#terror creek au

[daincrediblegg]

pls pls pls do au explanation,, I am so fond of ur characters

Nonnie, I’m honored. But buckle up because jesus christ there are so many of these fucking things Cherry (@trantors) and I keep coming up with almost every week. Some end up getting fleshed out more than others, and we keep jumping back and forth between them (though we seem to both be VERY into the Terror Fang au lately lmao) 

The first and the probably most fleshed-out (in my mind) au is the Baffin Bay Museum and Aquarium AU (aka a Modern AU- think like the vibes of like the life is strange series but without the supernatural phenomena). In our little fictionalized costal nova scotia town of Baffin Bay, Francis Crozier is the newly promoted director of the museum, who oversees all departments after the recent and sudden retirement of former director John Franklin, but with the museum being underfunded, understaffed, and with low visitation, the stress of the job begins to get to him, on top of pressure from the local inuit community for historical/ecological outreach that they weren’t given under prior leadership, and a particularly nasty break up with Sofia Cracroft (who happens to be on the board of directors, who effectively pulled out upon Franklin’s retirement, leaving Francis with the burdens of keeping the museum running- but facing closure due to this sudden change). Despite his stressors and increasing alcohol consumption, a romance blooms between him and a member of the aquarium staff; Genevieve Sinclair (aka: OUR GIRL LADY TERROR), who cares for the seals in the aquarium. Much of this au is taking a lot of the themes from The Terror and throwing them into a more modern setting, and similarly finding ways to overcome them (and also for the Francis/Lady Terror side of things, discussing problems of modernity and addiction recovery and the way that effects perspectives and relationships- because I have studied the subject intimately and it’s one of those things about Crozier that made me fall in love with him and respect him like a whole bunch and I just think transferring that to a modern setting is a potent subject for lady terror to be involved in). Features include: Historical Ship Tours, museum politics, wildlife conservation and rehabilitation (both of animals and people), Frazzled grad student Jopson who is just trying to get his degree, nepo baby fitzjames, Blanky (running the historical ship attraction), his wife Esther (who owns the local favorite Cairn Diner, which all the staff frequent) and their two nightmarish twins. College besties Silna, Gen, and Amelia (who they take on as a promotional photographer and social media manager). College Buddies Francis, Blanky and James Ross (who all have matching tattos). Francis falling in love in rehab, Trauma from The Troubles, Francis in leather and jean jackets with patches about eating pussy that he wears while riding his motorcycle (literally this is what this au started from), neptune love, and just a whole lot more (literally there’s so much to this au Cherry I hope I got it right feel free to elaborate). 

An offshoot of this au (constructed just last week) is the science research/selkie AU, in which fitzjames and a team of scientists (including lady terror) travel up north to do research on seal behavior only to make a shocking discovery: a man living solitarily up there with a mysterious seal fur coat that he keeps on his person for survival. Little does he know that there is another like him on this same expedition, and a kinship that is formed between them. (this one definitely hasn’t been as fleshed out as others but Cherry and I are working on it. All I know at this point is cute selkie courtship swimming and fucking on their coats out on the ice in the moonlight and thats it. Because thats the kind of horny bitch that I am). 

Next up is the newly dubbed Terror Fang AU (aka: Vampires+. Think The Little Vampire meets Interview meets Dracula meets a whole bunch of other more niche mythical creatures that don’t often get a nod in a multiple mythical creatures universe- let alone with vampires). The story primarily centers around Amelia Dale (Cherry’s OC), a human painter, who travels to an island off the coast of England looking for employment, and when lost in a storm stumbles upon a castle belonging to Francis and Lady Terror (vampires both), who absolutely insist not only that she stay the night and wait out the storm, but to commission her to paint a new portrait for them in exchange for free housing and an extremely generous patronage. Amelia agrees, of course, but learns very quickly that not all in this grand house is as it seems, and that this vampiric lovers’ nest she’s fallen into is not as monstrous as she’s been led to believe (and, in fact, her presence brings out the best of her host’s humanity, unfortunately to great consequence). Features include: thousand year old once-celtic warrior Francis, Lady Terror with Witch Trial Trauma, intricate vampire wedding rituals, Brownie Butler Jopson, Fawn Blanky (the Groundskeeper), Kelpie Little, werebear woodsman Collins, intrepid experimental mythological creature doctor Goodsir, Selkie Silna, a fucking elitist Vampire Council to which Franklin, JFJ, Sofia and Ross belong, and van-helsing type (but low-key vampire wannabe) Hickey. (this one is easily becoming a favorite and in fact I am attempting to build their castle in The Sims. it’s nuts. I love them.)

Then there’s the western AU, taking place in a smart little upstart of a town called Terror Creek (think like Deadwood meets red dead redemption meets ravenous). Francis is the local sheriff, along with deputees Little, Hodgeson, Jopson, and Fitzjames of course, and Lady Terror is an entrepreneur who was sent by her father to oversee the construction of the railroad through the town (which she by proxy of her father owns). As a shy love blooms between them, dark deeds begin to occur in the surrounding woods, which they will be forced to contend with and investigate in order to successfully establish this township. Features include: Francis respecting whores but also being too lovesick to actually sleep with them, Tailor Amelia (who unfortunately has had to mend Lady Terror’s shifts multiple times and it’s all Francis’ fault). Cute cowboy antics. 

The final AU is one that technically began most of my endeavors with Lady Terror, but which the story has outgrown. Based on 1899 mostly (because I had watched that not too long before the Terror got me in a chokehold), but also with some very Ridley Scott elements, it follows the story of The Terror, but in space with a matrix-y bent in which the crew is trapped in a simulation, destined to repeat until a certain solution is reached (in which, all historical trappings remain). And in this one, the twist was that upon waking from the time loop via his survival, Francis discovers that Lady Terror is his ship’s AI who helped him lock everyone into stasis to spare them from an alien creature that has infiltrated the ship (and actually, this is where the Lady Terror nickname came from- as she is a literal representation of the ship itself, but has since taken on a whole new meaning). Features include: Building a fully functional body using the ship’s 3d printer so they can continue to be lovers when they’re not in the simulation, time loop shenanigans, falling in love every time, spacer general JFJ, and much more.

And I think that about covers the major ones. We HAVE dipped our toes into a pacific rim kinda AU as well but I've been warned on pain of death not to get too deep bc we have too many already. will actual fic for these see the light of day? who knows. but they are very fun. much to think about.

[sungbeam]

𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞

demon!ji changmin x reader (no pronouns used, but original fic was f!reader)

love. — what is love if not your steady heartbeat in his ear when he thinks you should be afraid?

4.7k words, established relationship, demon/supernatural creatures au, mild angst, very minor humor, bit of fluff?, mentions of blood, so much intimacy (skinship, cheek/stomach kisses), mentions of insecurities, swearing, use of pet names (love, sweetheart)

read night terrors / peruse the collection post

a/n: this lowkey just became a character study of demon changmin

THERE WEREN'T MANY INSTANCES where you were afraid for Changmin, nor were there many instances where you were afraid of him. You suspected that he strived to avoid either of said instances, especially regarding the latter. After all the two of you had experienced with one another, it seemed important to him that you could trust him and were not scared. 

It was difficult for him to fully accept that he did not frighten you in some way. Part of that reason, you guessed, was simply his awareness of how others viewed his species.

What was he but a mortal's night terror, a creature of evil?

To him, you should have been sleeping with a stake beneath your pillow—or rather, you shouldn't have had enough trust to sleep next to him at all. 

But several months under your relationship's belt was beginning to ease his concerns. The long drives up and down the state, chasing his strange assignments for work, had slowly become something he could look forward to. Sunshine or rain battering the windows, he would glance away from the dense fog outside to see you holding on desperately to the waking world, or feel your fingers curl around his hand when sleep stole you away. 

Most of the time, it wasn't too dangerous and you didn't mind tagging along with him. You'd grown used to the nomad lifestyle, seemingly content with spending a couple weeks in Moonstone Creek from time to time, and the rest of it with him. 

You loved him; you always made that clear. The ring on your right ring finger was proof that he knew that and reciprocated.

There were always, however, doubts. Changmin always had doubts. 

“—And I'll get that blueberry muffin creamer you liked yesterday, too.” 

Changmin broke out of the bubble he'd trapped himself in at the sensation of your lips against his cheek. This mortal body he had flushed at the feeling, his hand swift to stop you from leaving just yet, like an instinct. 

He wrapped an arm around your waist, and his face was level with your stomach from the chair he sat in. The hotels you usually stayed at on your routes always came with a desk and chair, so you could work on Moonstone Creek's finances or he could research. He pressed a kiss to your clothed stomach, his hand squeezing your waist affectionately. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

Your smiling eyes met his and you combed your hand through his hair once, twice. “I'll be back soon. You just keep your head in those books.”

He grumbled something against your stomach—‘I thought college was the last time I'd be pouring over texts’—and your laugh twinkled over his head. He hadn't even been paying attention to the texts he brought; really, his head was elsewhere today. 

“That's your fault for being an anthropology major and for literally chasing down ancient artifacts as your main source of income.”

“That was so unhelpful.”

Another comb through his hair. He could melt. “Just being honest,” you sang amusedly. “Okay, but I should get a move on. All their pastries are gonna be gone, and their danishes smelled really good yesterday.”

He hummed. “Stay safe.” Another kiss. 

Your hand settled at the nape of his neck. “I will. Love you.”

The words warmed in his chest. Just as you were pulling away, his grip tightened for a moment. “You have Clyde?” He couldn't let anything happen to you. 

“Yes—” you patted your jacket pocket, “—Clyde’s where he's always been. And Bonnie?”

“You know she's not moving,” he said, cocking a brow at you. 

You bit your lip through a small laugh and slowly moved toward the hotel room door, shoving your wallet and the room key into your pockets. “Okay. Happy reading then, love.”

“Unhappy reading,” he groaned into his hand, which was followed by your laugh and the door closing behind you. The corners of his lips lifted into a smile.

He counted a few seconds in case you had forgotten something, then went over to grab his phone from the nightstand. Settling on the edge of the bed, he pulled up the text thread he had between himself and Sangyeon. 

sangyeon: okay so don't freak out [sent an image]

sangyeon: but i found this lying around my house the other day, and i asked lily abt it and she said yn was on the fence abt showing u

Changmin could recognize your handwriting against Lily's in the picture. The image was a clear scan of a piece of paper, who's centerpiece was that of a house. It was a roughly drawn blueprint of a cottage, something small, cozy, homely. The house, as you outlined, wasn't large at all, but with one full floor, an attic, and a porch. There were notes all around the house in your familiar scrawl, writing about the projected cost of each thing—typical of you to think about practicality, even in your fantasy house blueprint—as well as features you'd like installed, like a fireplace and a porch swing.

It reminded him so much of Sena's house in the suburbs in a way… had you thought about this while you were there? A place you could call home, some place to settle down eventually, and finally have a slice of normalcy?

sangyeon: lily said she coaxed it out of yn, which is why yn didn't want to share it and make it seem like she was forcing u into anything u weren't comfortable w

sangyeon: but i think that u love her enough to hear her out

sangyeon: idk… it's ur call ofc whether or not u want to have that conversation yet

Changmin always had doubts. He'd learned during his time on the mortal plane to slow down and feel the weight of another's emotions, and what inevitably came with empathy was insecurity. 

You loved him; that was why his ring was on your finger and you would never bring up the cottage you confided to Lily about. You loved him, and knew that there was an unmistakable itch in him that could only be scratched when he was able to move, to not be chained to one place. But humans were different from demons, and your experiences were different from his. 

He always had doubts that you might never be fully content with this life he led. 

He sighed, massaging his jaw absentmindedly with one hand. Sangyeon had sent him those messages two days ago when you and he were driving to this sleepy town, tucked away at the foot of a mountain range. You'd been asleep when they were received, which was why you didn't see the notifications. Changmin could do as little then as he could now, and he basically replied to Sangyeon that he would think about it and talk to you. 

At some point. 

That was before he realized that it would be all he could think about. There was no word for 'selfish’ or 'selfless’ in demonic culture. It was either you did something to help yourself or harm yourself—usually, those who didn't act for their own benefit were thought of as weaker willed. It was difficult to dismantle methods of thinking like this in order to view the world and his interactions in a different way. 

Changmin abandoned his phone on the nightstand so that he could step over to the window and shove it open. The lever was rusty and squealed as he cranked it counterclockwise to let in the fresh pine morning and the natural white noise. 

Maybe this would help him focus on work or gain the courage to talk to you when you came back.

Changmin barely glanced up in time to see a blurry mass hurtling toward his face. “Shit.” 

He dropped to the floor.

A gleeful and tinny laugh like the rattle inside an aluminum can filled the room. The spike of shock in his heart was replaced very quickly with red, hot annoyance. 

“You have got to be kidding me,” he grunted, clambering to his feet, eyes narrowed on the pixie who had invaded his space. “Don't you fuckers ever knock?”

The pixie was only about a foot and a half tall, its translucent, membranous wings fluttering at the speed of a human eye's blink. This one in particular had a pair of orbs as dark as the lowest circles of Hell for eyes and two racks of jagged teeth lining its gums. The pixie buzzed around the room, careful to remain out of Changmin's reach. 

Fuckass supernatural mosquito….

“You hide your true form, demon,” its voice crackled like tin foil. “Naughty, naughty.”

Changmin's nostrils flared. “What's it to you, imp?”

“The darkness that lies deep within you—I can smell it—hear it.” The pixie zipped around the room over Changmin's head, and he gritted his teeth, attempting to clamp his hands around it. It squealed in delight, black eyes going wider and wider as if it could gaze straight into his soul. “What if we open the door, demon? Ah—I smell a human in this room!”

He stiffened. “You’re only smelling my human form,” he bit out.

“Must you need a reminder? I can smell your true form and I can smell lies.” 

Changmin stumbled back as the pixie flew directly in front of his face, then fluttered out of reach before he could snatch the piece of shit out of the air. The organ in his chest continued to hurtle toward overdrive—the pixie could smell you. The pixie could smell you. “I will rip the wings from your back if you even think about touching my human,” he growled. 

The pixie gasped, clapping its tiny, pale hands. “Oh-ho! The claws become you! Won't you show a little more skin, demon?” 

His eyes turned down to his hands, palms turned upward, the tips of his fingers turned an ash gray. Where his chipped fingernails had been, now sat a full set of dagger-sharp claws. He hadn't even realized he'd transformed them. 

“What color does a pixie bleed?” Changmin lunged for the pixie with his claws outstretched. 

The pixie dove out of the way, the claw just barely missing the edge of its leg. “Does your human taste divine?”

“None of your fucking business.”

“Not very fun are you, demon?” The pixie whizzed past his ear, behind his head—Changmin whirled about on the ball of his foot. 

He slammed his palm forward, claws denting the plaster, nightstand digging into his thighs. As the pixie rose up toward the ceiling to stay out of harm's way, Changmin climbed onto the bed, determination coursing through his veins. 

“Would you like a riddle?”

Changmin swiped his hand, relishing in the splatter of clear liquid that glittered in the air—blood. The pixie's eyes widened, this time in fear. “Why would I want a riddle?”

A tremble marked the pixie's voice. “Twin halves of old, sealed by a third / like matches, they will spark the world to burn—” Its words were cut off as it swooped out of the way, its clear blood trailing behind it as Changmin's breathing grew heavier, eyes narrowing. “To save three—”

A loud crinkle, akin to a dozen small bones being crushed. A shrill shriek, nails on a chalkboard. A demonic smirk as he clutched a fragmented wing in his clawed hand. 

“You were saying?” he taunted, bringing the flailing pixie close to his face. Changmin couldn't deny the rush of deep, animalistic satisfaction that purred in his chest at his caught prey. Whatever this pixie had in mind for you would never come to fruition. 

“You're a fool to not heed my warning—” it spat, its agony spilling in glittery globs, “—such actions are so true to your species, my liege.”

The impact of the title came accompanied by a flurry of something bright yellow and fuzzy thrown right into Changmin's face. Alarmed, he dropped the pixie and scrambled to claw the dust out of his eyes and mouth. He spluttered and spat the substance onto the hotel room floor; upon hands and knees, he tried desperately to get ahold of his bearings. 

What the fuck was this stuff?

