved that you wanted him to stay. 

“i-” a tear stained hiccup, an attempt to bury yourself inside of him completely, “i thought you left and didn’t say goodbye,”. 

she-she thought i would do that..? 

“shhhh, no no no, i’m not going anywhere,” cradling your face, letting a small stream pool over his lash line. holding his breath enough to mask the sputtering spasms thrashing around in his chest. “i would never, ever, do that to you. i promise,”. 

“pinky promise?” you pulled your face away from his chest, blurry eyes meeting his. raising your fragile hand, awaiting his interlocked promise. 

“pinky promise,”. interlocking without hesitation, pressing his forehead against yours. 

“will you stay tonight?” body running cold, the fear of him leaving settling in your stomach, overtaking the bubbling acid. 

“i will stay with you forever if you asked me to,”. gentle, soft. thumb against your cheek. 

“will you stay forever, then?” 

“anything for you,”. a gentle kiss on the nose, a sigh of relief mutually exhaled. 

tears dissolving, mending two broken hearts as they dried. 

matched breathing, hearts beating in unison. 

anything for you.

---------------------------------------------------------

long time no see! so sorry this was so delayed, i had to work an insane amount of overtime at work and had a massive lyme flare up.

i have an alex fic in the works, who else would you like to see?

lots of love to @justwolosers for being there through all this!

mwuah! ᥫ᭡。

[familyvideostevie]

with the fortunate only

this is the "sirius is the new bartender at your local bar" option from this poll! After an awful day, a new face turns things around. | pre-relationship, flirting, cursing, 1.2k

You don't normally come here this early. In fact, you don't normally come here during the week. You've been going to The Shrieking Shack with your friends ever since you moved to the neighborhood, but only on Fridays and Saturdays and sometimes for Wednesday night trivia. But on a Tuesday at 4? You're the only person in here, considering they opened only a half hour ago, and your friends would probably laugh at you if they knew you were here alone. But today was unquestionably shitty and all you want is a cold pint and some peace and quiet.

Well, this is maybe too much peace and quiet. There is no one at the bar to take your order, which is kind of defeating the reason you came in.

"Excuse me," you yell. "Can one of you assholes get out here and give me a beer?" You flop onto a stool and plant your face in your arms on the bar. It smells like cleaning spray. You don't actually know who works Tuesdays, now that you think of it, but you figure you know everyone who works here by now. "Remus? Potter? C'mon, are you asleep in the back room, or something?"

There's a thud and the slam of a door and a curse and then you hear someone walk up behind the bar. It sounds like they're wearing heavy boots, which is a bit strange, since the boys are prone to gross sneakers and sometimes loafers, if James is late for work. You don't hear the thud of a pint glass on the bar top, like you expect, so you rise from your pathetic position and find yourself face to face with a guy you've never seen before. "Sorry, I was changing the keg --"

"Who the fuck are you?" you say. Okay, not your best introduction. But you're tired and mad and you just want a drink.

He raises one dark eyebrow. An eyebrow that has a piercing in it. In fact, he's got a few. A gold hoop through his nose and each earlobe as well as what is most certainly smudged eyeliner on his lower lash line. He's wearing the bar t-shirt but the sleeves are cut off to show inked arms, intricate patterns from his shoulder to his wrist. He looks like the kind of bad boy people write books about.

"I think I could ask you the same thing," he says. His voice is gravely. He flicks a curl that didn't make it into his top knot from his face and frowns. "Coming on a bit strong for half past four in the afternoon...on a Tuesday."

You groan. So he -- whoever he is -- is hot and a bit of a dick. Just want you needed today. "Look, I thought Remus or James or one of the people I know would be working here. I've never seen you before."

He shrugs and picks up a pint glass. "Your lucky day. What do you want?" You tell him your usual and he pulls it, whistling as he does so. You really wish someone would walk in right now.

No one does. "Aren't you supposed to wear a name tag, or something?" He sets down your pint and looks at his chest and curses. He holds up a finger and saunters -- no, seriously, he saunters -- to the back before returning with a square pinned to his chest that reads SIRIUS. Oh, fuck. You know who this is.

"You're Sirius?" you say. "The mystery third part to the trio of idiots?" You've heard about him from James and Remus. Though you're acquaintances at most, they've come out with you and your friends a few times and you chat when you see them at the supermarket. You were starting to think he wasn't real.

He smirks. "Sure am, sweetheart," he says. Is he making fun of you? Maybe, but why does the name sound good coming from him? He starts to unload some glasses from the dishwasher. "They've told you all about me, it seems?"

"Except for the fact that you work here," you say. You sip your beer and look at him as he puts the glasses away. Black jeans, ripped and just as you thought -- motorcycle boots. You wonder if he's got a bike parked out back. He's quite different from his friends -- Remus, all buttoned up and cheeky, and James, a whirlwind of jokes and charm.

"I've just started a few weeknights, nosy."

"What, did you get kicked out of a biker gang, or something?"

Sirius scowls at you. "Not very nice, are you?"

Is this flirting? "I'm perfectly nice," you say, primly. "Just ask your friends. I'll bet I'm their favorite regular." He crosses his arms and leans back on the counter.

"Well, I don't have favorites yet," he says. "And they aren't here. So you're just another customer."

"I had a bad day," you admit, though you don't apologize. Truthfully, you hardly feel the bad day anymore. It's as if the intrigue of Sirius and his slightly flirty banter -- unless you're being delusional -- have brushed it all away. Not what you had in mind when you came in here, but not a bad thing by any means.

He nods and clicks his tongue. "Been there," he says. "Tough shit." He fishes a toothpick from his picket and sticks it in his mouth. Your face feels hot. What the fuck?

"Tough shit," you echo. "I don't usually come in this early. Or during the week, actually." You don't know why you're justifying yourself. He works at a bar. Even if he didn't look like he's gotten into trouble himself, he's probably not phased by you.

Sirius flicks his toothpick end over end with his tongue. You have to look away and take a large gulp of your beer. "So when do you usually come in?"

You swallow. "My friends and I like to come at the weekend. Trivia, sometimes."

He nods, nostrils flaring. He smirks. "Are your friends hot, too?"

You almost spit out the sip you're taking. "Excuse me?" you say between coughs. He chuckles and starts to fill a glass of water.

"Sorry," he says, not sounding very sorry at all. "Too much?"

He hands you the water and waits patiently for you to take a sip. Okay, so he's for sure flirting with you. "No," you reply. "Not too much." But you think it's best to quit while you're ahead. You down the rest of your beer and start to dig through your bag for some cash. "I'll be off, though," you say. "Work night and all that."

A glance at the clock shows you've hardly been here a half hour, but you think if you have to sit under Sirius's gaze much longer you'll spontaneously combust. "Shame," he says, picking up your glass. "On me this time."

You look up. He's looking at you with those deep eyes and they feel a little less teasing than they did moments ago. "Thanks," you say. You gather your things and head for the door.

"Hey," he calls after you. You turn. "What's your name?" He's leaning on the bar and he does that thing with the toothpick again and you're sure his eyes run up and down your figure.

"Ask me next time," you tell him. The bells on top of the door ring in time with his laugh as you leave.

thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback, masterlist here!

[grunge-princess-nymph]

Yandere Dark Purveyors Headcanon

Author's Note: I was chatting with a friend online that used to be on tumblr until her account was deleted for some reason & we were chatting about this. I asked many other people to make a request of this, but they either busy with other requests or just not interested. So, I decided to make one myself. Enjoy!

To say the least, it's chaotic....literally chaotic!

Out of all the members, Zed would be the more clinging one. He would've threatened just about anybody who looks at you the wrong way.

Mariska would be one of those scary types of obsessive zombies. At first, she seems to be chill & relaxed like many hippies are. But slowly, she begins to reveal her possessiveness over you.

Josey is a pretty more chill zombie than the rest of the band. But it doesn't mean he don't have a obsessive side too. Just Let him see you with another woman/man & you get to see just how jealous he can really get.

Lewis is really a cocky one. He doesn't have to force his love onto his darling. In his mind, they are already into him, right? But like Josey, he will hunt down anyone who dares to even winked at his woman/man.

