#to just random piles and boxes scattered around

[aheeheemwhimper]

since when can your life expand to be able to encompass all that you wish to be doing with it? how long could so much more have been incorporated into it while instead it was shrinking as you removed every significant aspect from it?

[callsigns-haze]

Meet and greet

Summary: Jake proudly introduces his daughter to the Dagger Squad in their unfinished San Diego home, where teasing and affection blend as they embrace her as part of their extended family.

Warning: Mild teasing, lighthearted banter, mentions of unfinished home construction, family bonding moments.

Word count: 1367 words

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x reader

English is not my first language so I apologies for mistakes

Could be read alone or as a one-shot of the little life universe

It was a warm, golden afternoon when you first stepped into the new house in San Diego. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a rich glow over everything it touched. The house itself was bathed in this soft light, a stark contrast to its cold, unfinished interior. The air outside still held a hint of autumn chill, but inside, the sun filtered through the uncovered windows, filling the empty rooms with a warmth that softened the raw edges of the place. The floor was bare, an expanse of concrete where future hardwood would eventually go. The walls were mostly drywall—some unfinished, others completely absent—revealing exposed beams and the skeletal structure of what would one day be your home. There were no countertops, no cabinetry, and aside from the few boxes scattered about, the place was still more of a construction zone than a liveable space.

But this was the first time you’d seen it. The first time you had walked through the front door with Ellie, who was four months old now, her tiny body resting in the crook of your arm. She stirred, her bright green eyes—Jake’s eyes—blinking sleepily in the dim light as she adjusted to the new surroundings. You cradled her closer, gently smoothing a lock of her fine blonde hair that had slipped out of place. She was curious but quiet, taking in the unfamiliar shapes and shadows around her, her small mouth slightly open in wonder.

“It's... a work in progress,” you said, your voice light but laced with amusement. You glanced over at Jake, raising an eyebrow, and the corner of your lips quirked into a smile.

Jake, standing a few steps behind you, shifted his weight with a sheepish grin. He rubbed the back of his neck in that familiar way he always did when he was trying to downplay something. “Yeah, it still needs some love. And, you know... counters. And walls.”

Your chuckle echoed faintly through the empty space. “More of a construction site than a house, Seresin,” you teased, shaking your head as you walked further into what was supposed to be the living room. The sunlight streamed in through the large windows on the far wall, casting long, golden streaks across the floor.

“I know, I know,” he said, his voice softening as he moved closer, his hand resting at the small of your back. “But I wanted you to see it.” He leaned in, his lips brushing the top of Ellie’s head in a tender kiss, and she gurgled softly in response, her little fingers curling and uncurling against your chest. “This is where we’ll be someday, when it’s all done,” Jake continued, his voice full of quiet promise. “Our home.”

The words hung between you for a moment, and you could feel the weight of them—what they meant. It wasn’t just about the house, but the life you were building together. You leaned into him slightly, your eyes drifting over the exposed beams and unfinished drywall, imagining what it would be like when the house was complete. You could already see the living room filled with furniture, the sound of Ellie’s laughter filling the space as she learned to walk, as she grew up.

But for now, it was just the three of you in this shell of a house, with boxes piled in random corners and dust settling in the sunlight. And yet, there was a certain magic in it, a sense of potential waiting to be realized.

“And I figured it was about time the squad met their favourite little girl,” Jake added, his grin widening as he pulled back slightly to meet your gaze. There was a twinkle in his eye, a mischievous light that reminded you of the playful, cocky man you had fallen for, but now softened by the weight of fatherhood.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound escaping before you could stop it. “Oh God, I can only imagine the teasing that's coming,” you said, shaking your head.

As if on cue, the unmistakable sound of tires crunching on the gravel driveway reached your ears. You turned toward the front of the house just as several cars pulled up in quick succession. A few moments later, the door creaked open, and in they came—like a whirlwind. Rooster was the first through the door, his aviators still perched on his nose, even though the sun was beginning to set. He was followed by Phoenix, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, with Payback and Fanboy right behind her. Coyote lingered at the back, his easy grin already in place, knowing exactly what was about to unfold.

Phoenix was the first to speak, her eyes immediately landing on Ellie, who was still nestled against your chest, her head resting on your shoulder. “Well, well, if it isn’t the famous Ellie Seresin!” she said, her voice laced with mock surprise as she crossed the room in a few quick strides. She reached Jake first, giving him a playful shove. “I still can’t believe Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin has a daughter. The world is officially upside down.”