He could hear the blood pulsing in his ears, feel the transformation taking place. There was energy going toward places on his body to grow extremities he hadn't seen in years. 

No, no, no—

Changmin gagged on the pixie's dust, its acrid taste a reflection of the bitter effects to show. He screwed his eyes shut—willed his body to take control of itself. When his hands went over his head, he swore at the feeling of the twin horns curling out of his crown. 

Every one of his once-human senses were dialed to eleven. Voices and car motors and leaves crunching bombarded his ears; the intricately disgusting layers of odors in the carpet separated themselves beneath him. The sensations overwhelmed him from disuse. He held his head in his arms, panic weighing down and around his bones. 

When the transformation was complete, he was left in haggard breaths. His arms shook as he pushed himself onto his hands and knees, then to brace against the hotel bed. 

The pixie was gone, naturally, and likely escaped out the window from where it came in. 

Changmin splayed his clawed hands beneath him on the white sheets. 

He shook his head, attempting to clear his mind and reign in the sensations to focus on the most important ones. Everything else could be background for now; all he needed was—was that. 

There—it was faint, but approaching by the second. Humming.

It was a soft, familiar sound that curled around his taut spine with the tenderness of a lover's caress. A heartbeat followed, slow but steady and sure. The pattern was also familiar, accompanied by leisurely footsteps and the smell of dark coffee and pastries. 

If he could just focus on those sensations in particular…

Then the thought hit him like a truck. 

That was you. The voice, the heartbeat, the footsteps.

You would return at any moment and see him in this state. Changmin could practically feel the fear that would roll off you in waves (or was that his own?), and he lunged for the bathroom. 

He stumbled into the dark chamber, fearing the reflection he'd find in the mirror should he turn the light on. The door slammed shut behind him and that darkness enveloped him. 

There was your heartbeat again—ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum—still faint, but becoming clearer. 

Slowly, he raised his head up to face the mirror on the bathroom wall. The dooming sense of acceptance dulled his own reaction. 

Twin horns, onyx in color, curled out from the tufts of his hair, hard and unmistakable. His skin had taken on the grayish tint of his kind from the black blood that now ripped through his veins. There were the claws, of course, and the slim, wiry tail speared at the end with a sharp spade and a mind of its own. Fangs, jagged and like small knives, peaked their points out past his lips, and he snapped his mouth shut to keep the forked tongue from tasting air. His eyes had become that of a predator's, the pupils dark as night and slimmer in shape—all the better for a deeper field of focus. 

In Hell, the consistent lack of bright light made it so that pinpoint eyes were sought after; it was better to see in the dark and pick apart the deep shades of red, black, purple, and blues. And, well, any sudden movement. 

Changmin didn't know why he tried to fool himself into thinking keeping the bathroom lights off would change anything. 

Your heartbeat was coming closer, louder. His breathing was beginning to even out as he matched his own to the sound of air rushing through your trachea, then exhaling through your nose. 

He could get himself back to his human form before you got back. He could do it—he swore he could. 

Focus.

It required so much focus and energy, but… but he could do it. He could do it before you saw him like this, before that calm heartbeat became erratic, and you became afraid—afraid of him. 

His breathing deepened as he sucked in a lungful of oxygen. In… out. 

Going from demonic form to human form in the mortal plane would be easy. 

It should have been easy. 

Seconds passed, and your footsteps approached from down the hall. There came the crinkle of a paper bag, shuffling of cardboard, as you shifted things in your hold to grab the room key from your pocket. The aroma of the pastries and coffee you brought back wafted into his nose, but not with the strength that your scent permeated every one of his senses—

Why couldn't he shift back? 

He curled his hands into fists on the counter, frustration making his fangs scrape against each other. 

Why wasn't he able to shift back? It was supposed to be easy—

The door outside clicked open and fell shut. “Changmin? Hey, I'm back.”

He stilled. The words to call back to you were lodged in his throat, unable to form upon the accursed forked tongue in his mouth. Panic seized him by the ribcage and he suddenly found it suffocating to breathe. 

There was silence on your end, and he could hear your heartbeat slowly begin to quicken. “Are you—are you okay? The wall's dented, and the—and the sheets…” 

Your footsteps arrived before the bathroom door, and at the same time he heard the door handle jiggle, he slammed his hand against it to bar you from coming in. 

Changmin could feel your leap of fright; his shoulders sagged with regret. It probably wasn't the best idea to do that. “Don't—” he cleared his throat from the grittiness there, “—don’t come in.”

Your heartbeat calmed then, after hearing back from him. “I won't,” you promised. “Is everything okay?”

I look like a monster. Some dumb fucking pixie made it so I can't shift forms. And I can't lock the stupid door because my nails are too long. 

But you didn't need to know all of that. 

He hung his head, attempting to feel that tendril of power in him that he could grapple onto to trigger the transformation. Nothing. “I'm… I'm fine,” he choked out. “I—” 

The corded necklace that was hidden beneath his shirt swung out into his view. His half of the pendant was not pulsing with life like yours was; it was connected to your heart, after all. But he curled his fingers around it nonetheless, his ears singling out your pulse. 

Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum...

“... Changmin? Can I do something to help?”

He needed time. Fuck, he just needed to wait this stupid pixie dust out. His first thought was to send you away so you wouldn't see him at all. The next was a counter to the former—he needed your pulse. That was his anchor. 

The energy was slowly seeping from his bodily stores to sustain this form in this realm. Maybe if the pixie dust didn't wear off, he could tire his body into transforming. 

Your voice came out even softer. “Hey, what's going on, love?”

His forehead hit the door, eyes fluttering shut. “I'm not… I don't look like myself right now.” The self you're used to, at least. “A pixie came into the room and—and it threw something at me to force me to transform.”

“Into…?”

There was a light thump sound from the other side of the door as you leaned against it. Your warmth radiated through the wood, and the little monster inside him leaned into it. “My demon form.”

Changmin loathed the silence, your held breath. The acceptance washed over him in a deafening wave like his head was being held underwater. 

“Okay,” you exhaled, finally. “That’s okay… and so you're not able to turn back, is that it?”

His eyes couldn't help but narrow. “You're not scared.” The scent rolling off you wasn't that of fear. 

“Why would I be scared of you?”

Changmin's breath shuddered. There were plenty of reasons for you to be scared once you saw him. This body was made to harm. “I can hear your heartbeat.”

“I'm not scar—”

“I could hear it from the street, Yn.” He didn't know what to do about the leap in your pulse, the way that steady ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum tripped over itself. Something at the back of his mind urged him to continue—to tell you everything and convince you to be scared. “I can feel the heat from your blood and smell the hotel soap on your skin.”

A beat passed. “That doesn't scare me.”

If you were anyone else, he would have laughed in your face. Foolish, foolish human. But you weren't just anyone else, and he couldn't get your terror out of his head. 

When he didn't say anything for a moment, you murmured, “Love, can I come in? Can I see you?”

Changmin swallowed. “I don't want to scare you.”

“I know—but I trust you.” Your hand warmed the door handle on the other side, the soft clink of his ring against the metal echoing through the material to reach him. “Do you trust me?”

(If demons ultimately were motivated to do things that would help them, then he should open the door. To his brethren, a human willingly walking into his clutches was a mark too easy not to lose. But the reason they would want you to come in through the door was nowhere near the same reason he wanted you to. 

If demonic culture didn't have a word for selfish or selfless, then what was this?)

He leaned his weight off the door. 

With his body mostly hidden behind the slab of wood, he carefully cracked the door open, his claws wrapped around the outside, so you would be fed his demonic form gradually. You'd seen the claws before when he'd gouged a siren's eyes out. But your eyes drank in the ashen skin around his features—death incarnate—from the slits of his irises to the spirals of ebony piercing out of his head. 

Your heartbeat took off, galloping wildly as he revealed more and more of himself while you stepped into the bathroom. The thunderous rush of your blood echoed in his own ears; it was a tantalizing sensation. 

There was a nervousness to your movements. Your lips were tight, hands slightly shaky. But above all else, your eyes remained tender and worried, and he might have fallen to his knees if he wasn't clutching the door. 

“Do you want to close the door?” You asked. 

Even now, you wanted to accommodate him. He gave a small nod, but added, “Can you—can you turn around?”

You dipped your head once, then turned your back to him. 

(So much trust… When did he earn all of this? From what did he deserve to have your back to him in this context? He could slit your throat in a blink, but you would throw yourself into Hell if he asked.

If demonic culture didn't have a word for selfish or selfless, then what was this?)

Changmin closed the bathroom door and swallowed everything into darkness once again. He could hear your shallow breathing; you were trying to keep it steady, because you knew he could hear it as clear as a bell, but it wouldn't fool him. 

He took a step closer—then faltered, as he reached a hand out for your shoulder. He retracted his hand to his side. “You can turn around.”

Eyes watched as you slowly turned your body back around. You were fidgeting around with his ring, twisting the dark metal back and forth, as you lifted your eyes up and down his form. 

There was that catch in your breath again. Changmin's shoulders were so tense, he couldn't decide if that was from how high-strung he was or from the energy steadily being spent from his body. He'd probably last about another hour or two before collapsing. 

The bathroom was deafeningly quiet, with only your breaths and heartbeat keeping his insecurities company. He wanted to shrink into the collar of his shirt under your gaze, eyes blown wide as the moon. As you soaked him in, his eyes roved over your face—searching, searching, searching. 

At last, you tried for a soft smile. “You don't scare me.”

“I don't?” But he couldn't smell fear on you, couldn't make out any clear displays of it. He'd looked for them all. Your heartbeat had calmed, but your expression had never lost that something. 

(Was this love?)

You stepped forward once, and then again, until you stood with your toes touching and noses almost brushing. You shook your head and reached up to brush your thumb against his cheekbone. 

So warm… so gentle. 

His fangs gleamed in the dark when his lips parted. “You've been through so much,” he croaked. “Don't I look like them?” Them, the few creatures who had made you go on the run in the first place? Did creatures like him not haunt your waking world and nightmares? How could you bear to sleep next to him at night?

“If you're trying to convince me you're a monster, then it won't work.” Your fingers trailed down the plane of his face and he reached up to grasp onto you before you could retreat. “Does it hurt?”

At that question, he couldn't help the small, raspy laugh that bubbled out of his chest. 

“What?” You asked, the corners of your mouth lifting upward. 

“It's no—” he shook his head, his tongue darting out to slip over his lips. His fingers rearranged around yours and held them close to his chest, his thumb finding the familiar characters of his name wrapped around your digit. “—nothing. I just… you still care.”

Confusion flickered over your face, but was swiftly replaced by something softer. “Of course I still care.”

“I could hurt you.”

“You could have hurt me a long time ago.” But you haven't. 

Changmin swallowed again, relishing in the warmth that radiated from your palm wrapped in his. “No, it doesn't really hurt,” he whispered. “I just can't sustain this form for very long.”

Your eyes shone. “How long?”

“A couple hours at most,” he said, fangs grazing his lip. “I'm trying to wait out the pixie dust—”

“Pixie dust? Aren't you supposed to be flying?” Your grin was flooring, but he managed not to falter. At his deadpan expression, you patted the back of his hand. “Sorry, don't get your horns in a twist.”

“Yn—”

“It was right there; I had to.” 

Even he couldn't suppress the curl of lips for long. He just… Hell, he just loved you. Even if he now had slits for pupils and knives for teeth, nothing could mistake the blatant fondness in his features. His eyes could be pitch black, but he would still find a way to express silently how much he adored you. 

You pursed your lips, the mirth leaving your face for a second. “Do you need blood? How long until the pixie dust wears off?”

“I'm not sure, but I'm not taking your blood.” He sent you a pointed look when you opened your mouth to retaliate. “It's like you have a death wish from the amount of times you've offered me blood. I'm not dying, sweetheart.”

“You could be…”

“Technically, I'm undead—”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, whatever.” Your nose wrinkled up for a second, and then you were wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your face against his shirt. “You’re still Changmin to me. You're still the guy I'm in love with.”

His arms came around your form and he tucked his face into the crook of your neck, careful to keep his horns from hitting you. He suffocated himself on the feel of your skin, the subtle bump in your pulse just beneath the surface. Despite everything, you still trusted him enough to put his teeth so close to your scars. You didn't run away from him, from the true him. 

(Was this love?)

He wanted to hold you here forever. His human. “I love you.”

Your body tensed in surprise, and it nearly chased him away until you squeezed him tighter. He felt your lips against the place his human heart would have been. Changmin always had doubts, but you were so good at calming them. “I know.”

And haven't you always known?

Changmin had known, too, even if he'd searched long and hard for the doubt. All this time of sharing your space, your warmth, your company—he knew. 

a/n: pls remember to reblog + comment if u enjoyed!

night terrors fic / collection

permanent taglist: @flwoie @vatterie @seomisaho @hqrana @ja4hyvn @outrologist @rikizm @luumiinaa @lotties-readings @tinkerbell460 @kaaimins @hyunjaespresent-deobi @otterly-fey @gluion @floatingpluto @winterchimez @ethereal-engene @gyulfriend @polarisjisung @jaehunnyy @shakalakaboomboo @loveliestfelix @bless-311 @zhaixiaowen @leaz-kpop-life @amourdsr @pxppxrminty @kqyutie @sseastar-main @kxthleen14 @fluorescentloves @mosviqu @bjnet

[xythlia]

WELCOME TO WHAT GOES BUMP IN THE NIGHT : A KINKTOBER TERROR & SMUT EXTRAVAGANZA

Welcome one and all, horror geeks and circus freaks to your one stop shop for all things blood, guts, and smut! An event inspired by old school cinema slasher marathons each week will feature a fic that'll have you squirming in your seat. Before you proceed I just have one question...

WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE SCARY MOVIE?

🔪 10/06 | SCREAM

knife play

• You thought having a secret admirer was flattering, until a bizarre gift is slipped inside your bag. Little do you know a peeping toms been watching your every move and knows that you have a fixation on a certain masked boogeyman. You're about to give Belphegor the show of a lifetime.

🔪 10/13 | THIRST

vampire AU \ biting

• It drips down your skin, hot and thick as wax. His eyes threaten to swallow you whole, holding you captive as your mind turns sluggish. There's no need to fear as teeth pierce your skin once more, you keep telling yourself vampires are just stories as Satan ushers you into life after death

🔪10/20 | VIOLENT DEVOTION

loss of virginity \ yandere

• The house creeks, nervous footsteps amplified inside the darkened quiet of the house. The only thing you're sure of is the destination after sneaking Mammon inside your Halloween sleepover: your bed

🔪 10/27 | FAIT ACCOMPLI

humiliation

• There's nothing beyond the smoldering flickers of light and the soft burn of his touch against your naked skin. His laugh as startling as a struck match in the dead quiet. There is no one to serve but the man in front of you, no one to offer you relief except Lucifer. He'll give it to you, fret not. You just have to beg for it

› all works can be found under the tag #����WGBITN

© XYTHLIA. do not copy, modify, translate or repost my work.

[latinapoetbts]

The First Ones: The Pact {The Healer} KTH & Y/N (Latina Reader)

Summary: Y/N is a 24-year-old woman living alone in the countryside while her brothers fight in a war between two kingdoms and her father is away serving as the lead doctor to the royal family with a sick prince. She is independent and intelligent. She comes across a strange and suspiciously the most attractive man she has ever seen in her life in need of help, wounded and possibly dying. Against her judgment, she takes him in to tend to his wounds. Unaware of the supernatural world she is about to be thrown into and as a key player in saving an entire species from extinction. Tae Hyung needs her more than ever. Labels:

Smut, romance, angst, blood and violence, guns, werewolves, AU- Supernatural World, slow burn, some non-con touching. Chapter 1

I was terrified and could feel my body trembling as I neared the door. My heart was beating so fiercely I thought it would burst in my chest. I could feel the bumps on my arms and the hairs rising. Every cell in my body screamed for me not to take one step closer, my feet dragging feeling as if they were tied to boulders. Yet even among all the terror and fear building inside me, I raised my hand to open the door as if I was driven by some unknown force, forcing me to walk into an unknown danger. What’s wrong with me, I thought as I gulped, pulling the busted door open painfully slow. It was dim in the room as I opened the door wider and wider, inch by inch until it was fully open and the light of dusk poured in leaving the far back corner untouched and still dark. I descend the stairs slowly stepping to the bottom. 