Despite they're possessiveness,, they would definitely spoil you.

And by spoil, I mean charming you with romantic bike rides, (Lewis) letting you touch Yumil, (Vikke) even cuddles. (All of them)

The good thing about them being scary obsessed zombies is that they each have a soft spot for you...

The worses part though, they can be aggressively jealous when it comes to rivals.

Let's say that one day, you decided to reject they're feelings for you...

It doesn't end well........for you....

The only ones who wouldn't understand the meaning of rejection at first is Zed, Vikke, & Josey, who would brush it off as a joke. But as soon they relized your....it's h**l on earth!

For one, Lewis would take it the worst. He will go out on a length & hunt down whoever stole his lover's heart.

Mariska would be chill about it. But don't let that fool you you. On the inside, it's like a tornado of jealousy.

And if you decided to leave them, you might wanna convince your other lovers to stay at your place.

And you might need to lock your doors & windows.

Cause as soon as you do, they're coming after, not just them...........you

Don't think they are going to let you get away with leaving them for another lover.

There are just so many ways they can get rid of their rivals you come across.

Zed will have his mosh pit army tear your new lover apart from limb to limb.

Vikke would ripped them apart with his brute strength, hoping to show you what he do with rivals, or even feeding them to Yumil.....or himself.

Lewis wouldn't be making a mess in the living realm. He drag them to his realm & kill them there, by shooting alot of holes in they're body.

Mariska can use her illusions to drive anyone crazy like they were on drugs or something, giving her enough time to kill them off....slowly & painfully.

Josey on one hand, can just turn them into a mindless undead minion when he feels that they could be threat to love growing between you & him.

With the lover out of the way, they're gonna lay low for a while until the time is right to strike.

Heck, they're probably going to start a apocalypse to get you if they have to.

Before you know it, you'd be finding yourself either trapped in one of Mariska's bubble traps or chained to a poll on Vikke's ship.

Obviously, there are going to be alot of ruthless fights with everyone except you, on the count on who gets to keep you & you know.......cuddles.

You can always count on your friend Juliet to protect you.....if she's still alive.

Just pray that things will end for the better for you.......while you're dealing with some undead unwanted admirers.

[boosoonhao]

highways: in color

minghao x reader 4.8k words dystopian au sexism and totalitarian regime warning

minghao curls and uncurls his fingers around the handles of his bike; the leather of his gloves soft and coarse all at once at the palms of his hands. he swears he can smell the scent of paint and spray cans even through the fabric. if he focuses hard enough, he could count each splatter of color that stains his hands, even when he can’t see them. blue; like the color of the sky, like the color of the official logo of palatium, right by the knuckle below his index finger. orange, like fire, like heat, like the shocking and provocative frills of jun’s jacket; a slim, but still visible line across his right palm. a dot of green stains his pants.

secrets are dangerous, in a place like palatium. minghao tiptoes on a fragile line already; features blatantly other (his eyes are too large, they say, his nose too characteristic of his ethnicity. it’s too obvious he’s not from here) and his crimes too loudly spoken of. it’s almost dizzying, how fast the narrative changes, how quickly he’d gone from heroic rescuer to enemy of the state. wonwoo tells him to keep his head low, to close his ears to the whispers and accusations. minghao appreciates the advice.

he’s just not very good at following it. 

____________________

the thing that minghao misses the most, the thing that reminds him vividly, almost eerily of his home country, is painting. he’d been a commodity, of sorts, back then; words like ‘artist’ and ‘genius’ and ‘prodigy’ tacked onto his name, spoken in soft, admiring tones. colors splashed against canvases; yellows and reds and blacks and blues. smudges of color on his face, underneath his fingernails, the smell of wet, thick liquid.

there was a shirt he used to wear back then, whenever he painted. white, soft fabric and bold, black letters. what font was it again – times new roman? – what did it say? freedom? such a foreign concept. but minghao remembers that shirt, remembers the sensation of smooth fabric against his skin, and somehow that keeps him sane on the days when he feels like he might burst.

once he’s safely out of sight, tucked away in a private nook right outside town, he gets off his bike, rips the gloves off of his hands. he shrugs his backpack from his narrow shoulders, clutches at the straps as he steps over rotten wood and grey stone. the air smells almost clean here; the sound of leaves rustling in a faint wind making minghao’s ears twitch to attention. if he closes his eyes and pretends, maybe he could hear the hums of birds, the hurried steps of forest animals.

pretenses are important in palatium, they keep you alive. daydreams, on the other hand; they’ll end up killing you. something metallic and hollow smacks against something else inside of minghao’s bag. not too far now, he promises, as if the contents of his bag have minds of their own. or maybe it’s himself that he’s reassuring. who can tell, these days.

the cans of paint he got from one of wonwoo’s girls. wonwoo hates when people refer to them like that, does not like the implication. the girls don’t mind, especially not the one who had gotten minghao the cans. they know how much wonwoo puts on the line for them; they wear the title as a badge of honor. not that it matters. what matters is that the girl had smuggled paint for him. minghao doesn’t ask how, only listens to the way the cans clink together in his bag.

the abandoned house, he’d found on his own. creaking floors and moldy corners; it’s a wonder the building still stands. remnants of whoever used to live there lingers in every room; a sundress there, a golden pen there, picture frames with nothing in them. it’s the most haunted thing minghao has ever seen, but it’s his, in a sense, and nothing else really is anymore. the inside walls used to be white, he thinks, the exterior of the house a faded red. when he first stumbled upon the uninhabited home the inside had turned a dull sort of yellow-y color. when he enters now, there are colors everywhere; symbols and drawings of his own creation. it feels like walking into an alternative universe. a world of his own.

when he steps inside this time, though, there’s someone else there.

you’re staring at the wall directly in front of him, your back turned to him. you do not see him enter, but there’s no doubt that you hear the way the door moan as he pushes it open. for a moment minghao thinks he’s been caught; that you’re an enforcer come to take him away. he imagines every public execution he’s been forced to witness, puts himself right in the center of it; the mental image enough to block his airways. it’s not until you twist around to face him that he realizes that you’re a woman. he hates himself for his first thought, then; that he has the upper hand.

“ah,” you mutter, gaze dropping from minghao’s face to his hands; stained with color and pale at the knuckles with the strength of his grip at the straps of his bag. “so you’re the one who’s been painting my house.”

____________________

it’s not your house, per se, minghao finds out. it is– actually, it is quite an impressive story; your parents rebels way back when the peacekeeper first took to power. professors, the both of them, too smart, too educated to bow down as easily as most of the masses. their marriage had been ‘voided’, your mother promised to another man; a man more suited to her genetics. the house had been their summer home, at the time. a quaint little cottage. minghao suspects it must have been quite cozy, at some point.

they had managed to stay hidden for seven years, a feat so impressive that minghao doesn’t even believe it at first. you’d been born in the very room you’re both standing in, spent the first years of your life here.

and then the enforcers came.

that explains the two graves in the garden behind the house.

“in town they call me lee,” you tell him, a stubbornness tinting your tone, a sort of distaste covering your tongue as you utter the last name, the one shared by the orphans of palatium. “but that implies i’ve been saved,” you spit. “at least that’s the intention.” minghao understands what you mean, has seen the posters and heard the sermons about the charity of the silent nuns. what goodness they all possess, dedicating their lives to the unfortunate children whose parents are lost either to illness or to sin. that’s clearly not the way you look at it.

minghao glances around the room, at the walls and at the droplets of paint staining the old floors.

“i’m sorry for intruding,” he tells you uncertainly. it feels strange, offering an apology freely. he hasn’t done that since he lived in a free country. “and for ruining your walls.” minghao used to be very proud of his creative abilities, used to relish in the way people looked at his artworks in exhibitions. he feels awkward, now; exposed, almost as if he’s been doing something wrong. he has, he supposes. painting is, after all, illegal.

“oh no,” you breathe, turn your head back to look at the nearest wall. there was this town hall building in his country that minghao used to love visiting. a bright house made of bricks; a clocktower in the middle of it all, a garden on the right side. minghao’s never been particularly good at realism in his art, but somehow the painting reminds him of that building anyways. “it’s beautiful,” you tell him, voice soft and airy.

