#the dumbass would burn himself but he’d still do it

[upsidedownwithsteve]

Best friend steve showing you how to finger yourself but it’s just so goofy and unserious but like soooo hot

18+

(characters are high but all consensual.)

Honestly, if anyone had had to ask, you weren’t sure how you would have explained it. How it started, whose idea it was, how the topic of conversation even came up.

But there had been a joint rolled, some of Eddie’s special strain and then you were a few puffs into a second shared with Steve before your shorts were lost at the bottom of his bed.

You were both giggly about it, eyes half lidded and lazy but that all changed when you’d stripped, the boy’s eyes going a little wide, pupils blown as he looked at all the skin on your bare legs.

Your t-shirt covered you for the most part, a ratty old band shirt that had a hole in the collar and it hung just past your underwear, a pair of stupid pink things with a bow on the front.

Less than sexy. This wasn’t sexy.

It was— it was?

“Like this?” You asked, a little breathless, a little embarrassed, but there was laughter in your throat and you weren’t sure what you were even asking because Steve couldn’t even see what you were doing. “Fuck, this is stupid.”

You were against his pillows, the film forgotten in the background, the bowl of popcorn and gummy worms spilled on the floor. Steve was still at the bottom of the bed, sprawled out on his side as he watched you, the dopey smile on his face turning slack because you had your knees hiked up and your heels pressed to his sheets. Your hand was down the front of your underwear, clumsy fingers searching for something you’d told him didn’t really work for you.

You don’t know why you’d told him that.

Steve adjusted himself, his growing cock pressed to the mattress as if he was supposed to hide the fact he was turned on. He wasn’t really sure if you’d be more offended if he wasn’t. He didn’t know the rules when it came to getting yourself off in front of your best friend. So he kept it a little light, laughed breathily and asked:

“You’re such a dumbass. Are you even touching your clit?”

His words buzzed through you, a simple question but bordering on the dirty talk you heard on the late night channels that you always kept at a low volume. You squirmed, shrugging, unable to take your eyes off of Steve. He was watching your hand move, fingers swiping through your folds under the soft cotton and you felt yourself get a little wetter.

You wondered if he could see, if you’d have a little damp patch between your spread legs.

“I think so?” you claimed. “I don’t— it’s just, it’s too slippy to feel anything properly. They didn’t teach us this is sex ed, you know.”

Steve inhaled sharply, breath stuck in his throat like a chokehold. You watched his cheeks burn, a pretty pink glow across the high points of them and you wondered if he’d move closer, if you asked. His hand was lying near your ankle, fingers twitching.

“No, I know— shit, uh—“ Steve swallowed audibly, shifting again, hips moving uncomfortably and you wondered if he was hard, if he was turned on too. “Just— move in circles, be a little softer, Christ, babe. You’ll… you’ll feel it.”

So you did, two fingers exploring slowly, up and down between your spread folds, moving a little higher until you jumped, the pads of your middle and pointer touching a little bump that made your leg jerk.

You laughed, feeling stupid, feeling floaty, bone lazy and searching for another type of high. You crinkled your nose, lashes fluttering as you touched that spot again and again. Slow circles, soft and timid.

“Oh,” you murmured, mouth parting.

You were still watching the boy.

Steve pressed his lips together, watching you back, gaze flickering from your hand underneath the pink cotton to your face, the pretty way your eyes went hooded and dark.

“Yeah? Feel good?”

You nodded, grinning at Steve’s words, head feeling dizzy at the sensation that was building, a hook in your stomach that was pulling tighter and tighter. A laugh bubbled from you, elated, high. “Yeah, s’feels good.”

You thought you heard Steve let out a soft noise, a moan, maybe. He swore, head falling slightly, his forehead bumping the bed before he went back to staring.

“Will I come?” You asked, still smiling, still feeling buzzy. “Like this? If I keep doing this?”

You were squirming again, chasing your fingers and Steve was watching open mouthed. He’d moved, finally, the rock hard evidence of your show evident in his jeans. Steve was too far gone to try and hide it now, the length of him aching and when he dragged the heel of his palm over himself, you keened, eyes tracking the movements.

“Yeah, fuck— yeah, just keep doing what feels good, okay?” Steve voice was hoarse, wrecked sounding, pretty sounding. “You’re doing real good, babe.”

The phrase made your hips lift from the bed a little, fingers boring down a little harder now, confidence growing and the laughter leaving your throat as Steve kept rubbing over his cock, looking at you like were made of gold.

“Holy shit, that’s really fuckin’ hot,” he croaked, “you gonna come, yeah?”

You nodded, head tipped back into the pillows, bones nothing but liquid heat now as your fingers slid messily over your clit, your underwear stretched out over the back of your hand. You wondered if Steve could see anything, if the elastic in the stupid, pink cotton had given away enough for him to see the wet folds of your pussy, if he could see the way you were spread out and desperate.

You wanted him to keep talking. You just didn’t know how to ask.

You keened, back arching, fingers fumbling and face scrunching up in frustration. Your foot slipped, nudging at Steve’s arm and he caught your ankle, wide palm wrapping around it as he held you, keeping you grounded. His thumb ran over the bone there, delicate and making you shiver.

“There you go,” he murmured and he laughed when you did, disbelieving and drunk sounding. “That’s it, huh? Fuck, you’re so good, so good. I can’t believe you’re gonna let me watch you come.”

[rae-writes]

part-time

N.M || 0.8k || some romcom for a man I don't even have any solid thoughts/feelings on but the inspo slapped me in the face. violently.

You would think that after attending Yuuei for three years now and being classmates for said three years with dumbasses like Denki Kaminari, Kirishima Eijiro, and Izuku Midoriya (yes, class 3-A’s golden boy. You just have to catch his dumbassery at the perfect time) that you would learn to…not engage in their ideas that lack common sense. 

But either you haven’t learned or you just don’t have any self preservation, because that’s exactly how you got here:

Pulling open the door to the infirmary, mumbling curses under your breath (still grinning, might you add— it had been funny as shit, even if you got a sprained arm for the trouble). Though, as you looked around, Recovery Girl didn’t seem to be around. 

But Neito Monoma was. 

“Oh, fuck no.” 

Listen, you honestly didn’t have a real problem with Monoma. He was just…

A prick. All because your class starts with an ‘A’ and had its fair share of spotlight encounters (mainly with villains— all of which were highly unwanted, thank you very much). 

“It’s so good to see you, too, Y/n.” Monoma’s annoyingly condescending voice managed to come out sickly sweet, immediately making you turn around and start to go right back out the door. 

But unfortunately, he’d caught sight of your swelled arm- which had started to bruise pretty badly- and stopped you from relieving yourself of his presence. 

“Now, now. I am here assisting our lovely Recovery Girl and I can’t just have you leaving while still injured, that would make me look like I’m not doing my job.” 

You deadpanned, reluctantly sitting on the edge of one of the beds. “No offense, and by that I mean full offense, but I’d rather just walk it off than let your lips come anywhere near me.” 

His copy quirk is what allowed him to help out as a healer in the first place— and Recovery Girl’s quirk healed by kisses. You’d be damned if you were letting him have the privilege of kissing even a sliver of your skin. 

“Oh my, so rude. You’re breaking my heart.” His grin was a little too smug, but Monoma couldn’t help it. He’s had a stupid crush on you since year one: this opportunity was just too perfect. 

Not that he would ever admit it. Especially the part where his heart was fucking racing faster than Iida could run right now. 

“Good. Perish.” you groaned, looking away with an apprehensive frown. Your arm was starting to hurt as the adrenaline slowly wore off and…you did come all the way to the infirmary to get healed…

Was it weird that your heart was thudding in your chest? You barely even knew Monoma, for fucks sake, he was just…an academic rival at best. 

‘And pretty.’ Your brain supplied. To which you promptly told it to shut up…which it didn’t, because Monoma’s pretty face was currently all up in your business. 

“That arm of yours looks painful. Are you really too prideful to be healed by me? That’s not a good heroic quality, you know.” 

He sincerely hoped you would cave before he just started begging— and the embarrassing part is, Monoma wouldn’t have to even think twice about it. That’s how..tightly you have him wrapped around your finger. 

“Shut up. You’re one to talk about pride, smug bastard.” Your words didn’t really have the bite that you intended- and you could feel your cheeks starting to burn- so with another colorful curse, you relented. 

“Fine.” 

Except no kiss came after your agreement. You’d even tensed up your arm in preparation for his touch but there was nothing. That was funny— he was so smug just a second ago and now he’s all quiet. 

“Monoma, are you gonna heal me or not-“ 

As soon as your head turned towards him, his lips pressed against yours. It was as shocking as seeing Bakugo Katsuki be nice, which was pretty damn high up on the ‘what the fuck is happening’ list. 

But it felt…good. 

Monoma himself was surprised, not at his actions, but at your own: the reciprocation of his kiss (when he was so sure you’d pull away and knock his block off), the way your hands- both of them now that your arm was healing- had cupped his jaw, pulling him closer. 

It was like the room was spinning, but..softly. With warmth being woven in, making you feel fuzzy starting from the tips of your toes and moving all the way to your fingertips. 

When the kiss finally broke, it was quiet, only unsure breaths filling the air. Oddly enough, he felt nervous and had to fight the urge to apologize. 

“Well? How was that for healing?” Is what came out of his mouth instead. 

And you didn’t even have a witty response to give back, too dazed and flustered to even care at that second. 

“Do it again…still hurts.” 

‘Academic rivals’ be damned.

inspo credits:

(I found the text post on Pinterest so I just screenshotted it because who knows how old it may be oasjihrugoajfk but their user is still the same: @energon-with-a-curly-straw)

[little-worm-grant]

How They Loved You

Moonboys x You (Reader)

730 words / 18+ only, no minors

Masterlist.

If you like what you see, leave a like or reblog and follow me ♥

Summary: Who fell in love with you first? How do they behave around you? Some ramblings of how each of the alters likes to love you.

Warnings: No smut but suggestive.

Dedicated to @lunaselena - ♥

Steven thought it the moment he met you. The way you talked. The way you smiled at him. How kind you were. Didn’t show him any sign of being sick of his rambling. He was smitten. Didn’t take him long to blurt it out. He wanted to please you in every way he could think of. He learned fast. Intuitive towards you. Empathetic to your needs. He listened. Searched for ways to gently push buttons he never knew existed before you.

Simply having you existing gave him all the motivation he needed to try and make you happy. You let him explore and find his confidence. In turn, he’d find ways to surprise you. Always with that dopey grin on his face and that eagerness like you wouldn’t believe.

He’d be the one that’d spend a whole movie massaging your back. Cuddling or staring at you that little bit longer or until he couldn’t any more. He’s easily flustered and still bashful at times. Eyes quickly cast away as you strip the last of your clothing. His gaze would always return.

Once he was comfortable in your space? He’d be sneaking up to try and surprise you. Playful in his kisses and bites against you. Knowing exactly what he was doing but feigning innocence. More giggly in his flirting and teasing. Checking in when he can to make sure everything he’s doing and you’re doing is okay. He’d worship the ground you stood on if he could.

Sure, he liked you for a while, but it took Marc getting to know you before it came down hot and heavy. Suddenly there was no air to breathe unless it was yours. You were his thoughts day and night. He needed all his time with you. Felt he was missing out anytime the others were with you instead of him.

Years would pass and he’d still be the same way. Utterly devoted. Not loud in his affection or words like the others sometimes were, but he made sure you knew he loved you. Gentle in all the right ways. Rough in the ways you both needed. He’d be the one doing the most to make sure you were cared for. Feed you. Drag you into baths and showers with him. Pull you into his arms to nap with him.

Marc loves you and only you. You’re more important to him than himself. He’d be the kind to burn the world down just to keep you safe. He’d kill for you. He’d be the most unstable if you left. A kind of obsessiveness he knows can’t be healthy but can’t help himself.

Took the longest time for him to express his feelings. Even if he felt it, he never expected it to be reciprocated. Marc’s good at putting on a show of being stoic and decisive. Deep down he still felt undesirable, like he wasn’t worth you. How lucky he was to have such a person to orbit around. You were his sun. His planet. And all the stars around him.

Took him the longest to come around to the idea of loving you. Told yourself it was because he wasn’t out much and when he was he’d tried to avoid you and the others. Too used to his own bubble. Worried you’d hurt him if you got the chance. By being in constant proximity to the others, you caught glimpses of him. And in those glimpses, you seemed to like what you saw.

Jake’s moment of falling in love wasn’t hard and fast like Steven’s, or hot and heavy like Marc’s. It was an “awww fuck. Shit.” Kind of moment. Him standing there rubbing his gloved hand over his face because he realizes he really does care about this spicy little dumbass. You drive him crazy and he couldn’t understand until now why he wants you to keep doing that.

He wants to excite you. Take you out to see and do things you’ve probably never seen or done before. Enjoys the company in those long drives he loves to take. You catch him off guard with being okay he’s more his own person. He likes to be around and indispensable to others. Likes that you like seeing him like that. Marc’s bold, but Jake can be bolder. He’s possibly a little more on the competitive side. Isn’t one to back down.

[hibischush]

her angel wings surround my heartbeat NSFW

description; This wasn’t supposed to happen, March reminded himself. But when he’s head first in the farmer’s thighs, he can’t help but feel like he’s tending to an angel.

notes; Y'all ain't gon' believe this. I posted this fic to AO3 like an hour a go but I got side-tracked by ordering Indian food and as I patiently wait for my butter chicken and naan I shall feed you that NSFW fic featuring March 😌 Also, I tried to do like a...dual story telling but please lemme know if it needs some reworking to become more coherent.

word count; 1,363

warnings; this is NSFW! Minors Do Not Interact. Also some self-hatred and religious imagery so if you do not chill with that then don't read this

He’s an idiot. He has no one to blame but himself. When the farmer confessed her feelings for him, he scoffed and told her to buzz off. He told her so despite the thunderous beating in his chest, like a caged animal trying to break free of its confinement. Despite the fact that he wanted her so damn badly, March has always been a coward when it came to love.

He just couldn’t imagine someone as successful and so widely loved as her being interested in such a train wreck as he is. So he turned her away. He stood there like a dumbass, watching the hurt and pining cross over her eyes as she turned away with a sad smile.

“I see. I just thought I should let you know, because I would regret not telling you when I had the chance.”

She knew he was a liar. She knew, and he knew. And they both knew that he’d come to regret not telling her then, too.