Ellie blinked up at Phoenix, her big green eyes wide with curiosity, her little mouth forming a small ‘o’ as she tried to make sense of this new face. She kicked her legs slightly, the fabric of her tiny onesie bunching up around her chubby thighs.

“She’s got his eyes,” Rooster chimed in, coming up behind Phoenix, a grin already spreading across his face. “But thank God she doesn’t have his attitude.”

Jake groaned, rolling his eyes but clearly expecting the jab. “Can’t you just be nice for once?”

“Nope,” Phoenix said with a smirk, leaning down to coo at Ellie. “This is payback for every time you’ve called me slow or trash-talked me in the air.”

Fanboy and Payback joined in, their laughter filling the empty space. “Seriously, Jake,” Payback said, chuckling as Ellie let out a small yawn, “I thought you’d be a terrible influence on a kid. But look at her—she’s perfect.”

Jake, his face flushed with a mix of pride and exasperation, shook his head. “I must be doing something right, then.”

“Or maybe YN’s the one keeping you in line,” Coyote piped up from the back, his grin wide and knowing. He had always been the one to see through Jake’s bravado, the only one who truly understood how much fatherhood had softened him, how much Ellie had changed him.

As the squad continued their good-natured ribbing, each of them took turns getting closer to Ellie, their teasing gradually shifting into softer, more affectionate tones. Rooster ran a gentle finger along the back of her tiny hand, his expression uncharacteristically tender. Phoenix kept making little cooing noises that made Ellie blink and smile, her toothless grin brightening the entire room.

“I gotta say,” Phoenix said eventually, straightening up and crossing her arms as she looked between you and Jake, “I never thought I’d see the day when Jake Seresin would be this soft. But here we are.”

Jake, always one to play it cool, shrugged, though the smirk on his face was undeniable. “What can I say? She’s got me wrapped around her finger.”

“She sure does,” Rooster agreed, grinning. “But don’t think this means we’re going easy on you in the air.”

The banter carried on, with the squad teasing Jake mercilessly, but beneath it all, there was a palpable sense of admiration, even love. They might have been a bunch of rowdy aviators, but in this moment, they were family. And Ellie, despite being so small, was already the centre of it all.

Eventually, Ellie dozed off in your arms, her tiny fist clutching at the fabric of your shirt as her breathing deepened. The noise of the room faded into the background, and you leaned against one of the unfinished walls, watching as Jake stood in the middle of the squad, a proud father, surrounded by the people who had been through so much with him.

In that moment, the house—still raw, still unfinished—felt like home. Not because of the walls or the counters or the floors, but because of the people inside it.

If you'd like to be tagged let me know!

[warping-realities]

Where Would You Rather Be? (Redux)

A collaboration with the amazing @johnbrand

“You know I love you, right?” Malcolm reaffirmed to his boyfriend. “And I’m here for you, babe.”

It had been a hell of a week for Shane. He had been living in the city for almost ten years now, moving there for college and then sticking around after graduation. It was a scary transition, but thanks to the quick friends he made, the ride was a bit easier. One of them, Shane’s freshman roommate—who he had lived with and then kept close since they met—got an eviction notice the week before. Shane had been as supportive as he could through the whole mess, but watching his buddy pack up and leave was a real kick in the gut. His friend would now be living hours away, no longer right next door.

Shane nodded his head, followed by a quick “Thanks, babe.”

“I’m happy to be the shoulder you can cry on, I know this sucks” Malcolm sympathized. “Still wanna grab dinner tonight? We can bail on the plans if you need some time.”

“Nah, I’ll be fine,” Shane said with a slight smile. “Plus, it’s our third anniversary—you’ve done more than your fair share, and I’m super grateful for that.”

Malcolm chuckled, quickly snatching Shane from behind. “Then maybe you’ll have to show some gratitude later tonight.”

Rolling his eyes, Shane still returned the passionate kiss from his boyfriend.

That night, he found himself back in his own home. After climbing a few flights of stairs, he was surprised to find his buddy’s old apartment door wide open. Curious, Shane peeked in, and without thinking twice, he stepped into the familiar space, now filled with unknown furniture, boxes, and other random junk scattered around.

Before he could snoop around, a voice from behind barked at him to move aside. “Get outta the way, bro!”