And there in the dark corner, I saw the unknown danger, crouching; its faint silhouette, a familiar shape. I gasped at the unusual sound of a hiss and snarl, my body jerking in startlement, fear nearly taking over all my senses. My body and brain were a cluster fuck of fear, curiosity, and bewilderment caught between two choices; advancing low and slow towards the familiar shaped silhouette or bolting out of the root cellar as fast as possible, hoping and praying I was the one that could run faster. Another oddly sounding aggressive snarl ripping through the brief silence, it was a sound I had never heard before but could resemble snarling and hissing. I imagined we both calculated our next moves during that silence. Decisions made, I advance slowly with my eyes never leaving the shadowed corner desperately wanting to see more until I fall backward landing hard onto the stone floor, my lungs heaving in my chest. The figure stalked over top of me within seconds. His face inches from mine, teeth-baring, strange growls, and deeper snarls. His eyes lock with mine, filled with what I can only assume is rage. His arms cage me at shoulder level.  Him, His, He, the familiar shape, a man. An angry, dangerous man, my thoughts flooding my mind. I was paralyzed by fear and emboldened by an irrational curiosity. So many questions. How did he even get in here? Why is he making nearly inhuman animalistic sounds? Why is he in my root cellar? Is he going to kill me? Why is he….oh..naked?

My eyes flicker to his chest and then his waist darting back up to lock with his threatening gaze. Yup definitely naked. And covered in mud and something else that I couldn’t make out. He continues to bare his teeth growling at me, my instincts kick in or what I believe to be my instincts and I turn my head to the side providing him with the most vulnerable access to my neck. I try my best to steady my breath, slowing it down in order to regulate my pulse to manifest a sense of peace and calm or some version of calm. I tried to imagine a babbling creek in the woods with the sun peeking through. I tensed as I felt the heat of his nose and mouth at my throat, alternating between sniffing and deep inhales as he nuzzled into my neck. Breath just breathe nice and slow, I tell myself trying to fight against my body’s natural fight, flight, freeze response. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly clenching my fits together as his hot wet tongue licks a strip from the base of my neck to just below my ear lobe, terrifyingly slow. 

Is he going to eat me or fuck me, or fuck me then eat me? I fight my body’s attempt to shudder at the vulgar painfully valid questions racing through my mind. I feel something wet drip over my arm that's trapped under his body. And then again more wet drops on my chest followed by a constant drip rhythm. He is bleeding. It’s blood that I saw on his body mixed with mud. He’s injured, I think to myself as he continues smelling me and licking me moving down my collarbone. Maybe he’ll bleed to death before he gets to fucking kill me, I wonder with hope just as his body collapses on top of mine. His head falling between my neck and chest I let out a sigh of relief as I rolled his body off of mine to take a real look at him for the first time. I could not help but gasp as my hand covered my mouth in surprise. Here at my side laid the most fucking  beautiful, naked, mudded, injured, odd man, I’d ever seen in my life. He was a stunning mess. I finally tore my eyes from his face and raked them down the rest of his body attempting not to gawk at his lower region.  I guess I should have some type of decency, towards this beautiful man who tried to attack me or lick me, or whatever it was, I shuddered thinking about what had happened just moments ago.  I flinched seeing the deep gash on his shoulder. Is that a gunshot wound, I wondered to myself. What did he do? Who did this to him? Maybe a lover's affair? Or did he take something that was not his?  

My curiosity is in overdrive as I stand and start rummaging through the cellar until I find some cloths. I place the cloth over his wound and spring up the stairs doing what I do best, finding solutions to problems. After collecting everything I needed to harness the door pulley to a makeshift stretcher, I put my plan into action. I covered the strange handsome, naked, wounded man who licked me like a predator with a bed cover. I had to repeat everything I experienced like a mantra hoping it would snap some fucking basic self-preservation common sense into my body. But nope. I grunted as I pulled and shoved his body on the stretcher, for having such a lean and lithe body he was fucking heavy, he felt like a ton of rocks, no more like boulders. I used all my strength and body weight to pull him up the stairs using the pulley and out of the root cellar. I then dragged him inch by inch to my front door and into my living room. What the fuck am I actually doing right now, I asked myself after I collapsed onto my living room chair. I know nothing about this strange man, who did nothing to indicate to me that he was no threat. In reality, all his actions indicated he was dangerous. How reckless can I be? I live alone in the middle of the woods with no neighbor in sight for 3 to 4 miles and at least a 30-minute walk and maybe 15 on horseback. As for protection, I had my father's shotgun with about 20 shots, my brother's pistol with another 10 bullets, a hunting arrow I was barely learning how to use, cooking and shaving knives, and a mean right hook. I guess as long as I wasn’t caught off guard like I was in the root cellar, I guess I’d be ok. Wait, as important as my safety was, I had a gunshot victim on my living room floor who may not have done anything wrong, just maybe at the wrong place at the wrong time and I planned to save him and ask questions later. It was my duty as a Healer in training. It was the helper in me taking the lead. 

Over the next few hours, I busied myself tending to this strange, wounded, animalistic man. I quickly cleaned the area around the wound and used my healer herbs paste on the wound on both sides wrapping him as best I could as he slept, he was out cold. I was certain he needed stitches but was fearful he would wake up while I was stitching him. The bandage and herbs would help for now and should help with any pain or infection. He was even more striking as I gently cleaned the rest of his body with a sponge careful not to wake him up as there was definitely a lingering ever-present rational fear of what he might do to me or rather what he would do to me when he wakes. I cleaned as much of him as I could ensuring to leave the blanket on his private parts. He can do those if he wants when he wakes up. I am absolutely no saint and couldn't help observing every inch of his exposed skin as I washed him. His shoulders, chest, arms, and thighs taunt, and well-defined, his skin a tan sun-kissed wheat color likened to the wheat grown in my neighbor's fields. His stomach is firm but soft, different from the rest of his body. His face is what leaves me nearly breathless as I wipe away the soot and dried blood. His lips were pink, pillowy, shapely, and slightly downturned at the edges almost as if it was a faint frown or pout, very charming, very attractive, very kissable. For fuck sake, why does my mind work as that of a hormone-raging sex obsessed 16 year old just at the sight of this strange man's face rather than the 24-year-old that I am? His eyes were almond-shaped like the people I had only heard about from the Asian regions, how did he get so far north I wondered, not that it was unheard of; hell how did my family get so far north as we were from the far warm southern west regions of the world. His hair although messy and in need of washing I could tell it was a jet black color. Why the fuck was he as breathtaking as he was terrifying. It truly was a mind fuck for me. Over the next several hours, I watched over him as I prepared both a quick meal of bread and soup. We were well into fall and the harshness of winter was near so the nights were cold but not freezing yet.

I startled at the sound of his grunts and growls, my rolling pin gripped at my side as I neared his jerking body just in case I needed to defend myself. I just wanted protection and did not want to kill him. Oh, he was having a nightmare, I pitied him. I carefully patted his forehead with a damp cloth to wipe away the sweat that had accumulated. I hoped the sweat was from his nightmare and not the beginning signs of a fever even though his skin seemed to have a normal temperature. I reached to press the cloth against his neck when I felt my back slam against the floor, my legs sprawled out, hand with the cloth painfully pinned to the floor at the wrist next to my head. My spare hand is pinned by a tight grip on my wrist and down against my waist to the floor. Here we go again, I just might die today, I think to myself.

Fuck me, I didn’t even have a chance to react it happen so fast. My breath was caught in my throat by a mixture of fear and curiosity. My eyes locked with his deep brown orbs that swirled with hints of yellowish amber color that flashed as if it were ocean waves rippling with color. His eyes were as memorizing as they were terrifying. His chest was heaving, I forced my body to go limp and did what seemed to work before, I turned away from him again offering my throat coaxing myself to calm my breathing. I focused on my breath, feeling my heartbeat slowing down only to quicken at the feel once again of his nose and hot mouth pressed against my neck rubbing and sniffing against me. Again and again, as if he was scenting me like a dog would another dog. As if he was trying to figure me out. Once again fighting my body's natural response as his tongue licks a slow fat wet strip against my neck. I could feel his breathing steady and feel his mouth pull away from my neck, his hands releasing my wrist as he sat upright still straddling my hips just gazing down at me, my eye's turning to lock with his once more. 

Now what. What do I do now?

**********************

I'm obsessed with KTH werewolf and strong female leads! Hope you enjoy! Would so appreciate reblogs and feedback keeps me motivated to keep going! Thanks so much!

[kiwiana-writes]

Fic stats meme

Thanks to @stereopticons @rmd-writes and @welcometololaland for the tags!

rules: give us the links to your fic with the most hits, second most kudos, third most comments, fourth most bookmarks, fifth most words, and fic with the least words.

I am an absolute slut for statistics, I have a whole-ass spreadsheet that calculates all sorts of fun things about my work catalogue, so this game is custom made for me lmaoooo

Most hits / second most kudos

These are both the same answer: Meet me out at the end of my rope (Schitt's Creek, David/Patrick, rated E, 53,690 words)

Usually, David will take any excuse to put himself in Patrick’s space. This time, though, he stays where he is, though he does stop whatever he’s doing with the crab cakes. “So, your mom said something interesting to me earlier.” His voice is painfully neutral and with his back still turned, Patrick doesn’t have an expression to read. Or, what if more than one bombshell was dropped the day of Patrick's birthday — one they couldn't come back from?

(Because these were both the same answer, the bonus/flipped stats: most kudos is this Happiest Season fic, and second most hits is the RWRB Actor AU that just finished posting yesterday.)

Third most comments

Time until the end of time cowritten with @ships-to-sail (Schitt's Creek, David/Patrick, rated M, 65,398 words.)

“David,” Patrick says softly. Something in his voice pulls David’s eyes to his; they’re full of sympathy and David is awash with foreboding. He hasn’t felt terror like this since before they moved to Schitt’s Creek, when Alexis’ name appearing on his phone meant another round of consulate calls and the occasional hostage negotiation. “I’m very sorry to tell you this, but you’re dead.”

Fourth most bookmarks

Say my name cowritten with eggplantsalad, @januarium, @samwhambam, @ships-to-sail, @this-is-not-nothing (Schitt's Creek, David/Patrick, rated E, 22,311 words)

Five times Patrick made David forget his own name, and one time he forgot Patrick’s.

Fifth most words

The Blouse Barn Divorce Ranch cowritten with... so many people I'll probably get spamblocked if I tag them all (Schitt's Creek, too many pairings to list, rated M, 26,226 words)

Hello, I am Wendy Kurtz, proprietor of the Blouse Barn Divorce Ranch, the world’s premier spot for couples looking to get a speedy divorce and connect with other soon-to-be divorcees. I’d like to highlight the stories of five couples, who rearranged into five other couples, from some past summer. These ten people came to the Blouse Barn Divorce Ranch with the intention of ending a marriage, and got that and so much more. I could recount their journeys with 100% accuracy, but where’s the fun in that? Let’s let them tell us themselves. OR: One crazy summer in Las Vegas brings the heat and then some. Featuring art and podfic with every chapter!

Least words

Excluding podfic it is, of course, In Excelsis (Schitt's Creek, David/Patrick, rated M, 259 words)

Patrick embarks on his solo anal training journey. There's a spreadsheet.

TAGGING @cha-melodius @cricketnationrise @januarium @nontoxic-writes @lilythesilly @maxbegone and anyone else who wants to talk stats with me, I cannot express enough how much of a slut for data I am.

[newstfionline]

Monday, March 4, 2024

Texas Ranchers Face Crippling Losses (NYT) Justin Homen kept driving across his vast Texas ranch, but he only found the same bleak scenes: blackened grassland, charred cow carcasses and smoldering debris turned almost entirely to ash. Then he arrived at the place he thinks of as a hidden oasis: a pond and small lake that, in better times, bask in the emerald glow of looping, leafy trees and tall grass. As he stepped out of the cab of his truck and onto the singed grass, his mutter was nearly drowned out by the wind. “Pretty sickening.” Almost all of his family’s century-old ranch, a swath of land nearly the size of Manhattan, had been burned this week when the largest fire in state history tore through the Texas Panhandle. Mr. Homen, 41, finds himself among scores of cattle ranchers across the Great Plains looking at an uncertain future. Thousands of animals have been killed, and outbuildings and homes have been destroyed in fires across Texas, Nebraska and Kansas. The Smokehouse Creek fire, near Mr. Homen’s ranch outside the town of Pampa, has expanded to more than one million acres and threatens to grow further this weekend with windy, dry conditions expected.

Organized crime attacks on local candidates raise fears Mexico may face its bloodiest elections ever (AP) As Mexico prepares for the largest elections in its history, organized crime is once again preying on local candidates across swaths of the country where cartels dominate, raising concerns among experts that these could be Mexico’s bloodiest elections ever. Julián López, coordinator for the Citizen Movement party in the southern state of Guerrero, experienced it first hand when rifle-toting gunmen abducted him and two colleagues while they were driving on Feb. 7. The 43-year-old López was beaten, stripped of his possessions, made to kneel near a remote garbage dump and ultimately abandoned in the middle of the night. Two mayoral hopefuls in the town of Maravatio in neighboring Michoacan state were not so fortunate. They were killed by gunmen within hours of each other Monday. A third mayoral hopeful from that town was abducted and found dead in November. While federal authorities offer security details to national candidates, those running for local offices—the ones that drug cartels really want to control—are completely exposed.

Armed gangs attack main prison in Haiti, releasing inmates (Miami Herald) Armed gangs attacked Haiti’s National Penitentiary on Saturday, allowing several notorious gang leaders and other prisoners to escape the vastly overcrowded facility, a high-level police source confirmed. The prison houses some of the country’s highest-profile inmates, including indicted suspects in the July 2021 assassination of Haitian President Jovenel Moïse. The break occurred after gangs had besieged the Port-au-Prince prison for days. The siege unfolded while Prime Minister Ariel Henry was visiting Kenya. In his absence, terrorizing gangs launched an attack on the capital that led to the deaths of at least five police officers when they overtook a police station, and the cancellation of international flights. The National Penitentiary in downtown Port-au-Prince is Haiti’s most overcrowded prison. It was designed for 3,900 inmates, but as of early January held 11,778 inmates.

Argentina’s Milei pledges to ‘speed up’ plans in fiery challenge to Congress (Reuters) Argentine President Javier Milei vowed to “speed up” his plans to overhaul the country and solve its economic woes in a fiery speech to Congress on Friday, challenging them to pass a new package of bills after an earlier version of his “omnibus” reform was rebuffed last month. Milei, speaking to lawmakers in a state-of-the-union style address, took an aggressive tone, inviting Congress to join him but warning that he would make changes with or without the legislature. “We won’t back down, we’re going to keep pushing forward,” Milei said. “Whether that’s by law, presidential decree or by modifying regulations.” The speech underscored Milei’s determination to push ahead with divisive economic reforms and austerity measures that have boosted markets but have sparked protests, including outside of Congress on Friday, and pushback among lawmakers. Milei’s proposals include slashing government spending on politicians, including benefits such as private jets.

Ever more undocumented Indian migrants (Washington Post) Billboards crowd the small lanes of this northern Indian city, calling out to those who dream of a different future. A sign in the Punjabi language beckons: “Let’s Go To America.” Indians have come to make up the third-largest group of undocumented immigrants in the United States, according to the Pew Research Center’s 2021 estimates, which put the number of such Indians at 725,000. India is the only country in the top five outside Latin America, and since 2011, the number of undocumented Indians in the United States has grown by 70 percent, the fastest growth of all nationalities. Figures from U.S. Customs and Border Protection show that the number of undocumented Indian immigrants increased the fastest between 2020 and 2023. The immigrants are often from middle-class families. They frequently sell their land to pay for the journey—which families say can run $40,000 to $100,000 per person—hoping that working in America will triple their wages, produce a secure future for their children and yield a higher value in the marriage market for their sons. These migrants are “not the desperately poor” and often come from the most prosperous states in India, said Devesh Kapur, a South Asian studies professor at Johns Hopkins University who focuses on the Indian diaspora. But faced with a shortage of attractive jobs and a struggling agricultural sector, they find that the wealth they have in India is not enough to transform their lives, and this creates “a culture of migration,” he said.