He clutched his fists at his side as she walked out of the blacksmiths. Not because she angered him—no, not at all. Because he was foolish enough to have denied a deity.

The farmer whimpers and pulls on his fiery red locks, pulling him impossibly further into her folds, and he fights the urge to moan against her. She ground against March’s mouth, and he instantly loses his fight against being quiet, moaning before smacking her ass to silently convince her to stay still. The sound reverberated in the overly quiet, moonlit farmhouse. She gasped and covered her mouth to remain quiet, staring at him with wide eyes. March felt a warm twist in his abdomen. Guilt. Knowing that he doesn’t deserve the way she looks at him, a gaze with so much desire it could burn a hole in his skin. He sometimes felt sick, knowing that she could do better.

She wouldn’t stop by the blacksmith’s often after that. He thought the distance was for the better. Even though her absence gnawed away at his heart.

When he was able to catch Mistria’s farmer out and about—as by then he found himself seeking her—he only managed to make himself more plaintive. And by Gods, did it piss March off.

He hated that she could still force a smile. Hated that she would still glance longingly at his back, only to look away when he would return the glance. She was still the kind, sweet girl that the town came to know. She was so lively when talking to others. But the moment her eyes landed on the prized blacksmith, her façade collapsed like a poorly constructed house of cards. She talked meekly and flatly to him, and he could tell that she was fighting her urge to love him—or smack him. He couldn’t tell. He hated that she still cared about him. When they talked, her pretty eyes watered, and her frown was laced with pity.

He would spend late nights obsessively thinking about her. Her lovely eyes, her cute laugh. He would remind himself how severely he ached for her while he relieved himself, emptying himself on his lonely, calloused hand. He hated himself most of all for pushing her away and for pleasing himself in the dark to the thought of her. He felt like such a perverted loser.

He knew he was overstimulating her. She just about screamed when March slid two of his fingers inside her, her plot to cover her mouth to stay quiet notwithstanding. She trembled as he curled them against her walls, his lips still firmly attached to her clit. The journey to please such an angel was March’s personal pilgrimage, hopefully ending with her in bliss and clarity. He took his time to appreciate everything about his lover, as he needed to remind himself that she's real and his. He tried to contain himself even when his free hand snaked down to his trousers to palm his erection, grinding against it feebly. He’s positive that she could feel his stuttering breath against her pussy.

March didn't remember all the details of the night he confronted her. All he knew was that the belle looked incredible in her evening dress at one of Mistria’s many events at the manor, and she was talking to some guy—clearly not from Mistria. What March does remember well was the intense jealousy that slammed into his chest as he watched her flash her charming smile to the unknown man. And the pure ire that made his blood pump hot by watching him get handsy with her while she tried to politely tell him to back off.

March walked towards them, already fuming. Gently pulling her closer to his side by her waist and firmly removing the man’s hand off of her. He said nothing to him as he glared daggers into him and silently whisked her way, ignoring the man’s pathetic attempts to retrieve her.

She pulled her hand away from her mouth, a strand of spit following it, and cried his name out loudly. He knew that she was close and that his crusade was coming to an end. He maintained his bestial pace, finger-fucking her until he was positive she was seeing stars, and continued to desperately lick at her clit, slobbering like a dog that hadn’t eaten in days.

When she finally snapped and released herself on his face with a moan, he whined against her, bringing his grinding to a stop. He couldn’t bring himself to cum when he worshiped her. March has already done so many selfish things in his life that when his tongue lapped at her cunt, he could almost feel the sins on his shoulders flake off like the embers off of charred wood. He's yearning for her to know that he needs her, to the point that he's eager for her to use his body for her own pleasure. She deserves it, after all of the bullshit he’s drug her through.

His first mistake in this confession was pulling her to a secluded corner of the manor, one where the moon perfectly cast its light on her smooth skin and made her jewelry glow around her face, framing it like a halo. Her beauty terrified him and made him stumble over his words. He explained himself poorly to her, talking himself into a circle when trying to explain the way she made him feel. He felt like an idiot for the way his legs trembled. Who could blame him when the person he was talking to was a goddess in his eyes?

Before he lost the courage to say this for the second time, he blurted, “I'm in love with you. And I'm sorry I'm such an asshole.”

The way that her breath hitched as she parted her puffy lips was enough to make his heart explode. He selfishly pulled her into his chest and kissed her. Hard. He was expecting her to push him off, to strike him, to tell him off for being a jerk to her, and to say that it was too late for him to confess. The last thing he expected after he pulled away from her was for her to quietly lock the door behind him and pull him closer for a much more passionate kiss.

She jolts as he runs his tongue up and down her weeping slit, making sure that all of her heavenly essence makes it into his mouth. With one last kiss to her sex, he quickly marks the insides of her thighs, kissing them gently as if to apologize for making her his own. She sighs again as March kisses up her navel, stopping to nip at her neck. He sheepishly grins against her warm skin when she giggles after he playfully licks her ear. The sound of her laughter was almost as if the gateway to somewhere more holy than this plane of existence opened itself up to him. She cradles his flushed face, blessing him with a tender kiss—one that rids him of transgressions.

“I love you, March.”

“I love you, too.”

Can you tell that this is very Take Me to Church by Hozier-coded? Didn’t mean for that to happen but when you take body worship as a basis for your fic its bound to happen lmao. Anywoozies criticism is very welcome since idk if this is even a solid fic. As always, thank you for reading 🌺💗

[argumentativeaxolotl]

Hey hey hey nerds I’m back at it again with some more CARS HUMAN AU HEADCANONS‼️‼️‼️ THIS TIME ITS ANGST 👹👹👹

Lightning McQueen:

- Bro 101% brushes off any concern he has for himself and uses all of that concern and worry that he’d use for himself on other people and his friends. He doesn’t think he really deserves to be cared after and looked after especially with how much of a dick he used to be- hence why he doesn’t care about himself as much anymore(still enough to keep up with his hotshot facade but if there’s actual danger or someone’s actually hurt he’ll ignore himself in favor of that person).

- I feel like this dumbass is an absolute MAGNET for trouble. Like even as a kid. Lil bro would get into trouble and somehow get hurt while being in a rubber room with rats. Him getting hurt all the time likely exasperated all the families that fostered him which would lead to him getting scolded by some of the… rougher families which led to Lightning being very reserved about himself, going back to the first headcanon above this one. He thinks he’s not worth the attention.

- Lightning was on his own as soon as he got to his Freshman year, this being his last foster family. They were pieces of shit and sort of treated him like he wasn’t there or that he was the cause of all their issues. This caused Lightning to lash out more than normal which is when he sort of came up with the persona of Lightning McQueen(the branding came from Harv later down the line). It was like a last line of defense which ended up helping him only for a little while(then radiator springs happened and blah blah blah).

- He was so used to being treated like shit that Harv’s horrendous treatment of him wasn’t a red flag until Mack came into the picture and stood up for him a few times, the truck driver telling Harv to piss off.

Chick Hicks:

- He never finished his education. In my AU I think Chick would have been forced into racing at a young age by his father after his brother’s death. Chick’s father would be so obsessed with one of his kids becoming a great racer, essentially living through that child, that he wouldn’t give two shits in what Chick or his brother would want to do. Chick’s father likely brought Chick to a bunch of races as a kid which led to him missing many many classes and falling behind his peers. This happened in seventh-eighth grade which led to Chick never going to Highschool as he became the next up and coming racer.

- His father was a pile of absolute, burning, human shit. The man would hurt both of his kids- physically and emotionally- while also sort of putting all his own traumas into his kids, living through them and making Chick into him. Young Chick would likely want to make his father proud and would constantly try to adhere to his father’s words and whatever the man said- examples being shit like “crashing is a part of racing” or “give them a little nudge out of the way” or some shit which would lead Chick into the madman we know today.

- His brother was the only positive “adult” figure in his life and his brother tried his damndest to get Chick to not be like their shitty father, yet the brother just wasn’t around long enough. Chick was absolutely fucking devastated when his brother died and didn’t respond to any outside stimuli for at least a week or two. Their father mourned before moving on and suddenly acknowledging Chick, acting like he was his only son.

- Chick is 100% still haunted by the dying light in his brother’s eyes, having watched him die after a horrific crash. Chick never wanted to push cars out of his way, having seeing what it did to his brother, yet something in Chick wouldn’t let him fight against his father’s shitty teachings. Chick can remember every detail of that day and sometimes wishes it was him instead.

Strip Weathers:

- One time when Cal got severely sick, like bedridden for a week sick, Strip got horrific flashbacks to when his mother passed away due to a terminal illness. Strip was so scared and terrified that he spent so much money on doctors alone. Lynda tried to calm him down, telling Strip that it was just a nasty case of the flu or something along those lines, but Strip just couldn’t lose another family member- especially not one he saw as his son.

- Strip wanted to be a doctor so he could help his mother with her illness and so he could try to find a cure so nobody else had to go through what she did. He put in so much effort and tried so hard, conducting research and studying hard so he could become a doctor. Then his mother passed away when he was still in med school, leaving him shattered and blaming himself for somehow not graduating faster. Tex was there for Strip.

- He dropped out of med school in favor of racing since he didn’t think he would be able to continue after his mother passed. He felt useless for a long time, drinking his pain away for a few years- never during a race- until he met Lynda and she helped bring him back to himself.

- After his crash during the tie breaker, he’s felt immense pain in his wrists and shoulders and neither he nor the doctors know why. It’s not killing him but it lingers and sometimes he just can’t move for a while.

Doc Hudson:

- Doc has a similar thing to Strip where after his crash he just had horrendous pain shooting all throughout his limbs and back. He’s not sure what it is, but either way it’s thankfully lessened over the years, now being dull aches or more joint pain than usual whenever it gets colder.

- Sometimes he’ll randomly have a flashback to when he was back in the Hornet or being wheeled to the hospital during/after the crash. Doc never really got over it and stupidly never saw a therapist about this. These flashes often make him feel worse than he already does, leaving him in a shitty mood and grumpy and more than a little scared to get into the Hornet. Over the years, these flashes have gotten less and less to the point where it’s once or twice every couple years at random.

- Him becoming an actual doctor wasn’t because he had so much time on his hands after the crash- also that was part of it- but it was because that was his sister’s dying dream- to become a doctor and help people.

- His older sister passed away sometime before Doc’s crash so when he was still young. She was much older than him- roughly ten-ish year age gap. They were still close.

Thank you for your time lmao now it’s time for me to disappear for like three months again <3 HAPPY HALLOWEEN‼️‼️‼️

[solomams]

22. Fallen angel

I wasn’t sure what to do for today’s prompt! But here I am. I had to re-read some OG lessons, so definitely be aware of spoilers if you haven’t read them. Specifically past lesson 76 in OG because what happened in there lives rent free in my brain.

This is just me having fun, and tying the story to my silly lil poly ship - Mammon/Solomon/Paula (my mc). This fic is in Mammon’s POV. Enjoy? Prompt list by @obeymetournaments !!

“And in the end, I’d do it all again” - The Kids Aren’t Alright by Fall Out Boy

Mammon’s body had never ached as much as it did right now. The air whipped around him, as he grasped at nothing.

He could see feathers in the air around him, his wings no longer heavy on his back. Soft cloth instead replaced with leather in an instant.

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

He didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know where everyone else was.

All he knew was that he was falling, and the clouds were getting further and further away.

He’d like to believe that was the only cause for his blurry vision, but the wetness against his cheeks and burning of his eyes said otherwise.

He didn’t know how long he fell for, or when he had hit solid ground again. All he knew was that moving around may become his biggest regret, it was dark, and Lucifer was standing above him.

No longer dressed in white and shining, but instead cloaked in black, unfamiliar horns taking the place of the halo he knew so well.

He thought he could hear voices calling him, but he didn’t get to find out before his vision went black once more.

——-

Mammon grumbled, having stopped squirming long ago after accepting his fate. Thick ropes dug against his skin, even through his clothes they were uncomfortable.

“Damn Lucifer. I told him I was gonna handle it…”

He was alerted by the sound of shoes stepping onto the stairs, and he mentally prepared to either beg or be messed with more.

“Paula?”

That was the last person he was expecting to see.

“So, what did you do this time?”

”I didn’t do nothing-“

Narrowed eyes had him cutting off his own voice. He huffed, avoiding the subject.

”Ain’t ya supposed to be out with the others?”

”Told ‘em I felt sick,” Paula shrugged as she picked up his sunglasses that had fallen. She placed them over her own glasses, or attempted to. They sat crooked.

Mammon ignored the way his chest squeezed at the sight. He studied her instead as she reached into her pocket, and pulled out a yellow pocket knife.

“W-What are ya doin’ with that- Paula, that’s sharp-“

”Don’t squirm, dummy, I’m trying to cut this without cutting you. And I can’t do that if you’re wiggling around. Trust me for once.”

Mammon went still, and quiet. He did trust her. More than he could admit, or would want to.

”Ya don’t look sick.”

”Mmm. Maybe I just missed you around. Maybe my feet were hurting. I’ll let you believe what you want.”

Mammon’s face grew hot and he couldn’t stop the soft growl from leaving his throat. Leave it to Paula to say things that made his head spin. Or maybe it was all the blood that had rushed there.

Still, she had a slight flush to her cheeks as wel after saying that. Had she meant it? She said flirty things like that with Asmo all the time.

“When did you get a knife?”

”Today actually. I was tired of untying knots to get you down.”

”Ya got that, just so you could get me down? Is that why it’s yellow?” Mammon smirked at her. He couldn’t help himself.

Now it was her turn to snarl at him. Her ears turned such a bright shade of red, Mammon found it comical. It could rival Lucifer’s nail polish.

”I could leave you here, y’know.”

”Yeah, then your little knife would be useless. Besides, you’re still cutting my ropes as you say that.”

”Dumbass.”

”Human.”

Once Mammon’s arms were free, he worked on untying the knots around his legs while Paula hacked away at other pieces. It wasn’t long before he was finally free, falling into a heap but back on solid ground.

“Damn, I think falling from the Celestial Realm hurt less than that.”

He stretched, hearing some joints protest after being in the same position so long. He ruffled Paula’s hair, even as she protested. The way she pouted at him made it all worth it.

“…Can you still remember when you fell?” Paula asked him timidly, but curiously. She had stopped holding back with asking him things a while ago. Her curiosity always won. And Mammon was happy to be useful, if he could answer that is.