The rich baritone caught Shane so off guard that he jumped a bit, scurrying as a big dude stomped through the doorway before dropping a few boxes. At least six feet tall, the buff, masculine intruder immediately intimidated Shane. Shirtless, barefoot, and rocking some tiny shorts that could easily be mistaken for underwear. Probably due to the effort of hauling all those boxes, the muscular man gave off a strong, manly odor that quickly overwhelmed Shane’s senses. In fact, all of his senses, although he didn’t really realize it. The stranger smiled cockily, sizing Shane up with eyes glinting with mischief before speaking.

“Mind being useful and helping me organize the rest of my stuff?” the man asked. Shane, a bit freaked out by the pure masculinity in front of him, didn’t say a word. The guy didn’t need his response, though, knowing Shane would help him out no matter what. Shane couldn’t explain what came over him; his mouth was just hanging open while cardboard boxes were dumped into his waiting arms.

In minutes, he was soaked in sweat, having to peel off layer after layer of clothing as he helped the stranger organize the apartment. His mind screamed at the absurdity of the situation, yet he kept doing what the man asked him to do like a robot. After an hour of relentless work, the guy, noticing Shane’s drenched clothes, pulled out a change of clothes from one of the boxes still piled in a corner.

“Put these on, thank goodness I wear extra-large, bro, so they should fit your chubby ass!” he said, flexing his muscles and releasing another wave of that masculine musk from his armpits.

Drowsy Shane picked up the clearly unwashed tank top and gym shorts, reeking of that same animal musk but concentrated from days of use. That scent almost made him hurl.

“What are you waiting for, man? Put these on already. We still got work to do.”

Once again, not understanding why, Shane felt compelled to obey, stripping down in front of his new neighbor until he was left only in his underwear. He was already putting on his shorts when the man interrupted him.

“No, man, you gotta let the jewels breathe. Not that they take up much space, from what I can see, but there’s no reason to squeeze the poor things,” he quipped, bursting into laughter, and Shane, even without getting the joke, found himself laughing along. When he was finally dressed in the provided clothes, completely engulfed by the animalistic smell, the man approached him with a grin.

“Back to work, man, a little more exercise and maybe you’ll fill out those clothes just right,” he said with a smirk. Shane just nodded and kept working.

Before he knew it, another two hours had flown by, and the apartment now had a minimally organized look, unlike the previous chaos. The night fully enveloped the dimly lit room.

“Martin,” the mysterious man finally offered his name, alongside a giant meaty hand that crushed Shane’s. “Are you my new neighbor?”

“Uh... yeah,” Shane finally spoke, pointing to the wall their apartments would share.

“Cool, bro,” Martin replied. “Wanna chill on the balcony with me for a bit?”

Shane checked his watch, noting that there was still some time before he had to get ready for his dinner date. “Sure.” Following the muscular alpha outside, Shane took a seat on the wicker couch while waiting for Martin. He did his best to plan out the remaining time he had. Not realizing that the tight outfit now seemed to hang off his body, which in the last few hours had shed a good amount of fat while gaining a little muscle, revealing a face that was somewhere between cute and handsome.

“Sit over there,” Martin directed as he stepped onto the balcony. Shane didn’t think twice about getting up and moving aside so Martin could sit on the couch. It wasn’t until he moved to the other side of the coffee table that Shane realized Martin wanted him to sit on the deck.

“That’s right, faggot. Sit in front of my feet,” Martin said, the friendly smile fading from his face as he propped his giant, smelly feet up on the table.

Shane was shocked, offended by his neighbor’s sudden bigotry. The lame joke about the size of his dick was one thing, but this vocabulary was degrading and... the smell of a full day’s work was coming off those giant boards Martin called feet. And Shane train of thought completely derailed. So he did as he was told, taking his seat in front of the two massive soles placed before him. Somewhat exasperated by the incomprehensible actions he had taken up until that point and anxious not to miss his meeting with his boyfriend, Shane shifted uncomfortably in the awkward spot, to the point that Martin himself noticed.

“You got any plans tonight, fag?” Martin questioned.

In a flustered, embarrassed, and strangely lustful state, Shane answered, “Yeah, I have an anniversary dinner with my boyfriend.”

Martin snickered. “And when is that?”

“I should start getting ready in 10 minutes,” Shane’s response was robotic. “I’ve gotta shower, get dressed, wrap my present, and then travel.”

