#the phone burned my fingerprint off

[ppth-forensic-technician]

Can somebody help me convince @vancurarchivist to let me gift them a new mobile phone? I believe their current one is a genuine danger to the hospital. Sadly, dear Ilja is too stubborn to accept any new gifts from me.

[mossmotif]

more on gamer!shoko because she's on my mind...

she's got this tell that she doesn't become aware of until a few of her viewers start to pick up on it. when you walk into her room while she's streaming shoko almost always immediately mutes her mic just in case you aren't aware that she's live and also just out of general respect for your privacy. this means her viewers are left in silence for a little bit.

shoko's handcam, however, remains on during these small interventions, and it never fails to miss the way she fidgets anytime she's speaking to you. they trace along the fabric of her mouse pad, mess with the cords on her desk, or simply pick at the cuticles of her thumbs. they're these small, meaningless movements that shouldn't mean anything to strangers, or even to shoko herself. but they become hard to miss when the routine to them is so obvious.

a fan makes a silly post about it. the type with over the top slow motion to highlight her movement and a cheesy song to match the tone of the text overlayed on the compilation: "shoko getting nervous whenever her roommate walks in the room"

the amount of views it gets is ridiculous. the comments are ridiculous. and most of all, the feeling in the pit of shoko's chest is ridiculous.

her hands all of a sudden feel very disconnected from her body. she stares at them through the dark, holding them in front of her face and watching their outline grow fuzzy the more she strains her eyes. the glow of her discarded phone only seems to mock the honesty of their use, illuminating them briefly with each notification before fading back to nothing at all.

traitors, she thinks briefly. but then what was there to betray? none of these people knew what they were talking about.

the sound of dishware clattering breaks her attention. her hands fall back to her chest as she rolls out of bed and makes way to her door.

the sight of you in the kitchen this late doesn't alarm her. the air is laced with the smell of almond extract, the aroma tickles her nose as she watches your back and the way you drag your palms along your apron. an imprint of flour and egg is smudged along the battered fabric.

there's a video playing faintly in the background, something you're only half paying attention to. the noise comes from your phone, which has been propped up against a mixing bowl and unmistakably has its own set of stains in the shapes of your fingerprints along its corners and screen. the evidence is dyed a hard grey. an odd choice for frosting, most likely a mistake of yours while trying to find the perfect shade or hue. shoko can't help but be endeared by the mistake.

she stands there for some time. she forgets why she left her room all together, thoughts still so embarrassingly stuck to the tackiness of her online life and the speculations surrounding it. the room begins to break off in fragments.

what did she come in here to prove? her right hand wrings itself into a fist as she debates whether or not the smell in the air is actually oozing itself out of one of her distant dreams. the one where her lips cut the sweetness of yours.

there she would only be a mouth, nothing that could grab, prod, grope, or take. ideally, all of her would disappear and she could unlatch—without a palm smacking against her open mouth—and let herself melt into you like powder.

"shoko?" you're turned toward her with a piping bag in hand. "i didn't know you were awake."

she pushes through a shard, letting the movement of your arms pierce her as she attempts to focus her gaze on your eyes. you place the piping bag onto the kitchen table like it's a puzzle piece. there are old burn marks on your left forearm; they're small and hold different shapes.

"i was going to try and catch you off guard but i ended up spacing out," shoko lies.

one of the scars stretches in this curve she particularly enjoys tracing against anything she can get her hands on.

you move to grab something and the healed skin expands.

shoko tucks her hands into her pockets.

"rude," you reply. your voice has turned into something comically dry.

"i'm sorry?"

"right." you approach her with a spoon in hand. "taste this for me?"

a spoonful of raw batter pools itself into the form of the silver, yellowed and suspiciously lumpish looking.

shoko looks back at you, brows lifting themselves through an uncertainty she hopes you find amusing enough to not find too offensive.

"what is it?" she questions.

"just taste," you push.

the spoon edges itself towards her lips. you guide it toward her slowly, almost as if to not startle her, all the while, your figure has breached her space. you two stand nearly chest to chest as shoko hesitantly opens her mouth for you. the hand you have cupped beneath the spoon to prevent any messy spillage brushes the skin of her chin just enough for her to feel a spark at the end of her fingertips.

she swallows. you step back to watch all of her, eyeing anything tucked away.

"good?" you question her silence.

shoko looks away, tries to focus on the video still playing in the background, recognizes the faint familiarity of her own voice over the chime of a game she hasn't booted up in months, untucks her hand from her pocket to wipe at her lips, and feels you mold the simple self inflicted connection into something viscous.

"good," she answers.

[1800titz]

HI BESTIES. This is the first part of Shibari man/Shibari Asshole/Rigger!Harry x Rope bunny!Reader ((the one I teased here))

The one where Harry runs shibari classes and you think he should smile more

WC: 2.4K

This is part one of a patreon exclusive series; the rest will only be accessible through my patreon. You can already find part 2 up on my patreon (✿◠‿◠) 

When you were a little kid, your brother had an ant farm. 

An acrylic formicarium that’d started out as two boxes with a set of tubes. Over time, it morphed into a staggering, caged cityscape of twisting, pellucid hoses and burrows that spanned the entire length of the desk in his bedroom. 

You'd watch them scatter the tunnels as a little girl, lugging cracker crumbs and bits of fruit off your sticky fingers, weaving along the chutes connecting the boroughs of their curated city.

Your brother did what any nasty, older brother would do— those harvester ants were the torment of your childhood. You'd bicker, and he’d threaten to spill them into your bed when you were sleeping. Told you that the colony would eat her toes, that you'd wake up to wiggle nothing but grisly, little, ichor-soaked stumps.  

The gory intimidation tactic never really did much.

You'd still press your nose to the screen barring the insects and smudge your fingerprints over, fascinated as they congregated to the wet cotton ball in the depths of their home. 

You think it's a little like that now, wandering the swarming alcoves in the underbelly of New York. You're a little harvester ant (all exoskeleton to sheathe the pulpy anguish of a long day— ball it inside, keeping your face even and your mouth in a line), plodding through a network of crystalline, vinyl tubing. Swimming against the swathing current of the colony seeping past you in their beanies and their coats, deadpanned on their dog-eat-dog pursuit of errands. 

During the evening rush hour, it’s teeming under the city that never sleeps. It’s a stunning exhibit, maybe, for a tourist whose hometown flickers every porch light off by nine and has one tributary of a road that seeps away from the community, but it doesn’t help the headache thrumming behind your temples. Instead, it kindles the narked throb in your limbs until it feels like an itch in your bloodstream.

The day’s chewed you up with its sharp, ivory incisors and spit you out. Left something tired and empty. The dregs are grounds of a mucky ire, ready to be shed under the scalding spew of a showerhead. 

You mingle through the horde, slinking the gaps you can manage to squeeze past. Your nose burns. Anti-seize lubricant. Cherry cleaners and old concrete. Musk and brake dust. Ground up, heated steel from the wheels burning — metal on metal. Grease. It smells like asphalt and strife. 

The car is packed. A lumbering throng that weaves and scatters, either casting indignant looks over their shoulders when they’re nudged as you politely shoulder your way through, or soul-sucked into their phones altogether, scrolling in detachment. 

There’s one tawny seat, empty and tucked against the back wall. You inch for it on aching ankles, burning knees; the bits of a long day left sewn into your joints. It gnaws into your marrow, and nothing sounds better than hot water on naked skin. You twist—

Marimba blares from you bag. Someone casts an irrationally exasperated side-eye over their shoulder. You straighten out, and rummage through the contents. Find a battered lanyard. A spare stick of deodorant. A hair tie coated in lint and a sparse handful of change—

Drink water. You thumb the alarm off. 

When you sit back, it’s rigid. Firm and uneven. Warm, like a breathing furnace. It takes you all of a split second to recognize that you've managed to perch on a splayed thigh, clad in denim that’s shredded at the knees, rather than the grooved, ochre plastic of a hovering seat.  

You had thought there was little emotion you could have summoned beyond something drained and miffed. The day surprises you, yet, in its dying breaths. Like a mortified buoy, embarrassment bobs from the cesspool when you startle up and twist.

There’s a man in your seat. 

He looks oddly comfortable, almost as if he’d been there all along. As if you had just conjured a mirage of an empty seat. The only acknowledgement he gives you, blinking up from the phone cradled in his enormous, right hand, is a stoically disgruntled glance from behind the squared, pitch-framed lenses resting on the bridge of his nose. 

“Um. Excuse me—” you blink. Your brows crease, “I was sitting there.” 

He spares you a glance. There’s gems in his sockets. Emeralds. Dewy and dulled from the same, shitty day of skyscraper-morphed incisors gnawing. He looks away, and they coruscate in the near blinding glare of his LED, cast in a faint echo over his glasses.

“No, you weren’t.”

You blink again. He doesn’t even spare you a glance as he denies it. You're forced to stare at the part in his hair; the way a burnt umber curl sweeps over his temple. He scrolls over his screen, instead, with a neatly saffron-lacquered thumb. 

You swallow a flattering epithet that (his obvious disinterest) nearly wrests from your mouth. A flimsy facsimile of a smile sculpts over. Appalled. Nearly seeping into the beginnings of borderline deranged as your threadbare composure gets toyed at by a prick with a clandestine pair of scissors. Almost, almost, almost. 

“Well. I was going to.” 

“That’s unfortunate,” he murmurs, brows kinked, “because this seat is taken.”

A little noise clambers from the back of your throat. You swallow it down and scoff. “Are you serious?” 

“Deadly.” 

It’s dry, derisive, disinterested. The three D’s that are going to get his glasses plucked off and tossed to the floor to be crushed under someone’s heel. 

“Unbelievable.”

His eyes— mossy, reminiscent of the woods— sweep up. He’s quiet. Stony. For the first time, you really get a good look, and decide, instantly, that if he weren’t such an apparent dickhead, maybe his specs and his voguish jumper would make him look sophisticated. Handsome, with his even slope of a nose, full, pink lips, and the dusting of stubble along his cheeks and jawline. 

There’s a sharp contrast to him, like inverted colors. Patchwork of sutures that don’t fit. It’s off, his cozy sweater and his soft hair. He looks like a warm, barbed hug. 

Prickly— saguaro, in a Marc Jacobs pullover, with stinging spines sticking through the stitching. 

“What’s the matter with you?” It’s softer that you'd intended. 

You quiver— everything, all over. Your bottom lip wobbles, your mandible sets, your fingers wring at the strap of your tote. They twitch and stretch at your side with this provoked, goopy slurry of cortisol and adrenaline. It permeates your pericardium. Snakes the tubing with an incensed warmth— embers kindled.

“Do you realize how rude that is?” 

Asphalt and strife. Someone to your side glances over their shoulder and then turns back. The stranger blinks up at you from his phone with soft features chiseled apathetic. Vetiver and musk. 

“M’not sure what you mean.” 

“Are you joking? You stole my seat, dude,” you wave out with your hand. 

He blinks again. 

“I don’t think it ever belonged to you, to be fair—“ then, “Is your name on it?” 

It’s a childish retort to spall your argument into flinders. Your eyes narrow into anticipatory slits. 

“No—“

“Then I suppose it’s not your seat, is it?” he responds sharply— chiaroscuro to the lax, impassive shape that molds his face, “S’first come, first serve …dude.”

A stranger grazes your shoulder blade in passing— something you've become accustomed to. People finding walkways in strait gaps on a train that’s packed like a can of sardines. 

“Oh my God. You are such an asshole— I could be pregnant.” 

He raises his eyebrows. His eyes trail. A slow once-over, wry and disbelieving. Sage and owlish. A stray curl stemming from the forefront of his crown meddles to coil over his forehead. The corner of his otherwise indurated mouth twitches.

“Are you pregnant?” 

No.

“Yes,” you glower. 

It slinks from the back of your throat, unbidden— this lie. Rides up the back up of your tongue and slips through the cracks of your teeth. It’s curdled and twisted, miasmic pulp in tar— who the fuck lies about being pregnant for a subway seat?

You're never going to see him again. 

You're never, ever going to see him again. 

You cup your hand over the underside of your tummy. Sell it, now that you have to. All soft flesh under the button of your jeggings, shrouded under the boxy shaping of your fleece turtleneck— where a baby (that definitely doesn’t exist, last you checked), the size of a citrus limon, would curl up. You tuck your palm over the phantom at your underbelly. 

You've had a shitty day, and now you've been backed into a corner, offering the universe shitty manifestations with your hands cupped out. 

The seat stealer ogles. Meanders from your strategic hand placement to your ireful scowl. Back. His mouth purses. 

“So, it’s not that you could be,” he clarifies, slowly, “It’s that you are.”

Languid. Unrushed, like an overflowing, murky lake lapping at a berm. Someone brushes the back of your arm. 

“Yes.” 

“Are you lying?” 

You scoff. He’s fully transfixed on you now, the glow from his smartphone dimmed on its pending shut-off timer. 

“Are you kidding? Who—“ you hike your tote up, “lies about being pregnant for a subway seat?” 

He purses his lips again, ruddy pillows bordering the sharp chasm of his mouth where the tools to dissect her claims are stowed. Bobs his head. 

“How far along are you, then?” 

You grit out, teeth bared, “Thirteen weeks—“

And a stranger prods past with enough force to nudge you forward. Enough for your shin to brush against the bespectacled stranger's own. Enough to step into his space, nearly between his parted thighs. He frowns. 

He does another slow sweep with his gaze. Furrowed brows, glimmering viridian dancing from behind limped lenses. Gleaning pieces like cattail and twine for a nest. Deciding; are they worthy? A grip over your underbelly, the little frown on your lips that mirrors his own, the way you suddenly crowd his atoms. He’s unconvinced, almost. Apathetic. 

You fully expect him to tell you to fuck off, but then he nudges with his stubbly chin. You shuffle back as much as you can with about three, broad strangers at all sides. 

He bleeds out into you, for a moment, all heat, when he clambers up and steps in to make your cycle — this game of musical chairs to the tune of white noise, flitting on a screeching rail through a tunnel— smoother. He’s broad. Tapered. Thick in the shoulders, a carnegiea of a man towering when he nearly presses his firm chest to you, wrapped in french terry. He’s much softer to the touch than the spikes bristling from his mien implicate. Woodsy and clean, like smoke, and cedarwood, and soap. It flushes the miasmic undertone of grease the subway always has. 

He cocks his head. Sit down. 

“Congratulations,” he tells you when you slot into the nook, splaying your tote over your lap. 

He’s kept your seat warm. 

Whether the statement is in reference to your unborn pseudo-baby or your victory, you're unsure. 

-

-

-

-

KNOTS resembles a yoga studio, with its clean, tall walls, its french oak flooring, and its bone-white bulbs, linearly tiled into the ceiling. It smells like an amalgam of grapefruit cleaning products and spritzes of an air freshener that vaguely echoes the lapping sea. 

Salt, an airy ozone, muguet. Something pretentious that doesn’t fit into the city. 

If it weren’t for the myriad of ropes, lubricants, and toy cleaners stacking the shelving units by the front, you would have felt as if you were here to attend a pilates class. Cycling, maybe. Something sweaty and less …abrasive.

You're late for your seven-to-nine open level, beginner’s course— two soporific hours of staring at rope and tying knots that you'll never get back.

(Slaphappy and fecklessly inept at knot-tying are two traits that don’t work well to take up shibari as a hobby.

“Please— she’s been begging for months and none of those online tutorials make any fucking sense.” 

“So— why don’t you take her with you?” 

“Because I want it to be a surprise,” Niall had opposed. Puffed his chest, “I wanna surprise her. Like a proper ropes guy, you know. And she’s so flexible, too, I could tie her in loads of positions—“

You'd raised your hand. “Spare me.” 

Niall’s always been a glass half-full. Crystalline, effervescent. A bright color.