“where is that?” you ask, fingers gliding along the painting. his own fingertips itch as if he’s the one dragging his hand over the surface. he feels coarse canvases beneath his thumb. “you’re not from here, are you?”

minghao blinks. “you guessed that just from a painting?”

laughter fills the space, makes the room feel ridiculously large and horribly cramped all at once; the sound of your voice echoing through the living room and tickling at his neck. “no,” you admit. “everyone knows who you are.”

at that, he grimaces. the only way his existence in the middle districts could be any more eye catching was if they put up posters proclaiming his crimes, and the government’s mercy for letting him live in the middle districts rather than the lower. the more he thinks about it, the more surprised he is that they haven’t actually done that.

“i heard you got at least twenty people across the border before you got caught,” you whisper. it’s not something minghao hasn’t heard before, the words following him everywhere he goes. a scandal, they call it. unheard of. should be executed. he nods his head slowly, does not trust his voice. “that was very brave,” you continue, mouth curling into something sad, something strangely reminiscent of a smile. “i’m sorry this is your reward.”

____________________

most people minghao know are born into the country known as palatium; his friends the first generation of adults who know nothing but the closed off walls and the strict regime. he can’t help but thinking you, more than anyone else, has been truly exposed to what it means to be a citizen of palatium; what it takes– what it takes; what it steals, robs, rips away from you, strips and destroys and tears from the very crevices of your soul. the first time – that is, the time after the first – he finds you at the house after your somewhat unorthodox introduction, it’s behind the house. trees hang over the roof as if they threaten to cave the ceiling in, as if they want to consume the house entirely.

he’s not sure what possesses him to go looking for you; he’s already been at the house countless times without your presence. somehow, the house feels emptier, now. so he looks. it’s not hard to find you, there aren’t many places to hide, and when he spots your hunched over form through a window (there’s a draft there, as if the winds beckons him in your direction) he feels a sort of tug. for a moment he’s not even sure that he should approach. in the end minghao’s still too curious for his own good.

“the artist returns,” you murmur, back turned to him. that seems to be your way of greeting. minghao doesn’t know how he’d mistaken you for an enforcer the first time; as you stand in front of the two wooden crosses, there’s nothing that’s not small, vulnerable about you. distinctly feminine, though he can’t stand that even he has started thinking that way. it’s unnerving, how easily one’s mind is reshaped.

“i hope i’m not intruding,” he mutters uncertainly, gaze dropping to look at the graves. there are no names there, but then, there are probably no bodies either. bodies aren’t buried in palatium.

you shrug, a barely there lift of your shoulders. you turn to look at him. there is red along your lines, like a rim of blood framing your eyes. you’ve been crying. minghao understands the compulsion, he feels like he wants to cry all the time.

you rub at your eyes, unbothered by how obvious that gesture is. “of course not,” you tell him with a twitch of your lips. you lean your head back, glance at his backpack. “i know you usually come on mondays.”

when minghao was an artist, people sought him out all the time. twitter dms, small compliments while in the line at starbucks. he wasn’t a celebrity, but he was known enough to never be lonely. he had forgotten what it felt like to be sought after. to have your quirks remembered and accomodated.

“i was wondering,” you continue, clearing your throat. for the first time, you remind him of the women he’ll see in the streets in town; meek and docile and almost afraid to look a man in the eye. it’s not because the gaze is familiar, or the stance is the same, somehow you remind him of the meek women purely for the difference in your coyness. in those girls, the ones who seem to have given up on freedom (freedom; like minghao’s shirt, like the studio that smelled of paint and freshly picked flowers), diverted gazes are a sign of subservience.

subservience. what a word. what a backwards way of life. minghao remembers his mother talking about the marches she participated in when she was young; the demonstrations for equal rights and equal pay. he wonders what the women of palatium would think of such a thing.

in any case– when you divert your gaze, gnaw on your bottom lip as if unsure whether or not your words are appropriate, it does not look like, does not feel like subservience. it looks like having power, and choosing to give it away. it makes minghao tingle, in a way that he hasn’t in a long, long time. it makes him want to paint.

“i was wondering if i could–” you pause, and minghao does not doubt that you’re weighing your options. he thinks he can guess at your thought process just by looking at the way your eyebrows furrow, echoing the slight frown that curls your mouth. ‘on one hand’, you’re probably telling yourself. ‘he’s in the same boat, he’s breaking the law, too.’ you blink, hands tangling into the fabric of your worn, too big sweater. ‘on the other,’ you might argue, ‘he’s got a lot more to prove, a lot more to win by turning me in.’ clarity takes precedence in your expression; you’ve made up your mind. “if you could show me how to paint.”

half empty cans of paint clink and clank together in his backpack. if he closes his eyes, minghao can hear the sound of the wind, can pretend to hear the buzz of insects and the hum of birds. minghao doesn’t need to close his eyes, the sight in front of him is welcome, for once.

____________________

minghao’s gloves feel scratchy against his skin, feels like a sort of prison of their own. like they’re coiled around his throat rather than covering his paint stained hands. no one really asks any questions about them anymore, though some used to be very curious. seokmin still eyes him almost distrustingly, as if he’s hiding something. minghao supposes that he is; only wonwoo knows about the cans of paint.

“you’re different,” jihoon notes, nursing his black eye with a wet cloth against his face. minghao wonders if he knows who you are, if you grew up at the same convent. it’s a possibility, a probability, even. but minghao does not ask, has learned that questions are just as dangerous as confessions. there’s a tint of teasing coated on the fluid tones of jihoon’s voice. not for the first time, minghao thinks that the smaller man could have the voice of a singer, had singing been allowed in palatium. it would certainly suit him more than the fights in the underground. “have you finally assimilated?”

the word is a joke, more than anything else. a part of the speech the peacekeeper had held in order to use minghao to spread the government’s propaganda. look, they’d say. here’s a heathen, a sinner. we will give him a chance to assimilate, to understand that our way is the way of righteousness. minghao has never been further away from assimilation. he thinks about fingers covered in blues, in reds; in purple. he wonders if you ever got the stains off your skin. he should get a second pair of gloves, just in case.

he never sees you in town, though he knows you must live somewhere. there are ghettos and apartments reserved for the lees of the country; cramped rooms and broken showers. seokmin and jihoon lives on a shared square of space, sleep on the hard mattress in shifts. he wonders who you share a room with. he wonders how you are, when you’re not surrounded by color.

“i don’t know,” minghao murmurs, so delayed that jihoon doesn’t seem to catch on at first. jeonghan sits in his corner, his jaw tight. thinking about the risks he’s taking, no doubt; minghao has heard the pretty man has found himself a partner. unmatched. that’s dangerous. that’s asking for it.

minghao’s stomach knots. he grasps for a distraction, finds that each subject that sticks to his mind is a distraction that needs a distraction on it’s own. “where’s wonwoo?”

silence. things are happening, minghao knows. things that are bigger than a hidden house and splashes of color.

“the woman from the lower district,” seokmin replies with a voice that drips of suspicion. “she’s taking him to see the firestarter.”

‘the firestarter’, that’s jun; leader of the aberrants. there was a time when the factions were visibly divided, when they only met for fights and for shows of power. things are happening. minghao has seen the tall man from the high district whisper words of information into jihoon’s ears during fights, has seen the blows grow softer with the passing months.

minghao should care. this is the important stuff. all he can think of is color, and a shirt with the word ‘freedom’ on it.