China’s major political meeting of the year gets underway (AP) One burning issue dominates as the 2024 session of China’s legislature gets underway this week: the economy. The National People’s Congress annual meeting, which opens Tuesday, is being closely watched for any signals on what the ruling Communist Party might do to reenergize an economy that is sagging under the weight of expanded government controls and the bursting of a real-estate bubble. That is not to say that other issues won’t come up. Proposals to raise the retirement age are expected to be a hot topic, the state-owned Global Times newspaper said last week. And China watchers will parse the annual defense budget and the possible introduction of a new foreign minister. But the economy is what is on most people’s minds in a country that may be at a major turning point after four decades of growth that propelled China into a position of economic and geopolitical power. For many Chinese, the failure of the post-COVID economy to rally strongly last year is shaking a long-held confidence in the future.

Welcome to Japan, Where the Bad News Is the Good News (NYT) The economy is now in recession after barely growing for decades. The population continues to shrink, with births last year plunging to a nadir. The country’s politics appear frozen as one party holds a virtual lock on power no matter how scandal-tainted and unpopular it becomes. But not to worry. This is Japan. Take a look around. There are few signs of the societal discord you might expect in a place with trend lines like Japan’s, such as accumulating garbage, potholes or picket lines. The country remains remarkably stable and cohesive, with little sense of impending doom. That equanimity reflects a no-need-to-rock-the-boat mind-set: “Shouganai”—“it can’t be helped”—is something of a national refrain. It’s easy to see why people might be nonchalant. Unemployment is low, the trains run on time and the cherry blossoms bloom every spring. Tourists are flooding the shrines and shopping districts, and the stock market has hit a record high. Housing is generally affordable even in Tokyo, and everybody is covered by national health insurance. Crime is low: In 2022, there were just three gun killings in all of Japan. If you forget your cellphone in a restaurant, chances are it will be there when you return.

Palestinian women detained by Israel allege abuse in Israeli custody (AP) Nabela thought the United Nations school in Gaza City was a safe haven. Then, the Israeli army arrived. Soldiers stormed the place, ordering men to undress and hauling women to a mosque for strip searches, she said. So began six weeks in Israeli custody that she says included repeated beatings and interrogations. “The soldiers were very harsh, they beat us and screamed at us in Hebrew,” said the 39-year-old from Gaza City, who spoke on condition that her last name not be used for fear of being arrested again. “If we raised our heads or uttered any words, they beat us on the head.” Palestinians detained by Israeli forces in Gaza during the Israel-Hamas war have alleged widespread physical abuse and neglect. It’s not known how many women or minors have been detained. Rights groups say Israel is “disappearing” Gaza Palestinians—detaining them without charge or trial and not disclosing to family or lawyers where they’re held. Israel’s prison service says all “basic rights required are fully applied by professionally trained prison guards.”

Houthi fight extracts heavy cost on Pentagon (The Hill) More than two months of direct fighting with the Houthis has heavily taxed the U.S. military, which is expending a significant amount of money to take down cheap drones, launch retaliatory strikes and defend against rebels who are, in turn, shooting down pricey American drones. In most cases, the U.S. is launching $2 million defense missiles to stop $2,000 Houthi drones, a discrepancy that the Yemini rebel group has noted in its statements mocking Washington. The cost of taking on the Houthis is also becoming more apparent as the defiant fighters show no signs of stopping and could lock the U.S. into a long conflict—and it’s throwing the world into a tough spot. “North Yemen is becoming like North Korea when it comes to firing rockets over the seas,” said Mohammed al-Basha, a Yemen and Middle East expert at analyst and consulting company Navanti Group. “It’s going to be a long-term issue for not just us, but for the world.”

[emile-hides]

I spent all my money on the Overwatch Trick or Treat sprays but Tumblr will only let me post them 10 at a time so here’s my top ten favorite in no particular order.

[angry-geese]

Slasher!Geto x Reader

Warnings: nsfw/mdni. modern/college au. extremely dubious consent, predator/prey, knifeplay, glove kink (kinda??), manhandling, fingering, mating press, breeding kink, creampies/unprotected sex, slight praise kink- Geto calls the reader a good girl. afab reader. dark content warning

Notes: my first time writing for Geto so i apologize if hes ooc. implied Yuji x Megumi (its mentioned like once), and Yuji and Sukuna are brothers in this. this wasn't beta read so ignore any mistakes lol

Word Count: about 3.4k

jjk masterlist

You weren't sure what to expect when your friends invited you out to a bonfire with them. The place you recognize; an old abandoned barn, mostly used to hide out and smoke in. It's long fallen into disrepair. The property is abandoned. At one point there was a house too, but the forest is too dense, and it's become too overgrown for anyone to bother with.

You’re not dressed for the weather; shivering as you snub out your cigarette. Your shoes are beginning to hurt your feet. You're certain you'll have blisters in the morning. You never expected to be here long, and had plans to go to a party at a friend's house afterwards.

Yuji and Megumi had to be in on it. Yuji could hardly keep a secret, let alone pretend to be dead to save his own life. You saw the smile he cracked as he sprayed fake blood all over his boyfriend. Megumi even asked if this was where he was supposed to fall, before saying "oh, right" and dramatically flopping to the ground. As you wandered off to smoke, they were gone, probably off to terrorize more of your friends.

It looked real. A prank. Someone—probably Yuji's weird brother, Sukuna—must have planned this. He’s done it before. Sukuna takes far too much joy in scaring people. You must have gotten turned around when he started chasing you. You can't be very far from your friends.

The path narrows as you get closer to the road. The car shouldn’t be that far away. There’ll be a creek, with a bridge, and then it's another few yards until the clearing. At the end of the lot is Maki’s car, and the field with the barn.

Instead of stumbling across the lot, you find a gravel road. Though it's clearly not used often, the bushes are trimmed back away from the road, and it's fairly well maintained. There's a ‘No Hunting sign’ nailed to a tree. The paint is faded. It must be a few years old.

The road is easier on your feet than running through the woods. You figure if you don't come across the parking lot, then you'll come across a house, or someone who knows where you are. Preferably one of your friends. Nobara. Or maybe Yuji. They seem to know the area better than you.

You have no choice but to walk. The sun is setting, and you'd rather not be lost in the woods after dark. You doubt your friends will leave without you, but you don't want to keep them waiting any longer than you have to.

At the end of the road sits a house. It's a little old, though much like the road, it hasn't fallen into disrepair. The paint is peeling in some spots, but in others, it appears to have been fixed. The shutters and curtains are drawn tight. No car sits in the driveway. A bit of smoke drifts from the chimney. Though it's faint, and white. The fire must have just gone out.

The thought of a warm fire makes you shiver. A chill settles into your bones, cutting right through your thin costume.

The porch light is motion activated, and comes on when you walk up the steps. The bright light makes you wince, but the sign of civilization is comforting.

When you knock, no one answers.

"Hello?" You call out. "I was at this party and I kinda got separated from my friends. I could use some help."

A hand reaches out from behind you, grabbing you by the collar. You stop like you’ve hit a brick wall. The force is nearly enough to knock the air from your lungs.

“Gotcha!”

The man spins you around to face him. You don't recognize him. He’s too small in stature to be Sukuna—or Yuji, for that matter, but too tall to be Nobara or Maki. Not to mention his hair is black, and far longer than either of theirs. He can’t be Choso, either, as he’s dressed differently than Yuji’s other brother, who had left hours ago. His costume wasn't anything your friends were wearing; Yuji and Megumi were both dressed normally, and Inumaki was a ghost, though he took his costume off halfway through because he couldn't see.

He’s not one of your friends—or anyone you recognize. You didn't see him in the car, or in the parking lot, or even in the barn.

Your gaze turns to the knife in his hand. He must be one of Sukuna’s friends. He’s probably in on this. He’ll know how to get back.

“Oh!” A soft gasp leaves your lips. The corners of your lips turn up in a grin. “Don't kill me, I want to be in the sequel!”

“And let a cute thing like you slip out of my hands?" He asks. "No way!"

You laugh, and roll your eyes. He’s not unattractive, though he isn't your type. Really, you just want to get back to the bonfire and warm up. Maybe if you were drunk you’d give that a second thought.

“I’ve gotta be getting back to my friends,” you say, “they're over-”

He's not letting go. If anything, his grip on your wrist tightens.

“Yeah. Very funny.” You say. “You can let me go now!”

This draws an amused sounding hum from him. His bright, black eyes scan you, taking your form in hungrily. It's predatory. Like he's a dog eying a small rabbit. You want nothing more than to shrink under his gaze. He drags the tip of the knife down your exposed stomach.

The metal is cold against your skin. Goosebumps raise along your exposed flesh. The blade itself is clean. Almost unsettlingly so. Wouldn't a prop have fake rust? Or at least be a little dinged up? Or have that same dullness that plastic does? It feels too real to be a prop. Like it'll actually cut you.

"I don't think I will."

The contents of your stomach have seemingly turned to cement. You let out a soft “whatthefuck” under your breath.

"You're not with Sukuna, are you?" You ask, swallowing hard.

He lets out a soft ‘tsk’ before saying “you and I both know the answer to that.”

The reality of the situation is slowly setting in. Your eyes widen.

“Oh christ. Don't-” a noise resembling a sob escapes you, “don't hurt me!”

"You think I'd just kill you here?" He asks. "No. You're far too special to kill now,

"Why don't you start running? I'll give you to the count of three. Then, if I catch you, I get to do whatever I want with you."

His sing-song tone of voice sets you on edge. Every fiber of your being is telling you to run. Your eyes are wide, though you nod. There's something oddly hypnotic about his gaze. His bright black eyes. They're not the eyes of a man, but an imitation of one.

He cracks a soft smile as your eyes meet his.

"Good girl," he says. "I like girls who listen,

"One,"

Your feet are moving before your brain is telling them to. Your hands find the door handle, and twist. It's unlocked. You throw it open, squeezing through the crack in the door, and slamming it shut, doing both the handle's lock, and the deadbolt.

"Two," his voice is muffled now.

There's a soft thud as something hits the door. You kick off your heels and make a break for the top floor. Somewhere downstairs you hear glass breaking.

"Three!"

The voice comes from inside now. He couldn't have broken down the door. You must have left something unlocked. Maybe he came through the back?

Humans are persistent hunters. While other species wait for a time to strike, humans simply follow their prey, letting it run and run until it tires itself out.

Adrenaline is beginning to kick in. You find the first closet and shut yourself in it. The room is cramped, and smells faintly of moth balls. You crouch, trying to make yourself as small as possible. You can peek through the shutters in the closet door. They're angled downward, allowing you to see out, but not allowing him to see in. The jackets hanging in the closet do little to conceal your shaking form.

That's when you notice something out in the hall. Your phone. It lays on the floor, face up. It must have slipped out of your hand. You didn't even hear it drop.

He walks by you at first. You listen to his footsteps as he checks each room on the second floor. He's gone long enough that you think he's finally gone downstairs.

Your phone begins ringing. Not quietly, either. You lean a little closer to the door, trying to get a look at the caller ID.

It's Nobara.

Shit!

Shitshitshitshit! Not now!

A shadow covers the door. Instinctively you jump back. Fear prickles in your fingertips, and leaves your palms damp with sweat. You clamp a hand over your mouth to help muffle your breathing, which you’re certain he can hear. The shadow stops, standing there for a moment, before moving on.

Your foot slips, knocking over an umbrella leaned against the wall. You let out a sharp gasp, followed by a: “Shit! No!”

Before you can catch it, the umbrella clatters to the floor. You could almost swear the noise echoes through the house. You're shaking now, your body trembling as both your hands move to cover your mouth.

You're dead. You're so dead!

He leans down just enough for your eyes to be level with his. Though the closet is dark, you know there's enough light for him to see you. The look in his eyes is unreadable. His head tilts to the side. He clicks his tongue, either with disappointment, or excitement, you can't tell.

"There you are," he coos, "found you!"

He’s smiling. Not a predatory grin, but a smile that you’d give a friend after not seeing them for a while. It makes you shudder. As the door opens, you're preparing to make a break for it. He seemingly senses this, and wraps his arms around you before you can run.

You squeal, and kick your leg out, slamming into his shin. Hard. He lets out a grunt of pain, his grip around you loosening. Really, you were hoping to hit somewhere soft, but seeing as he drops you, this'll work. You're certain it hurts you more than it hurts him- it feels like kicking a brick wall. Pain shoots up your leg, from your toes, to your hip. But enough adrenaline has kicked in that you can ignore it.

You've only stunned him. You make it around the corner, to the top of the stairs before he grabs you, his arms wrapping around your waist.

“Let me go-” you try to bring your elbow out, but he grabs your arm, caging you against the wall in his arms. The back of your head presses against the cool wood of the wall. His gloved hand moves to cup your face, tilting your chin up to look at him. Your eyes screw shut. If you kept them open you'd only be looking at him through tears.

His free hand trails up your thigh. There's no warmth to his touch. All you feel is the cold leather of his glove as his hand wanders under the hem of your skirt. Your hand clamps over your mouth to stifle your gasp as you hear something rip- your tights.

“No panties?” He clicks his tongue. “Dirty girl…”

His words make your face burn. Either with shame, or with arousal, you can't tell. It takes a considerable amount of energy to open your eyes. It's like your body doesn't want you to.

Geto’s face is mere inches from yours. The smell of something sweet is on his breath. He says a soft “good girl” upon seeing your eyes, and the shameful look that fills them. He's speaking to you like a lover. Softly. He's touching you like one too. The thought of all this makes you nauseous.

Then why are you enjoying it?

You refuse to meet his gaze, instead turning your eyes to the ceiling.

Something trails to the slick spot between your legs. It's too cold to be his hand. Though his fingers aren't particularly warm, this is something else. It's metal.

The handle of his knife.

He's… violating you! With his stupid knife!

You want to scream. You want to bite his hand. You want to run.

Your body freezes as the handle of his knife presses against your slick cunt, slowly working inside. That's when your eyes fly open, unblinking. It's hardly bigger than two of his fingers; there's little resistance as it presses into you. You can ignore it until he angles it in a way that presses against your g-spot.

“Oh!” He gasps. There's genuine excitement to his voice. “Is that sensitive?”

You shake your head. But both of you know you’re lying.

Your thighs clamp together in an attempt to shove him away. The moment his gloved fingers find your clit, your legs turn to jelly. The feeling of the leather is odd, though not unpleasant. You grip onto his forearm to help steady yourself. Your nails leave little crescent shaped indents on his arms. Your teeth dig into your tongue to help stifle the soft moans that threaten to fall past your lips.

Your orgasm rolls over you far sooner than you expected. He practically forces it out of you, working you with your fingers until you’re nothing but a writhing, moaning mess. Your slick drips down your shaking thighs, onto his fingers, which he cleans off in his mouth. The moan that leaves him is nothing short of lewd. You couldn't possibly blush any more.

In your weak state, there's little you can do to stop him as he hauls you into his arms, throwing you over his shoulder. All you can do is claw at his back pitifully as he carries you to the nearest bedroom.

A squeal escapes you as you’re tossed roughly onto the bed. The mattress does little to cushion your fall. He’s quick to climb on after you, caging your body under his. His fingers work under the hem on your shirt, shoving it—along with your bra—up over your tits. Soft grunts and groans leave his lips as he rubs his growing erection against your thighs, groping your breast in his free hand. The warmth of your skin seeps through his glove, into his hand. He drags the tip of the knife across your exposed stomach. The sight of your slick cunt is almost enough to make his cock stand to attention.

With one hand he undoes his belt, shoving his pants—along with his boxers—down his hips. He's not too intimidating in size, but he's certainly not small. The hairs towards the base of his cock are dark and unruly. Precum leaks from the head as he gives himself a few strokes.

“Oh god-” You can't tell if your words are meant to be a curse, or a prayer.

“There's no god here, my love,” he says, “only me.”

There's no stopping the moan that falls past your lips as he presses into you. Your hand moves to cover your mouth. Your teeth dig into your fingers so hard it feels as if you’ll draw blood.

His free hand—the one that's not groping at your bare breasts—moves to cup your cheek. Your eyes only meet his for a moment. His bright black eyes never leave your face, studying your every movement. From the way you blush, to the way your face countries in pleasure.

“Look at you,” he coos, “how pretty.”