You couldn’t bear to ruffle his plume when, two autumns ago, he spent a Wednesday afternoon standing outside a women’s handicapped stall in an auto shop for pure, courageous moral support as you took an actual pregnancy test— not even by his doing, and he still was a very good sport. Even if he’s absolute shit at knots beyond tying his own shoes.

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that if he struggled with twine and a palomar, it wasn’t going to matter how bendy his girlfriend was.)

You're fourteen minutes late. Eight-hundred-forty seconds and change for every two steps, by the time you find the right door in the balmy corridor of boundless doorways. The portly, alder ingress squeals on its hinges when you shuffle, as quietly as you can manage, into what vaguely resembles a dance studio. 

The attendees look the part, too, perched over their yoga mats in contemporary dancer garb, turning their chins over their shoulders at the disturbance. Dress casual and comfortable. There’s only about eight of them, and they coil in a piqued coterie ahead of the instructor, who has about six varying ropes, diverse in their tint and structure, and then he peers up—

It’s him. Saguaro, with the frames and the eyes like beds of flinty malachite. 

He’s holding a furled, plaited cord, the head of the class, and he pauses, blinking up. Briefly. He clears his throat—

”—Jute, on the other hand, has great knot stability. You can see here, the braided texture— that makes it less slippery.”

Compunction crinkles the valley of skin between your eyebrows as you trudge in alongside Niall— he’s much more amicable about it, mouthing apologies and raising his hand in friendly hello’s that don’t receive much beyond awkwardly indifferent glances. You sink to your knees toward the back, which isn’t all that far from the front, all things considered. It’s a small class. The wood burrows into your tailbone— were the yoga mats a complementary piece? Were you supposed to bring a yoga mat?

“It’s great for floor bondage, but it’s water sensitive. So if you want to work it into suspension, don’t wash it too often. Otherwise, you’re losing carrying capacity.”

The city of New York is a metaphorical hayrick. It’s a paradox, since the big apple is the furthest thing from watery mud, fir-constructed barns, and scythes sweeping through crops. 

Theoretically, though, you should have never seen this man again. 

He should have become swept into the mound of straw— got lost in it. Mortification strums at your muscles, tensing every sinew. It scars deep— scrapes at your cartilage. If you'd known this needle would prick your thumb again, maybe you wouldn’t have waged war for the seat on the subway. 

And yet, here he is.

[with-my-calamitous-love]

WHO’S GONNA KNOW YOU LIKE ME?

bsd, various x reader

what heartbreak feels like with each of them

angst, uses bridges from the tortured poets department

THOUGHT OF CALLIN’ YA, BUT YOU WONT PICK UP…

chuuya knows he’s fucked up. he knows he can’t get back what he let go, that he’s already made his bed. but fuck, it hurts. but he refuses to let you know that because thats who he is. and your left seeing him everywhere- the dresses in the store windows, the puddles of rain on concrete, remnants of him in your shower and on your bed- memories of him embedded in your head and under your skin. marks from his passion left on your collarbone, his fingerprints still all over your heart. he claimed what was his forever and then left. and he knows that.

some nights you think of calling him, but sculpted a brick wall between you and the phone, cementing each brick together with your hurt. little do you know, chuuya thinks of calling you too, but he knows you won’t pick up.

THAT’S THE CLOSEST I’VE COME TO MY HEART EXPLODING…

atsushi simply couldn’t bare the thought of not being good enough for you. so he let things go before his heart could sink with the wreckage. he couldn’t handle anymore hurt after all thats happened- but he doesn’t know that he left that hurt with you instead. the anger, the confusion, the turmoil etches itself in your chest and tears through your ribs when you cry out alone. it wasn’t fair for him to leave the job of detective to you, to pick up the clues of your lost love and attempt to etch together a messy explanation. he said he didn’t want to hurt you. funny.

the biggest thing you’re left wondering is why? why did sweetest, most loving guy leave without a word? why did he do it so fast, so quickly, at the stroke of grace? why did the same hands that once handled your heart so delicately set it on fire and leave it to implode?

I WISH I COULD UN-RECALL HOW WE ALMOST HAD IT ALL…

there was no doubt in your mind that odasaku loved you. he loved you with every fibre of his being. he held you to his chest as close as possible. he laughed with you because only you could pull out the genuine joy and smiles from his soul. he danced with you in the living room to your favourite songs, swaying back in fourth with you barefoot on the ground. he kissed you like his lips were especially crafted to be pressed against you, your lips, your skin and your hands.

it’s all past-tense.

DID YOU SLEEP WITH A GUN UNDERNEATH OUR BED…

tachihara burned down every foundation of trust and security in your being. he was the most loyal and loving person you had ever met, one that promised his whole life and soul to be with you. you knew each other like no other, or so you thought. you learned about his betrayal, not just to you but to everyone. and all of a sudden, everything you knew came crashing down. the memories, the love, the loyalty- you had no idea what it was now. you scrubbed your body in the shower and washed the sheets over and over again- trying to get him off of you. you laid in the bed he once shared with you and wondered if you were just another step in his scheme.

was this planned? did he plan to break your heart? was crushing every single thing you’ve ever loved just another ruse? the only thing you knew was that you loved him.

HOW DARE YOU THINK ITS ROMANTIC LEAVING ME SAFE AND STRANDED…

kunikida wanted everything to stick to his ideals. he wanted to break your heart as softly and as kindly as he possibly could. he wanted to cushion your fall, to let you down assured. and he did just that. he left you safe, he left with you with a full explanation. he told you that he wanted you to move on without him, to live a bright beautiful life and be as happy as you possibly could. because kunikida knows that thats what you deserve.

but he was supposed to be there. thats all you can think as your stranded on your safe sanctuary that he left you on. he stranded you on an island with all you needed to survive- yet all you could think was the fact that he had actually left. it wasn’t supposed to end this way. you knew why. he explained everything to you. but the tears that rolled down your cheeks explained otherwise.

AND HIRE A PRIEST TO COME AND EXORCISE MY DEMONS…

the worst heartbreak of your entire life belonged to osamu dazai. you can still hear the screams, the cries that went down with the ship from that night. you can still feel his hands on your body, holding you to him while for the first time you saw him cry. you can still hear the shattering of the things you threw at him, telling him to get out but also not wanting him to leave. you remember the smell of him all over you, on your bed, your clothes, but also in your hair and even on your own skin. he haunted this place. his heart was still beating, lungs still breathing but osamu dazai died in your house. he died and his soul now haunts the place day and night, leaving no trace of your space untouched. it was a cruel goodbye.

osamu dazai died screaming. and now you wanted to as well.

I WONT CONFESS THAT I WAITED, BUT I LET THE LAMP BURN…

you held on to the idea that akutagawa would one day be ready for you. that he would set aside his grievances, his turmoil, the hurt in his lungs and the pain in his coat. you waited, and waited, and waited. waited for him to show up at your doorstep and embrace you, love you like you knew he could. you watched as the lamp flickered, as your skin wrinkled, as your hair turned grey and as the night sky watched over you for years. you should gave closed the window, turned out the light and slept. but you waited. you waited and hope that akutagawa would return. that he would one day love you like you loved him.

as you looked out to the stars, you prayed that he’d forgive you as you blew out the candle.

chuuya n. - fortnight

atsushi n. - the tortured poets department (tt)

sakunosuke o. - loml

michizou t. - the smallest man who ever lived

doppo k. - down bad

osamu d. - the black dog

ryunosuke a. - peter

[afewproblems]

Difficult Days Part Four

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Read on AO3

Detective Vick is not what Shawn expected. 

First of all, it's Detective Karen Vick, and second, she's much younger and softer spoken than her association with Henry would suggest. 

When she comes to collect Shawn a good twenty minutes later, she clears her throat and waits for him to acknowledge her presence. 

Her shoulder length blond hair hangs around her face in a ‘Shag’ cut that vaguely reminds him of a Friend's character, Phoebe? No that's the blonde, what the hell was her name again?

“Rachel,” Shawn says, snapping his fingers in triumph, only to realize he's spoken aloud and the Detective is starring with an amused, if slightly bewildered, expression.

She presses a hand against her chest and says, “no Mr. Spencer, Detective Vick”. 

Shawn feels his ears burn but still manages a small grin as the Detective motions for him to stand up and follow her to a small room just off the bullpen. 

The tall rookie from earlier is sitting at a desk in the far corner, he watches Shawn before looking back down at the paperwork on his desk, a small self satisfied smirk on his face.

“So,” Detective Vick says as she opens the door and steps aside to let Shawn go first, “I'm sure I don't have to tell you how this works Mr. Spencer,” 

“Uh,” he swallows and runs his now sweaty palms down his jeans as he takes in the ink pads and paper on the metal table in front of him. 

Holy shit.

Holy shit, he was going to jail.

This was real, he wasn't a minor, his fingerprints would be in the system for the rest of his life, he was going to be shipped off to the state prison, how many years would someone get for taking their neighbors car? 

Everything is slipping away from him, Anthony, his parents, his fucking future.

Shawn feels his chest stutter as he realizes he hasn't been breathing.

“I get a phone call right?” Shawn croaks out, his voice quiet enough that Detective Vick has to lean closer to hear.

She raises a single polished eyebrow, her eyes scanning Shawn’s face for a brief moment, assessing something.

Maybe it's because she's a stranger, but her stare isn't nearly as intense as his dads so Shawn meets her gaze, despite his internal panic, waiting for her to say no or brush him aside.

“Okay kid,” she says, tipping her head over to the door, “there's a phone at my desk, dial nine to call out, then come back here and we'll talk”.

Shawn nods, stepping away from the Detective and the open door and making his way over to the desk she pointed out. 

The first thing Shawn notices are the pictures among the neat piles of paperwork and files, one of the Detective receiving an award in her dress uniform, another with the Detective and a tall man who looks about her age, probably a boyfriend based on their expressions. 

The rookie from earlier clears his throat loudly across the bullpen, staring Shawn down as if to say, quit stalling.

Not that Shawn wants to spend any longer here than necessary. If by some miracle he does get to walk out of here tonight, he’ll never so much as jaywalk again.

Shawn shakes himself and reaches out for the phone, dialing the number with a practiced hand.

It rings, long and loud in his ear once before pausing briefly and ringing again. Shawn holds his breath, please, please, pick up, he thinks miserably.

“Hello?” a sleepy voice says over the line and Shawn releases a shaky breath of relief.

“Hi Mrs. Guster, can I speak to G--Burton please?”

“Shawn? Do you know what time it is?” Mrs. Guster says, her voice firm but the barest hint of concern seeps into her question.

He takes a deep breath and releases it slowly through his nose, “I know it's late, but it's important, please Mrs. Guster.”

“Okay, hold on,” she says tiredly. Shawn hears the rustle of clothing as Gus’ mom makes her way upstairs with the cordless phone, then muffled voices in the background as Mrs. Guster finally passes the phone to her son.

“Gus?”

“Shawn? Do you know what time it is? You're lucky mom even woke me up!”

“Gus stop, I-” he swallows the heavy lump that has started to form in his throat, “do you remember when T.S gets dumped by his girlfriend in that Kevin Smith movie we went to see?”

“What? You called me to talk about Mallrats? Shawn--”

“Gus, just,” he feels his voice waver as he tries to keep it light and quiet, hyper aware of the way Lassiter’s eyes keep flicking his way.

“That movie,” his voice cracks slightly and Shawn winces, curling further away from the blue eyes across the room, “it didn't really do it justice, uh, how much getting dumped sucks”.

Gus is quiet on the other end of the line but Shawn hears the sharp intake of air and suddenly he can’t stop the words from coming, falling out of his mouth like vomit. 

“You were right Gus, he uh, he's going to Princeton, can't have someone like me dragging him down, wait, maybe I'm the Brodie in this scenario,” he tries for a laugh that comes out watery and wipes his nose, “I should have listened to you”.

“Shawn--”

“And Henry knows,” he blurts out, cutting Gus off before he chickens out, “it's--it's not good Gus, I'm at the station--”

“What!” Gus exclaims, loud enough that Shawn briefly moves the receiver away from his ear, “the f-- he can't arrest you for being Bi, this isn't the 50s!” 

He hears rustling in the background, the sound of jeans and a belt buckle clinking as Gus presumably gets dressed.

Shawn feels some of the heavy weight in his chest lift and can’t quite stop the ghost of a smile from pulling at his lips. He knew he could count on Gus, he could always count on Gus.

“Could you and your mom come down?” Shawn says softly into the receiver,

“We’re on our way honey”.

“Mom!” Gus sputters and Shawn nearly drops the phone this time, he manages to catch it and bring it back to his ear just in time to hear Gus say, “you were listening?!”

Mrs. Guster sucks her teeth and Shawn can almost picture her rolling her eyes, “oh please Burton, you think I'm not going to listen when Shawn calls us in the middle of the night? I don't need a mother's intuition to know something's wrong”.

Shawn holds his breath again, as some of the anxiety from earlier creeps its way back into his spine, how long had she been listening? 

Shawn knows Mrs. Guster isn't overly fond of him after all the years of trouble-making and roping her son into his antics, garnering more calls to the Principal's office than the Gusters would have expected for their boy. 

And what if she had heard what Shawn said about Anthony, if she was listening the whole time–

“Shawn? Are you still there?” Mrs. Guster says sharply, halting the panicked spiral of thoughts before he can tumble all the way down, “don't say a word till I get there okay? We're on our way”.

“Yeah, that’s--okay,” Shawn breathes out as the wave of exhaustion that has been threatening to wash over him finally spreads down from the top of his head to his shoulders, making him slump slightly as the tension begins to bleed out of his shoulders. He hangs up the phone after another beat and releases a shaky breath, lifting his hands to press his fingers into his eyes for the second time that night.

The sound of a throat clearing behind him has Shawn lookup, slightly startled, to see Detective Vick standing behind him. The rookie is also pretending not to watch him from behind the Detective. He stands at the water dispenser, all legs and lanky arms; it's comical to see him try to be inconspicuous with a half empty paper cup, blue eyes pinched in something awful, like pity. 

Shawn wonders if he could get away with kicking the cop in the shins without adding another charge to his new rap sheet.

“You get a hold of your mom?” Detective Vick asks softly.

“Something like that,” Shawn says quietly as the Detective nods and beckons him back into the room. 

***

After a long night of taking his fingerprints and photos --where Shawn was reprimanded several times to face the correct way and to stop standing on his tiptoes at the last second to inflate his height, and finally his statement --though this was even harder for the Detective to get through without cracking just a bit after Shawn referred to Henry as, ‘what the Assistant Principal in the Breakfast Club wished he could be’.

It takes well over two hours before Shawn is released back into the main lobby. It’s still dark out thankfully but Shawn has no clue what time it is between the lack of daylight and the new wave of exhaustion that hits him in the gut as he slowly makes his way to the waiting area. 

Despite the wait in the horrible chairs in the lobby, Mrs. Guster and Gus are both there, waiting patiently for him. 

Gus launches himself off the chair faster than Shawn can say his name as he finds himself nearly tackled to the cold tiled floor.

“Don’t do that again man,” Gus says softly into Shawns shoulder as he hugs him tightly before pushing him away harshly, “it’s two in the morning, what the hell did you do that it took so long to get out? You didn’t actually murder Anthony did you, because I was hoping to get a shot in--”

“Dude!” Shawn squawks, his eyes dart to Mrs. Guster who is pointedly looking at the clock on the wall above their heads. She’s wearing a long cardigan over her pajamas and a tired expression on her face as she turns her gaze back to Shawn and her son. The periwinkle bonnet covering her hair does nothing to soften the air of annoyance following Mrs. Guster as she gives them the barest shake of her head and tells them to get in the car or start walking. 

Shawn releases a sigh of relief as Mrs. Guster herds Shawn and Gus into the little Ford Pinto, she hasn’t said a word since they left the building and seems content to listen to Gus speak for the both of them as they pull out of the department parking lot and onto the empty Santa Barbara downtown streets. 