____________________

one of the upsides of being born in a free country, is that minghao is much quicker to recognize things, feelings that his friends don’t know the name of. seokmin might always be suspicious, but he rarely knows what he’s suspicious of. it’s just a general, constant feeling. minghao knows why he’s suspicious. when he’s scared, he knows why he’s scared.

when he enters the house, two months after the first time he did so, and he feels his heart pound loudly in his chest at the sight of the back of your neck (there’s a smudge of yellow there, he wants to rub it away with his thumb), he knows what that means, too.

his breath catches when you turn around to greet him. there’s something about it, about the light flooding through the glassless windows and giving your skin a strange, inhuman sort of glow. about the wall in front of you, the one that used to have his town hall building on it, but that’s now covered in squiggles and shapes and abstract symbols. it’s not something he would’ve put on display, back when he was an artist, but it’s something he would’ve decorated his wall with; something he would’ve privately held closer to his heart than his other works.

a month ago, you might’ve said ‘oh, minghao.’, in that wondering, pleasantly surprised tone of voice that makes minghao’s neck prickle. ‘it’s not monday.’ you might’ve observed. now, his spontaneous visits are not so unexpected anymore. minghao likes to think that you come around more often, too, because you’re as eager to see him as he is to see you. now, he’s greeted by a soft smile, a softer voice, just a murmur of ‘hello’.

he sits beside you, watches as you let your fingers flit across the canvas – because that’s what it is; not a wall, not a decaying surface of wood, but a canvas – fingers decorated in color. blues and yellows to create a vibrant green. reds and blues to create rich, royal purple. he gives you a pair of gloves that he’d managed to trade his weekly proviants for. his stomach rumbles, protests against the lack of food, but it’s worth it for the look of adoration when he’d handed you the leather that resembles the pair in his own back pocket.

you tell him about your parents, about your first memories from before the enforcers came. about peace, about solitude. you know a few letters, you proclaim with pride. your parents had made sure of that, before they perished. it breaks his heart, how pleased you are as you press your index finger against the surface in front of you, scrawl an awkward, not quite right ‘a’ there. b, c, d, e. that’s the extent of your knowledge. that is it. that’s all you have to cling to. minghao’s mother would have screamed.

he tells you about his own childhood, about growing up in a free country. he tells you about his mother, about the women’s marches and the co-ed universities. you marvel, hang onto his every word. ‘i’d love to visit some time,’ you tell him. he knows he shouldn’t say anything, that false hope is as poisonous as anything in palatium, but when he opens his mouth, the words still fall out. ‘i’ll take you some time. we’ll go together.’

and maybe it’s selfish, maybe it’s dangerous, but he still thinks that it’s worth it for the way your face lights up, mouth wide enough to cause a strain to your cheeks. that time, when minghao has to leave, you stand up with him, perched on your toes. you put your hands on his shoulder and you kiss his cheek. there’s something strange in the expression on your face, something minghao can’t quite decipher. but then that might just be due to the swimming, dizzying feeling in his stomach.

(love, love, love. such a strange thing, such a paradox. it makes minghao feel weak, vulnerable, exposed. it makes him feel strong, invincible. he didn’t think such a thing existed in such a dull, colorless place as palatium.

in the back of his mind, he thinks about jeonghan; who always seems to be walking on pins and needles, always worried, always waiting for bad news.

the spot your lips have touched on his face feels warm, even hours later when he’s racing kwon soonyoung and dino of the aberrants. he doesn’t even care that he loses.)

____________________

when he enters the house – your house? his house? yours? shared? minghao’s head spins – there’s a sort of tension lining the walls. a heaviness that not even the childish yellow suns and exaggerated flowers painted along the tired wallpaper of the house can quite manage to alleviate. you’re sitting in front of the wall you were staring at the first time minghao had seen you. there are different paintings there now; your first meeting feels like a lifetime ago. minghao can’t even remember what he used to paint before you.

minghao sits down next to you, feels an unbearable urge to reach for your hand where it lies fisted in your lap. asking someone if something’s wrong seems like a useless exercise. the answer is either going to be ‘yes’ or a lie, and there’s not much to do about it regardless. still, he asks, voice careful; barely above a whisper. you exhale. the look on your face is not so much coated in sadness as it is in resignation. and that might be worse.

“i have to tell you something,” you murmur, fingers reaching to fiddle with a folder lying right in front of you. the paper is beige, official looking. there’s only one reason to give a woman a folder. minghao’s heart drops. you lift your gaze, then, turn your head around to look at him. maybe you’re a good actress, maybe you have everyone fooled with your coy smiles and your soft voice. you don’t fool minghao.

“yeah,” you croak, facade almost completely falling as your lip twitches. you push the folder around on the dirty floor. you open it. as per the laws, you cannot read, and as such the folder consists only of images. there’s the blue palatium logo at the top, engoldened with the symbol that represents the soulmate method of marriages. underneath are pictures. minghao recognizes the face. “i’ve been matched.”

“choi seungcheol,” minghao says. the name has never sounded so bitter, the face of the high district racer never looked so much like an enemy. minghao never carried the same sort of disdain towards the nobles as his allies did; right now he swear he would rip seungcheol apart limb by limb had he had the chance. you must see the anger on his face, because you swiftly close the folder and hide it underneath your folded legs.

“he seems nice enough,” you hum, lift your arm gingerly to place your hand at his shoulder. your nails dig into his skin. somehow the pain grounds him. “i had a suspicion he was part of the nobles,” you continue, the twinkle in your eyes muted but still ablaze, still more alive than anything minghao has experienced in his five years living in palatium. “he didn’t seem like– like how i expected him to be.”

minghao puts his hand over yours. your fingers interlace. minghao can’t get himself to look at it, too afraid that the sight might completely unravel him. “you’ve already met with him?”

“a few times,” you reply vaguely, your voice tight.

minghao thinks back to his shirt back when he was a painter – a real one, one who sold pictures; not someone who just painted because it was all he could do to keep himself from going crazy – the one with the word ‘freedom’ on it. he feels as if caterpillars are crawling underneath his skin. the font, it wasn’t times new roman, he suddenly remembers. but surely it was something with serifs.

“a few times,” he repeats, only distantly aware of the sound of his own voice. he sounds hollow, like the sound of empty cans of paint clinking together in his backpack. “why didn’t you tell me?”

you sigh, untangle your fingers from his own. instead, you let them wander along the lines of his face, touch unhurried and fingertips leaving goosebumps in their wake. it strikes minghao that he won’t get the chance to get used to that sensation, that he’s barely caught up to the erratic beat your presence brings to his heart. there are a lot of times – or maybe just one unending, five year long instance – where minghao feels like things are not fair in palatium. this knowledge, this shattering sort of revelation still manages to throw him off, to make him choke.

“what good would it do, minghao?” you murmur, the question inherently rhetoric. the answer is easy, of course; it wouldn’t do any good. it would only have brought an earlier end to this thing that never even got to start. “i didn’t want you to know until you had to,” you add, and for a moment that makes minghao angry. angry that he has been kept in the dark, angry that you made a decision without him. he shakes this feeling before it festers; in truth you do not owe him anything. in truth you are entitled to the few choices you are allowed to make. he catches your hand as it makes its ascent towards his hair, brings it back down to his cheek.

for some reason he can only think of sans serif fonts; arial, calibri, helvetica. the palatium logo has a serif font; one minghao has never seen before. one that looks grotesque and horrible where minghao’s freedom shirt looked clean, sophisticated. for the life of him he can’t remember the name of the font.

“minghao, i–” you stutter, and for a moment your expression is completely open. there are many emotions he can’t remember the name of anymore, the sensations muddled and exchanged for a monotonous, but necessary indifference. fear. worry. helplessness. shadows of things that are too heartbreaking to name. your eyes look wet. your clear your throat. “take care of my house for me, will you?”

(if minghao kisses you then, hungrily and desperately and with a mouth far too open, if he swallows your breaths and curls his fingers around your ears, pulls you close and sobs into your mouth, unable to speak in any other language than a physical, silent sort of language, then that is between you, minghao and a house that belongs to no one, and to the both of you.

if promises slip between lips and get tangled with the kisses, if forbidden words are whispered between clinking teeth and echo-y cries, then that is a secret for the two of you to bear together.)

perpetua, minghao thinks as he steps towards his bike. the font on his shirt was called perpetua. he remembers because it reminds him of the word ‘perpetual’. ‘everlasting’. ‘never ending’.

he wonders if the heavy, crushing feeling in his chest is perpetual.