”Yeah. Unfortunately, fortunately, whatever. Sometimes I get nightmares about it, but not so much anymore…”

Paula looked away. She knew what nightmares were occupying him nowadays. The same one’s that haunted her.

“Hey. Don’t look all sad, and don’t feel bad for askin’, hear me? It’s in the past. I wouldn’t change it.”

And he wasn’t lying, He wouldn’t change it.

——-

”I know what’s goin’ on here! You’re all tryin’ to mess with me, aren’t ya? That’s gotta be it!

”Anyway, you. Take Asmo and Levi back to the House of-“

”I’m afraid there might not be time for that.”

”Solomon! You came!”

“I did. So, can any of you remember his name? Paula, how about you?”

Mammon swore his head head had never whipped around faster. He stared at Paula, holding his breath to hear her response. Mammon. Mams. Mammoney. He would take anything.

But she just stared at him with her head tilted, and her brows furrowed like when she was trying to solve a difficult problem. He watched her hand as it began to fiddle with her necklace- the necklace he gave her. It was what she did when she was nervouis.

She could see the pleading in his eyes. She tried to remember, but nothing felt right. She didn’t want to disappoint him. It was like it was on the tip of her tongue.

”Dammon!”

”C’mon, what was THAT?!”

Mammon may have been hurt, but the way Paula's shoulders slumped and the look she gave him kept his mouth shut from saying anything else. She looked like a kicked puppy.

"Ma...My love?" She tried again, the smile on her face not reaching her eyes. Hesitant. Waiting. Not wrong, but not what he wanted to hear, needed to hear.

Still, he smiled at her and nodded. It was close enough. He'd take it.

——-

”Sorry… what was your name again?”

”What the…?! C’MON!”

”Don’t feel bad, Simeon. No one seems to be able to remember Mammon’s name now other than me.”

”You need to do somethin’ about this! Right now!”

Solomon simply smiled at him and reached his hand out, brushing his fingers against Mammon’s cheek affectionately. Mammon blushed, doing his best to glare at the sorcerer. It was unfair that his touch could calm him down so easily. Such a small action but it somewhat eased the ache in his chest as he watched his boyfriend mingle with the others.

He was glad someone remembered him, but he needed Solomon to do something about this right now. He didn’t like this, didn’t like that everyone was slowly forgetting him. Even Paula. Especially Paula.

Naturally, his gaze drifted to her. He missed the way she’d tease him when she caught him staring. Now she looked frustrated every time their eyes met, the smile falling from her face. He moved closer to her, pulling her away from the others.

”Oi.”

”…Hey.”

”Not even gonna try, huh?”

”Don’t wanna hurt your feelings when I get it wrong.”

She couldn’t meet his eyes. That wouldn’t do. Mammon poked her cheek.

”Ignoring me ain’t much better, is it?”

”…Sorry.” Paula mumbled sheepishly, the tips of her ears turning red. He missed that reaction.

“Mammon. It’s The Great Mammon to ya. Make sure it sticks to your brain this time, eh?” He smirked, slinging an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. Bracing himself for her to pull away. He didn’t know if all she had forgotten was his name.

Paula didn’t pull away. She stiffened up as she always did when people were around, but she didn’t pull away. It took her a second, but she wrapped herself around him, burying her face into the crook of his neck.

Now Mammon was the one freezing up. He hadn’t prepared for this reaction. He went to say something, but stopped when he heard her mumble.

”What? Ya know I c-can’t hear if you’re hiding your f-face like that.”

”Home. You feel like home, even if I don’t remember your name.”

”Shut the hell up. J-Just remember my name, and we’re golden, a-alright? Save that for when we’re alone, dumbass.”

”Hm. Okay….Mammon.”

——-

Mammon and Paula sat next to each other on his bed - the guest bed - after she said she wasn’t done partying for the night. He had one hand on her knee, covering one of her hand’s with his own.

��So, you can see me, right? I’m completely visible and stuff? Do you remember my name?

”…What was it again?”

Mammon felt his blood run cold, his heart squeezing, until he saw the mischievous glint in Paula’s eyes.

“Hey, quit jokin’ around! Seriously, that’s not cool! Anyway, um… I gotta say, I’m glad I’m back to normal. ‘Cause there was a lot I couldn’t do in that state. Like, y’know, kiss…”

Paula raised an eyebrow at him, the corner of her mouth tilting up in a lopsided smile. He missed that look. He was about to comment as much, before he felt soft lips press against his own, and a hand cupping the back of his neck.

“…Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I was tryin’ to get you to do that or anything… Still though, it’s a pretty good way to make sure that I really am visible, right?”

”Hm…”

”Don’t stop now, Paula. I want to be REALLY sure…”

They were both startled by a knock on the door. They both turned to look, relaxing as they saw familiar silvery hair.

”I hope you both haven’t forgotten about me. I wasn’t the one sucked into a black crevasse, now was I?”

Solomon stepped into the room, draping his cape over a chair before approaching the bed. He cupped Mammon’s face, pressing his forehead against the demon’s.

”I have to admit, I missed seeing your face towards the end there.”

”Of course ya did. I-I mean, who wouldn’t?” Mammon scoffed, rolling his eyes and grumbling. Even as his hand found Solomon’s wrist and gripped it, even as he nuzzled into his hand.

Though he would never admit it. And no one pointed it out. They were just glad to have Mammon back.

It wasn’t long before they ended up in a pile of limbs, pressed close against each other, with Mammon in the middle. Paula had curled up against his chest, ear pressed against him to hear his heartbeat. And Solomon was curled against his side, chin resting on his shoulder and a hand stroking his hair.

“Ya both really missed me, huh?”

”Yes.”

Mammon’s face burned at the two quick and simultaneous replies. He huffed, rolling his eyes, but staying silent. He missed them too. Maybe he should become invisible again if it meant attention like this.

——-

“Mammon, wake up-“

”Darling, you’re dreaming-“

Mammon gasped for breath, sitting up with a start and jostling the two people on either side of him. He heard a thud and a yelp, or he thought he did, but he was too busy trying to focus.

”Hey, you’re alright.”

He felt a cold hand slip into his own, and a hand cupping his cheek. Where..? Falling. All he remembered-

“You’re in my bedroom, Mammon, you’re okay. Feel my heartbeat? Focus on that.”

A warm hand grasped his own before he felt a steady thumpthumpthump under his palm.

Not in pain. Not wounded. He was okay. He opened his eyes and blinked groggily, making out two concerned faces. He leaned into the cold touch.

”Awake now?” An amused voice asked him. Warm.

”My, my, must have been a bad dream if you flung Paula off so hard she hit her head.”

Mammon grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Yeah… When I fell. Was dreaming about that.”

”I’m sorry…“

”That would explain the thrashing then…“

Mammon shrugged, stretching and losing the cold and the warm touch at the same time, He rubbed at his eyes, managing a sleepy grin.

“‘S alright. I wouldn’t have you both if I hadn’t fallen. So, I’m glad I did. I wouldn’t change it for nothin, ya hear me? It was worth it. I’d fall again and again for you both, or whatever.”

There was a beat of silence as the two humans processed his words. He was always more truthful when groggy. Solomon and Paula both exchanged smiles, before tackling Mammon against the bed.

“OI- DON’T CRUSH ME DAMN IT!”

“Dumbass. Idiot. I love you.”

”Agreed. I love you as well.”

”Tch… Love you both too…”

Falling really had been terrifying, following without hesitation. But he would do it in a heartbeat for more moments like this. The pain from back then couldn’t compare to the love he had now. He wouldn’t trade it for anything.

----

Note: hi it's three am when I finished this. I am eepy. My poly ship lives rent free in my brain sorry. I'm not sure what this was. But it's here. Okay good night.

[eddywoww]

23 for writing prompts? 👀

🤺

Bar nights were mandatory for staff.

Actually, no they weren’t.

They weren’t at all but Steve kind of had to go because if he didn’t go then everyone would have something to say come Monday and no amount of Robin’s, “Why do you even feel obligated? You don’t owe them anything.” Would be able to placate his endless nerves or guilt.

So he came to bar night.

He just forgot that his ex frequented this place and like, okay. It was all good. They could share one big room, one big bar. Even if he was maybe kind of a dick and if Steve maybe didn’t like talking about him but-

Eddie was next to him, their trusty office lackey. He’d started weeks ago and had been getting on Steve’s nerves for days, constantly asking him question after question about himself. Almost trying to wring a friendship out of thin air when Steve was sort of just at work to, you know. Work.

Except when he felt morally obligated to participate in after work bullshit.

Steve saw the moment his ex was getting ready to approach and he panicked hard.

Eddie must have been mid sentence, rambling about something and jingling his noisy bracelets around like a dumbass. But Steve didn’t care, he just-

“Pretend you’re- oh fuck, pretend you’re my boyfriend,” He blurted out, prompting Eddie to stare at him slack jawed. Confused and mystified, even as Steve’s ex finally gained ground and stood in front of him with far too friendly of a smile.

“Hey, Stevie.” Oh god, gross. Eddie wrinkled his nose up beside Steve. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Oh- yeah, you know. Just work- work stuff.” Steve said quickly, stumbling over his words. Why did it matter? His ex was a dick and it shouldn’t matter, it didn’t. But- “Just got done burning the midnight oil.”

What the fuck?

Eddie’s smile was growing, the befuddlement from before disappearing in seconds.

“Is this a coworker of yours?” His ex asked, Nick polite. Eddie grinned back and opened his mouth but Steve beat him to the punch.

“Boyfriend!” He said much too fast. His ex looked like maybe he was ready to flee, so that was good. “He’s my boyfriend. It’s new.”

“Is it?” Eddie asked, frowning over at Steve and only confusing his ex more. Steve discreetly attempted to elbow him, only serving to trip over his own feet so badly that Eddie had to rest a hand on Steve’s arm to steady him again. “Careful there, honey. Maybe you had a little too much to drink.”

Steve’s face was bright red and his ex looked suspicious as fuck and Eddie was not helping. His hand was much too warm over Steve’s bicep, skin to skin contact where there hadn’t been any for so long.

“I’m gonna….get a drink. We can catch up when I get back, yeah?” Steve’s ex asked, smiling bemusedly at Eddie and Steve in turn, before wandering off.

“So rude that he didn’t ask either of us if we wanted a drink,” Eddie mumbled, hand still on Steve’s arm. Rubbing circles with his d to lid thumb. “I mean, that’s like common courtesy.”

“Eddie,” Steve hissed through gritted teeth, yanking his arm away. “Can you- can you just- can you do better when he gets back?”

Eddie looked at Steve incredulously, brows lifting as he laughed.

“You’re really mad that I wouldn’t go along with your little- what even was that? Was he an ex or something? Are you trying to impress him? Cus I don’t think nearly falling-“

“Not trying to impress him,” Steve said with little patience. “He’s just- he’s a dick and- I’m not explaining this to you right now. Please just pretend to date me? Just for like, the time it takes to talk to him. Okay? Can you do that?”

Eddie tapped his chin, squinting his eyes all mock serious. They were pretty dark this close up.

“What’s in it for me?” Eddie asked, much to Steve’s annoyance. “I know. A date! Go on a date with me and I’ll pretend to do whatever it is you’re scheming.”

Steve breathed deep, his brain whiting out. A date? With Eddie? He didn’t-

“Wait,” Steve said in shock. “You- you want to go on like- a date? A date date? A romantic date with like, intentions?”

Eddie’s smile grew criminally softer.

“Yeah, a date with intentions, Steve.”

Suddenly impressing his ex seemed a lot less interesting.

[kariachi]

Who wants more house arrest fic? Mike hasn't killed himself yet- 'yet' being the operative word.

Kevin is not paid enough, and in fact has to live with the knowledge he's doing the funding.

~~

Mike was not a stupid person. Selfish, yes. Persistent, yes. Bit of a drama queen, yes. But not stupid. Once the stinging in his throat became hindering, he took that as his cue to step away and let whatever fumes the cleaning solutions were giving off dissipate from the oven. When it became clear that they were still a problem, he’d opened a window. Of course, while grumbling about the house clearly being too small, certainly they’d never had this problem even back in the guest house. Then he’d opened another window. And another. At which point he’d lowered himself to calling Levin.

So it was that he was sat on the roof when the ‘hero’ pulled up, all but slamming the car door shut behind him.

“How the fuck,” he yelled up to him as he stormed up the walk, “did you manage to fucking gas yourself?!”

“I don’t know,” he called back, “I was just trying to clean up, since somebody decided my allowance shouldn't account for a maid.”

“I don’t trust you with a maid.” Shaking his head as Mike huffed, he heaved a sigh. “How’s breathing going?”

“Better since I came outside.”

“Good. Stay here.” As if he had options. Mike was generally certain the talk of an explosive in his tracking anklet had been a hollow threat, but he couldn’t entirely discount it and didn’t intend to go back to prison besides.

Kneeling, Levin absorbed the concrete from the walkway and headed in the open door. Mike didn’t know what exactly Levin was doing in there, investigating the situation presumably, and he could hear more windows opening, but it took several minutes longer than he felt it should. How long could it take, really, when he seemed to already know what he was looking for.

“First up,” Levin said when he finally exited, as he finally exited, “did your fancy school not teach you not to mix cleaners or did you just not pay attention?” Mike blinked, frowning, and did him the service of at least considering the question.

“I certainly don’t remember anything like that, no. They weren’t exactly expecting us to be doing our own housework.”

“Fucking rich people…” Grumbling, Levin shook his head again. “Second, why the fuck were you scrubbing out the oven, anyway- it’s got a fucking self-clean!” Nose scrunching, Mike glowered at him.

“And how was I supposed to know that?”

“There’s a fucking button!”

“Excuse me for not paying attention to the functions I don’t need.”

“You need it!”

“And now I know.”  The pair stared each other down, eyes narrowed and frowns on their faces, until Levin let out a growling huff.

“If I could trust the Plumbers with a fucking beanbag chair, Morningstar…” he said, all that was needed to get Mike to relax with a huff of his own. He was, again, not stupid, and knew exactly how much work, had an idea of the strings Levin had pulled to keep him out of the Null Void or a cell. The story behind the turnaround was still a mystery to him, would likely stay that way, but he couldn’t be ungrateful for it. “A month and you already burned through three sets of cookware-” Quite literally. “-nearly starved-” A polite way of saying ‘failed to order enough groceries and almost ate me’. “-and now you’re gassing yourself.”