Your eyes screw shut. You’re desperate to look at anything but him. More words of praise fall past his lips. His thumb softly traces your cheekbone. You don't understand how someone can be so rough, yet so gentle.

The kiss he pulls you into is rough, and full of need. Geto nibbles at your bottom lip until you allow his tongue to enter your mouth. A line of saliva connects your lips to his as he pulls away.

The sound of his hips slapping against yours fills the room. His nails leave little crescent-shaped indents in your skin as they dig into your hips. Heat pools between your legs, only furthered by his erratic thrusts. He wants to take his time with you. And he will. But you just look so nice under him, blushing and hiding your face in your hands, he can't help it.

Your orgasm has left you sensitive, and far more reactive to his touch. You can practically feel each vein and ridge of his cock as he ruts into you. He leans down to suck a dark mark into your pulse point. It makes him wonder how your heart must be racing. How fight or flight should be kicking in. He's overcome with the urge to mark you as his.

Geto can't tear his eyes away from the sight of your breasts and how they bounce with each thrust. He licks a stripe down your neck, chuckling when you shudder at the feeling of his warm tongue. His lips are glossy with a mix of your saliva and his, and bitten a shade of pink.

A whimper escapes you as he pinches cruelly at your nipples. The soft noise makes his cock twitch. He leans down to take one of your nipples into his mouth, nipping at it softly.

Geto’s hands plant on the back of your knees, shoving them towards your chest. The new angle allows him to hit deeper than before, the tip of his cock just barely kissing your cervix. The sensation is strange. You've never had a partner hit so deep before. It's not painful—not like you expected it to be—though it's not the most comfortable feeling.

“It's too deep!” You say. Your nails have dug into your palm hard enough to leave marks.

A grin tugs at the corner of his lips. The look in his eyes is nothing short of predatory. You feel small. His gaze only makes you want to shrink.

“You can take all of it,” he says, “can't you?”

You frantically shake your head, but he only coos at you, telling you that you can take it.

Geto gives no warning when he’s about to cum. It does cross his mind to say something, but his thoughts are too clouded with pleasure to act on it. His mind is too hazy with the thought of you fucked full of his cum, having it leak from your swollen cunt. Or how you’d look swollen with his child.

His body seizes for a moment as he cums, spilling his seed into your unprotected womb. The signs are there; in the way his breathing grows heavier, or how sweat beads on his forehead. But between your own pleasure, and his constant taunting, it goes unnoticed by you. He never stops thrusting, only fucking deeper into your abused cunt.

You’re none the wiser until you feel something dripping down your thighs.

When you finally cum, you cum hard. Your orgasm rolls over you like a wave, pulling you under and spitting you out wrong.

Geto pulls out slowly, so as to not spill any of his cum. The little that does fall out, he quickly plugs back in with his fingers, warning you “not to spill a drop.”

You roll onto your side facing towards the window. Though you can't see him, you feel his eyes on your back. His hand strokes your hair, down the curve of your spine. Such an action should be that of a lover, not… him. But your body gives in to his touch before your mind does, slowly relaxing against him. Your face buries in the pillow, which is cold, and smells of mothballs.

Exhaustion has set in, leaving your limbs heavy, and your head feeling light. The feeling of his fingers across your back does little to help that. You're not certain how much time passes as you lay there. The sun has disappeared behind the trees entirely. You can only fight off sleep for so long before it threatens to drag you under.

“Did you really think I was done with you?” He asks.

[gojifan97]

5 hcs au? Izuku's quirk is a bear mutation quirk. He's a cute fluffy cub that sometimes gets mistaken for an actual cub.

1. People mistaking him for an actual cub occasionally sent people in the park running for their lives when he was on his own, that happens less and less as he gets older.

2. People do think he’s weak at first (and Bakugo still hates him for the creek thing ) but after Izuku accidentally mauled some of his classmates in self defense (they were fine in the end) people remembered he’s, you know, a freaking bear. Bakugo actually comes to respect him a little after Izuku fights him when he’s bullying other kids, and they 

3. During training, All Might would frequently ruffle his hair. He insists this is just a normal affectionate gesture and not at all a desire to pet him (he's lying).

4. If Izuku has OFA in this, then using 100% transforms him from a cute fluffy cub  into a snarling monster of a bear to the terror of Villains facing him. Eri thinks it looks cute (no one understands why), while Kota thinks his monster!bear form is awesome. 

5. He has tons of fans in school and beyond for how adorable he looks, especially when he's writing in his notebooks. Half of Class A want to pet him but restrain themselves because it would be rude. Several people in the hallway sneak pats, while Mei doesn't even bother hiding and just pets him while explaining her newest invention. 

Izuku is mostly unaware of this.

6. When he becomes a top Hero he has a massive Russian fanbase for obvious reasons. Americans love it too, especially in the west.

7. At some point his class put on a production of Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale. You can guess exactly which part he plays... 

(Exit pursued by a bear)

[envihellbender]

Victor is the devil come to destroy a small southern town, Oswald is the sole priest who can either save the town that’s never been kind to him, or tame this demon and walk backwards into Hell with him

Fandom: Gotham, Southern Gothic Devil Victor and Priest Oswald AU

Characters: Oswald Cobblepot, Victor Zsasz

Oswald couldn’t explain quite what woke him up. All he knew is his eyes snapped open and he felt nothing but empty, quiet darkness through out his body. He sat up suddenly in his small, creaking bed, his hands slamming down either side of him as he looked up in shock and terror. His hazel eyes wide and jaw slack and open. In front of him, in his doorway was an intruder - one who he could see perfectly despite the lights being off. The stranger grinned as he stared at him. His head was shaved and his skin pale, his green eyes gleamed at him - impossibly bright.

“Mother-” Oswald began to call. The young man laughed and took a few steps forward.

“She can’t hear you, Oswald,” the young man said. “It’s just you and me for a little while.” Oswald knew he wasn’t lying, his mother’s insomnia would keep her awake at all hours. Her pacing made the entire house creek and the sounds of the crackling television poured throughout the rooms at night. Their old bungalow had the thinnest walls and his Mother did everything loudly. Right now however, the house was completely silent.

“What- what are you?” Oswald stammered, curling up in his small single bed and holding his knees close to his chest.

“What do you think I am?” He teased. “I’ve been going by Victor recently, I’m fond of it. Let’s hope it rings true.”

“I- Victor? You seem more like-” Oswald swallowed and screwed his eyes shut. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord-”

“How cute, that won’t help you now,” Victor interrupted. He sat down on the side of the bed. “Hey, handsome. Look at me.” Oswald’s eyes cracked open as he anxiously curled in on himself trying to block everything about this creature out of his mind. “What has your Church and your Lord god ever given you?”

“I- I’m-” Oswald felt ashamed that he couldn’t come up with an answer immediately. Did he even deserve to be a priest? Then it dawned on him. “Certainty. It’s given me certainty. Hope. Faith. I know God will one day reward me-”

“Yeah, yeah. I know,” Victor said as he rolled his eyes. “But right now. What have they given you?”

“I don’t-”

“They’ve forced you to live as a girl, they mocked your affliction, beat you, they exorcised your as a child, they do nothing but demean your sermons and speak of you like an exhibit of a freak show. Would a kind and loving god do that? After you gave him such devotion? Such kindness?” Victor’s voice had a smooth, warmth to it. Oswald knew he was being manipulated but he found it hard to disagree with the handsome stranger who used his true name without question and made him feel more accepted in minutes than he had in his whole life.

“What are you?” Oswald asked, his voice growing more steady.

“I have many names.” Victor shrugged and his eyes glinted in the moonlight as if his body exceeded night sky in power and importance. “Samael. Satan. Lucifer. Beelzebub. The Devil… but you can call me Victor.”

“You- no. Leave. Leave me-”

“Listen to me, Oswald,” Victor said. He reached out and cupped Oswald’s cheek with his thin pale hand. “I came to destroy this repulsive, pathetic, pious little town. Then I saw you. I saw potential. I wanted to protect you. Does that sound like the Devil your Church teaches against?”

“I- no. It does not,” Oswald admitted quietly, his cheeks growing wet.

“You’re like me. An abandoned son who’s home showed him nothing but pain. Why do you think I ran to hell?” Victor’s smile became sympathetic, and Oswald hated how much sense it made.

“That- I don’t-” He tried to protest.

“You’re tempted. I can tell. You understand me, more than you’ve ever understood anyone.” There was a powerful simplicity to what Victor said that burned into Oswald’s chest.

“I- perhaps, yes. But I don’t intend to-”

“Think about it. I’ll give you three days. I’ll come to you here, and you can tell me your decision. Either you fight me to try and save your town, you die with them, or you come with me back to hell as my new prince of darkness. The choice is yours.” Before Oswald could speak, Victor clicked his fingers in front of his eyes, and the room returned to blackness.

[masterwords]

as the crow flies (part one)

Summary: Derek is forced to take the job at the New York Field Office. Hotch is forced to deal. (AU where Hotch and Haley have a daughter instead of a son. Based on this story.)

Warnings: Lo-Fi/Mayhem explosion/injuries, bloody nose, throwing up

Words: 5.3k

Notes: Yeah yeah yeah, another Mayhem story. I have no illusions that this story will go fast. Buckle up I guess. My goal is to update once a week but let's just play it by ear okay? It started as a conversation with @jaspxr and has spiraled into madness. This chapter is probably the most intense and painful.

**

Heat.

It slammed into his chest, an invisible force of intense, blinding pain and he was being thrown backward. Suddenly he was in two places at once. More substantial than just a memory, not quite time travel.

The barrier between past and present became stretched so thin he could press his hand through and touch the other side. He could make out distinct shapes, familiar textures, recognize smells and tastes like meeting old friends in cold mist, shrouded in time's mysterious lack of substance.

In one, he was suspended above the ground.

Perhaps eleven years old, but his memory was fuzzy here. He'd always been a small child and his size made things a little harder to gage. Hanging from a tree branch by his knees, a feat he'd done no fewer than seven hundred and thirty times, if he had to give you a rough estimate. His friend Ben would have counted something exact, he would know, Hotch never cared much for the numbers.

He just wanted that lightheaded feeling of dangling upside down like a bat from the branch. He let his arms fall over his head, his t-shirt falling down from his stick-like frame to hang like wings and expose every single one of his protruding little boy ribs.

Ben stood on the swing, rocking his feet and pretending to surf while the ropes twisted and shook the branch. They were talking about the fireworks show and Ben, many times, wondered what it would be like to get their hands on one. “We could take it to the creek and set off our own show...wouldn't that be something!”

“My dad would give me a licking for sure,” Hotch had muttered, but even as he floated through this memory he knew that he'd been giving it some very real thought. Weighing carefully the risk and reward. Ben was pretty sure any dad would do that, but man...their own fireworks show without the mean kids calling them weenies for sitting with their families or stealing their sodas.

Seven hundred and thirty times, at least, he'd dangled happily by his knees from this exact branch but this time it was too hot outside maybe. Or he was too distracted by the fireworks. The backs of his knees became too sweaty to get a good grip on the smoothed old tree branch and he didn't notice.

Seven hundred and thirty times, and this time he fell. It happened so fast he didn't have a chance to call out, let Ben know he was a missile whose target was the ground as fast as possible. The drop was somehow fast and slow. Knocking Ben off of the swing, he ended up draped over the hot slab of rubber, his back bent at an awkward and painful angle before he slid down onto his butt and slumped over.

Ben let out a scream of terror and later he would admit he thought Hotch was dead, but he was just stunned, unable to suck a breath into his lungs for what felt like an hour but was more likely close to ten seconds. “Aaron!”

Ben's scream brought Hotch's dad out of the shed, covered in sawdust and reeking like beer and sweat, he rushed to his son and gathered him gently into his arms. More gently than he had in years, holding him close to his chest, sweaty pale cheek against his father's thundering and fearful heart beat. Accusing glares shot like rockets from his mother on the porch but he swore, over and over, he hadn't done anything...hadn't even seen it, a story Ben corroborated and eventually proven true once Hotch had regained the power of speech. Three against one, it was a freak accident.

He never cried, though he knew the pain was unbelievable. (How could it not be when he still feels the aftershock as a grown man? He still got so stiff in the morning and when Lucy's little foot shot out in their sleep and kicked him in just the right place he saw stars.) But his father doted on him, spoiled him, loved him. In that moment, they were father and son and he couldn't understand what had happened to make it so. He spent the afternoon eating fresh summer fruits from their raggedy old orchard and lying under a mound of ice. It didn't even bother him that he never saw the inside of a hospital...the accusing glares held this family at arm's length but he was happy there on the couch watching baseball with his father who wouldn't leave his side. Sean toddled around him on chubby legs, nothing but a baby in a cotton diaper stealing his summer grapes and strawberries without concern or understanding.

And like being pulled through a vacuum, he was back. There was no more golden summer sun or sweet red strawberries to soften the blow.

This time, he was flying through the air in a different and more violent way. Pushed backward, then up and into the street by a force he couldn't see. The thick smell of ozone and char surrounded him and there was no swing to catch his fall, no friend to cry out, no father to carry him inside.

He folded in half at the force and slammed against the crumbling black asphalt. The wind was forced out of his lungs while the world turned black around him, the stars blinked out of existence by acrid smoke and the smolder of leather seats licked by angry flames. It was a strangely synthetic yet animal smell. Adrenaline pounded him with electricity and the heat, the unbearable heat, forced him upright against protesting joints and muscles.

Some sacred instinct told him he had to back away, had to put distance between himself and the SUV. Popping and hissing, flames jumping from surface to surface. He recognized the heat more than anything. His skin glistened with sweat, pooling at his lower back and the only thing the knew for sure was that pool was where all the pain was. There was a lump there, not quite a scar but something broken that never healed right, a long distant memory that he associated more with some abstract number and strawberries than anything concrete.

When he struggled upright around cracked ribs and that howling pain in his spine, the two realities came crashing into one. Time gave way, the barrier solidified around him and though he choked on gasoline soaked smoke, he tasted fox grapes and then he threw up.

He was in the street, his car was on fire, and he had no idea what the hell happened.

The world was coated in a thick molasses silence, slow and syrupy though he knew what it must sound like. His mind invented the sounds for his ears that were sleeping on the job. A car alarm, the bustle of a city that never sleeps, sirens blaring from all directions but in his head it was simply quiet.

Until the ringing started, anyway. It crept in slow, starting somewhere near his shoulders and crawling up up up the sparking nerves in his neck until it curled around his temples and made itself a home. The ringing drowned everything else out and it hurt. His back became a distant memory.

Hobbling, he lurched forward and stared into a window full of television screens, monitors showing his own private scary movie. Black and white flames, colored flames, him standing there with eyes wide open and dazed. His bloody face a mask of horror. He reached up and touched his chin, pulled a shard of glass from the skin and didn't even feel it. Like opening the gates of a dam, though, the minute that shard was released the rest came rushing into sharp focus and he could feel them peppering his front, his face, his hands, his back. It became agony, tiny pinpricks of hot fire. As the blood rushed toward his feet he felt the shrapnel in his legs pulsing. His ability to assess the damage had been compromised, there was simply too much to focus on so he focused himself on none of it. He'd been in plenty of shit situations over the last few years but this one might take the cake. It didn't hurt as bad as Boston had, and he couldn't hear Gideon screaming his name in pure terror... a sound that woke him at night more than once. No, this time everything was quiet and he was alone and that was definitely worse. So he pushed it away and stared hard at his char coated hand. One small thing. That was the easiest way.

Maybe the only way.

It got hazy after that, the adrenaline kicking in and his brain shutting off. Kate was there, he finally remembered her as the car sputtered out another smaller explosion right into his face. A gust of heat, the smell of cooked and charred leather drenched in gasoline like a barbecue gone horribly wrong. His skin was slick, his lungs collapsing around a thick cottony dry feeling.

He coughed, throwing his arm up over his face. Manners, Aaron. He heard his mother's voice in his head. We mustn't forget our manners.

Kate said she was cold. He was melting, panting for breath in the heat saturated air and she was cold. “I'm so sorry Kate,” he whispered, his hand in the mess that used to be her back. “It should be me...”

By the time he was in the hospital, the world had regained some of its soundtrack but it was still wrong. Broken though it were, the voices and the white noise were joined by a horrendous ringing that bounced through his skull and rattled him to his core.

He really thought he might lose his mind.