[moonshynecybin]

i know you have no way of knowing but just as a thought experiment, if they gave him a choice do you think next year marc would bring in frankie w him cause he knows ducatis best or santi because he’s santi?

maybe the most evil saw trap you could possibly conceive for marc lol. like he’s gonna choose whoever gives him the best shot to win, but he’s literally gonna feel like he’s ripping something out of himself with his TEETH either way… new daddy who has experience with ducati machinery and knows marc’s data on a ducati machine, helping him adapt and win on a bike that’s entirely alien to him, allowing him to enjoy riding a motorbike again after four long years of misery… or old daddy that he knows he can win with, that he’s known since he was a CHILD. that’s held him through ups and downs and the winding history of his injury…. that he still sees and is friends with and LOVESSSS. evil choice.

[avonne-writes]

I totally agree with your Benny-Buck twin post, Gale’s love would have been the foundation Benny was built upon and that could never be canon Benny, but it made me think of the possibility of what if they were siblings, they just didn’t grow up together. What if Gale’s mom left and only took Gale. What if, like I’ve seen in a few fics, Gale’s dad put one of them up as collateral and it didn’t end well. What if they got to spend then first ten years of their life together and then were ripped apart and didn’t find their way back together until they were older. Mostly, I think it would be hilarious to see the vandals or the 100th react to meeting Gale/Benny when they had no idea that was even a thing and one of them just shows up alone lol

Thank you, I’m really glad that you liked my headcanons 💕

This is an interesting idea. Letting the characters of the 100th mingle with these guys would be pure chaos! 😄 That would be the funny part.

The part about Benny and Gale being separated would be so heartbreaking and angsty.

What if the reason why Gale takes every responsibility on himself is because he was responsible for Benny and a part of him blames himself for not being able to keep Benny with him?

What if he tried to go back to his father's house / tried to hunt down whoever took his brother, but Benny had already run away? (I firmly headcanon Benny as a runaway kid)

The reunion would be full off suppressed feelings and unsaid things. I think they’d have a tense conversation, but Gale would eventually hug Benny and Benny would go with it like a puppet cut from its strings. Having Gale there again would turn his life around.

Johnny would, of course, dislike Gale on the spot because he would know that he could take Benny away from him. His dislike would become grudging respect once he gets to know Gale better.

I think Gale wouldn’t try to take biking away from Benny, but he’d try to do other activities with him, perhaps flying. The two of them bonding would gradually take Benny away from the club.

Let me know what you guys think 😊

[drinkpisser]

MY HESITANT ALIEN FIC, "HOW IT CAME TO BE" CHAPTER 2 ANDDD 3 IS FINALLY READY TO SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY!

thank you for waiting guys!! ^0^ took a little longer than the first chapter but hopefully it's still okay and whoever reads enjoys <3

PREVIOUS CHAPTER LINK:

(click Keep Reading to begin!)

----------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER 2: PINKISH

"This dream is calling your name."

A few months had passed by since Gerard's first day at the camp. Each morning, before everyone else awoke, he would cycle the narrow pathways of the woods to clear his mind- it wasn't something he ever did back home and most would find it rather unusual.

When Ray asked him about it, he shrugged.

Truthfully, ever since the encounter with the extraterrestrial, Gerard had not been the same. Ambiguous figures would slither past the corners of his eyes, he'd stare into the stars of the night sky with an unwarrented anticipation, not even sure himself what he was looking for, and all he could seem to sketch and doodle were variants of the mothership.

This is the one, he'd think, before ripping up the paper and restarting.

On this particular morning, he impulsively turned a different direction to take in new scenery because he found repetitiveness tiring. Of course, taking an unknown direction typically leads to some dilemma in most cases, yet that didn't seem to phase Gerard in the slightest, thinking unrealistically and all.

Swerving his balance slightly, a sudden fatigue dawned on him. He found it best to take a seat on a nearby stump, surrounded by branches leaning towards him. After regaining his senses, he observed that this neck of the woods appeared rather strange, the saturation of everything enhanced almost to a neon- trees twist and turn dangling fluorescent leaves, flowers spit shades of the rainbow and the dystopian clouds above swirl as they glide across the cyan sky. He could have sworn it looked like any old mundane part of the site before he sat down! He scrunched his nose in confusion, before then reaching out for his bike.

Just as he grabbed the handlebars, a distant, soft "Thud!" sent the pigeons flying in a scare.

Inflicted with paranoia, Gerard freezes. The only action he could resort to was a short and sweet use of speech, which is no good defence against a potentially malicious opposition.

"Is- is someone there?" he mutters.

Nothing, only a skitter within the bushes.

"SomeTHING... Maybe?" He slowly creeps closer, making sure to scan his surroundings as he leans forward. Using both of his hands, he separates the bushes in which the wriggling was heard, trying his best to ignore the nettles that pierced his palms in the process.

...

What on earth?

A toddler sized ball of pinkish fuzz sits bewildered, as though it may have hit it's head through the fall from each branch above. The fuzz on it's face is white, it's eyelids a pastel blue; upon seeing Gerard a curved grin forms on its face.

Instinctively, he backed away. As he did, the creature reached forwards with grabby paws. Tilting his head, Gerard shuffled a few steps closer.

It squeaks, scurrying away!

"Oh, crap!-" he cries, and once again, he is running a little faster, like an idiot. If Gerard was a cat, curiosity would have definitely killed him by now. Nine times. Eventually, the pair end up at an oddly placed flight of stairs, it's lengthy.

"I don't remember this being here.." Gerard scratches his head in confusion, looking down at the small alien for an answer. It begins to crawl up each step.

"I suppose actions speak louder than words, huh." Once again, he follows.

Gerard looks up, doing a harsh double take. He saw the very vehicle that gave him that fright so many weeks ago- he's being led into the mothership! How in God's name did he allow himself to be sabotaged by such a freaky animal, without even judging where it could take him?! He turns back. No, absolutely not, he cannot do this again-

Oh, Jesus Christ.

The most grotesquely unsettling, inhumane guards block Gerard's exit, ushering him with oblong sniper guns. Their skulls are stretched by their oversized brains, the six eyes on each side of their wrinkly faces staring deadpan into Gerard's soul. Taking a deep breath for his own sanity, he turns a stiff and full 180 back around, each guard standing beside him.

One anomalous move and he's toast. He keeps going, shuffling inside of the entryway. Those things could probably sense the fear within him from a mile away, there was no benefit in hiding it.

They make their ways through hallowed metallic halls, dashed with blinding lights on each wall, heavily supplied with martian soldiers. Each instance where Gerard looked around and gulped in awe, his neck was nudged back in the forwards direction like the hostage he was.

"Damn, sorry. This just reminds me of Star Wars. It's neat." he adds, nodding.

Over time, Gerard progresses in apathy. Each hall began to look the same. Each monument or picture framed on the wall became old news. Bored. So bored that even starting a fist fight with his captors would exhaust him to an extreme extent. Although, realistically, with sting plastered palms it would be more painful for him than his opponent.

Without warning, the fuzzy alien leading the way comes to a halt, pointing at a circular door... The cockpit? What was it doing leading Gerard there?

The tightly sealed door is accompanied with a turn of a wheel keeping it together. As it cracks open, Gerard realises that this is no ordinary cockpit, it was a spacious control room. What amazed even further was the cosmical view of outer space ahead of him in wide, circular windows.

It looked exactly like the dreams he had prophecised since he was small; to watch as the earth grows smaller in size and float behind him, to see the ashes of the milky way beyond a printed photograph, to cross lands even he wouldn't have thought existed. Most of all, what he really yearned to do, was to take passion past human domain. He wanted to preform, create precious art- If more than one intellectual species exists in our entire sense of being, they deserve to feel the phemomena of music.

He staggers forward in awe, unable to deflect his eyes from the view beholding him. The stars shift in formation, constellations bonding together. They attempt to fabricate letters in a language that Gerard doesn't quite understand.

He turns to the guards behind him, who drop their weapons in fascination.

The large screen above the entryway begins to decode, displaying a message in green digital letters:

"This dream is calling your name."

----------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER 2.5: BROTHER

Days have passed by.