“I always have been an overachiever.” Mike smirked as Levin flipped him off.

“Or you’re a dumbass. Ya know, Ben joked about how I should off you and move on, beginning to think it woulda saved you as much trouble as me.”

“Well, if you’re going to kill me, can it wait for next month? There’s a movie I want to see.” For a heartbeat, they both paused, then Levin snorted a laugh.

“Sure, when’s good for you?” Pretending to mull over it, Mike leaned out so that he wasn’t looking quite as far down his nose at him.

“The next to last Tuesday. Always hated Wednesdays, I’ll avoid one if I can.” With more snorting laughter, Levin shook his head, a small smile on his face.

“Let shit air out for like an hour,” he said. “Already wiped out the oven, when you go back inside hit the self-clean, leave it closed, wipe it out with a damp sponge once it’s cooled off. A’ight?”

“Alright.” With a nod, Levin took a step back, half turning to go, and Mike took less time than normal to stop him with a quick “Thank you, Levin.” Levin threw a smirk back over his shoulder.

“No problem. Try not to hurt yourself again?” Resisting the urge to throw out a quick jab in the midst of what was, for them, as good as a goodbye, Mike just nodded back.

“I’ll do my best.”

~~

Mike wasn’t a stupid person. Yes, his upbringing meant that there was a lot regarding maintaining one’s own home that he didn’t know. But that didn’t make him an idiot, merely uninformed. He was, for a lack of any other options, trying, and with each mistake came a little bit closer to knowing what he was doing. It was a perfectly normal, or at least understandable, situation to be in.

But three days later, when he had to call Levin out again over a dryer fire (“If somebody had said anything about ‘lint traps’ before-”) he was forced to admit that he wasn’t going to be convincing anybody anytime soon.

[ninja-go-to-therapy]

Monster? I Hardly Know Her!

The Pearce Joza obsession lives on im afraid 😔

ao3

Prompt: "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Fandom: Mech-X4

Characters: Spyder, Harris, and Veracity

Summary: Spyder wakes up, delirious and injured after a monster attack. Harris plays severely unqualified nurse.

Trigger Warnings: injury, mentioned vomit, mentioned death

809 words

Something was screeching. High pitched and whiny, kinda reminding him of a school bell… was he at school right now? No, that didn’t sound right. If not there, then where was he?

He groaned, blinking his eyes open. The screeching didn’t go away. In fact, it only somehow got even worse. He couldn’t see that well, vision all… blurred. Did he normally wear glasses? He couldn’t remember. He was pretty sure he didn’t, but then why else would his eyes be so… messed up?

A dark shape loomed over him. His first thought: dad? His second: please not dad.

The screeching (which he was now beginning to realize was just a ringing in his ears) was polite enough to quiet down some. A win was a win.

“Spyder?” the shape called, sounding like it had come from underwater. Or maybe he was underwater… he really couldn’t tell. “Can you hear me?”

“Harris?” he attempted, throat so scratchy it was painful. He coughed, his lungs burning at the action. “Wh’s goin’ on?”

“Oh, thank god. You took a real bad hit… or, a couple, more accurately. Do you remember the fight?”

His brain felt like it was full of soup, so… probably not. Was that why everything sounded so far away? ��Did I win?” he croaked, squinting at the Harris-shaped blob.

“You were sort of… unconscious for most of it. Veracity had to hop on weapons, it was… quite the experience. But yeah, we won.”

He moved to sit up, immediately regretting the attempt. His body curled in on itself on pure instinct, raw pain sprouting in his chest like a… plant or something. 

“Oh, shit, yeah, don’t move!” Harris said, words stumbling over themselves. “We still need to check you out. Leo went to get some supplies… um, on a scale of one to ten, how are you feeling?”

“Mmm, ‘ve had worse,” he slurred. “‘nt hear good…”

“You can’t hear good?” Harris clarified, getting a low groan in response. “Okay, okay, I’ll forgive the grammar this one time on that. Uhhh… how many fingers am I holding up?”

Spyder squinted at the shape of his friend, trying to focus on his where his hands probably were. “Mmm… twelve?” he guessed.

“Yeah, that’s… definitely not right. I’m gonna need to scan you, hold still, okay?”

It wasn’t like he had much choice. If he moved, he was half convinced he’d disintegrate on the spot. God, everything hurt. He’d been knocked around plenty in his life, and he’d definitely had worse, but jesus. It was like his insides were on fire.

But he couldn’t stay down. He couldn’t afford to be dead weight on the team, not even for a minute. Not when he was constantly teetering on the edge of their collective patience. Not after the day Harris had been infected with ooze, had screamed at him that he was always in the way. 

He needed to show them that he wasn’t just the useless fool who didn’t add anything to the team other than plain annoyance. Quickly. Before they realized that it really was all he was and kicked him to the curb. 

“Wh—stop trying to get up!” Harris ordered, pushing him back down. Spyder’s head spun violently, and he had to give himself a moment to swallow down a bit of puke. 

“I’m good,” he hissed through his teeth, doing his best to filter the pain out of his voice. “All good. We’re good.” He still couldn’t actually focus his eyes enough to see the expression on his friend/severely unqualified doctor’s face. 

“I will strap you down, I swear,” he insisted, obviously annoyed. 

“Kinky,” came the unexpected voice of Veracity from somewhere near the door. 

“Wh-that’s not what I — no!” Harris stammered. Spyder wished he could see how red he probably was. He bet it’d be cute. Harris always somehow was.

“Relax, dumbass,” she said with a half-laugh. “Anyway, how are you feeling, kid?” She asked, her voice closer, now. 

“Mmm…” he managed, re-assessing his body to check for pain. To his faint surprise, though it was still definitely there, it felt so… detached from him, now. He felt like he was dreaming. “I think ‘m dying.”

“What?” they both cried in deeply concerned unison. 

Spyder grinned in what he assumed was Harris’s direction. “Cause you look like an angel.”

“I hate gay people,” Veracity mumbled under her breath. 

“I assume,” he continued, “'cause I can’t actually like… see you.”

“That’s… a problem. What can you see?”

“Shapes’n colors,” he slurred, giggling slightly. His head felt like it was going to explode. To be perfectly honest, that did sound pretty sick, though. Not as sick considering it hurt like a bitch. “G’nigh… sweet prince…” he mumbled, hoping his friends would still be there when he woke up again. 

They probably wouldn’t be, but he could dream.

[ghost-facer]

twenty-four touches

from this list by @creativepromptsforwriting

1. Softly getting hold of the other’s hand, afraid to make a mistake

It should've been an easy hunt. Key word “should”. It was a simple salt-and-burn ghost hunt.

Until the angels showed up.

They were a nasty group. Violent (but that’s to be expected) and cruel. The shit they were saying to Cas had Dean’s blood boiling.

It’s not so much what they were saying, but the way they said it. Angels don’t insult someone the way a normal person would by spitting out a string of curse words and excessive name calling.

No, it’s much worse.

They told Cas how he’d ruined the entirety of their species. There’s very little of them left “thanks to him” and they’re all broken and unable to fly “because of him”.

They told Cas he’d never have a place back in Heaven. He doesn’t belong there. But does he really belong on Earth? He’s not human. And what will he do once his humans die? Be left to wander the planet alone for eternity?

But the worst part of it all is the way Cas didn’t say anything back. It’s the way it looked like he believed them. And that is complete fucking bullshit. Dean told the angels so before charging headfirst into the fight like a dumbass.

They won. Dean had a few scrapes and bruises that Cas healed with a touch of his hand. And that shit never gets old. And maybe he’s an easy guy to please, but Cas’ power and strength never fail to amaze Dean. It pisses Dean off that Cas can’t see how great he is.

It only makes Dean angrier because Cas is quiet and has a deep sadness in his eyes. It doesn’t take a genius to see that what those angels said is getting to the guy.

They’re both approaching the Impala now. Cas has a slump to his shoulders that Dean hates. Everything about this is rubbing Dean the wrong way.

“Hey,” Dean says softly.

Cas turns and there’s a slow heaviness to his movements as if what the angels said is physically weighing him down.

Dean steps closer to him. “You know it’s all bullshit, right? Everything they said.”

Cas sighs. Wearily, “Dean.” He’d been looking at his feet until now. His eyes lock with Dean’s. “We both know what they said is true.”

“No, it’s fucking not!” Dean explodes. He takes another step closer. “Cas, they’re lying they’re just trying to—”

“Dean.” It’s firm and unyielding. “I don’t want to talk about this.” Cas can’t seem to hold Dean’s gaze and his eyes flicker downward in…shame?…guilt?…both? Or is it something else entirely?

“Fine.” Dean clenches his jaw. Balls his hands into fists before forcing them open. “But Cas?” Cas looks up at his name. “You know I won’t leave you, right? If I’m somehow up there after I die, and they won’t let you in, I won’t sit quietly until they do, okay? There’s no fucking way my paradise is without you.”

Oh.

That came out way mushier than Dean intended.

But Cas’ eyes brighten for a moment, and the tension escapes his shoulders. “You don’t need to fight for me, Dean. You should rest peacefully when it’s your time.”

“We both know I won’t.”

Cas eyes are shining now. They have a bit of their usual warmth back. With found exasperation, Cas says, “I know.”

Dean isn’t quite sure what he’s doing, but he steps forward again. They’re too close. Cas’ eyes are a deep drowning blue, and he won’t stop staring at Dean.

Dean can’t quite look at him. It’s like staring at the Sun.

Cas’ hands are at his sides. Empty.

Dean forces himself to move before he backs out. He grabs one of Cas’ hands and squeezes.

He should let go before things get weird.

Dean still can’t look up. His gaze is stuck on their hands. It’s a bit awkward. Dean’s really just grabbing Cas’ wrist.

“I know it doesn’t mean much coming from me, but…” The next part is softer than he means it to be. “You’re the best angel I’ve ever met. And I won’t leave you alone down here.”

Cas shifts slightly. He interlocks their fingers. His hand is warm and strong, just like the rest of him.

That seems to break Dean from the spell, and he forces his hand out of Cas’. He grabs the keys from his pocket and glances up.

Cas is staring at him, endlessly fond.

Dean wants to kiss him, so he doesn’t.

Instead, he walks to the Impala and opens the door. He waits for Cas to get in beside him before starting the car.

[trollbreak]

[Ophioc isn’t a terribly wise man. This isn’t news, of course, but… he feels it at a new height, as he sinks back to the floor, tangling his fingers in his hair and bracing his arms on his knees to keep himself upright as he squeezes his eyes shut and just breathes.

The pain is an all-encompassing burn, that carries with it waves of nausea and disorientation, seemingly at random.

All this over a mushroom he didn’t expect to end up with to begin with.

It couldn’t have been enough to lose him a friend, maybe more; it couldn’t have been enough to have to carry the uncertainty of his fate- no.

It was an easy thing, breaking it off at the stem. Mushrooms aren’t terribly durable, and this seems to extend to the kind that cultivated undeath. An easy mistake to make, easily enough tossed into the trash before the consequences could reach him.

He’s still greeting the people that come to the door- of course he is, he craves something enjoyable of this holiday… he’s not going to let himself squander all of it for the sake of sitting with things that can’t be undone. He’s putting those years on the stage to use, smiling and chatting away with anyone that knocks, and if they notice something’s off, at least they have the decency not to say anything.

He hears knuckles against the door again, far sooner than he hoped. Digs his fingers into his scalp another moment as he rallies himself, and takes a breath to stand…

…And the door opens. Shit, he didn’t… he didn’t think Jouren would come back tonight. They knew he’d be here all night… he’s been trying to make it easy to avoid him, they’ve been through enough as it is…

He stands too quickly, intending to tuck himself away into his room as long as needed, but… he can’t move that quickly, right now. He can’t even catch himself on the way back down-

His meeting with the floor isn’t as jarring as he expects it to be, but a shoulder suffers for it, a firm grip around his arm, and another hand coming around to his ribs on the other side, all but carrying him to the couch to sit down proper. It’s more than he’s bothered to do for the past few hours, for sure.

“What happened? You’re, um… you don’t look great.”

Jouren trails off into mumbling for a moment, or maybe Ophioc just stops listening while he gestures vaguely, eyes falling closed once more.

“I’m a dumbass, don’t worry about me… it’s. I’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.”

He doesn’t have to look to see the face Jouren is making at him. He knows the sigh of it well enough on its own.

“Come on, work with me a little bit. ‘D’you eat somethin’ that didn’t agree with you, or…?”

Ophi starts to shake his head, just enough to regret it, leaning into elbows on his knees while he tries to catch his breath again.

“…No… no, it’s just… dumb mushroom shit, ‘s my own fault…”

The words take too long to get out, and his voice shakes too much, it’s too telling, Jouren shouldn’t have to deal with this…

Their hand on his jaw is gentle, just lifting his head enough to look him over. Ophi opens his eyes and all, some attempt to prove that he’ll be fine, and he catches Jouren’s wince as the man’s eyes fall away from his face, down and to the side a bit… it takes him a moment to fill in the blanks of the mushroom he broke off, and that Jouren would understand better than maybe anyone else, here.

He opens his mouth to say something, but the olive beats him to it.

“Yeah… that’ll do it. Don’t think I’ve been this bad for it yet, but… yeah, no. Stay here, I’m gonna get you a drink-“

“Jouren, no. No, don’t let me- go have fun. Do halloween, you had plans-“

“Shut up.”

All his attempts to rally fall away again with a stern word and a harsh point, but the look in their eye is… soft. Something kind, something… not quite pity, but he hasn’t got the brainpower to find the match for it.

“You’re gonna stay there, and I’m gonna get you a drink, maybe call in some food, and grab some movies, and I’m not going anywhere ‘till all this lets up some. Then we can go get Mawris to smooth it over a bit, and can go from there, alright?”

Any sharpness to their voice falls away quickly, and Ophi lets his eyes fall closed again, leaning back into his elbows as he nods, just a little. He’d be lying if he said he’d not be at least a little glad to have the company… and maybe he hopes, a little, that he’s not chased Jouren off quite yet. They’re a good dude, and… well. Ophioc has missed his roommate.]

[all-eyes-lead-to-the-truth]

All Eyes Lead to the Truth | D.P.O. (3x03)

Sometimes durin’ the lightning storms, Darin liked to listen to his Walkman while sittin’ under the big oak tree out back. No one ever told him that was dangerous, but after he was struck, everyone sure liked to tell him it was his own fault. 