He was expecting a lecture, or at least a stern warning to never call their home in the middle of the night like this again. But the silence is almost more terrifying as Gus begins to nod off next to Shawn in the back seat, he can’t get a good read on Mrs. Guster in her silence. Shawn picks at his thumbnail absently as he turns his head to the passenger window, startling slightly as Mrs. Guster clears her throat from the front seat.

“Shawn,” she says softly. Her eyes catch his in the rearview mirror, “I know we haven't always…” 

She breathes out and tries again, shifting her gaze back to the road, “Burton has always said you were a good boy, and we--I…”

Mrs. Guster releases another long breath and goes quiet, her brow furrowing slightly as she grips the steering wheel just a little tighter.  

Shawn holds his breath, the seat belt stretching tight across his neck like a noose as they continue down the highway. 

Then, in a voice softer than Shawn has ever heard Mrs. Guster use in more than ten years of knowing her, she says his name and holds his gaze in the rearview mirror once more. 

“You have a place to stay. With us…I hope you know that,” her voice is steady now but just as soft as when she said his name, “and I don’t care what that father of yours thinks, there is nothing wrong with you, do you understand?”

Shawn only manages a small nod as the lump in his throat doubles in size, erasing his voice completely. It earns him a kind smile in return from Mrs. Guster as she holds Shawn’s gaze for another beat before shifting her attention back to the dimly lit road. 

Shawn doesn't speak for the rest of the ride that night. Content to let the silence in the vehicle, punctuated by Gus's soft snores, and the soft golden light of the street lights wash over him as they make their way home.

Tag List: @adaed5 @drakkywolf @newgrangespirals @riverofrainbows (If you want to be removed or added to the tag list please let me know!)

[mothnem]

Okay! This is my backstory for Spy no matter what AU he is in.

He was an orphan. Lost both of his parents as a baby. And when he was six years old, he was adopted... into a human rights violation. He, along with over two dozen other orphans, were to be trained to be perfect spies. To never break no matter what. So for their welcome home ceremony, they had their fingerprints burned off. And it only gets worse from there. Any type of torture you can think of, physical, mental.... sexual, these children went through until it no longer bothered them. They know how much pain they will be in and know it can't get worse. They had been left out in blizzards after being sprayed down with water just so they would learn to survive it to get the intelligence back to their Masters. Spy had dragged 12 and 27 back to the exfil zone only for them to not make it. They had been 12 years old. The agency, planned to sell the spies to the highest bidder, but something happened. Someone caught them. The Spies were unleashed on the world with no orders. So they found their own. But slowly, bit by bit, they died. Until only our Spy is left. And he doesn't even know his real name. He had been given a number, 22. He was the 22nd child brought in to the program.

Spy left Scout's Ma because he had an accident with baby Scout that freaked him out. He realized he was thinking about how Scout DIDN'T need picked up right then because you can go for a long time on discomfort. He did pick up Scout, but when Ma got home he went for a walk and smoke.... that's when he saw one of the Trainers. She was talking on the phone, and from the onesided conversation he could hear, they were going to start the Program back up. And while he is the last one left, he's not the only one that had children. And they are planning to use those children. Spy ends up leaving to protect Scout.

(Also Scout got a Gift. Spy once went undercover as an exchange student. He had liked the name "Jeremy.")

But some funny can happen. Heavy remarks winter is coming, and Spy agrees, saying his room has been "a little cold" recently and for like five seconds everyone is normal until they remember Spy had been out in a blizzard soaked in water before and that's his definition of cold now. Suddenly Spy has several armloads of blankets dropped on him and Heavy's winter coat and Scout comes running in screaming he has the heater and now Spy is very warm boy. And Engineer is making hot coco and kicking Medic to keep him from adding drugs to it that would make your blood be like antifreeze.

Also Scout is furious and he doesn't know who to be pissed off at. Spy? The Trainers? Who?

[reddiamondgamer]

Clef Out Of Context

These come from people and myself in my awesome friend Gay’s server! Thanks @jack-of-amulets and @bleakbittersoul for your contributions to this chaos. This was originally concerning stuff it just says and spiraled into out of context completely. Warnings for gore and alcohol mentions!

"why? i don't really exist in the eyes of the law and i'm not human."

"I don't know American Laws"

"I drank a cup of gas once"

"I broke a leg. Just fixing it." After mentioning using hot glue and a knife, forgetting to specify it was a chair at first

"I support this. Not because I agree with you, but because i like skinning people."

at a restaurant “i would order the rawest slab of meat ever, but i wanna see this argument go down.”

"Think I caught rabies. Hoping not."

"i wonder if i could take my fingers off and put them back on."

"The amount of times I could’ve burned myself today on accident is funny"

“Hiding this alcohol in my ukulele case”

"I'm a scientist."

“We’re ordering Wendys, SCP style.”

"i grew my toe back once."

"it might be just a bit worse than i thought but i'm fine. i'm on my way."

"nothing duct tape can't fix"

"i wonder how much bodily harm crutches can cause."

"I love my gun"

"shoutout to murdering another child"

"i feel like you'd rob my grave either way."

"what if i bashed you against the wall until you were red mush but in a cute way?"

"You might have some fingerprints to clean off the amulet."

"It could be mistaken for liquid or something though" clef, talking about trees.

"I thought about putting redbull in my coffee once"

"I know you'd kill me in a good enough way to fit my standards."

"i like mixing cotton candy with insulation, fluffy trail mix."

"It's so sweet it makes my teeth itchy."

genuine terror “What the fuck is that thing?”

"my frozen dinner injured me yesterday."

"I don't mean to alarm you" camera pans to house fire

My hungry ass could never be a neurosurgeon.

"would you be mad if i said i was eating a toothpick right now?"

"it was only three bites."

"we can pelt bald people with them together."

"you're my shouldn't be allowed a phone."

"the worst you'll get is salmonella but that's easy to get rid of."

Bonus: One of these quotes wasn’t Clef, can you guess which one? I’ll doodle you something if you guess correctly!

[katyspersonal]

hey sorry i know you get a lot of asks but i really wanted to know if you think midra and shabriri could be related by blood? i am not sure who else to ask.

Awhhh it isn't just this, it is also that I am stuck on my phone and only got so many pictures here, when I prefer to answer asks with screenshots spam! XD But this question doesn't offer very much to bounce off of from what the source material offers so time to use my imagination..? 🤔

I did an analysis of Frenzied Flame's and Three Fingers' "timeline" in this ( x ) post, but the thing is! Previously those afflicted by Frenzied Flame had to contact the Three Fingers and had to be grasped by them directly, not only if they wanted to be a Lord, whereas the "become too sad and you will get Frenzied Flame" disease is stated to start FROM Shabriri! Even when eyeballs afflicted by it across Lands Between carry his name now:

^ Vyke's one is unique in this case, because he WAS grabbed by the Three Fingers! Meanwhile, as for the Shadow Realm:

So, in case of Shabriri's relation, I believe he'd have to be of younger generation than Midra and his servants! I also think this because Three Fingers are imprisoned under Leyendell. In fact, BURIED there!

(Tomb of an ancient god line) Also, there are no Winter Lanterns (the ER edition I mean xD) or wandering Aging Untoucheable that apparently are heralds of big Frenzy Nuke that collect the frenzied eyeballs in the Lands Between where Frenzied Flame is! It is also a pointer towards Three Fingers having been weakened/"killed" since the time Midra himself was grabbed by them!

My idea is that whereas Three Fingers are called readerless, technically Shabriri was the one and only "reader" for them! Functionally he is comparable with Gowry more than with Enia, but I have the mental image of him having the glimpse at these fingerprints desperately trying to get out, and deciding that it was a good idea to bring about what they wanted rather than personal pain/revenge or some grand idea of ending all suffering. (As much as I LOVE the joke that Allant and Shabriri are depressed and manic side of the same concept hdgfjfhfjgdf)

^ The crime of slander he got punished for WAS accusing Nomads of worshiping the Frenzied Flame, and judging from his expression he knew it wasn't the end 🌛 That's why I think he knew what he was doing all along, playing with Marika's fear of fire because no way any of that shit gets anywhere near her precious Erdtree *looks at Fire Monks incantations repeatedly stating Fire of Giants was enemy for GO it could burn the Erdtree* *looks at her being scared of Messmer's flame*

So, if we say he is a later relative of Midra, there is still the important factor that he inflicted Frenzied Flame on himself rather than was already infected by it! If we say he had a natural affinity to "listen" to Three Fingers because of being born by someone in Midra's Manse who was infected, that'd be direct relation! I do think that the torch Nanaya is cradling IS that of hers and Midra's son, so let's say they had another child who they yeeted out of their place for hopeful adoption so Inquisitors don't kill them or at least they have a better life 🤔 Either that child then would be ancestor of Shabriri, or Shabriri himself! He could have still had a natural hunch, or be vaguely aware that his ancestors were isolated and perished by Frenzied Flame and got curious to learn what it WAS! Maybe that's why he went digging into the tomb, rather than just found it?

Personally, I think emotionally it works better if Midra and Nanaya only had one child, who failed to become a Lord! But as I was typing this response, the idea of them getting (another) child outta here for better life started to look fun x) Coincidentally, 1) I draw Shabriri's original body with black hair that Nanaya has and 2) I was discussing the similar "dooming self by getting curious about heritage your ancestors SAVED you from" trope recently about Beatrice from DS1 vfhgfhh It looks like I can't escape this trope xdd

^ I also can offer an idea of collateral/distant relation, since devs made darn sure you can see Midra's Manse used to have the same flowers as Shaman's Village! Midra's servants, who were Hornsent unlike him, were hunted by Hornsent Inquisitors as "heretics", and tolerating all that WAS what brought Midra and his people to Frenzied Flame! They probably bullied fellow Hornsent exactly for serving the shamans (or closely related people) as nobles when by their understanding shamans were unworthy of living!

I insist that Dominula Celebrants are descendants of surviving shamans (here ( x ) are more justifications for that), so, say, Midra's relatives from there escaped, and Shabriri was amongst their descendants! + yeeted to live in another place because apparently no shamans not celebrants keep males around jfggvbgh

Latter one would imply a very long generational gap though! However, this idea might have given more insight on why Shabriri's word had a weight to begin with! The interesting detail is, developers edited out the part about him having been a noble! It was in the original unpatched version, then patched out:

And for now, the mention of him being a noble is only saved in Shabriri's Woe version as one of keepsakes we choose at the start of the game.. but that is only in localization! The Japanese original DID patch it out as well!

Fuckin sneaky patching out Nameless Moon Presence flashback hfgyygjg And before, I didn't second-guess it! If his word mattered so much as to people to believe his slander about something so crucial for the fate of the Erdtree, he had to hold an important position anyways! But after the DLC I start to question whether instead, he was amongst the people Marika held dear due to sentimentality 🤔 Especially much earlier in the timeline. Maybe she was slightly more willing to trust what little was left of her folks than anyone else! She might have even been aware of what happened with Midra's Manse if he was connected with the shamans (or just shaman but not living in the village as a male), let alone the possibility of sealing Three Fingers herself, so the "not this shit again" effect worked very well!

___________________

In the conclusion, I think the relation is possible! I AM weak for "consider not being so curious about (bad) fate of your ancestors because nothing good will come of it" trope it seems hfgthvgg It could even solve the weirdness of editing out his noble status! I am still giving him pretty clothes tho

[teecupangel]

unhinged idea i had: desmond and the modern persona series. i am leaning on 3 or 5 because 3 matches desmond well with the whole death thing and it's my favorite in the franchise but also phantom thief desmond... i have no idea how we can incorporate this into ac but maybe desmond is a wild card??? possibly???

Here’s the Desmond in Persona 5 idea we had before and here’s the Desmond in Persona 3 idea we also had before.

Since you did specify Modern Persona series and Persona 4 has always been my favorite of the three, we’re going to go for Desmond arriving in Inaba in the strangest of way…

He was found dangled on one of the telephone poles, right arm heavily burned and unconscious.

He was in a coma for a week before waking up and he thought “they’d definitely give me to Interpol and I’d get taken by Abstergo if I tell them my real identity” so he pretended to have amnesia. So for a few weeks, he’s known as John-san.

And during those few weeks, he was allowed access to a phone to check the net and try and see if he can remember anything.

The first thing he noticed was the date.

2011.

Okay.

That was a lie.

The first thing he noticed was that there was no mention of Abstergo anywhere at all. No ads. Nothing.

So he didn’t even think he timetraveled a year before his death.

No.

Without Abstergo…

He was in a different world.

Fuck.

.

.

Unorganized Notes:

He had to be discharged from the hospital once he was deemed healthy enough and Dojima helped him find a home he can rent and work.

Work turned out to become an employee at Junes because, quoting the manager, Desmond’s foreign looks will attract customers. He works in one of the stands and that specific stand (selling grilled meat and juice) got a 50% increase in profit.

The actual real reason why Dojima helped Desmond stay in Inaba is because he’s super sus of him. His face and fingerprint came up zilch and he even asked ‘favor’ from an American government official (who may or may not be part of a certain intelligent agency) find anything about him.

He casually flirts with Adachi whenever he sees the police officer around Junes. Adachi always splutters and make a fool of himself while Dojima sighs and tells Desmond to stop screwing around. The reason why Desmond is trying to get under Adachi’s skin is because there’s something about him that makes Desmond feel… something. Like he should be looking at something but he doesn’t know what he should be looking at in the first place.

By the time Yu comes to Inaba, Desmond has been staying for three months… trying to get a feel of this world by pretending he was ‘relearning the world’. His Japanese is better know and not as archaic as it was before (he still doesn’t know which Bleed knows Japanese but he’ll take it).

Overall, he’s integrated himself in the small town of Inaba quite well.

Then the murder of Yamano Mayumi happened and Desmond gets roped in because she was found on the cables near a telephone pole, very similar to how Desmond was found.

The police is, of course, suspicious of Desmond. He’s connected to this, either as the first victim who survived or as the culprit/accomplice.

Desmond is definitely curious about what’s happening and that’s when he heard kids… well… talking about the murder.

Desmond wasn’t going to pass it off as kids being kids because he knows what teenagers are capable (Ratonhnhaké:ton being a good example and also Altaïr but Altaïr’s childhood was fucked up from the start in his eyes anyway) so he follows them.

… into the TV because fuck it, what’s the worst that could happen? He’d die?

.

In this one, Desmond serves more as their adult supervision who can’t fight because he has no Persona. They also leave him in the entrance and he’s annoyed by this until… the day Chie joins them after awakening her Persona, he hears a voice.

It’s a man clad in what looks like Assassin robes of some kind, dirty and worn out. Yu, Yosuke, Teddie, and Chie returned (without Yukiko because they need a break) to find Desmond and the hooded figure talking about how Desmond is powerless. He had always been powerless. Nothing has changed.

“All those sacrifices. All those suffering… and for what? You are still as powerless as you have always been, Desmond Miles. Even the strength you have now was never yours from the very beginning. Your strength exists because of their death.”

This finally makes Desmond hit the hooded figure with a right hook and his hood falls off, revealing it was Desmond’s shadow.

But this shadow was old with the golden glow of the Apple on his skin. Desmond, of course, tells him that he wasn’t him and this turns into a boss fight with Yu and the team.

Desmond notices while they fight that his shadow’s fighting style slightly shifts at times and he recognizes each of those shifts because the tell were the small tells he knows his Bleeds would make. He manages to help the team defeat his shadow but telling them what his shadow’s move will be and it ends with Desmond accepting the fact that, yes, his strength did come from others but it was his to use as he sees fit. That he has to accept that the choices he made did mean his ancestors’ actions and sacrifices were for nothing.

And that…

he has to keep moving forward from that.

That’s how his shadow turned into his Persona and how he’s now able to join the team.