He wasn't feeling faint until that sound reached a miraculously high pitched crescendo, and it shot the strength right out of his knees. Down he went in a smear of blood that he didn't think belonged to him but he could no longer be sure. Reality had long since ceased to be a concern, he was just moving forward, going through the motions. Metal trays clanged and clashed around him and he was surrounded by faces he didn't recognize, mouths moving with no sound. He blinked at them...blinked them out of existence.

There was a point during his brief hospital stay that he knew without a doubt that he was alone. The room was dark and empty, the halls were quiet...hospital on bypass, no staff around because there were no patients, none save for him. And Kate, somewhere on another floor maybe. Kate who would die but he didn't know that yet. He still had some faint hope.

The hospital was a desolate wasteland, his mind told him that much. No squeaky shoes, no poking fingers. They had left him on his stomach after spending an agonizingly long time pulling shrapnel from his shoulders and out of the road rash that covered his entire back. Does that look broken to you? That's a lot of swelling, someone had said poking at him, at that not-quite-scar on his back that was always a little tender but right now was pure concentrated pain. No way to get down to Imaging, no techs to do an x-ray now...so he waited, just like he had laid on the couch so many years ago. His back piled high with ice, and maybe this was a little more sophisticated but no one gave him fruit this time, only pitying looks. You poor thing. There was an IV, some pain medication he knew was going to make him too foggy to do his job and some far away voice told him to get it out, not let it sink its teeth into him because he had lives to save but...his hands wouldn't work, he had no control over his extremities.

Movement startled him, but in the dim lights he could see nothing and he was immobilized enough that he couldn't crane his neck to see. Bags of fluids hung over his head, and he vaguely make out the tubes swaying gently like someone was walking behind him, upsetting the air just so. Figuring it to be another nurse to check his ice, he let his tired eyes drift closed again, his lashes were crusted with salt and blood, too hard to open them anyway. We'll get you cleaned up soon, they had promised. For now he was still a bloody mess. He couldn't hear, he realized, nothing but a low humming sensation and the high pitched scream inside his skull, a symphony of his own body's making.

But the movement, he never heard it, he felt it. A shift in the air pressure, the temperature, a tiny gust of something like wind on his exposed and raw skin, the gentle sway of his tubes...and then nothing. When he opened his eyes, he saw nothing, the same room, the same empty. He went back to sleep, because his body told him it was the right thing to do whether his mind agreed or not. He was not in control.

Waking for the second time, he pulled the IV out of his hand. Immediately. Like it was the most important thing to be done. It hurt, blood pooled against the back of his hand and he covered it with the other while he searched for something to cover it with. A pile of paper towels would work for the time being, so he ripped the tape from skin and felt tiny hairs scream away with it in a blind fury. The nap, short as it was, gave him a crystal clear lucidity that almost hurt. Not only lucid, but angry, his mind running faster than he could categorize the thoughts. A blur of images, their profile that was so off base and got people hurt, the bomb, the ambulance, Kate. He wore a hospital gown but his feet were bare and they were cold...that made him mad, too. There didn't seem to be anything that didn't make him mad at that exact moment.

He didn't hear Derek enter. He smelled him first, an unmistakable mix of sweat and sweet sandalwood. He turned and watched Derek stalking toward him with credentials out, Derek who was as bright as the fireworks he'd dreamed of just before his fall, Derek whose presence felt like sorcery. And then the nurse and the doctor were trying to force him back down, dragging through the cart for the IV supplies and all he could do was look helplessly at Derek, silently begging him to take control, get him clothes, let him the hell out. His anger was barely contained, his mouth sealed shut against words he didn't want to say but would if pressed. Words that would make him sound just like his father.

“Hotch,” Derek said softly once they were alone. His voice was drowned out by the banshees in Hotch's skull. “What are you doing, man? They're just trying to help. You're hurt.” Badly, by the looks of it. He was upright but Derek couldn't understand how.

He stared hard at Derek with his washed out eyes and thought about all the ways he would have killed for the opportunity to free fall safely into those arms. In another world, another time, that flimsy space he could never inhabit...but not here. Another thing to be angry about.

He lighted on a moment, just after the explosion, the way Derek had run for him...he'd forgotten that in his blur, between the street and the hospital everything had vanished into time dust. But now it was back, that feeling of sweet relief. The way Derek ran at him down the street screaming his name like he was the only important thing in the entire world. He thought about the way his father rushed out of the shed hollering his name with the taste of fear thick and sour on his tongue. His father who dropped a whole can of beer and let it foam in the grass while he rushed for his son.

Both were surprises, moments of sweet relief he didn't deserve. Golden hope and comforting arms and kind words. You're going to be okay, they both seemed to say to him in tandem through the flickering film of time. You're okay.

“I know,” he admitted and Derek's hand was suddenly on his arm, just above his wrist, thumb caressing a stretch of gauze that he figured was covering a number of interestingly shaped patches of spider leg stitches. It was the most contact they'd get away with. “Get me out of here please. The profile is wrong...we need to...please get me out.”

“As soon as I can. Promise.”

(x)

They don't share hotel rooms.

Even when the hotel makes a mess or has limited occupancy, they just don't. Even when Emily rolled her eyes and said the cat was out of the bag months ago, they wouldn't. Hotch would share with Rossi, Morgan with Reid, and it worked out.

Tonight, he saw things a little differently. Less clarity, less Unit Chief, more humanity. He was in pain, he was grief stricken, he was lonely and the entire world was bathed in an eerie almost-silence. He was far away from everything.

There were people around him, shuffling along with their midnight hustle on both sides. Drunken stumbles and easy laughter he knew was probably a little too loud for their surroundings, but he couldn't hear any of it. His entire world was swallowed up in an echo chamber and the only sound was his heartbeat. The more he considered a world without sound, the harder his heart seemed to hammer until he was standing before the door to his room unable to punch in the code.

Just standing there with his fingers poised over the buttons, staring unfocused until all of the numbers blurred into one.

“Mister, you alright?”

Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and the voice was muffled like it came from underwater. It was a sound identical to something he'd heard a few hours before, identical to Sam's voice on the street and he turned around to find a young man in a hotel uniform with a concerned look on his face. Yeah, he probably did look more than a little suspicious. Cuts and bruises visible everywhere, confusion written all over his face. Suspicious or like someone who needed an ambulance. The irony wasn't lost on him. Been there done that wouldn't do it again.

“Fine, thank you,” he whispered, at least he hoped he did, and punched in the code to his room quickly. Before he lost whatever thought it was he managed to pull from nothing in order to find that code. Once inside his room everything was dark. Quiet. He could feel the hum of the air conditioner in the soles of his feet but the silence was overwhelming now that he was finally alone.

It was what he wanted. Alone. No eyes on him, looking him up and down, waiting for him to crack. To let them see what was really happening to him. Alone was good.

Or so he'd hoped.

Really, alone just allowed the fear to overwhelm him. What if his hearing didn't come back after the initial shock? What if he went home and his doctor looked at his back and told him he couldn't be in the field anymore? What if he slept through his alarm in the morning and missed his ride back to Quantico?

What if he had a brain bleed and died in his sleep? Funny thought, followed immediately by proof. God or someone powerful was laughing at him.

He felt warmth on his lip and tasted copper. Reaching up, dabbing at his lip with timid fingertips, he pulled away and saw blood. The ER doctor had warned him about this. The trauma he suffered should have required a full work up, it killed his friend after all but he didn't have time for that. Slowly, on unsteady legs, he walked to the bathroom and pulled a roll of toilet paper still in its wrapper out from beneath the sink and tore into it. He soaked through three entire wads, shockingly bright crimson tossed into the toilet. Nearly half the roll before he saw it slow down.

Nothing hurt, though. Those IV tubes had done their job. He'd crash soon with nothing pumping fresh but he still had time to ride this. Time to decide.

With a wad still in his hand, pressed tight to keep it from going all over him, he left the room. Being alone was a bad decision. He was walking through what he knew would be blinding pain in a few hours and murky swampy confusion, and those moments of clarity that told him don't be alone right now, you're not okay...little panicked SOS's from somewhere deep inside, knew he needed to listen to them. Dave was right down the hall. Four doors. It would be so easy, but he didn't want Dave and at that very moment there was something very important about being somewhere he wanted to be.

More than once he got lost. Not really lost, just sort of turned around. It shouldn't have been that hard, but his brain was a soupy mess and he got turned around when all of the hallways and all of the elevators looked the same. The golden swirls in the carpet played tricks on his eyes, like a will o the wisp leading him to certain death. He would have to stand there a moment in the hallway to try and gather his bearings. Remember where he was trying to go.

He eventually got there. To the important place. The comfort place.

“Aaron?” Derek asked, beads of water trailing miniature rivers from his shoulders to his elbows. He was standing in nothing but a towel. Who did that? Who answered their door mostly naked?

Derek. He did. Hotch frowned at the blossoming bruise, a deep ugly purple, on his shoulder. So big it could almost be a sleeve. “Aaron?” Without waiting for a reply, he pulled Hotch into the room and locked the door behind them.

“I'm sorry for showing up unannounced,” Hotch said through the wad of toilet paper obscuring his face. Derek waited like he would say more, but that was it. He was just sorry. No reason, no excuse, just sorry. Staring at him, the way he stood just out of reach, Derek had some decisions to make. Sometimes it was better if he didn't think, if he just let his hands take control. Thinking often led him down a path neither of them was prepared for but if he just reached out...

He was in a daze.

He didn't look particularly bad. There was some dried blood in his hair, but you'd have to get up close to know it wasn't just gel. His face was bruised, especially dark under the eyes and Derek knew he'd look worse in the morning. Like he'd been in a fight, at the very least. What was a pinkish purple now would be that sort of purple almost black that read like pain. A few cuts were visible and the gauze on his forearms could be seen beneath his shirt sleeves just barely.

All in all, he didn't look bad. Except his eyes. One look at how he stared unfocused into something Derek couldn't see, some other world that existed in time with this one, that was how he could tell something wasn't right. “Shower?” Derek asked, cautiously. He flipped Hotch's blood crusted hair and smirked, hoping to drag a smile or at least some focus out of him but the daze persisted. His body was there but his mind was not.

Pod person, that's what Spencer would say. Like in Invasion of the Body Snatchers, he's Hotch but he's not really Hotch. Only that wasn't really true, it was just Hotch all mixed up.

“Aaron?” That drew his gaze, and he blinked hard a few times to try and focus his blurred vision.

“A shower would be nice,” he replied, like that was what Derek had just asked. Like he hadn't missed a moment. He fumbled with the buttons on his shirt and found that his fingers wouldn't quite do what he needed them to. Didn't help that he saw two, three buttons floating in every hole and wasn't sure which one to grab for. He blinked hard again.

“Can I help?” He always asked. He used to just barge in and do it, but Hotch had made it very clear over the years that he would always prefer to be asked, even if the obvious answer was yes. Derek could give him that much. One ask. Sometimes he'd do it anyway if Hotch said no and take the fight later, but he was getting better about that.

Sort of.

Hotch just stood there in his daze and watched Derek's nimble fingers dance their way from his collar to his navel, tugging to un-tuck, spreading the shirt open wide. The further he got the more gentle his hands, until his touches were almost feather light and reverent. The landscape of Hotch's skin was mottled with vicious reds and molten purples, bruises puddling and spreading until their edges blurred and boundaries disappeared. Tenderly he bunched the fabric in his hands and slipped it down around his shoulders and off of his arms with as little contact as possible. His stomach ached at the sight.

He would have invited Derek into the shower with him, that did sound nice, but the minute the cold air met his sweat slicked skin his world did a summersault. “Excuse me,” he whispered, turning quickly and heading for the bathroom as fast as his feet would carry him. Once inside he shut the door, turned on the fan, and dropped to his knees in front of the toilet. He trembled, sweating, crying without realizing it until his body couldn't take another convulsion and then he pulled himself to his feet and thought about cleaning up in the sink but the man in the mirror looked too far gone for a small sink.

He ran the shower. “I'm so cold,” Kate's voice rang in his head. His skin was sticky with sweat, prickling with a constant source of heat he couldn't seem to extinguish so he ran the shower cold as ice and stepped in, still in his pants. Peeling them off once under the water, he let them fall to the bottom of the tub and finished undressing right there beneath the spray. The cold hurt, it almost burned, and in his strange fog he thought he saw steam rise from his blistering hot skin at contact. Just a fiction, his mind playing dirty tricks on him. He crouched beneath the spray and cried silent tears while his back went frosty and his teeth chattered. Almost there.

Derek finished getting himself ready for bed while Hotch showered. He knew better than to try and barge in even if he was worried. He popped a few ibuprofen for his shoulder, massaged some peppermint oil into the aching joint, and slipped beneath the sheets to wait. Truthfully, he didn't even know what was going on...if Hotch was staying or going, what he came for really, so he just waited.

A shower didn't fix everything, in fact it fixed very little, but Hotch stepped out feeling like a new person. Every ache was less meaningful, and while he dried his stitches carefully and rifled through Derek's paltry first aid kit to find bandages that would cover at least the most necessary ones he realized he was able to breathe. His lungs didn't feel so full of ashy cotton, he didn't taste smoke.

“You wanna sleep here?” Derek asked, yawning and reclining on his bed. He was stretched out catlike and warm, completely naked on the sheets. Hotch turned, took in the sight and thought about his own lonely room. He should go, it would do him no favors to stay and have to sneak out early in the morning but his body ached and his head hurt and he simply didn't want to leave. He shouldn't have to give everything up for this damn job, and his body was already wrecked for it. One thing, he wanted one selfish thing.

“Yes,” he said, sliding into the bed beside Derek. He was wearing Derek's t-shirt and boxers, hadn't thought to bring a single thing of his own up. Derek's clothes were softer, they hung loose and unrestricted. “Thank you for letting me stay.”

He dreamed of the explosion. From afar, he saw the plume of smoke over the city skyline and was sucked like a vacuum into the flames. The world was silent and he couldn't make a sound. The flames were cold, paralyzing, they kissed his wrists and ankles and gave him brain freeze like a child who sucks down their milkshake too quickly. He squinted into the smoke freckled with ice chunks and snowflakes, and he tried to move. Forcing his hands into fists he felt his skin crack and break, the sound of bones crunching and falling into the nothing beneath him.

He was blown to bits and flying into snowy ash before he woke in a cold sweat and looked around him. Beside him Derek slept, no blankets, nothing just glistening skin in the silvery moonlight. Hotch forced himself upright and rubbed at the pain in his neck, trying to loosen it up. The room felt steamy and warm, it melted his frozen joints and locked up muscles. He held his hand up to his ear, snapped his fingers in an attempt to check his hearing. Nothing in the right ear, some small sounds in his left. An improvement.

In the bathroom, silent, he splashed water over his face and stared at a man he barely recognized in the mirror. Gashes, bruises, deep blackberry crescents beneath his eyes. He was a wreck. In the morning he'd have to talk to Strauss and find out the conditions of his return to duty. It might be a while by the looks of him.

Not as long as Kate, though. He watched his eyes shine with tears at the thought of her lying there in the street, at her cold hand in his beneath that thin hospital sheet. That pale blue sheet, the bruises in her hairline, her icy fingertips. Just like the icicle fingers in his dream.

“Aaron?” A faint call from the other room, a rustle of sheets and he could just barely make out Derek's features in the mirror as he sat up in the bed. “You good?”

“Fine,” he replied in the closest to a normal sounding voice he could muster. “Just thirsty.” He was, it wasn't a lie. He was filling the little plastic cup with his third cup of water and gulping it down like it might drown the embers smoldering in his chest. He swiped at the tears on his cheeks, hot and sticky on his fingertips, and drank another cup. And another. Soon Derek's hand was sliding over his shoulder and his chin rested there beside his cheek.

“Why do I get the feeling you're lying to me?”

Hotch smiled at the Derek in the mirror but he didn't bother to hide the tears.

“Come back to bed,” Derek said almost too softly for Hotch's ears to pick up. “You're freezing.”

[daincrediblegg]

Do itttttttt

Give us the gory details baby

All right nonnie, if you say so, here you go...

John Franklin had been dead for days. When the Marshalls found him, the flies had been so dense that he’d looked nothing more than a shadow of a man standing over the creek near duskfall. Had there been a man to accompany him, perhaps Deputy Jopson wouldn’t have noticed him at all, save for the way the thing moved and jittered like lakewater, and the man stank of all manner of filth- whether human or non-human, remained to be seen. 