Darin didn’t understand how he was expected to know stuff like that if no one ever bothered to tell him. It felt like people enjoyed callin’ him stupid so much that they never wanted to teach him nothin’ and spoil their fun.

He might’ve been a slow learner, but that didn’t mean he didn’t pick up on things.

Darin could look at a car and know the name and model. If he spent enough time on a video game, he could usually get a high score. He could tell when electricity kept actin’ up wherever he went that it might’ve had something to do with him.

The first few times it happened, he just thought the wiring in the house was goin’ to shit. But after several ‘power surges’ and ‘freak accidents’ happened in the span of a month, he saw a pattern. Something would set him off, then the electricity would act up.

He spent weeks practicing. Darin was pickin’ on his Ma there for a while, gettin’ her riled up so that she’d say somethin’ mean and make him mad. That never took long, but after a while, Darin realized it was better when he didn’t really get upset. When he did that, he couldn’t control the electricity very well. Instead, if he just let his emotions build up inside, and if he concentrated real hard, he could make stuff happen. He could make flashlights with no batteries turn on, he could start a car from twenty feet away, he could change the TV station like he was a human remote — he could do anything he wanted.

His power was too cool to keep to himself, but Darin knew he needed to practice before showin’ it to Zero. If he performed a bunch of magic tricks or hocus pocus mind games like the Stupendous Yappi, Zero would think he was lame. 

It had to be somethin’ cool.

After a while of tinkerin’ with his powers, Darin stayed after closing time at the video arcade and said he had a surprise. Zero was disappointed when the surprise wasn’t beer or bud, but after seein’ his name spelled out across all the machines, watchin’ a bolt of lightnin’ strike right outside the windows, and hearin’ any song he named come outta the jukebox — he was impressed.

“So… this was from you getting zapped in the field?” Zero asked, in between swigs of his soda.

“Yup,” Darin nodded. 

“That’s sick.”

“I’m like that fast guy from the Justice League,” Darin chuckled.

“Barry Allen became The Flash because he huffed too many fumes, dumbass,” Zero replied, always feelin’ the need to correct him.

“Still was lightning wasn’t it?” he spat back.

“Sure, dude.”

It was times like these he couldn’t tell when someone was just agreein’ with him ‘cause they didn’t wanna hear him talk no more or if they actually thought he was right. It made him feel stupid he couldn’t tell the difference, but he didn’t wanna feel even more stupid by asking and lettin’ someone else know he couldn’t tell.

“Whatever, man. My powers are way cooler than the Flash’s anyway. If I needed to go fast, I’d get a McLaren F1,” he shrugged.

“Well technically, the Flash has more than just super speed. He has super strength, time travel-”

Darin’s frustration built as Zero kept rambling. He hated feelin’ like an idiot. If he had the comic collection Zero did, he would’ve known all that too. His Ma refused to get him any when she realized he was mostly just lookin’ at the pictures. They wouldn’t have pictures in them if they didn’t want ya to look at ‘em.

Darin felt a surge of indignation burn through his body, and at the same time, the power in the arcade shut off. The suddenness of it all caused Zero to stop talking. When he realized what he’d done, he felt embarrassed for lashin’ out like that and quickly turned the machines back on.

“Hey, I’m real sor-” 

Darin faltered when he looked over at Zero. He was starin’ at Darin with a funny look on his face. It was the same face Zero made when their homeroom teacher caught them lookin’ at the March ‘93 Playboy. It was the same look he got whenever his Mama knocked on the door while they were smokin’ reefers. 

His friend was scared of him, and it made Darin feel powerful.

“Bet the Flash can’t do that, can he?” Darin laughed, every hair on his body standing straight.

It took Zero a moment to respond while he waited for his balls to drop, but when they did, he shook his head firmly, “N-no, dude. No way.”

Darin was grateful that his powers made him run hot, ‘cause Zero’s hands were trembling as they checked on the machines throughout the arcade. “S-so, are you going to show anyone else what you can do? I bet you could get a special on Jerry Springer.”

That brought a smile to his face. His Ma would probably keel over if she saw him standin’ next to Jerry. “I think I need to tell Mrs. Kiveat. I keep callin’ her every time I pick up the phone. I think I’m scarin’ her.”

“Have you tried maybe not doing that?”

“No shit!” he snapped, causing Frogger to hurl himself into the road. “It’s like the phone knows when I’m was thinkin’ about her.” Probably because he was always thinking about her. Maybe he couldn’t stop it because his love for her was the one thing he couldn’t really control.

With his new powers, he could have anything, but all Darin wanted was Mrs. Kiveat.

Read the rest of All Eyes on Ao3

@gaycrouton

[lovedrunkheadcanons]

Chapter Contents

(Arranged Marriage Fic) Read on AO3

Rated M

“Fuck me, of course it had to be a trick room.”

Satoru growled these words as he wandered restlessly down the accursed tunnels. The signs had been everywhere, plain as day. He hated himself for not seeing it sooner. Most Domains were imbued with hidden abilities meant to stifle opponents; sub-degree temperatures, rugged terrain, psychological illusions. Trick rooms functioned as a deadly concoction of all three, a deterrent used to divide and conquer. How it worked was if the Domain sensed more than one opponent — particularly if the opponent had stronger cursed energy (ie, him) — it would try to split the opponents apart, randomly moving them to different locations in the Domain like pieces on a board game, and then selectively eliminating the individuals one by one. Satoru had never been inside a trick room, but studied them plenty in school way back when. The key strategy was to “trick” the trick room, which could be accomplished by maintaining physical contact with another person. That way the trick room couldn’t discern whether the opponent was more than one, meaning Satoru shouldn’t have let go of Hannah’s hand. The trick room now decided it was playing Keep Away and transported his wife somewhere beyond his reach. In addition to being a colossal pervert, he was also a colossal dumbass. He wanted to punch something. If he got her killed for this he wasn’t sure what he’d do.

Satoru walked past another one of those eyeball things Hannah and him encountered earlier. It scuttled on the wall and blinked at him. He hurled a disc of cursed energy at it. The eyeball splattered in an array of guts and goo, its detached limbs twitching to get away. He felt nothing for it.

I’d probably become a hermit, he thought dolefully, switching back to his initial question. Seems appropriate, given all the crap they’ve put me through.

Appropriate, indeed. If a sorcerer’s mission was to prevent calamity brought on by cursed spirits and maintain the peace and security of society, then Satoru would say he had done more than his fair share. It was what he was destined to do, they said. You're the Six Eyes wielder. You have the world at your fingertips.

Hannah’s death would drive a burning stake right through that bullshit narrative. It wouldn’t be the Limitless, Infinity, or even the Six Eyes responsible for her death. It would be him. His arrogance. His failure. He let another person, someone so innocent, so kind, die on his watch. Destiny had chosen the wrong person to wield this power. Her death would be his greatest suffering.

So he’d build a hut on a high mountain overlooking the sea. Shave his head and renounce all earthly pleasures - even sweets if he had to - and live off the land. Forage for berries or some shit. Drink water from a stream. Compose poetry and get in touch with his sensitive side. Maybe write something insightful they’d teach the kiddos centuries down the road. However he chose to bide his time, it’d be spent waiting for the next life. The Gojo line would follow the way of the dinosaurs; Extinction.

And as he reflected upon his family’s demise and the possibility of being reborn in one of the eight burning hells, Satoru began monotonously twirling his wedding ring with his thumb. It was a habit he had picked up after going bare knuckled for so many years. The gold felt moored to his finger. He could pull, twist, scrape, and bite, and still the band wouldn’t — Wait a minute. Yes. Yes, of course. The ring! Hannah was wearing her wedding ring too. Nanami said cursed spirits shouldn’t be able to detect her signature within a hundred meter radius. The trick room was alerted of her presence because she was a living being, but even then, the protective charm imbued on her ring should throw the curse off the trail. And she wasn’t completely defenseless. There was also the knife he gave her.

Knowing this reassured him a little. Hannah was smart. She wouldn’t try anything reckless. She would be alright and would be found. He had to believe that.

Satoru walked briskly down the curse-infested Domain, his legs functioning on their own accord. The headache winding up the bass of his skull had intensified. He couldn’t wait to get out of this place. He turned the corner and caught the shine of something glittering near the wall.

Hannah’s shoes. All night he had been sneaking glances of her struggling to wear them. Must’ve finally taken them off. Good. It meant she had been here. She was alive. He then caught the glowing residuals littering the ground like toxic paw prints. A frown formed on his face.

The curse had been here too.

Satoru did not consider himself to have a short-fuse. He had his moments during the lonely-spent summers of his youth, but on the whole, anger did not come naturally to him. It was too much work, too much hassle. And yet eyeing the residual matrix on the ground, the knowledge that this curse was looking to harm someone he cared about, made Satoru's piss boil. The rage seemed all consuming. The kind of irrational, split-second rage that got drivers killed because they weren’t minding the road, but for Satoru brought everything into focus. He could feel his orientation slip, the lines between sanity and madness blurring together like dopamine straight to the head. His body hummed in anticipation, his heart beated excitedly. He felt the pull on his lips, cursed energy drawing around him like he was the center of gravity. He was going to tear this curse apart, limb from limb, bone from bone.

And he was going to enjoy every last fucking second of it.

Hiro watched the golden light radiate from Hannah’s hands, brightening both ends of the tunnel. He could see what she looked like now. The sparkly evening dress she wore was tattered, a long jagged slit exposing her leg. And her auburn hair was disheveled and matted. She was pretty, he thought. In that foreign kind of way. But with her shoeless feet, she looked like a crazed wildling venturing out of the woods after surviving a lifetime on her own. He shivered. If someone like her looked that way, what must he look like?

The boy continued watching the concentration evolve on her face, the furrowed brow and twitching lips. After approaching something short of twenty minutes, the golden light began fading like the flame of a candle. The tunnel grew dark again. In a great exhale, Hannah lowered her arms. Every part of her body felt drained of energy. She had only ever tried it on plants, not people. In essence, it was easier to grow a rose bush than heal a paper cut or a seven inch gash on a child’s leg. The process left her seeing vertigo and she had difficulty staying upright. Her stomach became slightly nauseous, and the ill feeling quickly spread to the rest of her body. But the plan had worked. She had successfully extracted most, if not all, of the cursed energy fettered in Kenta’s wound. The boy began to stir. His eyes fluttered.

“Onī-san,” he said groggily.

“Kenta!” Hiro embraced his baby brother. “You’re alive!”

Kenta sleepily looked around and sat up, rubbing his crusty eyelids. He didn’t know why Nii-san was crying or who turned off all the lights or why it smelled like poo. And for some confusing reason the top of his leg was itchy and his tummy hurt.

“Where’s Mama?” he mumbled.

“I don’t know,” Hiro said. “Hannah’s gonna help us look for her. And Papa.”

“Hannah? Who’s that?”

“This nice lady here.” Hiro grabbed Hannah’s sweaty hand in the dark and tried pulling her for Kenta to see.

The dazed four year old squinted his eyes. He could just make out the shaded outline of the lady his brother had named. He caught the low-lit sparkles of her dress, something shining like two eyes and long hair. “Woah,” he said. “Is she cool like big brother?”

“Yeah, she’s cool. She made your leg all better. See?”

Of course, this was a silly thing to say. The four year old couldn’t see anything past his nose, nor did he understand the previous ramifications of his leg. His eyes began to lull, feeling tired.

“All better,” Kenta yawned, closing his lids dreamily. “Night night, Onī-san.”

Hiro panicked when his brother’s body went slack. “No, Kenta!”

This prompted Hannah to snap from her stupor and return to Kenta’s aid. She touched his forehead. It was still warm. The fever hadn’t broken. She quickly checked his vitals, feeling his wrist to count the heartbeats with her fingers like she’d been trained to do in the hospitals. 87 beats. A steady pulse at rest. Anything over 110 was life threatening.

“He’s stable,” she assured, gently sweeping the little boy's hair to one side. “For now, at least.” Kenta being knocked cold could be due to a whole range of factors. Dehydration being one. An adult could last three days without drinking water. Hannah didn’t know the duration a child could last, and she wasn’t going to sit there and find out.

She grabbed Hiro’s hand.

“We need to move.”

Hiro felt something like a whimper climb up the back of his throat. “But I’m scared.”

Hannah squeezed.

“I know you are,” she said shakily. “I’m scared too. But I have someone here who’s looking for us. He knows a way out of this place. So it’s very important that we reach him before the monster — ”

Upon mentioning the monster, the six year old began to cry, tears trickling down his pudgy face. Hannah leaned close and swiped her thumb across his cheek, reminiscent of something his Mama would do.

“You have to be brave now, Hiro,” she urged. “You have to be brave for Kenta. Can you do that for me? Be brave?”

Hiro was deeply afraid, more so than ever, but he knew Hannah was trying to help, and wiped the drainage from his nose. “You w-won’t let go?” he sniffed.

“No.” She clasped his one tiny hand in hers like a knight taking a solemn oath. “I promise I won’t let go. I’m going to be holding your hand like this the whole time.”

Sniffling, Hiro took back the tantō in his wobbly hands. Hannah kneeled down next to Kenta and slipped his arms over her shoulders, carrying him piggyback and once more grabbed for Hiro’s open hand. With a benumbed tentativeness, the human trio staggered through the fleshy Domain like three blind mice — one sleeping, two awake — weaving and side-stepping over sharp, pointy fragments that jutted out of the ground like rotted teeth in a gum line. They muddled through bones and sludge and a whole host of other half-shadowed things that skittered in the dark. The passage seemed to stretch on for eternity, not knowing where it led. Hannah listened to Kenta’s soft breathing as he slept on her back. She would have to administer immediate CPR if his breathing became too erratic and arrest his heart. So far, all was good. His head snuggled comfortably on her shoulder. She readjusted her grip under his leg so he wouldn’t slide off.

Hiro clutched tightly to Hannah’s free hand, Stinging Nettle held in the other. He stayed very close, repeating her words of “You have to be brave” in his head like the lyrics to a favorite song. It was deafeningly quiet. They could only hear their labored breathing and the uneasy squish their footsteps made as inert lumps of lord-knows-what shifted beneath them.

The discs in Hannah’s spine ached from being awkwardly bent over with the weight of a four year old. Her neck felt stiff. She struggled to keep her head up, she was so tired. A part of her wanted to stop and take a break, but her conscience screamed, No, you bloody idiot! Stay awake!! There was no falling asleep. She had children to protect. Children whose lives depended on her. Stay awake. Stay awake.