In the eyes of everyone else, Gerard had vanished. Due to the emergency situation of a missing camp student, friends of his were scouted to different parts of the forest and local areas to place posters.

Ray and a newcomer called Frank were assigned the nearby town, as an opportunity for him to get to know the area better. Unfortunately, Ray was not his chirpiest self on this day. It's hard to be when your best friend is gone, but he still tried his best to be welcoming.

Frank himself was a spiky looking fella, his hair clearly damaged from all of its bleaching and dying. For the moment, it was a bright red- although, Ray had a feeling it would change soon. He had a few tattoos despite not being the legal age for them, some looked like stick 'n' pokes. His eyes reminded Ray of an excited puppy, observing all of the new surroundings and he was noticeably shorter than a lot of the boys he'd met at the campus so far. Frank looked slightly younger than him, perhaps by a year.

"What brings you here, then?" Ray asks, whilst putting up his last poster.

"Parents. They're tired of me slacking off and playing Mario Kart." Frank replies unseriously.

"Right, that's relatable," he sighs, "You wanna grab a bite in the cafe whilst we're here? I could do with a distraction."

Frank nods.

As they head into the cafe, the smell of freshly baked cookies fill their lungs, it's incredibly appetising.

"Hey, uh- I'll pay for 'em." Frank smiles briefly, "I know this probably isn't the best day ever for you."

Ray's eyes light up, taken aback by the offer.

"You're sure? I don't mean to be annoying-"

By the time Ray finished his sentence, half a batch had been purchased by a ravenous Frank.

"Here, enjoy!" he smiles, tossing Ray a couple of cookies and munching away on his own.

"Thank you," he also takes a bite, "I did really need this, to be honest."

"You needed a cookie that bad?" Frank smirks, smugly.

"Yeah but, I mean, just- company. A friend. It's been lonely without Gerard. I don't even know where he could have gone other than somewhere definitely unrealistic." Ray comments, challenged.

"Ah, sorry about that. Hopefully he just wanted out for a few days." Frank adds, overlooking the "unrealistic" part of Ray's sentence.

"He'd have taken me out with him, we go everywhere together," Ray stresses, "something happened, dammit!" he exclaims.

"Woah dude-" Frank puts an arm around his shoulder.

"Calm down, I didn't mean to upsetchya- he's gotta be fine. From the description of him on the posters, he seems to avoid trouble."

Ray sighs once again.

"Sorry, I'm sorry. It's almost been a week of him dissapearing without notice, I've barely slept." Ray apologetically rambles.

Frank pats his back and the two get back to their feast of cookies, awkwardly conversating along the way.

Meanwhile, back at campus, the head girl has a relatively difficult phone call to make. She dials Gerard's home number, hesitantly awaiting a response.

To her surprise, a voice too adolescent to be a parental figure answers.

"Hello? Who is this?" the young boy enquires.

"This is Gerard's summer camp, who am I speaking to?" she responds.

"Umm.. I'm his younger brother, Mikey. My parents are out right now- did he do something dumb?" he snickers, the grin audible from across the line.

"Not necessarily. I just need you to call us back when your parents are back home-"

"Tell me!" he puts on a serious voice, unsuccessfully disguising a chuckle.

The head girl takes a dread induced breath.

"Your brother is still ... missing. We learnt he was last spotted by a volunteer in the woods five days ago, who commented that his behaviour was weird."

Radio silence hit the line.

"Is everything okay? Are you able to tell your parents about this?" she asks.

"Uh.. what- what am I supposed to do now? Just sit here?" Mikey stumbles on his words.

"Unfortunately so until we can give any further updates. We need you to notify your parents, because it isn't looking too good- sorry you had to find out this way."

Mikey holds the phone with a slight shake, his eyes welling up. He'd do anything for his older brother, to protect him, just as Gerard would. Yet here he is, powerless on a phoneline on the one occasion that the role reversed. He felt bottom of the barrel hopeless, like a half of him had just vanished completely.

"I'm um- I'm gonna go now. Bye." Mikey shoves the words out of his mouth quickly and to avoid an outburst of tears, he hangs up.

----------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER 3: ARE WE RUNNING HOME, OR RUNNING FREE TODAY?

"This dream is calling your name."

Gerard is perplexed at the message on the screen. Where's the catch? Sure, experiencing this is admirable, but what if it's a trap? And what the everloving fuck is he doing on a spaceship to begin with?

A shadow emerges from the light, so bright that it's features are barely distinguishable. It's voice is androgynous, and speaks with charm.

"You did a pretty adequate job, Lola."

It ruffles the fur of the pink creature as it praises them.

"So that's what they're called. Lola. Hmm. I was thinking of naming 'em myself but i was stumped." Gerard comments with a hint of disappointment, "But are you finally gonna help me out of here or what?" he adds, slightly nervous.

"Not yet. We must negotiate... You are the only one who can see us. The only one who hasn't wound up dead by stepping inside of this vehicle, and most importantly, you were chosen by the machine." it's words slip with uncertainty and sour undertones, forcing the situation to be creepier than it already is.

Gerard grows in fear, his breaths drawing progressively sharper. The joy of his desires being so close in reach lowered his guard, he almost forgot the potential dangers of subhuman creatures!

"What the fuck could I have been chosen for? I'm the biggest loser at this joint! Even the janitor wouldn't fall for this- if you're gonna eat me or somethin' just kill me now already and spare me the pain!" Gerard snaps with stress, agressively gesturing towards the messages and strange posters on the walls in disbelief. The alien goddess blinks, humbled by Gerard's violent assumptions.

"We want to form an alliance with planet Earth without starting a war this time. We come in peace," the goddess explains, putting their webbed hands up, "my people are suffering from our highest deficit of essential living supplies in centuries. If an ordinary, likeable human being such as yourself can draw attention to us... We won't have to suffer anymore."

"Likeable, huh. Sure. But what if I'm not good enough? What about my family and friends?" Gerard averts eye contact, moping down at his dirty sneakers.

"It has been decided by unimaginably high divinity that you are capable, Gerard. As for your loved ones, they cannot know of our meeting yet. Not until you have completed your art. In six months time, we will reconcile and you'll be taken on a venture across space and time- and don't stress, your family and friends will receive explanatory letters from us if they don't buy it from you." the figure folds it's arms.

Gerard steps forward.

"So, I could really make music that saves lives?" Gerard meekly perks up at the luminescent lifeform, wincing with self doubt.

"Even better," it suggests...

"You could make history."

[hexalianrebel-blackfeathers]

Twinning

Panda’s Notes: Started this one in August last year. Could be wishful thinking, but I hope the boys get along when it's all over. Hope you guys like it. >w<

[Ao3] || [Commissions] || [Ko-fi]

Miles Morales was down in the garage hidden below his uncle’s apartment. He nodded along to the beat coming through his headphones, humming the tune as he dismantled a motorcycle that he’d swiped after a fight with some cartel goons. If he took it apart fast enough, he wouldn’t have to tell his uncle how he’d gotten it back to base. He’d drained the gas and oil already, and he’d trashed most of the outer casings—If he wanted decorative junk, he could hit the body shop whenever—now, he was ripping the engine apart, switching between the wrenches and screwdrivers laid out beside him by just the feel of the handles.

He might have ignored his phone buzzing the first time. If it didn’t ring, it wasn’t his mom, and it wasn’t a worry. When it buzzed a fourth time within 20 minutes, he realized something was probably happening. He sucked his teeth as he wiped his hands down; the bike wasn’t exactly ripped up enough to say he’d gotten it from the scrapyard, but it would have to do if someone was looking for him. He tossed the towel aside and picked up his phone, tapping in his code and glancing the newest notifications—What the hell…?

Aaron: [Ayo, come get your cousin] Aaron: [He gettin on my last nerve] Me: [my wat]

His uncle didn’t respond. At least, he didn’t respond fast enough for the new rush of confusion that was filling Miles’ head. He grabbed his jacket and took the stairs two at a time. He was joking; he had to be. Right? Seriously… But, even then, who the hell would it be dropping in without giving Aaron time to…warn… him…?