Deputy Little had his theories, and certainly spared none of them to the open air as they rode to where the man had been found. Hodgeson, the Marshall’s man, of course, did nothing to assuage them. The man seemed to be full of apocryphal tales of natives (he’d never specified which, of course), missing children, women with their necks cleaved open by tomahawks, all manner of brutality that might befall a man should he face the indian hordes outside the safeties of their little town. Sheriff Crozier, of course, gave credence to none of them. He was never a speculating man, save for the occasional game of cards he played with Thomas at the Blue Belle, but he’d not put a penny on anything until he had a chance to see for himself exactly the manner of carnage that befell their man. If his years with his badge had taught him anything, fear never led to the truth, and speculation was always the birthmother of that poor mistress. But, he supposed, these greenhorns fresh from those pretty cities back east had nothing but those tales to go on. Not a lick of sense but for that of the men by whom they were raised to go on, none of which would serve them in the open country as they were now. None of it would prepare them for what they would find when they arrived. None of it would have prepared their poor stomachs fresh from breakfast for what Deputy Jopson had to show them.

George was the first to go, and from the smell alone, as they had not even cleared the treeline before he’d emptied his stomach upon the grass. Ned was not too far behind him, judging by the thick swallow that Crozier heard beside him as he scaled down the ridge to where the Marshall and his men waited for them. He at least had had the good sense to cover his face with his neckerchief before approaching further, as Crozier had. Still, all men present couldn’t help but wince under their masks.

Even Crozier himself felt queasy as he came face to face with their inquest. His belly had been empty for hours now, save for the shot of whiskey he spared himself when Jopson came storming into the office in a frenzy he’d never much seen in his young protege. He understood a bit better now to look at what he had seen.

The whole thing looked as though it might up and move by itself at any given moment, were it not for the construction of branch and twig and twine that held the poor man upright. The flies began to shift and scatter in places as he approached to inspect a little better the patches left untouched underneath the swarm. He could hear a man begin to wretch a little behind him, to see the pallid gray palor the man now posessed- Little, most likely, since Hodgeson could dare not venture further and opted to watch the tree-line, and wait for his own betters to arrive back from town with a cart to transport the man- or better he would say, what was left.

Crozier waved his hand then, to clear the flies and better look at what lay beneath the carrion that had gathered, and was met immediately with a scene that made the younger men behind him gasp.

The eyes were pale, but strung open wide, and the mouth affixed- agape, skin pulling back at the lips- rigor having long settled in. The horrified expression, combined with the odd shaping of the man’s pose, provided no clarity. There were wounds around his belly, but little blood soaked into the clothes to indicate their incision. But more ghastly of all was the gaping flesh at the top of the man’s hip where his leg should be, but where currently there was none, and where the flies continued their work at the rotting flesh there, blood and meat congealing against raw bone. 

“Have you found the leg?” Crozier finally asked, his tone even to himself unexpectedly low.

“No, Sir,” Jopson replied in a whisper, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, “I had Deputy Irving sweep the shoreline before riding out to alert Fitzjames’ party. Haven’t seen any sign of it.”

Crozier grunted as he stood again, not so much at the ache in his bones but more for the mention of one Mr. Fitzjames. A foolish man who seemed to be under the impression that his appearance, subdued though he tried to keep it, as it was, might disguise better in this place the truth of his employment, but Crozier knew a Pinkerton man when he saw one. The man couldn’t hide that no matter how many fine waistcoats he owned and wore. Not to mention his distaste for the local culture. He expected the man would show himself any minute now, with those city airs of his, and no doubt, some theory to who might have done this that might satisfy the speculations of the Deputies. 

It would not, however, satisfy Crozier.

[celeste-clearwater-06]

Imagine Teaching the hobbits how to swim...

Little swimming headcanons for out little hobbit boys! Let's just assume they dropped in from Middle Earth at some point for an AU!

Frodo

Unsurprisingly, Frodo was very nervous

Because DUH hobbits can't swim!

It's how he lost his parents after all

However, with some gentle coaxing, you had finally managed to get him in the water

Frodo insisted that he wore floaties like a little toddler

Which was absolutely adorable-

He stayed relatively calm whenever he had his wittle hands around your arm

And finally when he got to the point where his feet didn't touch the bottom of the pool

He

Completely

LOST

IT

Frodo was flailing his arms around and splashing like crazy

He got so stressed and started crying

You were trying to help hold him still and finally pulled him above the water, and he saw that it was just a little above your waist

You had to hold him up by his hips while he practiced strokes and fought against the water

And thankfully after a while of trying

And failing

The ringing bearer soon became a decent swimmer!

It wasn't really his favorite activity in the world

But he would probably agree if you asked him

And frodo would get exhausted so fast

He would probably take a nap on the way home

Frodo could never say no to you :>

Samwise

Oh Sam

Poor Sam

He tried to seem happy and calm when he was walking down the steps of the pool, but his little hobbit legs were shaking with terror

And why wouldn't he be?

HE had almost drowned after chasing Frodo halfway through the lake back on their journey

However, you were undeniably patient with him

Sam was a lot less panicky than Frodo when he got to the "deep end" (which was actually only 4 feet tall)

Although he was still struggling for breath above the water

You held out an arm for him to grab onto and moved it along the surface of the water as he kicked his hairy feet

Sam had never been used to much physical activity

Maybe this is just me, but I think sam would prefer wearing a swim shirt and trunks because he's afraid he'll get sunburned very easily

And swimming drained him so fast, so you rewarded him with a nice big lunch afterwards

Overall, Sam was a very good swimmer, although it took him a bit longer than the others to learn how

11/10

Very sweet hobbit boi

Merry

Ah yes

Meriadoc Brandybuck

A troublemaker

He was used to running through the creek and catching frogs or wading past Brandywine River with Pippin, so water wasn't foreign to him

Merry seemed a lot more proud and brave than the others

He wouldn't admit that he was a pretty awful swimmer, and every time he sunk beneath the water, he would bob back up without a hitch, spluttering the chlorine water from his mouth

He also found it quite enjoyable to splash you in the face

And then you would threaten to let go of him and he'd quickly apologize and knock it off

Also, I'd like to think that Merry is up for just relaxing in a floaty or something if he's in a good mood

YOU SHOULD HAVE NEVER TAUGHT HIM HOW TO PLAY CHICKEN

Every time you taken the hobbits to the beach or a place to swim

"WHO WANTS TO PLAY CHICKEN?!"

Only because he's ROWDY and being below the water hardly phases him

And everyone immediately yells

"NO"

Though I can't really say the same for the others...

Surprisingly, when it comes to swimming, Merry is much crazier than Pippin

Which is saying A LOT

And it's also scary how well he can use a water gun-

like...

Very well...

Pippin

Pippin was all talk

That is until he jumped in

You tried to tell him he would probably need help

"Are you sure Pip?"

"Aye, I'll be fine! I am a Took after all!"

His little chest was all puffed out and then he cannonballed into the 5 foot (1 and 1/2 meter) end

And that's when he freaked out

Poor Pip was shrieking and doggy paddling and you had to lift him above the water just like Frodo

He was embarrassed to say the least

But still, you had helped him every step swim of the way

And for some reason, he has this... fascination with goggles

I think it's because he likes to see the bottom of the pool and what's going on underneath him for some reassurance

But all the time

"Have you seen my goggles?"

"Where are my goggles?"

"Sorry Merry, these are my goggles."

He also likes to use them to go under the water and scare the others by grabbing their feet and legs

And if you ever went to the beach, Pippin would be a GOD at making sandcastles

He would try and recreate Gondor-

He loves when you give him piggyback rides in the water 🥺

Way too many splashes fights, but you always end up winning because of your comparably sizeable arms.

Pip would be just fine with wearing swim trunks/ swim shorts

And also, like Merry, he is terrifyingly good at using water guns

swimming is his favorite thing to do besides eat, and it keeps him distracted for a while

In the long run, Pippin still has a lot to learn, but you know he'll turn out to be an excellent swimmer

Bilbo

Bilbo HATES swimming

He just hates getting wet

If he ever went with you, he'd hardly get his ankles past the water

Usually, you'd have to carry him in while he protests

And he'd never go in past his neck

Bilbo would always freak out if something other than sand or the bottom of a pool touched his feet

One time he swore there was a fish in the pool after your foot brushed past his own

And like Sam, he definitely likes wearing a swimming shirt unless he's tanning/sunbathing

He is SUCH a drama queen, and would much rather sit in a floaty than swim around

*cue sunglasses and cocktail*

However, he doesn't hate all of the beach

He always wants to collect cool shells and rocks with you 🥺👉👈

And once he discovers something called a metal detector, he HAS to get one so he can find treasures!

He also likes holding your hand and walking down the shoreline wif you or watching the sunset

And he HATES seagulls as well

He just wants to enjoy his quiet dinner by the ocean/lake/pond etc.

And those "silly birds" come down and harass him

Being at the pool has also particularly bothered him if there were little kids there

"Too much splashing for me. I'd rather sit in peace and enjoy my drink thankyouverymuch 😡"

And on occasion, Bilbo will swim, though he's not the best at it

He'll wrap his hands around your shoulders and let you swim around while he kicks his feet

Also, I feel like he would HATE the smell of sunscreen??

I don't know, maybe it would make him gag or something 😂

Also terrified of getting water in his very sensitive ears

Also likes to sunbathe, but would have to use a lot of sunscreen

Sassy Baggins

6/10 when swimming, but is usually very enjoyable company

Overall Headcanons For Hobbits (Bonus)

I have a feeling that the hobbits would burn in the sun pretty easily, especially in a sun that's not as gentle as the one in the shire

So lots of sunscreen for sure

Their big feet would definitely be beneficial when swimming

And they would all have a problem with brushing out their curly hair after swimming at a pool with chlorine

Which you would happily help them with

I think it's safe to say each of them are equally amazed to see how long you can hold your breath and touch the bottom of the pool and open your eyes underwater if the conditions seem fit

They all look like little toddlers when they swim around but that's okay because you're like a proud hobbit mother and it's the cutest thing ever

Their ears are also extremely sensitive, so it's important to try and keep their heads above the water as much as possible (though Merry and Pippin have many protests against it)

And they would all get tired very quick since swimming is a tiring activity for anyone

Okay...

Just imagine seeing a little group of Hobbits trailing behind you, or one or tel holding your hand and wearing sunglasses and bucket hats as you walk to the pool or beach

Or seeing all of the little hobbit bois wrapped up in towels and yawning while you walk home 😖🥺

Or their thick curly hair sticking to their faces and over their eye because of the water

And taking nice long naps after eating a filling lunch 🥺

I think swimming with them would just be an absolute blast and blessing

[twofrontteethstillcrooked]

15 Oct. Suptober: Blue skies and apple pies

"Aside from cattle wrangler," Dean asked, "what are you?" 

au, modern setting: alternate deancas meet-cute

"Well, pardner, I reckon it's time to ride off into the sunset." Marianne propped her elbow on Castiel's cubical countertop. "You wouldn't wanna hang 'round here like a hair on a biscuit."

Castiel hid a chuckle. "You're a credit to the cowboy way."

"Me? I'm not the one who strolled in here this morning dressed for the rodeo." Marianne had chosen to wear a jersey and shorts and spent the entirety of the office costume contest at lunch throwing a basketball at their coworkers' heads.

"Yes, well." Castiel didn't have any good excuse for having spent actual money on a western themed ensemble, complete with hat and boots, bolo and belt buckle, other than that blending in with the corporate culture seemed useful if he was going to be amongst humans for forty hours a week.

Technically, he'd been amongst them for thousands of years, but only in the last two years had he needed to make rent money.

His costume wasn't uncomfortable, or at least not more so than his regular wardrobe, so it was only his footgear he changed at the park, swapping out the cowboy boots for his usual hiking boots. (He left on the hat because it was the time of year when spiders were stretching webs across every available space.) He was on the shortest of the trails within minutes of leaving work, and looking up through the canopy of oaks and beechnut he could finally take a deep breath. Blue skies up there, as clear as emerald-cut topaz. The woods smelled like dried leaves and mushroom mustiness. A jay was squawking as it dove to chase off a starling; gray squirrels raced back and forth across the underbrush, ferrying around walnuts and acorns for their winter stockpile.

It was less lonely, in the trees.

Castiel walked the first trail while stopping to pick his own pantry staples and place them in the sturdy softback cooler he carried: several cups' worth of tart crabapples for jam; two handfuls of pecans almost as big and green as key limes; spicebush berries to add to an apple pie recipe he'd found that sounded promising. 

He didn't like most foods and had no real use for them; he'd learned to like apples. It felt fitting, for an angel -- quince were more Biblically accurate, yet harder to come by locally.

The sun wouldn't set for another hour. He crossed over the playground by the largest picnic shelter and set to climbing the first rooty hill of the park's longer trail. Deep within the trees he could hear kids' cheerful screams down on the swingsets and someone's dog alerting everyone to the persistent terror of chipmunks. 

Another hiker was somewhere behind him. Being followed, even accidentally -- as surely it was, since no-one knew or cared he was there -- made him anxious, and he sped up. The trail, damp from recent rain, ran unevenly along the stream that fed the creek that meandered along the edge of the park. He didn't need to be careful of slipping. 

He could not, he thought, fall any further than he already had.

The season's last jewelweed, in bright dappled orange and corn yellow colors, had captured his attention near a bend in the stream, when he heard an extremely loud curse word ring out.

That single swear was followed by more of the same, only in a quieter and more desperate tone.

The string of expletives -- "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckmotherfuck" -- led him back to a higher part of the trail above the stream bed. At first, Castiel didn't see the man clinging to the embankment that had given way: he saw the blood blooming in the murky water below.

Castiel's true form had not knocked against the barrier of his human vessel in many, many years. The human whose face he wore had been gone nearly as long, and he'd thought himself acclimated to this diminutiveness. He concentrated fiercely to make his senses fan out and show him the man's leg, the jagged femur speared through skin and shining with blood, the man's ghostly pallor, sweat shining at his throat as his body slipped into shock. Castiel's strong, enormous wings unfurled without his even having to think about it, and in an instant he was gathering the man up from the muddy crags as gingerly as he could.

When he had carried the man up to the path -- a blink of an eye stretched to infinity -- and laid him down, Castiel cradled the man's head in his palms, touched his forehead to his and prayed healing fire into the broken body he held. He could feel the huge bone being reknit and set right, skin closing; new blood welled up fast and clean in the stitched artery. He could feel the man's memories like leaves drifting downward in amber, emerald, and ochre hues, except… Also pain. Also violence and fear. Grief. He could feel the man's soul, its impossible density and depth of kindness; bruises, bites, cuts, strength born from loss; love that filled it to brimming over, spilling through Castiel's fingers like silken ribbons.

It felt, Castiel thought, the way a sunset appeared at an ocean's horizon, molten copper and gold flowing ever outward over unceasing waves. He had never held anything as addictively pure, and it was nothing but agony to release the soul back into the man's singular possession.

The man gasped and promptly passed out.

While the man was unconscious, Castiel whisked away the blood, dirt, and sweat coating him and his clothing and did the same for himself. Then he staggered backwards, his wings pulled back to the angelic plane, his awkward human limbs wobbly and weakened. He caught the trunk of a young nearby elm and sat on a mossy patch, panting.

There was a duffel bag spilt open several feet away. The man's, he guessed, and forced himself to drag it over and rummage through it. He found a smartphone and had just enough mojo left to override its requirement for a passcode. The one number the man seemed to call repeatedly was for someone named Sammy.

"What's up, Dean?" the voice answered.

"Hello," Castiel said, trying to sound sane, calm, and as though he wasn't about to lose consciousness. "Dean has been injured."

"Who is this?" the voice demanded. "Where the hell--"

"He slipped, but he'll be fine. Are you Sammy? We're at Silver Park, just off of Flint Street. Do you know it?”

The voice hesitated. "Let me talk to my brother. Now."

A voice that brokered no argument. An icy, dangerous voice.

Castiel squared his shoulders like someone was evaluating his performance. He was no longer at risk of fainting. "Your brother is fine and will be waiting down by the Stuart Lodge."