Up ahead the ground dipped and gouged. The cave-like stench grew stronger the more they shuffled through the grime, a smell of rot and age and things long-ago dead. The walls drew inwards, shrinking, corralling them like herding animals. The ground, like cold jelly.

Hannah had forgotten her rosary beads in her evening bag, currently rattling inside her husband's back pocket along with her gloves. She wished she had them with her. The beads.

Much of what humans knew about angels and demons and the paranormal remained a mystery, but not all. For instance, you could not differentiate between an angel and a demon just by looking at them. They lacked physical bodies and could alter their appearance at will and had perfect knowledge. The Italian mystic Padre Pio talked of demons taking the guise of the Blessed Virgin in order to trick and deceive, while Scripture spoke of angels appearing as monstrous beasts with four faces, four wings, and hooves. That’s why you were advised to “test the spirits” either by spraying holy water, showing a holy image, or invoking the name of God. Pio also wrote that the number of demons far exceeded that of human beings, that “if they were capable of assuming a form as tiny as a grain of sand, they would block out the sun.” Hannah remembered listening to these accounts as a child before the visions became too great. At night she would lie awake in her bed clutching a crucifix and rosary, praying, invoking the name of God, afraid a demon would emerge from the shadows and possess her. However, fallen angels were restricted in their malice. They could only possess, tempt, harass, and frighten. They were not granted permission to kill or maim you. And holy angels did not go around possessing people.

Curses on the one hand were separate from demons and angels, and very much could kill you. Nor could they be cast out using traditional methods like holy images and prayer. So what were they? Why did they exist? Where did they come from? Ah, these were questions. Early theologians speculated that curses were manifestations of the Wicked One, but these theories were swiftly debunked. Satan could not “create” anything, only destroy. A better explanation came from Thomas Aquinas’ secret writings on the invisible and demonic, saying that curses were likely of human origin; the consequence for mankind’s fallen status and the existence of sin. Opposing faiths more or less concurred with Aquinas’ theory, some of whom were centuries ahead of the Dominican friar. The Great Master Kūkai went so far as to suggest that curses were perhaps, in some strange-demented way “more human than not.” What that meant exactly remained a mystery.

Still, no one faith or school of thought could conjure a sufficient answer as to why curses wandered the earth, and why Japan in particular spawned such a disproportionate number. What they could agree on were the solutions: Jujutsu. Sorcerery. Cursed energy. Exorcism.

But Hannah was not a sorcerer. She could not manipulate curse energy. She did not know how to fight something more powerful than herself. Heal, maybe. Fight, no. Helpless as a hostage locked in the boot of a burning car falling over a cliff. She was merely human. A human that could do nothing except get on her knees and pray.

Because they were not alone in the tunnel anymore. Something was out there. It sent her heart racing, that sudden, paranoid feeling they were being followed. Hannah’s grip on Hiro tightened, clinging to him as though he’d be lost forever if she let go. She walked faster. Hiro could sense it too. His eyes couldn’t help but jerk to a spot behind them.

Then they heard a noise.

It seemed at first far away, then very close; distant and then rushing ominously toward them all at once. Their eyes caught it. Something large and pale dropped to the ground with a silent whump, slowly creeping forward. A bone white face like a kabuki mask with yellow eyes rabid as disease shone from the shadows. It had been crawling on the walls like a beetle. They saw its mouth cleave into a hyper-stretched grin. The tiniest hint of acid tickled its throat as the thing spoke.

“RUN.”

Hannah did just that. She yanked Hiro by the arm with all her might and high-tailed him in the opposite direction. Her lungs, which had felt short of oxygen, seemed to give way to new breath, heart galloping in her chest. Sharp, cutting objects stoked her feet, pins and needles, slicing right through flesh and bone. She winced, but did not falter. The burning adrenaline flowing through her body nullified most of the pain. Hiro felt weightless. Her 5’1, hundred-twenty pound ass was literally dragging him down the tunnel. He was wailing and screaming, calling out for his mother. And only then did Hannah come to understand that the curse wasn’t trailing behind them, hot on their heels. It had waited. The evil thing had given them a head start because it wanted to chase. It wanted to hunt.

“RUN! RUN!!! RUN!!!!”

A hideous, ululating laugh echoed throughout the void as it shouted this, rising and falling in hysteric yips. Loud. Splintering. She could hear its long thundering gate stampeding down the grimy tunnel like the Minotaur from Daedalus’ labyrinth. Gaining on them, faster and faster. Hannah thought she felt a claw graze her cheek, missing by a hair, almost taking a swipe at Kenta, who was still knocked unconscious on her back, had she not moved her head.

They kept running. Hannah’s heart was pumping so hard she thought it would burst. Her breaths heaved like sobs. She had no idea where they were going. She looked left and right, saw an opening and swerved hard on her heels, thinking it would take them somewhere.

Except it didn’t.

They had reached a dead end.

Hannah spun around. 

The curse was there, crouched on all fours, stalking menacingly towards them. Hiro let out a boyish scream, cowering behind Hannah. The curse laughed and in two short steps was right on top of them. She watched it raise a gangrenous hand.

“I’LL FEAST ON YOUR BONES!!”

Hannah shut her eyes and braced for the end, doing her best to shield Hiro and Kenta from being struck. The scream she’d been holding stayed in her mouth, until...

“Hey, ugly.”

Everyone, curse and human, stopped. Hannah’s heart leapt. She knew that voice. Her eyes cracked just a sliver to see Satoru illuminated in a scarlet haze. An orb of cursed energy swirled on the tip of his finger.

“Feast on this.”

He flicked the red orb at the curse like a yo-yo, watching it spin, obliterating the whole right half of the spirits’ face upon making contact. It’s skull busted open like a gourd, shards of broken cranium splitting outward and purple mist spraying. The curse howled, taking four shambling steps back.

Hannah did not waver. She hooked an arm around Hiro’s small torso, and with her other hand tightly gripped Kenta’s arms dangling around her neck, and ran like hell. The curse was too stunned by the blast to prevent her from joining the Six Eyes wielder on the other side

“Oi, kid,” Satoru said, stopping them. “Mind if I borrow that for a sec?”

He was gesturing to Stinging Nettle, still wedged in Hiro’s fist. By some miracle, he hadn’t dropped it. Hannah set the boy down. He looked warily at her for permission.

“It’s alright,” she said, nodding her head encouragingly. “This is my…friend I was talking to you about.”

Satoru gave her a confounded look. Friend? But kept quiet. No one noticed.

The boy turned around and gazed up at the Six Eyes wielder, mouth agape, like he was staring up at a great monument, and wordlessly held out the knife. Satoru smirked and casually took it from him. He liked it when kids looked at him that way; Totally awestruck. Gotta be the height.

He then motioned with his finger for Hannah to come over he whipped out her belongings from his pockets.

“Here.”

She took the jewelry and gloves and observed him placing the knife in his pocket, blade facing up so the steel poked out the back. He then snapped off his silver cufflinks and rolled up his sleeves and only then did she recall the conversation they had before becoming separated, how she had verbally lambasted him like a child. How trivial and immature it seemed then. Her eyes flitted back to the writhing curse and anxiously bit her lip.

“So, I’m guessing you have a plan?”

He glanced at her.

“Plan? There ain’t no plan."

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m serious, Satoru.”

“I know. So am I.”

The mixture of guilt and gladness was too great for her to withstand.

“Then is it too soon to offer an apology?”

“An apology?” he asked. “What for?”

“For how I behaved earlier. I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have gotten — ”

Satoru stepped forward and gently cupped her cheek. “We can talk about it later, alright?”

“But…” She was going to argue, but with the look he was giving her she quickly conceded, leaning her cupped cheek into his palm. The action felt natural. “Alright, later then.”

“Cool.” He smiled and flitted his eyes at the little boy, asleep, hanging from Hannah’s shoulder like a baby orangutan. “By the way, those are some cute kids. Good job looking after them.”

She snorted a dry laugh. “Thanks.”

“Try not to disappear again.”

“I won’t,” she said. “Be careful.”

Satoru gave her a gratuitous smirk. “Always.” And turned around to finish the fight.

If this were a movie, the soundtrack would begin playing some epic Hans-Zimmer-style music; Neo fighting Agent Smith in the rain, or Luke Skywalker dueling Darth Vader for the last time. Usually there would be a bit of dialogue stippled in where the hero makes the villain aware of why they must die, and the villain laughs and explains why the hero is blindsighted by their sense of justice. If the script is written well, perhaps you’ll be made to sympathize with the villain. Gain a better understanding of their motives and why they chose to become evil in the first place, while still rooting for the hero to win. Maybe the villain sees the error of their ways and is given a chance to redeem themselves. Or perhaps in the heat of battle, the hero decides they’ve got it all wrong and the villain is right. Whatever happens, it always goes the same: Conflict. Climax. Resolution. They all lived happily ever after (for the most part). The end.

But curses didn’t come with Happy Ever Afters. They could not be reasoned with. They could not be redeemed. A curse only had the worst of intentions; one dimensional characters at their finest. For that, there could be no sympathy. Made them easier to kill. There was never any guilt associated when excorcizing a curse.

The curse in question was still reeling from the hit. Satoru rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles.

“What’s the matter, big guy? That all ya got?”

The curse narrowed its uninjured eyes at the sorcerer, snorting challengingly like a bull. Enraged, it began to quickly heal itself. The pulverized side of its face started to bubble and grow, metastasizing into new skeletal flesh, until the injuries were gone. The curse grinned triumphantly at being made whole again and was on Satoru in a flash, taking a swipe at him with its long, hooked claws. Satoru dodged. The curse swiped again. Once more, Satoru evaded the attack. “Come now. Surely you can do better than that?” he taunted, further prompting the curse to assail the sorcerer in a windmilled frenzy of swipes and jabs.

Satoru sidestepped them like they were aimed to miss, like it was all fun and games, going so far as to openly laugh and hurl insult after insult, dancing endless circles around his aggressor. He didn’t have to show off this much, of course. He’d been itching all night to pull the trigger, to throttle something. He could deliver the finishing blow at any time. But where’s the satisfaction in that? he thought. Patience was a skill like anything else. Let the curse have its moment. Let it stay ignorant of the fact it was nothing more than a puny, nonvenomous snake in the thralls of a mongoose.

Tired of slashing through air, the curse backed away and stretched out its bone-white hand. A swarm of glowing cursed energy gathered around it, but Satoru anticipated this move and smooshed his palms together in a hand sign, thus teleporting in front of the curse. He grabbed its stretched out wrist, bending it back only slightly, and said in a low voice.

“My turn.”

He leaned on the balls of his feet and yanked the curse's wrist all the way back, hearing the metacarpals fracture and break like tiny chicken bones. Pop, pop, pop. The spirit roiled. Satoru shifted on his back foot and swung it upwards in a roundhouse kick. The curse was sent flying. Sparks of blackened energy flashed and flickered, though it couldn’t be seen amidst the dark.

The curse slammed into the wall, but the fleshy tissue coating the tunnel absorbed most of the impact. If the surface were harder, it would’ve crushed the creature’s bones into silt powder and ruptured all its vital organs, to the extent it had any, leaving behind a huge crater. Perhaps that was by design; the Domain was meant to prohibit its prey’s movement like sticky insect tape and function as insulation when taking significant damage. The curse managed to pull itself up, and with wolverine agility lunged for Satoru, joining its clawed fingers together to form a spade and began slashing in a scythe-swinging motion. Satoru kept his hands in his pockets and whistled a carefree tune as the curse kept missing, coming up short like a drunk yokel playing a round of whack-a-mole. New dog. Same old stupid tricks.

“You’re not very bright, are you?” he mocked, looking unbothered. His dress shirt was still tucked and his pants were holeless and his shoes weren’t scuffed. This fight was a breeze. “Do something else. I’m getting bored.”

The curse snarled at the jujutsu sorcerer, low and feral, yellow eyes shining with immense hatred. Instead of taking another swipe at the sorcerer, it got on its hind legs and lunged, mouth wide open, incisors and canines serrated like daggers, going right for Satoru’s neck, but this time the sorcerer did not move. He stood his ground, hooking his index finger over his middle. He waited until the curse’s mouth was inches above his jugular before letting loose, and watched with great satisfaction as the curse’s teeth shattered into a million tiny pieces, falling out and splintering. Gouts of dark purple blood sprayed in every direction. Satoru’s Infinity had created an impenetrable shield, preventing the curse’s teeth from breaking through; no different than chomping into a slab of paved cement.

The cursed spirit cried, full-throated and agonized, stumbling backwards, clutching its newly broken jaw. Satoru seized its neck and forced it to the ground. He took Stinging Nettle from his back pocket and with hunting precision, plunged the blade directly into the middle of the curse’s wrist like a floorboard nail. Its high pitched shriek was nauseating. He then started throwing punch after swinging punch with inbred rapidity. Overhand. Uppercut. Left hook. Right hook. Not giving the curse the opportunity to fight back. Its face jerked forward and down and side to side. Using Infinity as a bludgeon, Satoru’s fist never made contact with the curse. His knuckles commenced beating and smashing. Then he hatched an idea.

“Let's count together, shall we?”

Keeping the curse pinned, Satoru stopped punching and jammed his three fingers straight into one of its four eye sockets, digging all the way through till he found the optic nerve connecting the eye to the brain. He pinched the nerves between his fingers and thumb and pulled. The curse thrashed and struggled, screaming absolute bloody murder, high and inarticulate. With enough persistence the eyeball came popping out, still latched to the optic nerve like an umbilical cord.

“That’s one,” Satoru declared. “How about two?”

The curse writhed and squirmed, trying all it could to break free. Satoru held on and once again burrowed his fingers into a second eye, feeling for the nerve fibers. The tantō lodged to the curse’s wrist would not give, leaving blisters and corroded skin; Stinging Nettle’s hidden ability. Living up to its name, whenever the blade came into contact with a cursed spirit, it would inflame and agitate the flesh like a nest of African killer bees. “NO, NO, NO,” the curse cried. It was becoming desperate. It couldn’t heal itself and fend off the sorcerer simultaneously. That expelled too much energy, so it did the next plausible thing. A wild animal caught in a trap will gnaw off its own leg to escape danger. With all its might, the curse jerked and tugged. Tendons and ligaments tore and dismembered like thin denim. The curse sacrificed its own hand as the steel sliced cleanly through the marrow. Satoru allowed the wraith to slide out from under him.