Hm…

When he got up to the apartment, he might have slipped into Prowler mode without meaning to. Time slowed to a crawl, and all of the world became that one instant as he took in every altered piece of the room he could: There were two pizza boxes and a box of soda cans on the table beside the window. He didn’t recognize the brands on either of them. The punching bag was hoisted higher off the floor than he remembered, and the record player was spinning another old R&B track.

“Tio?” He called, slowly stepping forward. “Uncle Aaron!”

“Yeah, man?” His gaze whipped to the couch, and Aaron was just…there. He sat on the couch, using a game controller to beckon Miles closer as he sipped from a cup. “You good?”

Miles pouted, and his uncle smirked slightly; Aaron knew it would take nothing short of a bomb going off to pull him away from whatever thing he was tinkering with if he was in the garage. It wouldn’t be the first time a metaphorical one was used, but he hadn’t thought Aaron would lie to him like this.

“M’fine.” Miles insisted with a huff, reaching to close the door. “The hell was that text though? Just because I’m busy doesn’t mean you have t—”

The second the door clicked shut, Miles thought he heard a step behind him. Before he could spin around, he was bear-hugged from behind and lifted up. His legs flailed as he shouted, and he tried to swing his head back against whoever held him.

“Happy to see you too, tough guy.” Miles recognized that voice, and all the panic transformed into that funny emotion smack between relief and incomparable rage.

Of course it was him.

He heaved a sigh before muttering several strings of Spanish curses under his breath, and Aaron laughed a bit as he looked back at them.

-----------------

“So, this is my cousin now?” Miles—um, Earth-42 Miles? Uh, 42? Sure—42 asked in a huff once all three of them were on the couch with pizza on paper plates and colored cups filled with ice and soda.

Miles—1610 Miles. Yes, it was his turn with his own name—smirked around a bite of pizza and reached behind their uncle’s head to push him lightly. “Picking up a lot of attitude toward the guy who brought you free lunch.”

42 slapped his hand away, hiding the little grin on his face with his cup. “Nobody invited your sneaky ass to crawl all over our ceiling.”

“Uh, my ceiling? Thank you.” Aaron interjected, reaching back to smack both of their arms from behind his head. “And you left your little communicator up here when you went down to work. I told him he could drop in.”

“Ugggh, why?” 42 put on the most exaggerated tone, unable to resist the grin that took over his face as Aaron and Miles gave him almost matching looks. “You know I can’t stand him.”

Aaron just shrugged, and Miles put on that offended look. “He had pizza. And you needed to get out of that garage. I know you skipped breakfast this morning.”

42 was about to argue when Miles butt in. “Oho, you skipped breakfast?! I know Mami was pissed.”

“Best believe. She texted me probably the second he left.” Aaron gently elbowed 42’s side. “She knew you were coming over; you don’t got anywhere better to be? No cute little dates with that Ganke boy?”

Miles nearly choked as 42 tried to shout over both of them. “You’re dating Ganke?!”

“Ey, ey, ey! We—ugh! We haven’t put labels on it yet, alright?!” He insisted, blushing madly. “What’s it to you anyway, you ain’t met him!”

“Dude, I have a Ganke; he’s my roommate at school. My best friend.”

“Ew, you live in one of those shoebox rooms? Could not be me.”

“Deflecting!” Miles pointed aggressively and laughed around some comments in broken Spanish while 42 sipped smugly and looked away.

“What about you though? You kissed your boy yet?” Aaron asked without looking at either of them.

42 coughed hard as Miles balked. “Aaron!!” It was almost eerie how their voices were exactly the same sometimes. Aaron just snickered, tossing his game controller casually onto the table.

“Ya’ll do a lot of bickering for supposedly being the same person.” He chuckled, crossing his arms.

42 rolled his eyes, wiping the side of his mouth. “Please. I’m still not convinced it’s not some kind of bullshit half the time. As if I’m anything like this goody-two-shoes dork.”

Miles snorted, crossing his arms. “Is that really all you got, eh? Disney channel lookin’ ass.”

“You wanna fuckin’ go, cuz?” 42 pulled his legs up onto the couch, attempting to lunge at Miles when Aaron caught him around the waist. He flailed for a moment, and Miles sneered. “Ay, let me go; the punk has it coming anyw—Wait, wait, don’t you dare!”

Aaron had shifted one hand, letting his fingers crawl gently on the back of 42’s ribs just below his shoulder blades. And Miles’ face lit up in shock as his doppelganger fell into near-hysterical laughter.

“No way, seriously?!” He snorted, and Aaron gave a slight smirk as he tried to keep his flailing nephew from squirming away from him.

“Oh, you’re surprised?” He chuckled, scribbling up between 42’s shoulders and pulling him close before he could flail his shrieky self onto the floor. “His mom always called it—”

“Angel Wings!” Miles said at the same time as Aaron, laughing softly as his eyes lit up at the memory. “Man, I can’t believe it; that never worked on me.”

42 glared at both of them as he was more or less dropped back onto the couch cushion, and Miles couldn’t tell if it was just anger or a sort of envy. “Bullshit. You have to be fuckin’ lying.”

“Pfft, well—” Miles stammered a bit, looking away in slight embarrassment. “Not half as bad as it gets you, clearly—Hey!” He dodged to one side as an unopened soda can launched past his head, barely managing to snag it with his web shooter before it hit something.  

“’Ey, chill.” Aaron said lightly, sneaking another tickle on 42’s back as he wrapped his arm around him. “Wildin’ out all the time… Staying in that garage all day is not helping you relax.”

“I don’t need to relax!” 42 barked out suddenly, only to cringe and cross his arms as he pouted. He took a few deep breaths, sighing when Aaron pat him on the head.

“Somethin’ you need to talk about?”

42 glanced between the two of them, and Miles leaned slightly to see his face. He let out a final sigh and shook his head. “Just stressed…” He admitted with a shrug. “Tired, maybe?”

Aaron hummed, nodding as he squeezed 42’s shoulder.

Miles let out a sigh of his own, setting down his cup before resting his chin on one hand. “Think we should call Ganke to cuddle with you?” He asked gently, letting the smirk grow on his face at the incredulous look 42 gave him.

“Nah, yeah, that’s three strikes.” Aaron chuckled, shrugging when Miles balked. “You can kill him.”

42 sneered, and Miles flailed slightly, about to run off when Aaron sneakily grabbed his ankle. His escape was disrupted just enough that 42 was able to tackle him off of the couch. They wrestled for a moment, with Miles quickly gaining the upper hand with his Spider strength…right up until 42 shoved his hands under Miles’ arms. Miles shrieked, pulling his arms in tight and kicking against the floor as he cackled. 42 balked for a second, his eyes and smile brightening.

“No fuckin’ way; you were actually right, you little shit.” He laughed, pressing his thumbs into Miles’ ribs.

“I-I’m taller than you!” Miles managed out between his laughter.

“You—!”

Aaron chuckled as Miles squealed, and he grabbed his game controller again while they fought. It wasn’t much of a fight for long—one of them did have super-strength, after all—but it was nice that his nephews were finally having fun.

[mel2530]

Gotta love the fact that Touga and Saionji mirror Anthy and Utena in a way. Not only that, but mister "i'm straight" keeps trying to convince himself he likes Anthy while trying to use the dueling games as a way to catch up to Touga, i'm 100% sure he was doing this somewhat unconsciously. He says he wants to beat Touga because he showed something eternal to Utena while he wasn't around and wants prove that he also can, but the truth is that he thinks their friendship didn't last because he wasn't enough.

Yeah, pathetic broccoli, you have nooo idea what happened to him and that is something that angers Touga a lot. Utena and Saionji have the same sort of stubborn streak and naivety that leaves Touga and Anthy wanting to rip their own hair out. Not that Touga was going to tell him what happened because he's a NORMAL boy, guys. His childhood was perfect 👀. He was the big boy, the responsable one. He can handle it and his deal with Akio is because he wanted, so it's okay this time

And even when he finally let's himself think of that time without thinking of only the hurt, showing even a sort of longing for the GOOD parts of that time (the scene where they bike together), he can't help but try to remind himself while also warning Utena. Whoever belives in friendship is a fool. But they seem to be actually talking and practicing at the end without any barb. It's a beginning

[thatgirlstrawberry]

💛Sunshine💛 - The Scene

In which you all read about Spencer’s family life

Overall warnings: Overall warnings: mentions of sex, children, violence, regular cm stuff

Spencer felt dizzy.