(I think for this one, Desmond should only have one Persona unlike in the other Persona ideas. He’s Arcana can still be the Fool because he is starting from the ‘beginning’ or he can also be the World/Aeon if you want to shake it up. His Persona can still shift into three ‘forms’ and his ultimate Persona makes him able to shift into 2 more forms)

[liyawritesss]

ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴡᴀɪᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴜ

Characters: Hope Mikaelson x Black!Stem!Reader

From: Legacies

Type: Drabble

Synopsis: Hope’s determined on not letting anyone else into her fragmented world. Yet, when things get overwhelming, she finds that you are the only person to soothe her.

Warnings: mild cursing, spoiler warning for legacies season 3-4, mentions of character death

A/N: my friend has been slowly but surely getting me ba k knto the TVD universe, and upon doing so I've rediscovered my crush on my favorite lil redhead Hope 🥺🥺 be nice to this i havent watched legacies in a HOT minute. Song Inspiration: “WAIT FOR U” by Future, ft. Drake & Tems, “Unthinkable” by Alicia Keys, “Flaws N’ All” by Sonta

Tags: @mbakuetshurisprincess @shuriszn @verachii @writingintheshadowsforever @cafehyunji @lulu-network @babyboiboyega @badass-dora-milaje @niyahwrites

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Three fifty-seven is what reads in bold red letters on the digital clock that sits on Hope’s night stand. They burn against the back of her eyelids, yet do not promote any kind of sleep. They only prove as a reminder as to why she had not been graced with slumber.

There’s a picture that rests next to the clock. A candid photo taken by MG on one of their days into town to enjoy themselves as regular teenagers. Her eyes traced over every feature of herself in the picture; mouth wide with laughter and eyes shaped into crescents at the joke Caleb had made that she, for the life of her, could never remember. A boy sat next to her, head full of black curls and skin milky and freckled with perfectly imperfect blemishes that once made her heart swoon. 

She never gathered the courage to take the picture out of its frame. She never had the courage to let go of one of the few good memories she had of that time. When things were simpler - as simple as they could get in the life she led. When she could look at that boy and tell herself that she made the right choice in trusting him with her heart.

Imagine, having to kill the one person you wanted so desperately to love.

No, the redhead’s own voice echoed through her mind, which was both empty and becoming increasingly overwhelmed at the same time, I am not doing this tonight.

Hope slips from underneath her covers, slipping from underneath the weighted blankets that had failed to help in her mission for sleep, slipping from the warmth they provided. Her long sleeved shirt did nothing to shield her from the cool air that contrasted the warmth of her blankets, the still breeze of the room nipping at her bare legs. Only shorts adorned her bottom half, cut off mid-thigh and leaving her pale skin rippled with goosebumps in the process.

Perhaps she thought the cold would provide some sort of shock to her brain that would make her realize how tired her body was, how it begged to be allowed rest, but it proved all for naught. Now Hope was exhausted and cold, with no way of remedying the situation.

Well, there was one remedy.

Hope glanced at her phone that rested on the nightstand. Her eyes lingered on the device for a long time, her mind battling for reason. It’s four in the morning, she reasons, there’s no way she’s gonna pick up.

Yet, she remembers your bouts of insomnia and knows that you find yourself waking much earlier than you intend to for class anyway, and there’s a small part of her that reasons that it wouldn’t hurt to try.

So Hope hesitantly grabs her phone from the mahogany surface of her nightstand, unlocks the device with her fingerprint, and finds herself scrolling a bit too eagerly to find your contact information.

What would the people around her think if they saw her now, she wondered, frantically calling up the girl who she made it very clear with that there would be no possibility of a relationship in any near future? Would they think her mad? Would they call her delusional? Both were traits that certainly ran in her family, and she would not be surprised if a part of her had still remained that way after only recently returning back to her original self.

She finds your contact information, but her thumb all but hovers over the call icon that rests under your name. Perhaps she shouldn’t be a bother to you, Hope thinks. She’ll think I’m crazy, she thinks, and yet, perhaps it is that particular thought that drives her to press the icon anyway. Because if Hope was crazy for wanting to even hear your voice to calm her aching soul, then perhaps such a title that was placed upon the likes of her father wasn’t so bad.

One ring; the pit inside of her stomach grows in intensity. It seems like the wait between rings is even more agonizing than the actual wait for an answer.

Two rings; Hope is beginning to regret listening to the part of her that has a soft spot for you. Why did she have to remember your sleep schedule? Why did she have to get her hopes up?

Three rings: you won’t answer. You’re asleep, and if she hasn’t already interrupted your slumber, she would surely have to come up with some creative excuse to use tomorrow when the two of you met in class-

A monotone click sounds. Silence, for a few seconds, though to her they seem like hours.

Then, your voice sounds. 

“What the fuck, Hope,” you groan through the cellular device, and Hope’s aforementioned worry of awakening you is confirmed by the rustling of sheets and a following groan. She knows she should feel guilty, but the satisfying tingle that runs across her skin from hearing your voice takes away from any remorse she surely would have felt, “it’s…four in the fucking morning-”

“-I know,” Hope interjects, “I just…couldn’t sleep.”

There’s a pause; it’s intense, and Hope finds herself wondering what you’re thinking. Could you be silently cursing her out on the other end? She surely wouldn’t blame you if you were.

There’s more rustling that follows the pause, which causes worry to grow in her stomach, before she hears your voice again, “you want me to come down?”

“......could you?” She bites her lip, tugging at the skin on the pink area, and she doesn’t understand why she should be fearing rejection from you, as if you’d ever give her the pleasure of feeling such an agonizing sting to the heart.

“...yeah,” you finally answer, “yeah, just gimme a minute.”

There’s a blessing that comes with you staying a floor above Hope. It’s fairly easy to slip down the different dorm floors, she’s figured out, In the time between hanging up and waiting for you to come, Hope finds herself stuck in a state of overwhelming thoughts. They’re loud and varying in range, but all of them revolve around you.

Hope remembers when she rejected your advances a month prior. The expression on your face had been emblazoned into her mind, forever carved into memory how she had crushed your world. And yet, you’d been nothing but kind to the tribrid, still considering Hope and her feelings in every engagement the two of you had. You acted as if the rejection never took place; she wondered if this was your own coping mechanism for dealing with heartbreak. It certainly would be more healthier than any method Hope called herself using.

How could you still be so kind to her? How could you still be so willing to love her when she had expressed no possibility of reciprocation? Could you tell that Hope never meant as such? Did you still have hope in her?

How could one have hope in a desire openly denied? The more she thought about it, the more she wondered if such a question should be asked to you, or to herself.

A knock sounded on her door, bringing Hope from her state of entrancement. “Door’s open,” She mutters out loud enough to be heard, which prompts the soft click that sounds with the twist of the knob to her door. The creaking reveals you, slipping into her room, and almost immediately, your presence makes everything better.

There’s very little exchange of words from here on. It’s as if this is a practiced routine, one that had been engaged in for a while with the way you expertly slip into Hope’s bed, under Hope’s covers, and pull her into you. You place her head above your heart so that the melodic thumping of the muscle gives her mind something else to focus on. The way you operate with care in regards to her being has her heart aching, though she can’t decide if its from yearning for you or antipathy of the concept of loving someone.

She could contemplate on it another time, though, because the combination of your heartbeat and the low humming you’ve taken to doing has her body finally succumbing to her inclination of sleep. The last thing she remembers is you muttering words she’d never heard before - perhaps words to a poem or lyrics to a song you fancied.

I will wait for you, rings in her mind long after she’s succumbed to your gentle caress of her hair, and even in sleep, Hope wonders if that is a challenge you’re truly up to take.

If you enjoyed, please leave a like, comment, and reblog for others to see! And don’t be shy to send in a request!

[sparklypinkflightsuit]

Star Crossed: Chapter Three

Pairing: Detective David Loki x Reader

Warnings: Swearing, Cheating, Intimacy Issues, Slow Burn, Reader is in an Established Relationship (for now), Sexual Themes, Eventual Smut. Investigative Inaccuracies. I think that’s it?

Summary: You and Loki become more friendly. Carters affair becomes the reason Loki thinks he’s disappeared.

- Chapter Two Here -

————————————

The next morning Loki got a call that they’d had a hit on the registration plate and that the vehicle was found abandoned just off of the highway near the local rest stop.

He drove straight there and checked the car and surrounding area for any signs of a struggle or a break in. There was no broken glass and no noticeable blood splatter. The car looked tidy apart from a small dangly diamond earring in the footwell of the passenger seat. He bagged the earring and made a note to ask you if it was one of yours. He called forensics in to dust for fingerprints and swab for blood traces and headed back to the office. After a couple hours of rechecking hospitals in the area, and trying to find what he could on Katelyn Edwards, Loki decided to grab a coffee in the kitchen.

As he sat drinking his coffee and stewing in his own bad mood, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out and Rodger’s name flashed on the screen.

“Yeah?” He answered.

“Loki, we’ve got a pin on that IP address you were after. The emails trace back to 492 Fairmont Circle.” Rodger confirmed.

Loki pulled out his notepad and scrawled down the address, and mumbled a thanks to Rodger before hanging up.

Maybe Katelyn was telling the truth and had nothing to do with this, her address was nowhere near Fairmont. He left the station and drove to number 492, trying to contemplate how he’d play this.

He pulled up on the drive and walked up to the little green door, knocking sharply three times.

A small old lady answered the door, to which Loki was a little surprised.

“Good morning ma’am, I’m Detective Loki and I was just hoping to ask you a few questions regarding a missing persons investigation.” He said with a smile, holding out his badge.

“Oh, certainly officer, please come in!” She hobbled out of the way and ushered for Loki to enter.

The house was small but neat and decorated with tasteful floral knickknacks. The house smelled of potpourri and cookies, and Loki felt uncomfortable. This was not something he had the privilege of growing up with.

“Please sit down, can I get you a cup of tea?” She asked sweetly, smiling down at him as he sat.

Loki smiled as he shook his head softly and lifted his hand indicating ‘no thank you’.

“So what can I help you with, officer?” She said sitting down.

“Is it just yourself living here, ma’am?” He asked.

“Please, call me Marge. And no, my granddaughter lives with me, Melanie, such a sweet girl!” She mused.

Loki nodded, making notes on his pad.

“And does Melanie have a boyfriend or anyone who comes round often?” He asked.

Marge shook her head, “None that I’m aware of, she just works, comes home and then spends weekends with her friends. She knows better than to be bringing boys home late at night.” She said matter of factly.

Loki smiled at her, “How old is Melanie if you don’t mind me asking?”

“She’s 22, she moved in with me after college when she got a job nearby. She works over at the golf club, makes great tips.” She sounded so proud.

Loki recalled you saying Carter played golf of the weekends with his buddies, and made a note of this. He asked Marge a few more questions about Melanie to which she answered honestly as he scribbled on his notepad.

“Thank you ma’am, that will be all.” He made to leave.

“Is my granddaughter okay, officer?” She queried.

Loki turned back to her and gave her a reassuring nod. “Yes ma’am. Everything is fine, we’re just trying to find something we think she may have been friends with.”

“Well I hope you find them.” She said kindly before showing him out.

Loki decided his next plan of action would be to show you the earring and to rule out if it was yours or not. He decided not to bring up that the emails more than likely belonged to a younger woman who probably met Carter while he was golfing, until he was completely sure. You weren’t much older than Melanie, but he felt like it would be a bit hurtful regardless.

He drove to your house, and sat in his front seat for a moment, noticing a fluttering feeling in his stomach. Was he nervous? Excited? He’d never felt anything other than adrenaline, frustration and anger on a case before, so this was completely unfamiliar. He wondered if he was coming down with a bug.

He climbed out of the car and made his way up to your front door, knocking softly.

You opened the door, looking more refreshed than the day before.

You smiled up at Loki, “Hi David.”

You moved aside to let him in.

“Hi (Y/N), how are you doing today?” He asked, blinking hard.

“Better. I actually got some sleep last night.” You chucked softly.

Loki smiled, “Good. Look I just wanted to apologise again for-“

You cut him off, “No please, don’t. I overreacted. I feel bad about it, I was just… exhausted, frustrated, none of it was your fault. You just needed to know those things for the case.”

Loki smiled sadly. Truth was he didn’t need to know any of that for the case.

“You been keeping busy?” He asked, noticing the paint pallet and different oil paint tubes littering the kitchen island.

“Oh, yeah. I haven’t been to work in a few days in case Carter showed up, thought I’d at least make use of my spare time.” You shrugged.

“I’d love to see your paintings some time.” He said, looking around the house and trying to determine if any of the paintings on the walls were yours.

You blushed, embarrassed, knowing what you had painted last night to keep your mind occupied.

“Uh, they’re really not that good.” You laughed. “How can I help today anyway?”

“Oh, yeah. I uhm… we found Carters car near a rest stop on the highway leading out of town. There was no sign of a struggle or anything which is good, but also no sign of Carter, yet. But we did find this in the passenger footwell-“ he said pulling out the small plastic bag holding the single earring, “is it yours?” He asked. You took the bag and inspected the earring closely, before handing it back to Loki.

“No.” You shook your head, “not mine.” You crossed your arms and frowned slightly.

Loki nodded, pocketing the bag. “Thanks.” He said softly, biting his bottom lip awkwardly.

You both stood there looking at each other for a moment, unable to think of anything case related to say.

“Is it ok if I use your bathroom?” Loki suddenly said, realising he could bag Carters tooth brush for DNA which he’d need to rule out with forensics.

“Yeah of course, it’s down the- never mind, you know where it is.” You laughed, remembering he’d been in the house before.

He smiled and nodded, and made his way down the hall.

In the bathroom he had a quick snoop around again, checking to see if he’d missed anything that might be useful, before bagging Carters tooth brush and shoving it in his pocket.

On his way out he passed your bedroom and noticed your easel facing away from the door near the bedroom window.

Curiosity got the better of him and he walked over to it.

He was surprised and confused at what he saw, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away. Staring back at him was… well, him.

You walked in to see what was taking him so long and clasped both hands over your mouth.

“Oh my god, I’m so embarrassed, you weren’t meant to see that.” You slowly edged inside the room, “I was going to throw it away after, I just… I couldn’t… get your face out of my head yesterday, I needed to just paint, you know? Yours was the only face I could think of.” You blurted, unable to stop the words from coming out.

“It’s beautiful.” Loki breathed. He felt so flattered but also unsure of what this meant. Were you thinking about him as much as he’d been thinking about you?

You stood awkwardly at the bedroom door, unsure of what to do.

“Do you… want it?” You offered.

“You mean it?” He smiled, looking at you for the first time since walking into the bedroom.

You nodded, smiling back. “If you don’t think it’s too weird, yeah, please take it.”

“I don’t think it’s weird, I’m actually flattered.”

“You need to wait for it to dry, but once it is you can take it.” You shrugged, walking over to him to look at your work. The light from the window illuminated your eyes as the embarrassment faded and you were taken over with a bit of pride.

“Hey.” Loki nudged you with his elbow.

“Yeah?” You looked up at him.

“You’re really talented you know? I’m glad that all of this hasn’t dampened that.” He smiled down at you. You could smell his cologne again, it was intoxicating and you felt yourself leaning slightly closer. Loki felt himself being drawn in by your eyes as you both stood there for a few seconds in silence.

You cleared your throat, realising what you were doing and took a step back to distance yourself a bit. Loki did the same, and rubbed the back of his head awkwardly.

“Anyway, I uh… I’ve got Carters toothbrush, we need forensics to rule out his DNA from any others we might find in the car. Am I able to take a sample from you to rule out yours?”

“Yeah, of course, I have a spare tooth brush under the sink, I can give you the one I’m using now, will that be okay?”

“Yeah, thank you.” He nodded and followed you out to the bathroom. You gave him the toothbrush and he bagged it up before slipping it into his pocket.

“I better get going.” He said, heading for the door. You nodded, but suddenly Loki turned back.

“I want you to know you can call me whenever. It doesn’t need to be case related. If you’re ever feeling scared, or need to talk, just call.” He said, a genuine look of sincerity in his eyes.

You smiled back at him, flushing slightly.

“Thanks David.”