"I'll be there in thirty. If you've hurt him, so help me--"

Castiel punched the disconnect button, then turned off the phone and tossed it back in the duffel.

The man's hands stirred, scratching lightly at the dirt path.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel said. He crawled to his side and touched his shoulder.

As Dean's eyes fluttered open, Castiel realized he'd seen him before at the park. Multiple times, even. Seen him in the distance, ahead or behind him on trails, or sitting at the one of the picnic tables or on the hood of a large black car. A handsome man, always dressed like he might decide to camp out in the woods for a week. A man who smiled at children and gave french fries to squirrels and sometimes tapped his feet to music playing through the car's windows. 

A man who'd waved at Castiel from across the grassy knolls or trail meadows once or twice, like their both being at the park often meant they knew each other, something shy in the way he held up his hand though Castiel would've wagered he was rarely socially nervous otherwise.

Dean's irises were as green as sea glass, his eyes framed with dark lashes. Castiel could sense him taking a deliberate pause between focusing on him and speaking.

"Howdy," Dean said finally. He did not look away when he smiled small and private, like he trusted Castiel would get the joke.

It was probably one of the only ones Castiel would've gotten, in truth. With relief he said, "Your brother will be here shortly."

"Who are you?" Dean asked, starting to sit up with a bitten-off groan. 

"My name is Castiel." He let Dean grip his forearm for leverage. "How are you feeling?"

Dean looked at him and Castiel realized they were crowded together most closely. "Pretty okay for someone who was about to bleed to death in the world's dumbest accident." His gaze kept drifting all over Castiel's face, like he was trying to memorize it.

Castiel tried not to blush, and maybe didn't succeed. "People can get hurt doing the simplest things."

Humans were hideously breakable, he'd learned. Fragile as thinnest china sometimes.

Dean kept staring. And staring.

"Aside from cattle wrangler," he asked, "what are you?" 

Castiel went still. 

Dean waited.

"You're a hunter," Castiel said. It wasn't a question.

"Yeah."

Castiel spoke as plainly as he could. "I'm an angel." 

He could almost see the thoughts flying through Dean's mind like shrapnel.

"Didn't think," Dean said, "there was any such thing."

Castiel raised his chin. "There is."

He could've compelled belief; it was better that Dean seemed to come to it on his own.

Dean's eyes softened. He had fifty-seven freckles across the tops of his cheeks and bridge of his nose. Castiel was flooded with gratitude that there was still light enough under the canopy to see such freckles by.

Neither of them spoke for a minute, caught up in the stare Castiel didn't know how to break free of. A flush had crept its away across Dean's face and down his throat. Castiel had to curl his hand to keep from tracing the heat of it with his fingertips.

"Guess I should mosey on outta here," Dean drawled, that smile playing on his mouth.

"I'm not usually dressed like this," Castiel blurted.

Dean's smile grew wider. "Yeah, I know." He looked away, shaking his head, and looked back, something inexplicably fond in his eyes. "Help me up?"

"Oh. Of course." Castiel stood first, legs thankfully less shaky, and grabbed up Dean's hands. 

Dean stood and steadied himself but didn't, Castiel noted, let go.

"All right?" Castiel asked.

"It's getting darker, right? I'm not going blind?"

"Nighttime is real." Castiel gently, if reluctantly, pulled his hands out of Dean's. "Wanna follow me down to the lodge?"

Dean nodded. "That isn't my bag." He pointed at the cooler Castiel had thrown off between a splintery log and a stand of wild phlox before going over the edge to rescue him.

"Yes, that one is mine. Thanks." Castiel picked up his belongings.

Dean fetched his duffel.

They stood looking at each other for another moment. Castiel surrendered first, beginning the backtrack to the start of the trail. He'd gone no more than five or six steps before looking back.

The trail wasn't less damp or root-tricky than it had been. He held out his hand.

Dean took it and held on until they'd picked their way all the way back down.

The park would close in less than an hour. Castiel's hand felt very empty again as he walked beside Dean towards the lodge and the pickup truck parked by its rental info sign.

A tall man sprang out from the driver's side. 

"I'm fine, Sam," Dean said before his brother could say a word.

"What the hell, man, you scared me to death." Sam took the duffel away from Dean and tossed it in the truck. "Mushroom hunting, my ass."

"I'm drivin' out of here, dude. Give me back my bag."

Sam glared at Dean. "We're gonna crash at the motel -- I'm driving us there -- and we'll come back for Baby in the morning."

Dean glared back. "If she gets towed--"

"Shut up," Sam said. He turned to Castiel and did a double-take at Castiel's hat. With some effort, he said, "Thank you for calling."

The flipped-on politeness would've thrown Castiel if it hadn't seemed so sincere.

"It was no trouble." Castiel shifted his cooler to his other shoulder. To Dean he said, "Many of the mushrooms that grow in this park are poisonous. Or at least, there would be unpleasant side effects if you chose to ingest them."

Dean gave him a long look. "Good to know."

"Well," Castiel said. He didn't have any other reason to linger. His chest ached, probably from the earlier exertions. "It was nice to meet you, Dean. Hope you have a restful evening."

He started walking towards his own car well on the other side of the jungle gym. The achy feeling increased alongside a sharp cold breeze that had been kicked up by the dwindling daylight.

"Cas. Hey, Cas!"

It took him a second to realize the name being called was a truncation of his own. 

By the time he'd turned around Dean was bounding up to him, the absolute picture of health.

Castiel's powers hadn't completely left him; he allowed it to be a comfort.

"Wanted to see what you were doing tomorrow." Dean spoke like they were old pals, like they routinely met at the park and hiked through the trees together, foraging foodstuffs and talking friendly. "If you'll be in town." His bravado faltered a little and he watched his feet scuffing the parking lot pavement.

"I was going to bake an apple pie," Castiel said, as easily as anything, his stomach lifting as Dean's head rose and his eyes snapped to Castiel's. "Except, I've never made one before."

"I've made one or two," Dean said, stepping nearer.

"Any tips?" Castiel cleared his throat. "Or would you be willing to--" 

"Yes," Dean said, quick as anything. 

"You don't owe me--"

"Yeah, no, I know." He bounced on the balls of his feet a couple of times. "But you should know I make excellent apple pie. And I would be happy to help."

"Give him your fucking number already," Sam called from the truck.

"You can just pray to me," Castiel said without thinking that through. 

Dean gaped at him. "I…will do that," he said slowly. "Tomorrow afternoon?"

Castiel resisted the urge to rub at his own blushing. "That will be fine." 

Dean smiled their private smile again. "Good night, Cas."

Castiel let himself smile back, let himself hope. "Good night, Dean."

[drabbles-of-writing]

I feel as like you’ve stopped appreciating my ideas. This is too bad for you, as I still appreciate them and thus will continue sharing them. COTC au Hooty is a homeless man who lives in the creek. The children stopped fearing him long ago - cockroach anon

i havent gotten an ask from you in like a week lmao?? i dont think they've been sendin through

once again people are insisting on Hooty being human and I must deliver. he used to be some homeless guy who showed up but then Eda saw how much he terrorized the kids and brought him in to be a bodyguard for her place. hes a weirdo but the kids eventually began to stop being scared of him and treat him as a general annoyance but they listen to him anyway

[starcrossedkaiju]

Kingslayer AU: Chapter Eight

I don’t know what to say other than I like this one. Rendog enjoyers come get your free angst!

Scott filled the pages of his sketchbook gradually at first. He sat at his window and drew what he saw, focusing on putting shapes on the paper. Many times he was unhappy with the finished product, almost ripping out and throwing away his limited space.

He had to learn to be okay with it. The next time it would be a bit better, and a bit better, until the tree he’d been slaving over didn’t look half bad.

Soon his interests turned to drawing his friends. Their faces would pop up on his pages, drowned in eraser smudges at first. Then it became easy. Like second nature, he could memorize Grian’s knowing grin, Jimmy’s downturned eyes, Martyn’s slightly crooked nose.

He drew the way he saw Ren’s piercing yellow eyes that night, the way they were shadowed by his brow.

It felt better. To have a place where his memories could stay exactly the way he saw them. Scott even pinned some up on the wall of his room.

Soon his supply of paper started dwindling, Martyn told him if he needed more drawing paper to come back and ask him for some. So he did, after Jimmy went to bed and the world was quiet under the snow.

Scott made a trip to the Renchanting base, entering through the tunnel hidden under the mountain. It took him right to the storage area. Which was dark and deserted. Only a clock ticked on the wall, everyone else must have been in the sleeping quarters or back at their bases to fend off the Phantoms.

He took a torch from the “stuff chest” and started making rounds, looking at each storage container. Food, Armor, ores, wood, stone, and redstone. Until there was a wall of chests with people’s names on them.

Everyone in the Red Army had a chest, from left to right there was Ren, Martyn, Etho, Skiz, Impulse, Tango, Joel, and then Scott.

The last chest on the right side, Scott’s name was carved on top. It hadn’t been there before. He placed his hand on the lock, wondering if he should even bother opening it. Someone had cared enough to dedicate a space for him to put things. Under the roof of Dogwarts no less.

His torch flickered and Scott decided he’d spent too long lurking around, so he flipped the lock up and quietly opened the chest. Slowly so it wouldn’t creek.

Inside there was a single stack of drawing paper. Hand-sewn like the one Martyn had given him.

Scott placed the torch down and retrieved the paper. He knew it must have been Martyn. A smile found its way onto his face, and he let it stay there. This time, when nobody was looking.

Blowing out the torch and closing the chest, Scott gathered the sketchbook and decided to just leave through the front. It was almost midnight anyways.

Up the stairs and to the double doors of the enchanting room. The book on the table rose from its position and opened towards him as he walked past. Scott still had his hand on the doorknob when he opened it and stepped out into the frigid night.

Of course he didn’t expect to see anything, so when he did see something he froze in place.

In the spot that Martyn would typically occupy, on the very top of the walls sat Ren. His grey cape was bundled around himself to keep out the cold and his pointed ears were pressed low on his head. He was facing away from Scott.

Huddled on the perch, Ren’s shoulders were shaking. Silently, he cried.

Scott stood in the doorway motionless. He couldn’t believe the scene in front of him. Ren wasn’t one to cry. He was calculating and smart, rarely loosing his temper to even the worst of setbacks. A humorous man in charge of an Army of vagabonds, he never cried. He never expressed so much as a single weakness, he couldn’t afford that.

So it really shouldn’t have been a surprise, not really, that the Red King would save his sorrow for when nobody should be looking. Under the loneliest arm of the Milky Way, coldly gazing down on him. The weight of every star in the sky on his shoulders.

It made him look small.

Scott backed away from the door and ran back to the tunnel he came from, the kind of running you do when you are convinced your worst nightmare is snapping at your heels; and maybe for Scott it was.

He sprinted home without looking back. Trying to shove the image of Ren out the back of his mind.

That night he crept quietly back into bed, doing his best not to disturb Jimmy. Who stirred momentarily before simply turning over.

Scott stared at the arm of the Milky Way through the window until he fell into a dreamless sleep.

Days pressed by, Scott slithered too and from the walls of Dogwarts under the noses of his allies and between Spy Ring meetings. The first page of his new sketchbook lay empty, because whenever his pencil hovered above that damn page all he could see was a man huddled up under a galaxy of stars that would never return his wishes.

So when he was called out on night watch to the Renchanting base, Scott snuck out with his empty sketchbook held close to his chest. He arrived to a sleeping base, aware that his shift would be over in an hour and he would get to go home when the next guard showed up.

He yawned and stared out the window, at the stars above the wall. A pencil came to his hand and he started drawing what he saw. The shape of the wall against the glowing sky. He drew it, but it wasn’t right. The image in his mind came back to the front.

A weeping man holding a million stars on his shaking shoulders, the end of his frayed cape flaring out when the breeze kicked up. Tiny compared to the infinite sky. Scott’s fingers and palm turned black with graphite as he crafted the cosmos onto that paper.

His scribbling and smudging consumed all his thoughts as he focused on making the scene perfect, the pencil dulled and threatened to snap under the pressure.

“Major,” a stern voice came from right behind him.

Scott seized up in his chair, a feeling of terror so pure exploded in his chest that his vision left him for a few seconds. He gasped and turned around with his jaw on the floor.

Behind him was Ren. Clad in his winter jacket, a hand on the back of Scott’s chair. He stared directly into the other’s eyes from behind the dark lenses of his aviators. All the color had gone from his face.

Hoping the Red King hadn’t seen what he was drawing, Scott moved his hand to close the book.

It was too late. Ren had been watching him draw for long enough to know.

“You saw me?” Ren asked, but it was phrased more like a fact. It was.

Scott’s hesitation was enough of an answer. He stared up into Ren’s glasses, reminded of a familiar time. This time was different though, and this time Scott wished he could see behind the lenses.

He nodded and tore his eyes away, it felt intrusive to be staring.

“Ren,” Scott said to the floor, but was dismissed.

“No. Just go home. Now,” the other man ordered with a wavering voice.

Scott didn’t nod, he didn’t look at Ren. He gathered the sketchbook and slammed it shut within five seconds.

He didn’t say goodbye as he fled the walls. Scott ran from Ren, and this time he felt bad about it.

Scott didn’t return to Dogwarts for a week after that. Nobody called him to the night shift, nobody asked him to run any supplies. Maybe he was grateful for that, in the sense that he wouldn’t have to look Ren in the eyes again.

Until one night he couldn’t sleep. The clouds cast a dark blanket over the sky. Scott huffed and crawled out of bed, not bothering to change out of his pajamas. He pulled his boots on and took his coat off the hanger.

A walk is what he told himself he was going on, but really he knew where he was going. He didn’t know why, but for some reason Scott had a feeling he wasn’t the only one that couldn’t sleep.

This time instead of entering Dogwarts through the underground he rounded the front, cresting the hill right in front of Big B’s house. Scott scanned the top of the wall and saw what he was looking for. He shoved his hands in his pockets and entered Dogwarts through the front door.

Scott climbed the ladder and balanced himself as he walked over to Ren, who was sitting with his legs dangling over the side of the wall. His jacket was pulled tightly around him. Scott didn’t greet him when he sat down, Ren had seen him coming a mile away.

Ren didn’t look at him, he breathed in heavily, then sighed out a burst of vapor into the cold air.

“You couldn’t sleep?” Scott started the conversation this time.

“Wouldn’t matter if I could. I’m on night watch,” Ren said after a beat of silence.

Scott nodded, turning his head to the dark sky, “it’d be nicer with some stars, hm?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Ren trailed off. He stared at his shoes.

“Okay I’m sorry, I’ll just-“ Scott made to get up and leave but Ren interrupted him.

“No, wait, you can stay,” Ren pulled on the sleeve of Scott’s elbow.

Scott nodded and pulled his knees closer to his chest. A pocket of clouds had moved, creating a window that let the moon gaze upon the Earth.

“Do you stargaze a lot?” Ren asked, this time he looked at Scott.

He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses.

“I try,” Scott replied, “there’s this huge book I found uh, In a village library a while ago. It has everything you can possibly see from down here in it,” he mused.

“Have you ever read one?” Scott asked.

“Uh, an astronomy book?” Ren’s eyes flicked to the left in thought, “I mean I’ve seen them. I haven’t read them. You like astronomy?” he asked.

Scott nodded, then pointed north, into the cloud cover, “you can’t see it now, but Ursa Major would be right over there,” he said.

Ren looked over like he was trying to imagine it, “you like Ursa Major?”

“Easiest to remember,” Scott said plainly.

“I’ll bet. S’ like a namesake,” Ren rested his chin on his palm, “I wish I had a constellation with my name,” his ear twitched on his head.

Scott’s metaphorical ears perked up, “Oh well, there’s one kind of like that,” he said. Ren’s actual ears perked up.

“It’s called Canis Major. It means Great Dog, or Big Dog,” Scott pointed south, “it will always be easy to see on a clear day. One of its stars is called Sirius,” he explained.

Ren nodded, “I’m familiar. Brightest in the sky, right?”

“Yeah. That’s right,” Scott replied.

“Canis Major huh?” Ren repeated. Scott nodded.

“Canis Major, and,” he looked over at Scott, “Scott Major,” Ren nudged the other on the shoulder.

“Right,” Scott said, and suddenly the sky didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

Not when you have a friend to share it with.