He felt like his whole world was shattering as he walked up the pathway to the safe house that wasn't so safe anymore.

He pushed through dozens of policemen and FBI but stopped when he reached the porch

No one had been inside yet. They wanted to wait for the BAU to get there first and there was no reason to suspect that anything was still going on inside.

Spencer was the first one on the scene. Morgan had stupidly called him while he was on his way to get coffee before he headed into the office.

Morgan told Spencer that the officer they placed outside of the safe house was murdered and her turned the car right around and sped to the house.

His heart broke when he saw that the door was wide open.

He slowly stepped inside of the house. He looked around and his heart dropped.

It was a mess. There was broken furniture, blood.

Blood.

He saw a bloody handprint on the door to the basement. The keypad was also covered in the red substance.

Maybe she and the kids got down. He thought, walking towards it slowly. He punched in the 3 digit number that he remembered from a conversation with Derek.

The key pad lit green and he heard the lock click. He slowly opened the door and peeked down.

His feet carried him down the stairs slowly and quietly. He stopped for a second to try and hear anything down there.

~

Joey sat against the wall in the darkest corner of the basement. Sadie was sat in his lap and he had his hand over her mouth.

He had heard the door open and quickly scrambled to scoop her up and away from the box of cereal she was eating out of. It scattered and spilled all over the floor.

Joey knew that Sadie was scared so he did his best to keep a smile on his lips every time she looked back at him.

He shut his eyes when the footsteps of whoever was coming down the stairs got closer. Sadie started to let out whimpers and he shook his head.

"Sadie, please be quiet." He whispered, almost inaudibly.

~

An open, spilled cereal box came into Spencer's view as he stepped on to the cold stone floor. He accidentally stepped on a few pieces and cursed.

He sighed shakily and looked around but the sound of whimpering made him freeze.

It sounded just like Sadie when she fell off her kiddie bike three years ago.

"Sadie?" He whispered out hesitantly, trying not to sound scary. "Sadie, bunny, is that you?"

~

Sadie ripped her brother's hand off of her mouth and crawled off of his lap.

"Daddy!?" She shouted.

"Sadie, wait!" Joey reached out for her but she rushed out of the dark and around the corner.

Joey scrambled up from his spot on the floor and ran after her, stopping when he saw his dad picking Sadie up.

"Oh, dad..." Joey tried to hold in a sob.

Spencer sink to his knees as Sadie hugged him tight. He looked over the girl's shoulder and held his hand out for Joey.

He ran forward wrapped his arms around his dad. "Are you guys okay?" Spencer asked, rubbing his children's backs.

Sadie could do nothing but cry into her father's neck and Joey was trying to get words out. "What h-happened to your mom? Where's Charlie?"

"Mommy locked us down here!" Sadie sobbed. "She was so mad!"

Spencer shook his head. "No, baby. I'm sure mommy wasn't mad at you. Where is she? Where's your brother?"

"He took them!" Sadie cried.

Spencer pulled her off of him and held her at arm's length. "Who, Bunny? Who?"

They heard footsteps at the top of the stairs and looked up. "Marcus Gellar." Derek spoke, placing his hands on his hips. "Marcus Gellar, Audrey's brother, is the unsub."

Spencer turned back to the kids and glanced back and forth between them. "Is that who you saw here? Uncle Marcus?"

Sadie nodded and Joey looked up at Derek and back down at Spencer. "He hurt her. He hurt mom."

"She was bleeding from her back and she fell on her belly." Sadie cried. Spencer wanted to cry.

He wanted to scream and cry and run out of that house and go on a rampage to find his wife and son.

But he had to take care of the kids in front of him. "Okay." He nodded. "Okay, I'm gonna find mommy but we gotta go, okay? We're gonna go home for a little bit."

"We get to go home?" Sadie asked through tears.

Spencer nodded. "Yes, baby, we're gonna go home."

Joey shook his head. "B-but we need to find mom and- and Charlie." He said, his breathing picking up. "M-om and Charlie are mi-issing!" He shouted.

Derek walked down the stairs and scooped Sadie up out of Spencer's arms when he noticed Joey's rising panic.

Spencer spun to face his son on his knees and he pressed his cool hands on his cheeks. "Joey, I need you to take a deep breath for me." He nodded.

"I ca-an't, d-" He was now gasping for air.

Spencer unzipped the boy's jacket, hoping that the tight feeling in his chest would go away. "Joey, come on. Breath with me." He placed his hand on Joey's chest and inhaled deeply, nodding his head.

Joey's chest heaved as a tear ran down his face. His chest stuttered as he tried to match his dad's breathing.

"Breathe with me." Spencer nodded once again.

Joey was finally able to take a slow, deep breath. He shut his eyes as he exhaled and Spencer gave the boy a sad smile. "There you go, Joe. Just keep taking deep breaths."

"Spencer." The man looked up at the top of the stairs. Emily and Hotch stood there. "We need to talk."

He nodded and looked at Derek. "C-can you take them out to the car?" He asked.

"No, daddy! Don't go!" Sadie began to cry again.

Spencer tilted his head. "I'll be right out, okay? I promise." He nodded. "Just go with Uncle Derek and I'll be right out to take you home."

Sadie nodded slowly and Derek and the kids walked up the stairs. He followed them but walked over to the kitchen where Emily and Hotch waited.

Emily cleared her throat, clearly uncomfortable and straightened out her jacket. Hotch's face was the same as always, stone cold.

"How did you guys figure out that it was Marcus?" Spencer asked as he walked over.

Hotch crossed his arms. "We'll explain that later. Right now, we need to talk."

Spencer bit his lip. "O-okay."

Emily sighed. "After we went to Marcus' safe house when we found out it was him, he was gone." She nodded. "And we immediately thought to come here but on the way, PD notified us of a call they got from across the street from Lisa and Cole's."

Hotch cleared his throat. "Marcus unfortunately stopped there before coming here." He explained. "The neighbors saw the front door open early this morning and went in. Both Lisa and Cole were found dead in the kitchen."

Spencer's heart hurt.

He didn't know how much more he could take. His wife and firstborn were missing, his unborn baby might be hurt, his wife was injured, his parents in law were dead. He inhaled deeply trying to choke down tears.

"Oh, Spencer." Emily whispered. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. "It's gonna be okay."

All Spencer could do was shake his head. "We just need to find my wife and my kid. Then it will all be okay."

Hotch sighed. "Spencer, we also need to talk about the case."

Spencer pulled away from Emily and looked at Hotch. "Okay...?"

"You can't be on it."

Spencer furrowed his brows. "I'm sorry- what the fuck did you just say to me?" He asked, taking a step forward.

"Reid-"

"This is my wife and my fucking child we're talking about, and you really want me to just sit around and if nothing?" He asked, not even realizing that his feet carried him closer.

Hotch tilted his head. "Reid, I would refrain from stepping any closer to me." He raised his eyebrows a bit. "Step back and we can talk about this."

He shook his head. "No, I'm taking my kids home. My kids need to go home." He told them.

Spencer turned away from them and walked outside. He saw Derek buckling Sadie into the car seat in the back of his car and Joey was sitting back there with her. Usually he would get in the front seat but he wanted to be with his sister.

Spencer nodded at Derek with a thin, sad smile as the man tossed him his keys. "Reid."

He paused and turned to him. "Yeah?"

"We're gonna get them back." He nodded. "I swear. If it's the last thing I do, we'll bring them home to you, got it?"

Spencer nodded. "Got it."

.•.••.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.••..

HELLLOOOOOOOO

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! (This is not edited)

Now obviously it would be boring as fuck if Spencer just sat at home while his team kicked ass so...

WHOS READY FOR ROGUE!SPENCER??? I know I am.

Also Sades and Joey are gonna be so traumatized and I feel bad but it had to be done for the sake of ✨drama✨