Loki spent the rest of the day back at the station, flitting through the notes he’d made and preparing to go and question Melanie about her involvement with Carter. It was late and he was aware she wouldn’t be at work, and not wanting to worry her grandmother with another visit, he opted to wait until the following day and headed home instead.

Loki threw in a microwave dinner and leant against his kitchen counter waiting for his dinner to cook. He was deep in thought about the case and about you. He rubbed a hand over his face with frustration and groaned. He felt like he was getting too invested, he actually cared about you and felt sad when you were upset. His stomach turned in a weird way when he went to see you and he cared what you thought about him.

But you were taken, maybe not happily so but he knew you were out of bounds, and when he found Carter you would probably just go back to your life as normal, and overcome the cheating.

As he stood in his kitchen cursing himself for suddenly having feelings other than anger and frustration for someone, his phone began to buzz.

He picked up his phone and your name flashed on the screen.

“(Y/N)?” He answered quickly.

“Hi David…” you said softly, it sounded like you’d been crying.

“Are you okay?” He asked, worried suddenly.

“I found something, I know you said to call but you probably didn’t mean right away, but I need to show you.” You sniffed.

“I’ll be right there.” He said, ignoring the microwave beeping as he grabbed his coat and made his way out the door.

He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he would have gone to you regardless of the reason.

——————————————

- Chapter Four Here -

[issybettyx]

BEDROCK BROS AU

Tdlr; Tommy was born into a crime family and is forced into their ideals and pursuits since a young age. Aged 14, he finally goes to therapy without his brother and father knowing. Technoblade is a therapist, purely because he understands the human mind very well and not because of his terrible comforting skills.

Tommy: i have trauma oh and my family is like the most well known crime organisation the police havent been able to catch

Techno: chill, don’t worry man i’m here for you

Or; i listened to music again. And ‘Bust your kneecaps’ came on. And i kind of accidentally made it bedrock bros.

-- // weapons, trauma, blood mention, murder mention, death mention, terrible parents (bad parent Phil, i know, who have i become), arguing

Tommy wasn’t sure when his first heist was. He didn’t remember much of it, that much he was sure of. But he did remember the gut wrenching fear mixed with a determination only caused by the want for a father’s approval.

Wilbur had said he was 7, his mask didn’t fit perfectly but his gun fit fantastically between his fingers, and simply his presence was enough for news of The Syndicate’s newest and youngest member to spread faster than wildfire, and it was news stations’ top story for over three weeks.

Theories of who he was, how old he was, why he seemed to confident despite his young age and questions of why The Syndicate would take in a recruit so young.

“You were our ray of sunshine, Toms,” Wilbur told him with a grin that Tommy couldn’t help but return, accepting the hair ruffles whole-heartedly, “Simply you being there made the entire mission so much easier, I’m so proud of you.”

Maybe those words weighed too much for Tommy to let go, maybe he knew that if he told them how much he was truly against their actions he would never hear them again, and that fear was enough for him to keep his head high for the next seven years of his life. His name made it onto the villain rankings within a matter of months, dubbed number 15 aged 8. It was when Tommy was 11 he reached number 4, and aged 13 when he was number 3, just below his brother.

It had always been that way, Tommy being one of the best but never the best. Phil had always made sure he knew it, assuring him he was amazing at what he did, correcting his hold on the knife until it was perfect for flicking at his opponents, a smile on his face the whole time as he congratulated him. But the way he looked at Wilbur, with a brighter smile, with more pride radiating from his glistening blue eyes as his son burned down entire streets without a single fingerprint to lead it back to him.

Wilbur had always been better than him, and Tommy had come to accept that.

Well, he thought he had.

It was on Tommy’s 14th birthday that he went downstairs to find Wilbur muttering something into his phone, an angry lilt to the way he spoke that made the kid pause.

“No, not today,” he huffed, and Tommy could practically hear him pinching the bridge of his nose, rubbing the corners of his eyes and slightly lifting the glasses off his face in the process, “No, it’s my brother’s birthday, I’m not- dad.”

Oh, it seemed Phil wasn’t there that morning, how strange.

“Well one of us has to be here, he deserves a proper birthday and to be surrounded by people who love him, I’ll help you on fucking Christmas if it means I get to stay home today.”

There was such a firmness to his voice that made Tommy shiver, cupping a hand over his mouth to mask his shaky breaths.

“Fine, but you better be home for dinner.” Wilbur scowled, and the ringing sound of someone hanging up could be heard.

After a moment of deathly silence, Tommy finally walked out, forcing his face into a smile as he peeked his head around the doorframe. The moment Wilbur saw him, his smile widened, and he was rushing right up to him, lifting him up and spinning him.

“Happy birthday sunshine!” He cheered with a bright smile, and Tommy smiled back, knowing his grin could never rival the sun that was his brother’s. “Would you like presents or breakfast first?” He asked, gently landing Tommy’s feet on the carpeted ground and crouching down to his level, ruffling his hair as he giggled, attempting to swat the hand away.

They opened presents first, and despite the fact Tommy wanted to state just how much he adored each gift, thoughts kept swimming around his brain.

Why was Phil working that day? Why did Wilbur seem so off? Why was Wilbur better than him? Why, no matter how hard he tried, was he never enough for his family?

These thoughts led him to Google, seeing as no one else had the answers he assumed Google would (he’d asked Tubbo a random question once, and he’d replied with ‘just ask Google, Google knows everything’). The Google search led Tommy to something called ‘therapy’, which led him to standing outside of a random building two weeks later, taking shaky breaths as he thought everything over.

Everything in therapy, apparently, was confidential. Unless of course it put you or others in danger, but therapists were forced by law to keep everything else in the room within the hour slot given.

As long as Tommy was extremely careful and didn’t mention anything about evil plots and how his father and brother were the top two villains of L’Manberg, he himself being number three, then he could get away with it.

The doors swung open with his forceful confidence, and he flashed a smile at the receptionist as he sauntered over to her, leaning against a wall that was provided. “Here for therapy.” He stated, as if it wasn’t completely obvious. The woman looked him up and down, sighing before smiling, clicking a few times on her computer.

“Name?”

“Tommy Craft.”

“Age?”

“14.”

She looked at him in a strange way, raising an eyebrow that he only returned.

“Do you have parental consent?”

Oh, Google had told him about this too. Lying was never off his agenda, you learn from the very best in fact.

“Well my doctor permitted it, said I was aware enough of my treatment to understand I need it, my Mum dropped me off.” He explained, pointing out front to the car park. Only then did the woman sigh again, clicking again a few times before smiling back at him.

“You can go right in, down the hall and the second door on the left.” She pointed, and Tommy nodded, giving her a short bow.

“Appreciate you,” he told her, before strolling down the hall, keeping his head high and his shoulders lax, humming a melody his brother had played him on his birthday evening when their father still hadn’t gotten home (he got home at 2am, Wilbur was absolutely infuriated, Tommy was surprised to find he didn’t really care). Eventually, he found the door, reading the name plate on the door before knocking.

“Come in.” A deep voice called back to him, and Tommy turned the handle, smiling at the man behind the desk.

A buff man with pink hair wouldn’t be his first guess at a therapist; however, Tommy was a villain, not a horrible person. The man’s hands were crossed across his chest, his legs propped onto the desk showing how his boots didn’t have a speck of dirt, and a pair of reading glasses were perched on his nose.

In one aspect, he looked terrifying. His very small smile matched with his horribly white and completely uncreased frilled shirt painting a strange image, his folded hands too calloused to be anything normal.

In another aspect, Tommy could kick him square in the face and he’d immediately pass out.

“You must be Tommy,” he greeted, and he expected a handshake or something, but instead he just received a small gesture to a w chair with wheels opposite himself. “Take a seat.”

“What’s your name, Dr Blade?” Tommy teased with a grin, falling into the chair and leaning his ankle on top of his knee, sinking into the plush as the wheels rolled it slightly backwards. The man rolled his eyes, flicking a coin between his fingers - when in hells name did he pick up a coin?

“Techno. My name is Techno Blade, you can call me whatever.” He said with a shrugged, chucking the coin into the air and letting it land in his shirt pocket, smiling slightly with pride at his little trick. “How are you today, Tommy?”

It was in that moment that Tommy decided therapy was extremely strange and not for him at all. This man looked completely indifferent, he looked like he would rather be at home reading a book as he threw raw meat at his wolves, not sitting and asking how people’s days are going.

“Technoblade, today I am absolutely fantastic, I woke up, got breakfast, and came here.” He explained, bringing his arms out in a wide gesture. “Pretty remarkable day.”

The man huffed, seemingly amused by the sarcasm.

“Hate to ask such a blunt question kiddo,” Tommy frowned at the name, but decided against commenting on it for now. Didn’t want to upset the man on his first day meeting him. Totally wasn’t a choice made completely out of the rising fear in his chest. “But why are you in therapy? We ask this too all of our patients.”

“Patients? You make it sound like a hospital.” He scoffed, clearly avoiding the question in such a slick way only he and his brother were able to master. But Techno stayed quiet, watching him with a careful eye. Tommy frowned. “What are you doing in therapy? Huh? Technoblade?”

He still didn’t reply.

Strange.

“You’re creeping me out man, your eyes are practically red- oh my god you have red eyes, that’s so cool!”

Silence.

Tommy frowned further, sinking into his chair.

Why was he in therapy?

Google told him to be here, was his first thought. But then he remembered his English lessons, how the teachers always asked why, how they never took anything at face value. Techno seemed like an English teacher, he didn’t seem like someone who would take kindly to the answer ‘Google told me to be here’.

“Family stuff, I guess.” He replied, not one bit pleased, his face quite the contrary to the satisfied hum Techno gave him, picking up a pen and post-it-note, scribbling a few words before looking back up.

“Wanna draw?”

“I’m sorry?”

“This is the first session,” he started, folding his hands in front of him, “We don’t need to get emotional on the first day, it’s about building trust. Speaking of which,” Techno started, and Tommy already knew what he was about to say, “Everything you say in this room is confidential, I only take notes of things I need to remember for future sessions, however if you say something that could put you or others in danger I am legally meant to pass it on, do you understand?”

“No revealing my villain schemes to you, got it.” He replied, half seriously and half jokingly, but the man didn’t seem to hear the former part of the tone, huffing again.

“Well, if they include burying bodies, I know a guy.” He replied just as quickly, and Tommy couldn’t help his laughter, stealing a pen and a post-it-note, immediately sitting it to the arm of his spinning chair and doodling the first thing that came to mind.

The first session went… better than Tommy first thought it would.

There wasn’t any stress when be talked to Techno, and for just that hour he felt a strange safety in the chair as he listened to his therapist talk about polar bears. Tommy found himself rambling about moths half way through, paused to realise the man was listening so carefully that he involuntarily continued, smiling all the while.

After the hour of serenity, the house of chaos he walked into wasn’t exactly what he expected.

“Maybe my grades would be better if I wasn’t out fucking shooting up buildings!” Wilbur yelled way too loudly, and Tommy was glad he’d shut the door as quickly as he had, kicking his shoes off at the door. “Be so fucking glad I respect this organisation and my reputation, or I would be booting it into the sewers.”

“Tommy’s grades are great and he does more shit than you do!” Phil yelled back, and Tommy immediately grimaced, walking into the room with furrowed brows. Neither spared him a glance. “What happened to you, Wil? You used to be so good.” He finished almost wistfully, lifting a hand to touch his cheek, but the brunette immediately slapped it away, ignoring the pained look on Phil’s face as he did so.

“I can’t fucking believe you.”

Tommy didn’t like hearing his brother swear, flinching as he took a careful step back, not entirely sure who to side with.

“Never compare your children! It’s fucking disgusting!”

“I don’t compare you guys, I love you both equally-“

“Equally my arse-“

“Stop!” Tommy shouted over them, and that finally made them pause, staring at him as he stood in the doorway, struggling to hold down his shivers at the icy glares sent his way. “Both of you are acting so fucking childish it’s pathetic!”

“But-“

“You’re just proving my point, Phil.” Tommy never called his dad by his first name out loud, mainly out of pure respect, reserving his first name only for his thoughts or times when Phil wasn’t showing him the same respect back. It seemed to hit a sore spot, because the man flinched, confusion and hurt written over his face. “Whatever you’re both arguing about, you should shut up and get over it! You chose to create this organisation, you chose to have no spare time to study or be at your children’s birthdays, so get over it and get on with stabbing whatever orphans you chose this weekend.”

And without waiting for an answer, Tommy rushed upstairs, leaving behind a stale silence that he didn’t bothering acknowledging, falling onto his bed with a sigh.

Apparently, Tubbo cried when he was angry; that’s what he’d said anyways.

Tommy wasn’t sure what he did when he was angry, but he sure knew what the emotion itself felt like, and he knew most people didn’t simply brush it off as a normal Friday evening and fall off to sleep with ease, letting the emotion simmer until it ultimately gave up.

For a moment, he wondered what Techno did when he was angry, but he pushed the thought away before he could entertain it, forcing his eyes shut until his mind drifted into the abyss.

—

Tommy knocked on the door, the same low voice calling him in as last time forcing him to turn the doorknob. After a moment, he slipped into the chair, keeping a frown on his face as Techno waited expectantly, clearly not a fan of starting emotional conversations despite his job.

“How-“ he started, biting his lip as he tried to push the question away. And yet, he’d been trying it all week, dodging past the longing stares and the tired eyes in favour of going on walks or calling Tubbo. The thought kept returning as the anger simmered away. Phil had never liked stupid questions, constantly scolding him when he asked something he should know the answer to.

But how would he know the answer to this? He didn’t know Techno, not enough anyways.

Was it a stupid question? He knew Phil would say so.

“How do you deal with anger?” He asked anyways, fighting away the anxiety sitting in his head with a sigh to release any tension in his shoulders, keeping his legs still and his face even.

Tommy expected many things in reply; maybe a laugh and a ‘I don’t feel anger, you’re on your own kiddo’, or maybe a ‘don’t be stupid you should know’.

However, he never would’ve guessed the man would genuinely reply. “I do fencing in my spare time, helps release any pent up emotions, a friend recommended it when I was still in school.” He explained, and Tommy forced his face to stay apathetic, keeping just how baffled he was in his nagging mind. When Techno looked up at him, plucking his glasses from his face and twisting them in his hands, that strange sense of safety returned. “Why do you ask?”

Now, Tommy had many options.

He could lie; say he was angry at his friend Tubbo who stole his sandwich at lunch that day.

He could stay silent; a safe option, it would risk not leaking any information about anything.

He could go on a ramble about moths again; now that one was certainly tempting, moths were certainly interesting.

However, he did none of these things, and did one thing that was so foreign to his tongue it made his fingers twitch.

“My brother and Dad had a fight on Friday and brought me into it, it just pissed me off I guess.”

He told the truth.

Tommy couldn’t remember the last time he’d told the truth so easily and without an ounce of consideration, telling the truth wasn’t in his plans at all! And yet, the words were forced out of him as easily as a river flows. And Techno simply hummed, writing something down on a post-it-note.

“How do you usually deal with strong emotions?” He asked slowly, raising an eyebrow at the kid who frowned, looking at the ground in thought.

“I don’t feel strong emotions.” Was what he finally decided on, and that seemed to shock the other a little more than expected.

“What about that anger you were just on about?” He asked, a little baffled and clearly a little joking, yet there was a genuineness to his tone that made Tommy falter. Now that was where he drew the line. Tommy didn’t falter, he didn’t stumble amidst a fight or shake when he he held a gun, and he certainly didn’t start to like the idea of being listened to for once by someone who seemed horrendously trust-worthy.

“That-“ he started, shaking his head as he tried to force his mouth firmly shut, but it seemed his brain had other plans, “That feels normal at this point, that anger that I felt is just how I always feel, it’s natural I guess.”

The room fell into a strange silence, with Tommy clamping his hand over his mouth and Techno thinking in a quiet consideration.