The curse was slower to get up than before, now missing all its front teeth, skull bashed empty. A smooshed eye dangled from its socket like a pendulum and its right hand was reduced to a stub of purple fodder, giving it a zombie-ish appearance. It attempted to regenerate the mangled hand, but Stinging Nettle’s venom blocked receptors from communicating with each other and the eye wouldn’t heal, nor the hand. That left it with no choice. The curse lifted its remaining hand and aimed it at the Six Eyes wielder. A vortex of dark, swirling purple charged inside its palm and released a pulsating jet of raw cursed energy. Satoru hooked his front fingers again and radiated Infinity for as far as it could go, blocking the tunnel. The beam hit in a miasma of heavy smoke and scorching heat. With no ventilation, the fumes waded and feted.

Silence hung in the air.

The whole world seemed to be holding its breath.

Then in a great heaping wind, the smoke transfigured from an ominous grey, to orange, to finally a violent scarlett hue, surging outwards in every direction. The air cleared. Like the eye of a hurricane, Satoru stood in the center, a black-red ball of energy spun on the tip of his finger, turning the scenery around them a clarion color. The only emotion reflected in his blue eyes was one of pure, unadulterated rage. This had gone on for long enough.

“Jutsushiki Hanten, Aka,” he said boldly, widening into a smirk. Sayonara, asshole.

The red ball of swirling positive energy became a harsh white light and then launched from the sorcerer’s finger like a speeding bullet, crackling, rippling, and in a great burst exited right through the curse’s chest, causing its whole upper body to rupture in a horrid explosion of blood and innards. The curse fell to the ground like a test dummy, gurgling and squelching. Obliterated. No more.

Satoru approached the excorcized spirit. He squatted down and began pilfering through the remains that were sizzling and evaporating into nonbeing, ignoring the smell. And after some more deliberation, he at last withdrew a puce colored finger from the corpse.

The long night was over.

The battle had been won.

[welldonebeca]

Miss, PhD (XII)

WC: 700+ words Warnings: Fluff. Steve being a dumbass. Slow burn. Mutual pining.

If you like my work, consider buying me a coffee or subscribing to my Patreon. It’s just $2 a month and helps a lot while I go through these hard times.

Masterlist

Steve waited for you in the Main Quad, the halfway between his building and yours, and was admittedly a little anxious.

Yes, you had told him you didn’t have any negative feelings about him, but positive feelings were a different thing. The two of you hadn’t talked about having any special interest in him, and he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable by flirting with you.

What Bucky had said, however, was still ringing a bit in his mind.

Steve had had a few relationships in his life. He even went so far as living with one of his girlfriends, Peggy - they had had a great relationship and a friendly breakup, he was even invited to her wedding, a few years ago.

But it had indeed been a while. The last time he had been in a relationship, it was with Peggy, and they broke up before he was hired to teach at Stanford. He barely remembered how it felt to be in a relationship.

You were nice, someone he liked being around.

It would be terrible to destroy a potential friendship between you two.

“Hey!” you spoke, moving to his side, and Steve quickly moved his attention to you as you dragged a big suitcase behind yourself, though it looked weightless as you did. “Did I make you wait too long?”

“Never,” he smiled.

You stopped, a little bit breathless and looked at his face as silence fell upon you two, and he had to hold back a new smile when he saw the necklace he’d given you peeking from your shirt.

“So,” you cleared your throat. “Lunch?”

“Sure,” he accepted quickly.

Lunch was a good idea.

“I have a place,” you told him before Steve could suggest anything. “If you like Mediterranean food.”

“I do,” he agreed.

You nodded, and pulled your phone from your pocket, quickly typing something into it and raising your eyes to him.

“The menu,” you explained, moving to his side. “For you to see before we go.”

Steve raised his eyebrows, a little surprised.

“Oh,” he mumbled. “Thank you.”

It was… a little more expensive than he would be expecting. Not that he couldn’t afford it, but it wasn’t somewhere he would go every day.

The food was very interesting, though.

It wasn’t too bad, but he would absolutely need to work his food budget before he got his next paycheque.

When he looked at you, you were watching him, looking like you were analysing his face.

“Or we can go somewhere else,” you added, not looking upset at the possibility. “If you don’t like it.”

He opened and closed his mouth.

You seemed like you enjoyed the restaurant very much, and he would like to go with you.

“No,” Steve shook his head. “It’s alright, I just…”

You waited silently, just listening, and he scratched the back of his neck. Of course, he wanted to impress you with some nice places and give you a good night!

“It was just an impromptu date,” Steve explained, not even realising how the word slipped through his lips. “I thought we were having a quick lunch, not a full restaurant experience.”

Your eyes stared deeply into his as his eyes widened, catching up on what he had said.

“Sorry, did I say date?” he asked. “I meant… uh…”

“A date,” you confirmed, nodding.

He blinked slowly.

“A date,” he repeated.

You pressed your lips together briefly before they curled in a shy smile.

“It’s a date,” you said simply.

Steve exhaled, relieved.

“It’s a date,” he agreed.

You took your phone away silently.

“Where do you want to go?” you asked him, at last.

He thought with himself for a moment. Well, the first time the two of you had actually had a conversation, it was when he stopped by your house and ended up having dinner with you.

Maybe he should do the same for you.

“You cooked for me,” he reminded you. “Maybe I could do the same for you.”

You watched his face with some interest, and bit your lower lip.

“I have some texture limitations,” you told him. “And that involves food.”

He nodded along. Steve knew that autistic people often also had sensory processing issues, and struggled with stuff like textures, tastes, sounds… all of that.

“It’s alright,” he assured you. “We can work with that.”

. . .

"Miss, PhD" was posted on my Patreon back on January! To read the full story before anyone else and have early access to all of my works, subscribe to my page! It's just $2 a month!

. . .

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[secret-time-is-here]

The Lonely and The One

Chapter 3

Previous || First || Next || Rewrite

The night brings on a new guest, although Error doesn't mind. If only the people around him could stop being such idiots, himself included.

The night ticks by slowly. Coming from the antivoid, he doesn’t need food or sleep, and it’s not something he can do naturally anymore like Nightmare can. He can snuggle up in his nest of blankets all he wants, getting as comfy as possible, but sleep never comes.

On bad days, he used to ask Nightmare to put that spell on him, the one he had put on Cross earlier. Help him to let him sleep a little, even if only an hour. It occurs to him that he could go over to Night’s room and ask, but his odd nest of blankets, pillows, and stolen goods is far too comfy.

He drifts in and out of consciousness, and at some point, he can faintly hear the door of his room click open.

Usually, this would be a huge problem, any intruder would be a problem–but the feather-light steps and warm aura that pollutes the air quickly clues him into his guest.

He pokes his head out of his cocoon, and Dream stands before him.

“Night’s gonna be sorry he missed you.” Dream sighs at the comment

“Yes, I figured as much, but I also thought this would be the best time to reach you… without interrupting my or your life.” Dream explains, but Error is quick to notice a couple of things.

For one, Dream’s complexion has gotten worse, his condition draining him of magic to a point that his bones are beginning to look stone-like. Then there’s a sickly flush across his cheeks and nose, and he’s trembling where he stands.

“Uhuh, get over here, dumbass.” Error scooches over in his nest, patting the open spot amongst all the soft blankets and fluffy pillows.

“Are… you sure?” Dream hesitates, eyes roaming over the setup. It’s clear as day Dream’s not worried about the bed or the blankets, but about Error.

“Like fuck I’m gonna let you exhaust yourself, we can just talk in the dreamscape– now get over here or Nightmare’s gonna throw a fit in the morning.”

Dream chuckles softly at the thought, a few coughs stopping him short, but in the end, he does concede. Error helps him get settled in, protectively wrapping an arm over the other as they both lay on their bellies in the odd fort.

Sleep comes sooner than he’d thought, and he opens his eyes to a colorful and hazy copy of Reapertale, the altar to his memory–his past life–just steps away.

Dream appears next to him, suddenly stepping into view and up to the altar. He doesn’t speak, only regarding the altar. Moving up close and peering down at the blurry photo: it’s a mess of red and white. He never bothered to look at the picture of his past self and he can’t even really remember how he used to look anymore. Just phantom prickles of glitches, the faint burn of a scar, and pain in his skull.

The Godling turns to face Error, and he looks more tired than normal, but still, Dream makes the effort of a soft smile.

“I’ll admit, I didn’t expect this for your dreamscape…” He chuckles softly, stopping with a couple of coughs, “Sorry about that.” Dream forces a sincere expression, but Error can see how he flinches every time he moves.

“Alright idiot, stop pushing yourself.” Error speaks softly, he can’t deny the small soft spot he has for the Godlings. They didn’t deserve any of what’s happened to them.

Just as the Gods of Reapertale failed him, he and Ink along with Reapertale failed Dream and Nightmare. Ink does a shitty job at it, but he seems to somewhat care for Dream. Making up for the mistake over time. At least the King position allows Dream the best care possible. Then Error does his best to make sure Nightmare has all the help he could ever need and the safety he had always wanted.

Carefully, Error makes his way over around the altar, tracing around the lake of offerings with a grace he saved for nothing else. Dream doesn’t comment on it, only smiling at Error’s gentle babying, urging Dream to sit down and take off the pressures on his body.

“Heh, thanks.” Dream has a bare hint of a smile, and this time he doesn’t flinch. 

Dream hums, and closes his eyes, for a moment focusing on his breathing. Dream’s condition was getting worse, at this rate, he wouldn’t be surprised if Nightmare kidnapped Dream.

The positive Godling was headstrong but undeniably selfless. He kept pushing himself over and over for Ink’s kingdom despite actively dying. If they–Nightmare, Error, any of Dream’s clerics–let Dream, he would keep healing and helping people until it killed him.

On occasional quiet nights, Error and Nightmare would sit by the fireplace and talk it over. Figure out the best way to convince Dream to finally take time for himself. The process of becoming a dead god is a painful one, and so far, the non-existence life of a dead god comes with different challenges for each.

It would still be a couple of weeks, maybe months until Dream would officially die and join their little taboo circle, but he shouldn’t be pushing himself through the pain. He would need them when he becomes a dead god, find proper help, and ways to manage the new pains of perpetual death.

Error has a persistent cold body and phantom chronic pain, Nightmare lives with headaches and pain spikes. Neither of their mortal bodies were ever properly cared for, and so they endure the injuries for eternity.

“Again, I’m-” Dream starts up, but Error cuts him off.

“No. Nope. None of that sorry bullshit.” Dream’s dull eyes widen at the sudden cut-off, but he smiles softly, nodding solemnly.

“Well… that aside.” Dream starts up, “I hear Cross is with you now.”

“Stalking me- under Nightmare’s care? Totally no difference there.” Error shrugs with a small smile, getting Dream to laugh quietly.

Dream relaxes further, strict posture easing, and Error subtly moves to let the other lean against him. Dream doesn’t bother to fight against it as Nightmare does. No comments about coddling, and no pushback. At least Dream’s learning to accept his condition.

“...I think you will be good for him, Cross I mean.”

“Pft, what makes ya say that?”

Dream pauses, before softly speaking, as if not to spook Error:

“He was locked away for a long time, Error. Blue and I are quite surprised he didn’t become a God like you, but he wasn’t stuck in the antivoid- he got stuck in his empty AU…”

Dream trails off, and Error gently jostles his shoulder to pull him back. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that Dream had also been trapped at one point, not even able to move. Stuck in stone for a century. Ironic how his bones' complexion was beginning to look like the stone he had been trapped in for so long.

Perhaps he wasn’t worried about spooking Error but triggering himself.

“Sor-” Dream cuts himself off, ducking his head. He goes quiet for a moment, before leaning his full body against Error, glitches coming alight before easing back down.

“...Nightmare thinks he got brainwashed a lot,” Error tries to start, “Little mortal went into shock hearing about me and Night bein’ dead gods, and about you.” Dream hums an acknowledgment.

“Yeah, I’d say that’s correct. What I remember of his father isn’t the best… and Ink didn’t keep a great eye on him.”

“Is he keeping an eye on you?” Error quickly turns, he knows Nightmare has tried many a time to convince Dream to move to the castle and failed, but it’s worth a shot.

“Give it a little more time, Error. I’ll move in with you all in time- I just…” Dream sighs, “There’s still so many people that need help. I can’t leave them.” Error huffs.

Wonderful Dream, always thinking of others, but never himself.

“Nightmare’s gonna drag you to the castle one day, ya know that?”

“Yeah…” Dream trails, before speaking even softer than before, “I’ll probably fall asleep soon here… and since who knows when I’ll wake- could you find my cleric? And if Nightmare allows- bring him to me?”

“It’s that mortal named Blue, right?”

“Yes,” Dream nods briefly, before yawning, “...He should be expecting you, he’s the only one I told where I went to…” Dream trails again, body going limper against Error’s side before the dreamscape finally fades.

He awakes to the dull light of morning streaming through his curtains and Dream still curled up under his arm.

Dream’s expression is soft and monotone for once, not forcing any expression or exaggerating as Ink does. He rests with gentle breathing, occasionally hitching from pain, but nothing Error could do for the moment.

The door to his room clicks open, and he doesn’t bother to look up. There’s only one other person that he gives free rein to enter his room.

He can see Nightmare’s form slowly move into his peripheral vision. With delicate care, Nightmare gently rests a hand on Dream’s skull, and it lights the room with dim cyan light. Dream’s breathing stops hitching, and he turns to cuddle further into the blankets.

“Did you two get a chance to talk at all?” Nightmare whispers, still ever so careful despite Dream being passed out.

“Yeah… he wanted to know ‘bout Cross.” Error murmurs in turn, “He asked me to find his Cleric, though. Some Blue guy.” Nightmare pulls back his hand and nods.

“He is allowed to stay here, although unless you want a stranger in your room, I recommend we move Dream to new quarters.”

Error shakes his head. If Dream trusts them, he can loan some of his own for a bit. Besides, it’s rare Dream gets anything more than a light sleep. He needs this. Moving him would just risk waking him for no justifiable reason. It’s not like he keeps anything personal here. The most he brought into the room was a rocking chair for knitting.

Getting out of bed is certainly a task, Nightmare replaces Error’s arm to let him easily leave, and Error brings Nightmare a chair so he can keep an eye on the Godling’s condition until the cleric can be brought.

Without much more of a mutual nod, Error leaves.