“Do I have your permission to ask a possibly sensitive question?” Techno asked after the moment stretched on too long, and Tommy found himself blinking in confusion, pulling his hand away from his mouth as he slowly nodded. Techno cleared his throat, “What was your childhood like?”

The way Tommy froze was likely answer enough.

Tommy remembers the joy he felt as Phil gave him his first knife for Christmas when he was 5, and Wilbur’s giddy chuckles were enough to make him treasure it. Phil had also bought him a dummy to practice on, and he made sure to spend any spare time he had on mastering the arts of wielding a knife.

He remembers hearing a muttered promise as he drifted off to sleep, he was four at the time and had woken from a nightmare.

‘Whatever the cost, I will always protect you.’ Phil had whispered when he assumed Tommy had fallen asleep; but a four-year-old who’d just witnessed a murder because of an attempt on his own life never drifted off easily.

And that was… it. Anything else from before he was seven, he didn’t have any recollection of it.

However, he felt the dread in his stomach, the feeling of blood on his fingertips and noticed how his legs had started to shake despite no pressure being applied to them at all.

Those sweet memories apparently didn’t mean much to Tommy’s mind, despite how much joy he looked back on them with.

“Honestly?” He asked, Techno nodding encouragingly. “I don’t know.”

“You froze when I mentioned it.” The man pointed out, and Tommy frowned, forcing his leg to stop bouncing before the other noticed that too. “It can’t have been great.”

“I remember that I was loved, and I was safe, and I remember about two memories before the age of 7.” He confessed, his attempts at stopping the words flowing almost completely gone already with the knowledge he couldn’t stop. Maybe it was the calm atmosphere, maybe it was the genuinely interested expression on Techno’s face, or maybe it was the painting of a polar bear that was hung on the wall staring into his soul and commanding he let out all his secrets. Whatever it was, Tommy couldn’t manage to fight it no matter how hard he tried.

“Why before 7?” He asked, and Tommy paused, staring into his eyes with something uncertain. This time, not even his body willed him to speak, which Tommy was ever thankful for. “You don’t have to tell me, you’re not obliged to.”

“Why do you speak like that?”

“Speak like what?”

“Obliged,” he mocked, trying and failing to mimic the man’s extremely small smile, “Permission.” He expressed, and the man’s hands moved in front of his mouth, a questioning look on his face, “They are very strange words.”

“Would you rather me say ‘need’ and ‘allowed’?” He asked cautiously, clearly asking a question that Tommy somehow didn’t catch, sighing with a soft smile that said ‘you are so fucking dumb it hurts me’.

“I would rather you talk to me like the child I am,” he explained, deciding that this was a lesson well worth teaching the other, “I don’t get a chance to choose, you don’t need ‘permission’ from me, and I am obliged, that’s my entire point of being here, to listen to what adults tell me to do without a second thought.”

The room was silent, and Tommy sighed, frowning at the strange expression on the man’s face.

“What? The honest truth too much for you to handle?”

“Tommy.” He started, the boy humming, partially keen to hear how he’d learned his lesson. “Tommy you-“ he paused, thinking over his words carefully and making Tommy pause with him, fear returning ever so slightly. “Who told you that?”

“I-“ he started, clamping his mouth shut in favour of glaring at Techno. The man sounded and looked a little insane, thought Tommy would be lying if he said he didn’t consider dying his hair pink after their first session (he ultimately decided it wouldn’t look good for his villain brand).

“As a human, you’re entitled to respect, do you know what that means?” He asked, and the question seemed… foreign, in a way. Usually, questioned worded as such were said with such malice and scolding he was forced to say yes and agree; but Techno asked it so honestly, genuine concern written beneath his words.

“No?”

Tubbo had probably said it once, but then again Tubbo said many things.

“Respect means to regard other people’s feelings, opinions, emotions, and so on,” he explained, and Tommy frowned, tilting his head to the side in questioning. “For example, if you told me you didn’t want to eat mint ice cream, I wouldn’t force you to eat it, because i’m taking your feelings into regard, does that make sense?”

The concept made sense, but that wasn’t how the world worked.

Wilbur had explained it as such; the world doesn’t give you love, so why love it? Why, if the world was going to destroy you, should you not destroy it first?

“I- kind of?” He tried, bringing his knees to his chest and resting his chin on top of them, pulling his arms around his legs. “But who respects people? Do you respect people?”

“I do, I respect everyone who respects me,” Techno explained, “And sometimes even those who don’t respect me.”

Tommy frowned even further.

“Why?”

Techno hummed for a moment, tapping his pen on his desk in thought.

“Who’s your closest friend?”

“Tubbo.” Tommy replied immediately, no hesitation, and Techno smiled as if he’d won the lottery (in the Technoblade smile books anyhow).

“Okay, so imagine if Tubbo did something terrible, and he made you feel really sad.” It sounded as if he was a toddler, but again Tommy didn’t comment. “But then he apologised and showed he was really regretful of his actions, what would you do?”

After a quick moment of thought, Tommy replied, “Forgive him.”

“Right. But would you have to forgive him?”

“Yes.” Tommy replied just as quickly and just as confidently, and was only confused when Techno paused, his onslaught of questions coming to a halt. So, he decided to explain his opinion, maybe he would finally agree with something he said. “It’s not good to hold grudges, and if I forgive them it makes them happier, and I want Tubbo to be happy.”

The room stayed silent, and Tommy decided it would be best to stay quiet, watching the other closely as he looked across the room, a lost look in his eyes.

“Can I give you some homework, Tommy?”

At the prospect, he scoffed. “Therapy homework? Seriously Technoblade, you’ve fallen to a new low big man.”

“Your therapy homework this week is to not do anything that makes you uncomfortable.” Techno said it with such seriousness he couldn’t argue, slowly nodding. “Set boundaries, and if Tubbo comes and says he’s murdered your cousin don’t immediately forgive him.”

“If Tubbo committed murder he would have a damn good reason to do so.”

“Tommy.”

“Right, therapy homework, boundaries, learn respect, got it.”

Techno leaned back in his chair, and despite it all, Tommy found himself doing the same, enjoying the calm environment far more than he probably should.

Maybe he could get used to this.

They spoke about raccoons for the rest of the session, and Tommy felt a determination burning in his chest as he strolled down the hallway, waving goodbye to the receptionist lady.

The determination was a foreign feeling; it wasn’t the determination to make his father proud of him, or to be better than his brother, but rather to make him proud of himself.

And maybe, it all started with Technoblade.

//////——————////////

There was so much more i wanted to write but this shit was getting long and my heart is playing up again, so uh, bedrock bros :D

Hope yall enjoyed, yknow if you somehow managed to read the entire thing I sure hope you didn’t waste your time LMAO

Ily all <3

[loverontheleft]

Angel (revised)

Original request: Uhhhh I have a request based off of the most recent picture you reposted by @panicattheforeheadsblog.. I get such dom energy from that picture and I can’t handle it. I’m just thinking so he’s live on twitch talking to his fans about tour and stuff, and the reader wants his attention really bad so she creates a Twitch account with a username that makes him know that it’s her, but not any of the fans. Then the reader starts teasing him, begging for him. When he sees it he tries to ignore it but she knows he knows and starts messing with him more. Until he finally says he needs to sign off for the night. He comes into the room and punishes her for acting out and gets all dom 👌. Lots of spanking 👀☕ Sorry if that’s too specific I’m in a place and I got carried away 😂😂

Brendon x reader

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: Thigh-riding, oral (both), sex, spanking, language.

-||-

Brendon pauses the stream, and his eyes flash behind his glasses. “Y/n. I know that’s you. Stop it.” His composure breaks, and he grins. “You’re being so bad, baby.” His voice is a low purr, and it takes all of your self-control to not whimper.

“You love when I’m bad,” you tease when you’re sure your voice won’t tremble with desire. You’re making a conscious effort not to look up from your phone where you’re messing with the Twitch app you’ve just installed purely to fuck with him because he isn’t fucking you. “Besides, I’m not doing anything.”

Brendon scoffs playfully, and you smirk. “Okay,” he murmurs. “So the username that is a combination of my anniversary with my still-not-public girlfriend and her dog’s name is…who then?” You shrug, still not making eye contact, murmuring something about strange coincidences. “I swear to god, Y/n,” Brendon laughs, shaking his head. “If you send one more message into the stream that’s just our safe word,” and now you look at him, grinning. Everyone else in the stream has been ignoring your single-word messages of ‘fondue,’ but you knew he was seeing them and you just knew it was getting to him. “You’re gonna need it,” he finishes, the longing and underlying tension clear in his voice.

You hesitate, unsure. “Wait…is…is that supposed to make me not send it again? Because honestly, that’s not very convincing. You should try harder, B.”

You stretch a little in the armchair opposite him on the couch, moaning at the pleasant burn through your legs. “You know I love it when you get a little rough. You feel guilty, but you shouldn’t; I love when I’ve got marks from you all over my body. Fingerprints, bruises, bite marks, anything. Hold me tight, claim me, fuck me hard, make me tear our pillows apart with my teeth because you’re pushing me to the edge with your tongue and fingers and cock. God, my absolute favorite thing is when you eat my pussy from behind while I’ve got my face pressed to a pillow. The way you smack my ass and pull me back onto your mouth so you can rub your tongue against all of me; I just can’t stop coming.” You’re bouncing one leg crossed over the other, your tone sugary sweet despite your words, and your eyes still on your phone.

“Y/n, please,” Brendon groans with a smile, closing his eyes. He takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “You’re killing me. You’re so…god, baby, you know I want you.” You drop your phone and raise your eyebrows teasingly. “You’re killing me. Come over here.” He slips his glasses back on and pats his lap, rubbing his thigh. “Come sit, baby.”

“Someone is still supposed to be streaming…” you point out, giving him a suggestive smile, stretching again. “But that same someone,” you murmur, “is baiting me. Wearing his glasses, calling me ‘baby,’ asking me to sit on his lap…someone knows I can’t resist any of those things.” He grins and closes his laptop, setting it to one side. You groan when he pulls his glasses down seductively. “Fuck, Brendon…you’re teasing, but you know I can’t resist that.”

“So stop resisting,” he tells you with a smile. “Come here, Angel. You wanted my attention so badly? I’m going to give it to you. And if you ask nicely, I’ll give you something else too.”

You grin and roll off of the chair, landing on your hands and knees so you can crawl over to him, hips swaying. “You’re killing me. You’re fucking killing me,” Brendon groans as you work your way across his living room at a glacial pace and bite your lip, eyes on his. “No—fuck, Y/n, don’t fucking slow down—no!” He fists his hair in frustration when you teasingly move even slower, mimicking a sloth to perfection as you crawl in slow-motion. “Better.” Brendon nods approvingly when you switch back to your original seductive speed. “Get over here.”

When you come to a stop at his feet, he beckons you closer, so you rise up enough for him to bend forward and snake an arm around your waist and haul you into his lap. “There’s my girl,” he murmurs, nudging your ear with his nose. “There’s my Angel who needs some attention, hm?” You nod sweetly, and he grins, pulling back to kiss you softly. “You’ve got my attention now. Why don’t you settle on my thigh here and let me give you my full attention?” You shift a little so you’re straddling his thigh. “Hi love,” he whispers, tugging a lock of your hair affectionately. “Ride my thigh. Make yourself feel good; let me see you come like this.” You rise up to shove your leggings down and he stops you. ”Nope. Like this. Fully clothed. Want my angel to come for me fully clothed. Once she’s done that, then she can strip for me, and we’ll go from there.”

“You’re bad, B,” you scold him teasingly. “Making me come in my panties and leggings.” He smirks and tells you it’s payback for the way you were being bad earlier.

“Fair enough,” you acquiesce with a shrug and rest your hands on his shoulders lightly as you start to move on his thigh. Brendon grins and points out that you’ve admitted you were being bad if you’re agreeing this is payback. “Hush, B. That was then. This is now. Fuck,” you mumble, closing your eyes. “Fuck, this feels so good. Your thighs, Bren…they’re always talking about your thighs and wanting to ride them and come on them, and Jesus if they only knew how good—oh, fuck!” Your voice jumps an octave when he starts kissing your neck. “Brendon, god, you know I love that.” His hands wrap around your hips, and he pulls you higher up his thigh so the top of yours is pressed to his erection. “Yes baby, fuck yes yes yes!” You squeal when you come, the seam of your leggings pressing against your clit and driving you over the edge; you’re babbling incoherent gratitude for his making you come as he rubs back against your thigh while making small sounds of pleasure. “Oh fuck oh god Brend—what are you doing?”

You’re disoriented and panting when he turns and pushes you onto your back so you’re stretched out on the couch. “Oh fuck, baby, what are you doing?” You’re breathless now as he tugs your leggings and panties down in one swift movement and wiggles so he’s kneeling between your thighs.

“Speaking of amazing thighs,” he mumbles, pressing warm kisses up toward your pelvis, starting at your knees and alternating between legs. “My baby has the best thighs. And the best pussy. And the best clit. And now that she’s been good for me and come on my thigh, I’m gonna eat her perfect pussy until she comes again.” You’re squirming like crazy by the time his mouth closes over you and his tongue rolls out; you both let out broken moans of pleasure as his tongue moves deeper. “Honey,” he gasps against you. “Angel, my perfect girl, oh fuck.” His arms curl under your thighs and he spreads you wider for his mouth so he can really torture you with his licking and gentle sucking and moaning and kissing. “Want to eat you out forever; shit, you’re the best.”

“Oh god Brendon, baby, yes, eat it!” Your head is pressed back against the couch armrest, and your hands are in his hair as his mouth moves faster and sloppier; he’s abandoned his refined technique since both of you know exactly what you need to get off right now. “Don’t stop,” you moan as his mouth moves over you, tongue licking in broad, wet, warm strokes while he teases your clit with the tip of his tongue using delicate little licks. “Oh fuck, Brendon don’t stop.” His lips are sliding over you; it actually feels like he’s making out with your pussy and, given the way he’s moaning, clutching your thighs, and rubbing against the couch, he’s loving it as much as you are. “Gonna make me come,” you manage, voice high and tight. “Gonna come, oh Jesus fucking Christ fuck me; Brendon, yes!” Your squeal of pleasure is ripped from you; you’re breathing hard, pulling at his hair, gasping and grinding as you praise him. “So fucking good, oh—oh fuck Brendon—making me come oh fuck baby the best you’re the best oh god yes yes yes now!”

“Holy fuck,” Brendon groans, licking at you eagerly. “Goddamn, you’re so sweet, Angel. Oh shit, come for me one more time, my love. Need more.” His fingers slide into you and curl insistently. “Once more, baby.” You moan as he rubs against your G-spot, and your entire body convulses.

“That’s my girl,” Brendon murmurs against you, tongue already moving and swiping over you tenderly. “My baby comes when she’s told. Damn, you’re such a good girl for me.” He scoots up and rests his head on your stomach, trying to catch his breath. “Sweet girl. Love you so much.”

“Oh god,” you whimper, reaching down and bending to the side to grope for his erection. “I fucking love you. Brendon, baby, I love you and I need you. Oh fuck, please, please, let me have you!” He nods and props himself up on one arm to move over you. You tangle a hand in his hair and pull his mouth, still slick with you, down to yours. “Fondue, baby, oh fuck, fondue.” Brendon pulls back and looks at you, obviously confused that you’re safe-wording now.

“If you don’t fuck me soon, I’m going to die. Save me.” You grin at him, and he groans, crushing his mouth to yours and sliding into you; you scratch and claw at his back as he goes deep.

“Fuck, Angel. I’ll always save you.” You both gasp as you clench around him; his eyes roll back at the feeling, and you’ve tangled your legs around him—your lips are parted in silent ecstasy as you both move together. “God fucking damn,” Brendon manages, trying to focus on your face. You whimper and nod, rocking upward to meet his hips. The movement makes the crown of his cock brush over your clit and you’re dizzy with lust; you can already feel your impending orgasm, and he’s close too if the breathless praise he’s murmuring is any indication.

“Ow!” Your yelp of pain is sudden; you’re both frozen, and then start laughing after the shock passes. “Your glasses, B.” You reach to one side to grab the frames that have fallen off his face from his frenetic movement. “Here you go.”

“Should I go put my contacts in?” Brendon is laughing too as he places his glasses back on his face. You scoff and wiggle backward so his erection slips from you; you roll onto your stomach before arching up onto your hands and knees. “Baby?” His voice is a little strained as he watches you settle onto the couch, making yourself comfortable while waiting for his cock.

“No. Keep them on. They make me so hot. You’ll just have to fuck me from behind so they don’t fall off.” You’re grinning at him over your shoulder, and he smiles as he shifts too and grips both of your hips. Abruptly, he comments how you won’t be able to see them on him though. “So? I’ll know they’re there,” you murmur, winking at him. “Fuck me, Urie.”

“Oh god,” Brendon groans as he thrusts forward. “Fuck, baby, you feel so—love getting you like this—miss your pretty face, but I love holding you and going hard like you love—oh shit, Angel, yes, so goo—fuck!” His voice breaks off in a strangled moan as you tighten around him again; you’ve got your face buried in your arms as you work hard to meet him thrust for thrust. “Gonna come,” he warns you.

“Come, Bren,” you pant, lifting your head and turning to meet his eyes as best you can. “Come in me. Come in your Angel.” He groans again, lurching forward to kiss over your neck. The edge of his glasses presses against your skin, and you can’t control the whimper that comes out of you. “Fuck, Brendon!” He nods, tongue teasing behind your ear as he presses himself flush against you, his chest to your back. “Baby, I’m—right there, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” Brendon gasps, biting down lightly. Your shriek fills the room, and he bites harder, which makes your hips spasm as your orgasm rips through you. “Oh fucking hell, Angel; I’m coming in you,” he grunts, lips grazing your neck. “Oh fuck! Yes, come on my cock, yes!” His fingers dig into your hips, and his once-smooth rhythm is gone as he convulses, gasping your name and filling you. The heat makes you quiver; you tighten around him instinctively, wanting more. One of Brendon’s hands leaves your hip and snakes down between your legs to tease your clit, and it’s an instant reaction.

“Yes yes yes yes yes!” Your entire body is shaking with exertion as you chant and fall apart under his touch. “Oh fuck, Brendon, yes, there, now, fuck!” Your voice is tight, and your eyes are clenched shut; you can feel his breath on your neck and his middle finger is still moving over your clit in gentle circles. “Brendon, fuck!”

“Yeah Angel, say my name,” Brendon groans, resting his head on your shoulder blade. “That’s a good girl.” You’re both breathing hard; you can feel his chest heaving against your back before he scoots back and out of you. You whine at the loss, turning to give him a pleading look as he collapses in a seated position on the couch. “Come here, my love,” he murmurs, patting his lap. You turn and curl into yourself, head resting in his lap. Lazily, you run a finger up and down his still half-hard cock; he shivers, and you grin up at him. “Angelbaby,” he says softly, stroking your hair. “Someone still has to be punished for misbehaving while I was streaming.” He takes a lock of your hair and twists it around his index finger, tugging affectionately. You smile up at him, wriggling closer to his erection so you can lick at the base of his cock, grinning when you feel him twitch at your touch. “Don’t think you can blow your way out of this,” Brendon says with a laugh, tugging at your hair again.

“Oh I know I can’t. I’m just offering.” You grin and wrap a hand around him, pumping slowly. “Think you can spank me while I blow you? I promise not to bite your dick.” You smirk up at him, squeezing the head of his cock and licking eagerly at the rest of his shaft. “I promise,” you repeat, eyes closed as you taste yourself on his cock.

“Fuck, Y/n,” Brendon says helplessly, raking his hand through your hair, eyes wide. “You’re so…”

“Sexy? Dirty? Good? Amazing? I’ll take any of those,” you tell him with a small smile. He laughs and massages your scalp as he tells you E, all of the above. “Good answer,” you murmur, shifting onto your hands and knees and swallowing him down for a brief instant before pulling back with an audible pop as you let his cock slip out of your lips. “How many spankings did I earn, sir?” You’re rocking back and forth, wiggling your hips in anticipation. “Angel was such a bad girl,” you purr, licking at the tip of his cock.

“She was,” Brendon agrees in a low voice, still stroking your hair lovingly. “How many does my bad girl think she’s earned?”

You pause to mull this over, stroking his cock idly as you think. “Well,” you muse. “Let’s consider what exactly I did. I teased you, certainly.”

“You did.”

“And it was public since you were streaming.”

“It was.”

“And I made you cut your stream short so I could get off on your thigh,” you point out. “Three things.”

Brendon nods, considering. His hand leaves your hair and starts rubbing gentle circles over your ass and the backs of your thighs. “I think twenty for the teasing,” he decides, and you nod, telling him that sounds fair. He grins down at you. “And another ten for the public factor.” He pauses for another moment. “And another ten for ending the stream.”

“Forty?” Your voice is small, and he nods. Using his free hand, he cups your face and raises it gently so you meet his eyes. He searches your face, concern evident.

“Angel, we don’t have to—please you know you do not have to—we can—I don’t expect you to always—”

“No,” you cut him off. “Forty is good. I’m okay.” He nods slowly, fingers stroking your face now tenderly. He’s your first partner you’ve trusted enough to confess your interest in spanking; forty is certainly the most you’ve ever earned, but he’s been so good and compassionate as you both explore this.

He was quick to tell you he’d never spanked anyone before, but if it’s what you wanted…the first night you tried was one that solidified your faith in and love for him—both of you giggling and moaning and touching and teasing throughout, both of you surprised at how much you both enjoyed it. Because of that, you have full faith he’ll take care of you, and you both know he’ll stop before you safeword if there’s even a hint of you being uncomfortable.

“Just…” you falter, trying to find the words. “Pace yourself,” you finally say, arching your back into his touch. “Maybe only do the last…ten at full force.”

“Of course, Angel. Whatever you want,” Brendon soothes, kissing you softly. “Don’t bite my dick.” You giggle and kiss him back, shaking your head.

“I promise. Will you be counting since my mouth will be full?”

“Yeah honey,” Brendon murmurs. “I’ll count. You just focus on my cock.” He shifts slightly and pats you gently, almost as a gentle warning. “You ready?” You nod and suck the head of his cock in between your lips. “Fuck,” he grunts, letting his hand make contact. “My Angel sucks my cock so good. That’s one.” His hand pulls back and lands again. “Two.” You suck him down deeper, relishing how his cock twitches in your mouth when he spanks you. “Oh fuck, yes!”

-||-

You’re squealing around his cock, mouth tight and body rocking back and forth gently as Brendon reaches the final five. He’s at full force now as promised, and you’re so wet that it’s spread down your inner thighs. “Thirty-six,” Brendon groans, and you lurch forward under his hand. Your mouth tightens even more as your head moves to take him deeper. “Fuck, Angel, just the tip,” Brendon tells you in a tense voice. “Just the tip. That’s a good girl. Thirty—sev—oh fuck yes, such a good girl for me, sucking on my cock so nicely, shit baby, oh god, thirty-eight, yes yes yes love, thirty-nine, oh Jesus fucking Chr—shit!” Brendon is gasping as you suck hard, your hand clenching around the base of his cock and stroking upward urgently. You’ve been moaning and whining at each bit of contact, each time pushing you closer to the edge. “Gonna come with me?” Brendon groans, shifting slightly so the hand he’s been using to spank you is now between your legs and his other hand is angled, a bit awkwardly, to deliver the last swat. You nod as best you can with his cock in between your lips and he groans again, breath hitching. “Fuck, Angel. Jesus, okay, forty—holy sweet god in heaven yes!” Your own orgasm sends you reeling and you’re shrieking around his cock for the split second that he isn’t filling your mouth. His fingers slide into you and he curls them, doubling the intensity of your orgasm. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” Brendon’s helpless chant fills your ears and you swallow eagerly before letting him slip from your mouth when he’s spent so you can let out your own squeals of pleasure.

“Brendon, baby, yes!” Your voice is hoarse and he immediately wraps an arm around you and flips you onto your back before settling between your legs, laying flat over you so your chests are together. “Holy shit,” you murmur after a moment, brushing your fingers over his face tenderly, lingering on the frame of his glasses almost in awe. “You’re…you’re incredible.” You bite your lip before you kiss him gently and he meets your embrace, lips moving over yours.

“No, you are, my love,” he counters when you part. “You’re something else entirely. I love you so much.” You repeat it back to him, letting your head rest on the throw pillows. He slumps over you, face in the crook of your neck. “Is it nap time, my love?”

“Hell yes,” you say with a laugh, running both of your hands through his hair as he nuzzles your shoulder. “I don’t think I could move an inch.” He smiles against your skin and makes a soft sound, agreeing with you. “Rest, baby,” you whisper to him, closing your eyes.

“You too, Angel,” he murmurs affectionately, turning his head to kiss your neck gently. “My good girl worked hard, taking those spankings and sucking my cock; she deserves a good nap.” You yawn, already half-asleep as he continues to praise you sleepily, so you’re not positive, but you think the last coherent thing he murmurs is, “god bless these glasses.”

[robby-bobby-tommy]

So, aai1 brainrot doesn't want to go away. So here's my hcs what happened during KG-8 incident. Especially with Kay, Byrne and Badd. I might turn this into the comic, if I'll have the motivation to.

Attempt on Badd's life, the trial and tribulations of the KG-8 Incident.

So, the KG-8 happened in 2009. A day before the trial begins Badd goes home after a long day at the precinct, but after awhile he notices strange people following him. Turns out they were hitmen that were supposed to get rid of him before the trial. They chase Badd for a while, making some of the holes in the trenchcoat. Trying to get help, Tyrell diales the first number he had — Faraday's.

Byrne was on the walk with Kay, when he got the call. When he picked up the phone he was a little surprised by this late call, but then he was totally scared after he heard gunshots from Tyrell's end. The latter quickly told his friend his location, but didn't manage to say what was happening, as he was finally cornered. The hitmen shot him twice* in the abdomen and Tyrell was basically left to die with Faraday still on the call.

Byrne had quickly reported everything that happened to the police and called an ambulance, and went to the scene himself. He had nowhere to leave Kay, so he brought her along. Byrne left her in the police car, tho, so that she doesn't see the scene. Tyrell was unconscious with some small black scraps of paper, that burned green*.

So, Badd was taken to the hospital, and Byrne was left with no lead detective with trial on his hands. The next day after this whole incident Byrne still went in court, not going to back down. But that day was full of surprises.

Firstly, completely unexpectedly, Badd appeared in the courthouse before the begging of the trial. He told Faraday everything that happened to him, including that before he passed out, he felt someone was looking for something in his trenchcoat. Byrne didn't pay to much attention to it, instead focusing on his friend's health. Tyrell said that he was okay, but continued to drink a lot of water* and looked very pale. Before they started taking about serious stuff, they asked Kay to buy the swiss rolls.

Secondly, when the trial had began, Byrne found out that the tape was missing from the evidence files. It turns out the hitmen stole Badd's card that opened his evidence lock (I think it's before the locks that are opened by fingerprints were invented). The tape was stolen from there, and prosecution had lost their most important and decisive evidence.

The defense attorney was paid a lot by the smuggling ring, so he forged some evidence, "destroying" Tyrell's logic during the cross-examination.

Due to lack of evidence from the prosecution, the trial ended in one day. Manny Coachen got his not guilty verdict. After these words left judge's mouth a woman screamed in sadness and despair (Callisto Yew).

After the court was adjourned, Byrne was furious and Badd felt worse than ever. Callisto found them outside of the courtroom and introduced herself as the sister of the departed Cece Yew. Badd bowed and said his sincerest apologies.

Callisto, unimpressed, slaped him and told that she never wanted to see them again. Badd stays in this bowing position until she left. Shortly afterwards his gaze got fuzzy and some blood appeared once more on his shirt.

After another very fun (not really) trip to the hospital, Faraday found out that right after regaining his consciousness, Badd started mumbling about the case and the testimony. He nearly went to the courthouse right away, but the nurses persuaded at least to bandage him up. Due to stress, exhaustion and the slap, the wounds reopened so he needed immediate attention.

This is just some rough ideas and hcs. I feel like Badd is the type of a person to just walk off two bullets in his stomach lmao. Von Karma could never.

Now to explain some stuff:

Two shots:

come from Badd's design. Specifically because of two bullet holes in his tie. He's either a Neo from Matrix, or got shot at least once.

Green flames:

It's because the hitmen burned the directive card written in Babahlese ink.

Water

I heard that if someone donors blood they should drink water so that the body can restore some fluids. So despite saying he's okay, Badd felt nauseous and exhausted. He also lost a lot of blood the day before the trial, so he drinks water to at least feel okay-ish.

[itsanerdlife]

Broken Knight 8

Pairing: Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x Castle!Reader

Warnings: violence. Language. Stalking. Smut (later on). Pettiness. Lies. Secrets.

Working for my father and uncles, has never been an easy task. When I get attacked one night, it sets them off. My father hires a security team he knows. I’m unwilling, till he steps off the plane.

Now it’s complicated and blurry. James Barnes is more than I bargained for. And far more is happening then my father bargained for. I can’t help myself, only I know nothing is easy, and my father isn’t one to be disobeyed.

Hell’s going to rain down, I’m not sure who is going to survive this time.

Storming off the elevator, ready to find my father and put him in his place, my steps falter. Becca, Clint and Bucky slow with me. My office door wide open, papers scattered out into the hallway. Bucky’s hand wraps around my waist, pulling me behind him. Clint pulls his gun, moving quietly down the hall towards my office, with Becca at his back.

They sweep into the office, my hands grip tightly to Bucky’s arm blocking me. Moments later Clint waves us on.

“Call Tony.” He orders, Becca is pulling her phone out as we step in.

My entire office is trashed. Turned over is putting it nicely. Photos smashed, desk flipped over, papers burned, ripped and tossed about.

“Don’t touch anything.” Bucky warns me, when my hand reaches out for one of the smashed photos. My eyes wide, snap up to him. “Fingerprints.” He explains almost softly.

“Buck.” Clint looks up from where he is looking at me knocked over desk. “Come see this.”

Bucky slips away moving to stand next to Clint.

“Fuck.” Bucky scraps his hand down his face.

“What?” I move towards them.

“Y/N.” He points his finger at me. “No.” Shoving his hand away I move next to him and Clint. Looking down.

Reading it upside down, but it clearly reads ‘payback’ carved into the wood top.

“What the fuck!” Tony, storms into the office, Howie behind him, Peter and my father follow. Uncle Billy is the last one looking just as shocked.

“Jesus.” He whispers.

“How is this possible?” Peter snaps loudly.

It’s Bucky who startles us.

“Why don’t you tell us that, Stark! How the fuck is this possible! You swore this was the safest place for her!” His voice booms around the room, I’m staring wide eyed and shocked. His hand snaps out wave at the destruction. “Does it look fucking safe?!”

“James.” My father growls low and deep at him.

It’s me shouting next. “Shut up! Shut up dad! You don’t get a fucking say! Don’t James him!” Everyone shifts looking bewildered.

“Bean.” He warns.

“Don’t fucking Bean me!” I snatch up a pen holder, whipping it at him. Tony ducks, Peter backs away. Billy and Howie are closer to the door.

“Y/N.” Bucky huffs.

“How dare you!” I scream at him. “You hire this fucking team, to protect me! But order them to not tell me everything that is going on! You have some fucking audacity old man!” I reach for something else, only Bucky snatches up my hands, straightening me up.

“Please stop touching things.” He stares down at me. Staring back, I suck in a deep breathe.

Snatching my hands away from him, I pull off a heel, I whip it at my father, who looks slightly shocked.

“I’m the one at risk you dick! Not you!” I snap at him.

“I’m protecting you.” He speaks with no emotional response.