It takes some portal hopping about Ink’s kingdom, starting at Dream’s room in Ink’s large estate and across blind spots in the halls, but eventually, Error finds the elusive cleric.

Blue sits praying at a statue bearing Dream’s symbol, one guess as to why it’s not a statue in his likeness.

The statue is far from anything else, a quiet and small temple far from Ink’s estate or even the rest of the kingdom. Blue sits alone.

Error doesn’t bother with grace, his loud steps making himself known. Clicking across the cement floor where Blue kneels.

The other flinches, turning around with wide eyes and comically slowly looking up until he meets Error’s eyes. Quickly, the cleric gets to his feet and bows. And he remembers well the sign of respect from his days back in Reapertale.

“You may be at ease,” Error speaks, and Blue stands back up tall, “I’ve been informed you’re Dream’s cleric.”

Blue doesn’t speak, he isn’t allowed to until Error says so. “You may speak.”

“Yes,” Blue answers, making sure to give Error’s sentence a wide berth, not wanting to accidentally speak over the God. “Dream made me promise not to tell a soul where he had gone, and wait here until you came to find me,” Blue explains.

“Good, he’s resting right now. Lucky for you, Nightmare has allowed you to enter his territory and allow you to stay with Dream until he awakes.” Blue nods with another bow, and Error makes a portal back to the castle.

Blue, upon entering the room and seeing Nightmare, also bows to him, only rising when Nightmare gives the say-so. The switch places without much more preamble, and Nightmare and Error exit to the hall.

“Did you know Dream formally trained his cleric?” Error quickly questions, and honestly, he wouldn’t put it past Nightmare to hide that little tidbit of information.

“Oh? Did he formally greet you as well?” Error's avoidant eyes say it all, and Nightmare laughs, “Error, I think we both know you deserve the respect. It has been a long time coming.”

“I…” For once, he’s at a loss for words,  “I just didn’t expect it.”

“Hmm, maybe then I should make Killer my Cleric if it gets you in this soft of a mood.” Nightmare teases, slowly walking down the hall and away.

The soft smile he had been wearing falls to uncertainty. He deserves it, sure. After all these years of ignorance and hate, he surprises himself every time he puts the traditions he has learned by heart to the backburner. Once a shy awkward mortal, always shy and awkward.

There’s the stray thought that he had been the one to teach Dream and Nightmare those traditions, and Dream might have purposely taught his cleric such for Error. They both knew how much Error yearned for a following, even just a follower would do at this point. To fill his spot properly and make Reapertale proud, maybe make them notice him and try and remember him.

Stars know how much he misses all of them.

He turns to where Nightmare had walked off to and only sees Cross’s blank expression staring back at the end of the hall.

The mortal doesn’t say anything, but the blank look falls to one of understanding before walking out of view.

[kaykay8776]

Brother, I Am With You - Ch. 2

Hi, me again. Yes, I’m uploading two chapters in one day. I’m excited for this story, sue me. 

Ch. 1 is here, and if you prefer AO3, it’s there as well. Onward to the fic! Thanks for reading!

Warnings: Needles, wound medical care, hospitals

The rest of the day went somewhat as Mario expected it to. When he finally showed up, the doctor assessed his wound and determined what Mario probably could’ve figured out himself; there was soft tissue and muscle damage and deep bruising. But since his range of motion and sensation was unaffected, there wasn’t any tendon or nerve damage. For some reason the doc felt the need to tell Mario that the dog barely missed hitting his brachial artery as well as one of his major nerves. He guessed it was his weird way of trying to make him feel better, but it just freaked him out. 

When the doc decided he’d done enough poking and prodding, he said he wanted to clean the wounds out and stitch them closed. Then he wanted Mario to get an x-ray to make sure there wasn’t any bone damage, and then he could be on his way. 

When the time came, they got Mario laying down and had him stretch his arm out on a table with a blue drape on it. He saw the big syringe full of lidocaine next to a bunch of other torture instruments and his breath seized in his chest, but Lucy saw and promised him they would be fast. He turned his head the opposite direction and practiced one of the breathing exercises Luigi had taught him before. 

He definitely regretted not bringing his brother with him, because damn, he could’ve really used a hand to squeeze. But he’d caused him enough trouble already. He was on his own. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. 

They started injecting the lidocaine then, and honestly, it was awful. He felt the pinch of the needle in his already sore and tender skin, and the lidocaine itself burned and stung, taking way too long to finally give way to a cool numbness. They put a little into every puncture and tear, and there were 11 in total. By the time they were done, Mario’s eyes were damp. Lucy, bless her, handed him a tissue without saying anything except that the worst part was over now. 

Thankfully, that was indeed the worst part. They cleaned the wounds out next, which wasn’t that bad. He felt the sting of the antiseptic in a couple of spots, but it still wasn’t as bad as the lidocaine, and it faded away before he even had a chance to react to it. Even the stitches weren’t bad; he expected them to be worse. All he felt was some pressure and tugging, but the sensations were easy enough to ignore. He just kept looking away and studied the big poster on the wall about the human skeletal system. Who knew that a person’s hands have 27 bones each?

Finally, they finished and let him sit up. 31 stitches all together. Mario squinted at them, his stomach lurching just a little, before Lucy put a clean dressing over them and forced him to stop looking. Then a new lady poked her head in the room and informed them that they had an open spot for him to get his x-ray. He hastily followed her, eager to get moving and walk some of his nerves off. 

Mario denied her offer to walk him back after they were finished, which was a stupid thing to do because he got lost almost immediately. He felt like a little kid lost in a grocery store as he looked around and tried to remember where the hell he came from. Eventually, he relented and asked the DI unit clerk for directions. Turns out he was literally right in front of the hallway he’d come from, his dumbass just couldn’t find the sign. He left in an annoyed huff and went back to the room he was in before, sitting in one of the stiff armchairs instead of on the table this time. 

Soon, Dr. Asher returned alone, holding an iPad. He said Mario’s x-ray came back normal with no signs of bone damage, which was good. The talk soon turned into a long lecture; he wanted to see Mario again in 10 days to see how it was healing and to remove the stitches. It would take a long time to heal, and he walked Mario through the best ways to help speed up the process. He would likely need physical therapy to rehab the limb, and would possibly need to see an orthopedic specialist to assess the muscle damage. Then came another lecture about the signs and symptoms of infection and sepsis and when to go to the ED; Mario did his best to pay attention, he really did, but a lot of the big words and medical jargon flew right over his head. But he gave him a small package of papers that summed everything up nicely, so he didn’t feel that bad. 

Really all he had been able to think in response was how much he now hated dogs. 

“So, are we done? Can I leave now?” Mario asked, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. 

“One last thing,” Dr. Asher looked at his tablet. “It says in here that you had your last tetanus shot when you were in the 9th grade, is that correct?”

Damn. Mario was afraid of that. 

“Yes.” He answered begrudgingly, crossing his arms. 

“Then I recommend you get a booster today, since it’s been more than 5 years.”

“Come on, it’s been 7. You can’t let me squeak by?” 

Dr. Asher pursed his lips, shrugging his shoulders. “You can refuse, if you wish.”

Mario groaned. “No, I’ll get it, whatever. If it means I get to go home after.”

“Yup, that’s everything.” Dr. Asher got up to leave. “Take care, Mario. Feel better, and come back if you have any concerns.” He smiled kindly. Mario half-heartedly smiled back, and the door closed behind him. 

Mario inhaled a big breath and released it, stretching his legs and rolling his stiff neck. He was so ready to go home and jump into his bed and not leave for days. He pulled out his phone, and almost as soon as he did, a text came from Luigi.

So what’s the deal? Did they amputate?

Mario smiled and shook his head fondly, punching out a reply. No, just 31 stitches. 

I bet you’ll have some awesome scars.

I doubt it. You’re such a dork.

The dorkiest. What are you waiting for now?

Just a tetanus shot.

Uh oh, you need me to come hold your hand?

He audibly snorted. Fuck off, I’m not 6.

You sure? I think you’re short enough.

Mario chuckled and sent a long string of middle finger emojis, and Luigi replied with a longer string of laughing ones. He turned his phone off, sighing quietly and putting his head back, closing his eyes. 

Mario sat there alone for long enough that he’d curled up and had just about dozed off. Finally, Lucy came back, poked him in his deltoid, gave him a brief rundown of his wound care, and finally let him go. He saw the front desk clerk and hastily scribbled his signature on the discharge form, then ran out of there before anyone else could come up with more reasons to keep him. 

He found Luigi happily snoozing away in the waiting room and couldn’t help but laugh; the guy had a gift. He could sleep anywhere. After sneakily snapping a picture to add to his ever growing collection, he woke him up and they took a cab home. 

During the ride, Luigi started talking about who they should go to about getting the van fixed. Mario had made up a lame excuse that he was tired and sore and wasn’t really up for discussing it, when in reality all he could think about was that they actually couldn’t get the van fixed right now because they didn’t have any money. And that was all because Mario had stupidly convinced Luigi to let him blow it all on their commercial. 

Which, Mario learned later that evening, wasn’t even good, as far as his family was concerned. Tony and Arthur had laughed right in his face, just like Spike had. He had tried to stick around for dinner, but after all the laughing, the mushrooms on his plate, the guys asking to see his stitches even though he kept telling them he wasn’t supposed to take the bandage off yet, and his father’s remark as the cherry on top, he left the table using the same excuse of being tired and sore and just wanting to lay down. He felt bad for being so rude, but he’d had a long and crappy day. Sue him. 

It wasn’t a total lie by any means; he definitely would’ve liked to lay down and sleep, but he was a side sleeper and he doubted he’d be able to find a pain-free sleep position now that both of his arms were sore. He settled for turning the lights off and playing video games, but it still didn’t do much to distract from the words that kept running through his head. The words wrought with disdain and disappointment. 

I think you’re nuts. You don’t leave a steady job for some crazy dream. And the worst part? You’re bringing your brother down with you.

Mario growled and threw his controller down as he died yet again, turning the TV off and giving up. He rubbed at his eyes, placing his elbows on his knees, sighing in exhausted agony. There it was again, the gentle burn in his eyes, the wobble in his breath. 

Once again, Luigi managed to interrupt him when his defenses were down. He poked his head through the door of their shared bedroom, holding a plate of mushroom-less pasta and a bottle of red gatorade. Mario sat up, taking a steadying breath.

“I thought you were laying down.” Luigi smiled knowingly. 

Mario shrugged weakly. “Tried, but everything hurts.”

“Did you take some meds?” 

“Yeah, just now.” He’d taken two Advil and two Tylenol tablets after leaving the dinner table. 

“You should probably eat something, big guy,” Luigi murmured softly, using the same tone he used whenever Mario was the one hurt or knocked out with a cold. He was being so sweet, and Mario’s chest panged. “Or at least drink something.”

Luigi handed him the gatorade, and he took it, lazily taking a swig even though he wasn’t really thirsty. 

“I wish I could have something stronger than this.” Mario admitted quietly, turning away so he wouldn’t see Luigi’s reaction. He knew he really couldn’t, but still, it was the truth. Right now, all he wanted was to sit down with a bottle of his favourite white wine and drink until he couldn’t remember his own name. 

“Well, you aren’t getting anything stronger, not on my watch.” Luigi replied after a few beats, undoubtedly surprised at Mario’s remark. “You aren’t serious, are you?” 

“Relax, of course not.” Mario shook his head. 

Luigi was silent for a few more tense moments, and Mario could feel his concerned eyes boring into him. He didn’t look back; he couldn’t.

“Mario, are you sure you’re okay?” 

There was that tone of voice again, so caring, so soft. How lucky was Mario to have someone who cared about him so much? Someone who kept reaching a hand out even after he kept pushing it away?

And what had Mario done for Luigi in return? Risk his safety by taking him into a stranger’s home and almost getting him attacked by a stupid dog. All to achieve a dream that was Mario’s, not his. It wasn’t fair; Luigi deserved better. 

Unable to help himself, he cleared his throat and hid his guilt with another snotty remark. “So far. My arm hasn’t fallen off yet, but we’ll see what happens.”

“Would you–” Luigi stopped and took a frustrated breath, trying again. “Stop dodging, that’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.” Mario sighed. “And I told you, I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me.”

Another tense silence followed. Even though he still refused to look at him, he knew exactly what Luigi was thinking, and his heart seized. He hated that he was worried, but he couldn’t let him in. This whole mess was his own fault; when he was feeling better, he would figure out how to clean it up himself. There was no other choice. 

Luigi took a breath to speak, then–

“Luigi! It’s your turn for dishes tonight!” Ma hollered from the kitchen. 

Mario hoped his sigh of relief wasn’t audible. Luigi frowned, not moving for a few moments. 

“Go on, get outta here,” Mario ushered. “Don’t make her mad.”

“Fine.” Luigi grabbed the uneaten plate of pasta with one hand–Mario had already decided he wasn’t eating it–and squeezed Mario’s shoulder with the other before sliding off the bed and heading to the door. Before closing it, he turned and looked at Mario again. 

“Just yell if you need anything, okay?” 

It was such a mindless gesture, something they said to each other in different variations all the time, but hearing it from Luigi even after all the grief he’d caused him today made him want to cry all over again. But he clenched his jaw and nodded stiffly. Luigi hesitated, worry and concern evident in his vibrant blue irises, but he ended up leaving. 

Mario inhaled and released a heavy sigh again, frustratedly rubbing at his eyes and throwing himself back on his pillows, narrowly missing bonking his head on the headboard. He hated all these damn feelings. 

Luigi should’ve been pissed at him. Mario had made him promises and hadn’t kept them. But instead he was worried about him and his well being. He truly didn’t deserve Luigi. 

Now that he knew Luigi would be occupied for enough time, he let himself have his moment. He rolled on his less sore side and curled up, pressing his hands against his face to silence the pathetic sounds he made as he cried. He was a complete and total fool for ever thinking that this would work; he felt like the worst brother in the world. 

He swiped at his face, sniffing wetly and taking a few breaths, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. This mess was his fault; he wasn’t allowed to cry about it. 

But he felt too shitty to try to fix it right now. He switched the TV to some random cop show, exhaustion and depression weighing heavy on his bones. He fixed his pillows and blankets, fidgeting for a while before he finally managed to make himself comfortable on his back. It wasn’t how he liked to sleep, but it would have to do for now. He haphazardly watched, slowly relaxing, and after 10 minutes, he was out like a light.