“The fuck you are, you’re controlling me! My life! Like you’ve always done!”

Peter and Howie scratch the back of their heads. Billy’s mouth puckers, knowing I’m right.

“You can’t protect me when I was raised by those morons! One lab experiment away from a villain, the poster boy for an STD, for fuck sakes my uncle is Tony Stark that says A LOT right there!” I throw my hand out.

“Damn.” Becca whispers softly behind me.

“We’re not even going to mention the shady ass shit, and dark secrets Uncle Billy has or does!” I scoff.

“Whoa.” Billy puts his hands up. “I’m on your side, don’t air my dirty laundry.”

“Why does it say payback?” Clint asks, his tone hard, almost irritated.

“What?” Panic slithers into my chest.

“The overturned desk. It says payback.” Clint nods, his body movements, tight, controlled.

“I don’t know.” I babble, shaking my head.

Now it’s Bucky, staring at me.

“You don’t?” His brow lifts.

“The guy said it wasn’t over.” I try.

“Why do you keep lying?” Bucky asks bluntly.

I gasp softly.

“I’m, I’m not.” Heat burns through me.

“You want to keep throwing shit at your dad, your uncles. You might be right about the twins, about your uncles,”

“What the fuck?” Both boys huff.

“but you’re not telling the truth Y/N. Your dad hide shit from you, but you’re hiding things about what happened when you got attacked. You want to point fingers, point them at yourself.” He bears down on me, with a glare. I shuffle back unevenly from him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Trying to stand tall, while missing a shoe.

“Why do you wake up screaming? Crying?” His head tips watching me.

I burn instantly, unable to believe he called me out in such a way. I gap at him, open mouthed.

“Fuck you.” I snarl at him.

“Sorry Princess, I’m not a dictator or some foreign military subject that refuses to see you. I fucking see you, and I know you’re lying.” He hisses down at me.

“What’s going on with the two of you?” My father wonders aloud.

“Nothing.” We both reply without looking away.

“I just know she’s lying, can’t fix this if I don’t know everything.” Bucky scoffs at me, speaking more to my father.

“Takes two, right? You hide things from me, guess I’m only playing your game too.” I toss back at him.

“Bean,” my father huffs.

“Don’t, don’t you start.” I snap at him, looking away from Bucky. “I have one more shoe and I will throw it at you. This is all your fault and don’t fucking act like you didn’t know it from the start, I might tell powerful men to fuck themselves, but your hands have blood on them and its me they want payback with. Don’t act stupid, that’s why you brought them into this, don’t you dare treat me like I don’t know you.”

The room stays deadly silent. My father and I staring at one another.

“They threatened you.” Bucky stares at me.

“No.” I shake my head.

“He told you,” Becca speaks up, making me look over. Knowing winter blue eyes. “this was cause of your father. That’s why you didn’t tell them, tell us. It was connected to your father.” She nods.

“He’s, my father. I’m sure you understand, you work with your brother.” I shrug.

“I’d take the bullet in a heartbeat.” She nods.

“I’d do anything to protect him,” I sigh.

There’s an exchange of looks between Howie and Peter, realizing I didn’t clarify if I meant my father or Bucky.

“Y/N we need to talk.” Bucky straightens up.

I sigh heavily.

“Buck why don’t you take the twins, get them to pull up the security footage for you and Sam. Steve and Clint can start asking around about anyone seen out of place last night.” Becca nods, stepping towards me.

“Excuse me?” His brow pulls in.

“I’ll talk to Y/N.” She adds.

“Bean,” my dad sighs looking torn “you know, this was never meant to be like this.”

“Why do you think I never said anything.” I shrug, following Becca out, Howie hands over my heel quickly.

“I thought you ran the team?” My uncle Billy chuckles.

“Your sister is; wow.” Howie snickers.

“Stark, I’ll kill you and not lose a second of sleep over it.” Bucky warns him.

[cinewhore]

The Take Over - chapter two

Pairing: Marcus Pike x fem!reader

Rating: mature

word count: 2.5k

read the first chapter

warnings: mentions of body horror - peeling skin, sticking fingers down someone’s mouth, general angst

Summary: You investigate the body in Danny’s house and pay a visit to an old friend. 

A/N: This is an Invasion of the Body Snatchers AU. You don’t need to watch the film to understand what’s going on. Credit to the gif maker(s). No beta.

You regard the body with immense disgust and a slight intrigue. You were one hundred percent sure that Danny had called to fuck you, yapping your ear off about a body in his house that happened to look like him. Didn’t seem at all possible. Until you dragged Marcus out of the house with you, all the way to Danny’s and Sydney’s place, just to start at this thing on his floor.

“So, can you tell me what it is?” Danny prompts, scratching at his face. You frown, cocking a head toward him.

“I’m a fucking doctor, not a forensic expert.”

Danny shrugs. “Same thing, isn’t it?”

“Is it going to kill us?” Sydney rambles on, body shaking nonstop.

You breathe out slowly through your nose, pinching the bridge of it with two fingers. Marcus reads your gesture clearly, grabbing Sydney lightly by the elbow.

“Let’s go make some tea, that should help us calm down. Give them some room to work.”

Sydney agrees and follows Marcus to the kitchen. You shed your coat, pushing the coffee table back to create something semblance of a workspace. The body looked like Danny but there was no indication of it having any sort of sentience.

“Was it always lying here?”

“As far as I know. Sydney got up to get some water and then I heard her scream. Came running with the fucking bat and she’s cowering in the corner, pointing at this.” Danny lowers himself down into a squat. “I can’t believe this. It’s like a wax figure.”

An idea sparks.

“Dan, get me a paper and some ink, please.”

It takes a moment to find loose ink but Danny returns with the items faithfully, catching onto your scheme. He’s careful as he lifts the arm of the body, observing as you wet the fingertips, pressing them down on the paper.

“Huh, no fingerprints.”

“Freaky.” Then, “what does that mean?”

“If you ever really wanted to leave no traces, you’d burn your fingertips. Old school but it’ll do the trick. Unless, there were no fingertips to burn.”

Sydney and Marcus return, Sydney more at peace. Marcus offers you a cup of tea but you deny it, too keyed up to get distracted. To be honest, your stomach had been doing flips since you had gotten the phone call and you didn’t plan on vomiting anytime soon.

“What do we know so far?” Marcus asks you.

“I don’t know.”

You didn’t like giving that answer but it was the truth. Quickly glancing at Sydney, you change your tone.

“I don’t think it’ll cause any harm, though. At most it seems that it's still growing.”

“Can you move it?” Danny pipes up, holding the cup near his mouth to take a sip.

“I wouldn’t want to, im not sure if this is an active crime scene I’m fucking with and i don’t think the cops will be appreciative of me tampering with evidence.”

“The cops?” Sydney tightens the robe around her body. “Why would you call the cops? They’ll take one look at this and send us straight to the mental institute, I'm sure of it.”

Your annoyance flairs. “Well what else am I supposed to do? Listen, here’s what’s going to happen: my husband and I are going to go back home. You two are gonna sit here and monitor it, see if anything changes. If it does, call the cops. If it doesn’t, call the morgue.”

“So I just call the hospital and tell them that I have a dead body in my living room that looks like me but isn’t? C’mon, there has to be another way we can handle this.”

You glance at Marcus then back at Danny.

“Fine. Move it someplace more isolated but where you can keep a good look at it. If it wakes up or moves, call me or Marcus. We’ll deal with it, all of us, together.”

Sleeping didn’t come easy afterwards. You popped a few melatonins against Marcus’s judgment, not caring about the time but just wanting a solid sleep. You slip into unconsciousness an hour later, Marcus curled up near your back. You awake a little later, absolutely still in the throws of the heavy weight of slumber. It takes you a minute but you drag yourself out of the bed, your bladder screaming for attention. Trudging to the bathroom, you stop when you notice a light on in the kitchen downstairs.

You hadn’t remembered leaving a light on and even though it was out of your eyesight, the thought of a light being on made your teeth rattle. Taking it step by step, you make your way down the stairs, rubbing your eyes with the hope that it would make you more alert. For all you know there could be a thief in the house and you’d have no willpower to stop them in this state.

You halt in your steps, eyebrows drawing tight together upon noticing Marcus’s figure on the couch. He was asleep, some book long forgotten in his lap. You open your mouth to wake him but no sound comes out. Out of the corner of your eye, you detect a slight hint of movement. A figure emerges from the darkness of the adjacent hallway, you.

It was you and it wasn’t you. You were you, half asleep and dressed in an old t-shirt. The other you was completely nude. You stare in horror as she slips gracefully into the light fully, grinning at your expression. You don’t dare move an inch as she saddles up to you, taking a hand and delicately ghosting it over your face.

“You’re not real.” you barely mutter, voice hoarse.

“And you are?” she retorts.

It even laughed like you.

“What do you want?”

She scrunches her face in faux thought, humming. “Better. For you.” She tilts her head back at Marcus. “For him.”

“Please,” you beg. “Don’t involve him in this.”

You swear you see her face morph into something damn near demonic as she slinks towards your husband. She places herself on his lap, shushing him as he fidgets.

“He deserves so much more than what you have to offer. After all, he did give up his life so that you could have your dream.”

You shake your head. “No, this – this was our dream.”

“A silly little thing you keep telling yourself to make it through the day. With me, with us,” she fans her hand out to you. “We can have unimaginable things. You just have to let me in.”

“No.”

“Is that so?”

Your heart rattles in your chest as she advances upon you again, your feet finally cooperating with the rest of your body, allowing you to take a small step back.

She studies your face - her face - with a softness you had never experienced before. Is this how you actually looked to other people?

“Don’t be scared, it won’t hurt. We’ll start slow, ok?”

She pecks your lips, admiring the string of silvia that hangs from both of your mouths. She comes back in for another kiss and this time, you let her in further, parting your lips. Her tongue dances across yours, eliciting a tiny moan from you. She smiles as she pulls back, satisfied.

Her thumb rubs your bottom lip, teasing you as it slips in and out of your mouth. She pushes it further down, what started out as genuine curiosity turning into panic as she sticks more fingers in, her hand other ripping at your skin and tugging pieces of it off, the slight slap sound vibrating off of the kitchen floor, body fluids squelching and-

“Baby?”

You lurch forward, eyes flying open and lungs working overtime to push out more oxygen as you dry heave. Marcus sits in the bed next to you, the dark sky now replaced with sunlight streaking through the blinds.

You claw at your chest, mouth and face before lowering your head into your hands, a sob escaping your lips.

Marcus pulls you into his arms, leaving kisses in your hair.

“It’s ok, it’s ok, you were just dreaming. You’re ok.”

You take a few more deep breaths, extracting yourself from Marcus. Glancing at the nightstand, you snatch your phone off the charger.

“Did Syd or Danny call?”

Marcus shakes his head, clearly troubled by your behavior. “Are you alright?”

You know you should tell him what you saw, what you felt but figured there was no use in scaring him as well. You were going to get down to the bottom of whatever the fuck was going on but first you had some business you needed to handle.

Hitting 3 on your speed dial, you bite at the skin around your index finger. Janie picks up on the second ring.

“Where the hell are you? You promised coffee and I purposely skipped making any this morning.”

“I’m not coming in today, feeling a little under the weather. Have Shannon and Peter pick up any extra patients.”

“Of course.” a pause. “What’s going on? Really?”

You sigh. “Did Linda call?”

Janie pulls the phone away from her ear, blowing out an aggravated huff. She hated when you left her in the dark, especially when it concerned your work. You agree that she has a right to know but only when you’re absolutely sure of everything yourself.

“Yeah, she did, actually. Said she was being dramatic and that Joe is just fine.”

“Anything else?”

“Nope, she just canceled her appointment after and hung up. Sounded pretty chipper about it.”

“Fuck.”

Janie grunts. “Will you just tell me what in the hell is going on? I will show up to your doorstep, so help me-”

“Janie! I need you to shut up and listen to me for a second, ok?”

She settles down. You continue.

“There’s something strange happening in this town and I’m trying to understand it. When I know more, you’ll know more. For now, I just need you to promise to keep your mouth shut and eyes open. Can you do that for me?”

Janie swallows harshly, poking her tongue out to lick her lips. Usually she had some sort of snarky comment on her lips but the waver in your voice let her know that this was serious business.

“Yeah, yeah I can do that for you.”

“Good. Call me if you notice anything.”

Click.

You avoid Marcus’s glare boring a hole in your back, moving from the bed and into your closet.

“Where are you going?”

You nearly chuckle at your own response. “To see a doctor.”

Dr. Narduzzi’s office was situated near the edge of town, partially hidden by the overgrown greenery. Despite his shy exterior, Jean was quite the socialite, known to frequent many of the bars and taverns. Upon meeting the scrawny gentleman, you were unsure of what to make of him. He rubbed you in all the wrong ways, his loud and boastful personality clashed with yours directly.  Over time you began to see beneath the surface and learned to appreciate his eccentric methods.

Honestly, he had become one of your closest confidants.

As you entered his office, you noticed his secretary, Margot, was not present. The entire place was empty, except for a repeating thud sound coming from Jean’s study near the back of the building.

The door was open and that’s where you find the psychiatrist, launching darts at a board.

He flicks his wrist and sends a dart flying, narrowly missing the bullseye.

“You’re a very busy man, I see.” you remark, sitting down in an armchair. You applauded him for the velvet material, you would purchase something like this for your own office but loathed the cleaning process that came with it.

“As always, my dear. As I remember, we have not scheduled our regular tête a tête, so this is a business meeting,” he throws another dart and misses, landing in the outer right corner. “What can I help you with today?”

“I think I’m losing my mind.”

Jean’s toothy gap smile almost covered his whole face. He haphazardly throws the remaining darts in his hand all at the same time, not caring where they end up as he sits at his desk. “Tell me more.”

“Last night, I had this dream where I was antagonized by..myself. I was looking at my reflection except it wasn’t in a mirror, she was standing right in front of me.”

Narduzzi squints his eyes as he nods, hanging onto every word you said. You don’t spend much longer describing the dream, the recounting of the story sending chills down your spine.

“That’s very interesting.” Jean thinks, rocking himself back and forth in his chair.

“I don’t need interesting, I need a solution.”

Jeans tsks. “A solution only comes when there’s something to be fixed.”

“Oh, don’t give me this metaphorical bullshit now, Jean. What does this mean? I haven’t mentioned it before, not even to Marcus but I’ve been having hallucinations and dreams like this prior to last night. I just assumed I was dehydrated, stressed or whatever but this is clearly something.”

“Mhm. Well, I know that the mirror and our reflection show us our true selves.” He rubs at his jaw.

“Are you saying that a part of me wants what she wants?”

“Potentially,” Jean gets up from his chair, coming to stoop in front of you. He grabs your hands, rubbing them in between his own. “While I do think there are some clear signs of stress and exhaustion, I think you should listen to your body. Give in. You may be surprised to see what you discover.”

The smile on your face fades as Jean squeeze’s your hands tighter, his grip pinching at your skin.

“Jean-”

You struggle in his hold, unsure of what to make of this.

“Jean, please, let go. You’re hurting me.” you breath out a panicked laugh, mustering up all of your body strength to throw him off of you.

“Don’t you get it? All the signs, practically handed to you on a silver platter. Let her in and all will be well. You can be one of us.”

Your fight or flight instincts kick in and you tackle Jean, the both of you tumbling around on the ground until you manage to escape him. You scoop up your keys and cellphone, dashing out of the door.

You don’t dare look behind you as you enter your car, skirting out of the parking lot and onto the main road. You barely let your feet up off the gas until you reach home, throwing your car in park and making a run for the front door.

You were in such a state that you didn’t notice the extra car in your driveway.

“Marcus? Marcus!” you yell, tearing through the kitchen and living room. Marcus emerges from his office, Sydney and Danny in tow.

“We have a problem.” you pant, short-winded.

Marcus looks grim. “Yeah, we do. That thing, it woke up.”