Martin mulled this over for a bit, relishing the fact that Shane would wait for his next prompt. He was completely overtaken by the scent that wafted from the other man. Martin’s natural musk and body odor held an authority over him like nothing else ever had.

“Let me make you a deal, faggot,” Martin finally said. “You can bounce now, get ready, and have a great night with your loving boyfriend. Or you can stay seated right where you are, at the feet of a straight man, waiting for my next command and finally discover what it’s like to be a real man!”

Shane didn’t reply, shocked by what Martin was insinuating. With casual indifference, Martin wiggled his toes in front of Shane, knowing the silence was already his answer. But in true alpha fashion, Martin made sure to hammer his superiority home.

“Where would you rather be, faggot?” he asked, with his feet releasing another wave of potent funk towards an already completely subdued prey.

They stayed there without saying a word: Martin laid-back, comfortable, and minding his own business, and Shane at his feet. Neither got up as time ticked by. In his head, Shane’s plans slowly morphed. He didn’t need to wrap Malcolm’s present, he didn’t need to shower, he didn’t even need to change. Eventually, the anniversary dinner came and went, and Shane was still at the feet of the straight man.

“Well, now that you’ve made your choice I gotta keep my promise, right, sissy boy? But to be my bro, you gotta become a real man, don’t you, Shotgun?”

“My name is…”

“Shut up, sissy boy. You’ll be able to talk when you’re a man and have a place to sit by my side, not at my feet!”

Imbued by Martin’s potent scent and words of dominance, Shane fell silent.

“I don’t give a damn what you were known for, Shotgun,” Martin retorted, making the smaller man shiver at the sound of that nickname. “I don’t care about your art degree or the lame job you do or the degenerate things you do with your fag boyfriend. And that doesn’t matter to you either, Shotgun, because it’s not real, but what I’m gonna tell you now is that it is real, and your jelly brain is gonna do its best to make it happen.” The man concluded, lifting both arms and releasing the most powerful wave of musk yet, taking Shane... or Shotgun?... what kind of name is that? That didn’t matter, only the wave of nauseating smell that invaded him.

“Take it like a man, Shotgun,” Martin ordered, and he obeyed. “What you’re gonna do is very simple, I want you to think about all the jocks who humiliated you in school, the fraternity brothers who often give each other nicknames just like yours, Shotgun, which you certainly mocked but deep down envied. I want you to think about all the real men you and your faggot friends called toxic behind their backs without having the guts to face them. I want you to picture yourself as one of them, with all the stereotypes of white cis straight men, yada yada yada bullshit that your liberal faggot mind has stored. I want you to take all their traits and slap them on yourself. Habits, behavior, conduct, appearance, desires, thoughts, everything! Yeah, everything you think about guys like me applied to you. When you’re done, Shotgun, then we’ll talk man to man, and only then I’ll wanna know more about my new bro. A bro who scored this awesome apartment for a fellow frat brother moving across the country as soon as he heard someone just like him was moving here, just for the spirit of brotherhood that exists between real men that your old self would never have been able to grasp! Do it now!

The wave of nausea hit its peak; Shane felt the vomit rising in his throat but held it back, swallowing it down again, while another sensation took over his head, a feeling of being invaded and violated, his mind dominated by a relentless buzz, his vision flooded with a myriad of colors, while his whole body itched as if a million ants were crawling over him. The whole situation was overwhelming. And it got worse when his memories and recollections started to twist and reform, everything he was being tangled up in a whirlwind of misinformation. He found himself facing several traumatic situations from his life, but in reverse roles; the bullying he suffered turning into the bullying he practiced, the sports activities observed from afar being felt and lived, the toxic behavior going from being judged to being experienced and appreciated. And with that, new memories surfacing, time in the gym sculpting his body to perfection, nights of sex with various women whose names he didn’t even remember, his work at the art gallery replaced by a finance job earned not through talent but through connections made via his fraternity brothers. At last the image of Malcolm, the great love of his life, being erased. In an internal scream of despair, he tried to cling to that safe harbor, but that ship had already sailed to new waters, taking with it his humility, knowledge, empathy, and kindness. Leaving only inflated self-confidence, privilege, and respect only for those he considers equal or superior.

As the night wore on and Shane’s inner turmoil reached its peak, his exterior was undergoing its own transformation. His muscles were going into overdrive. They just kept contracting and expanding. Over and over. Lost in jumbled thoughts, he couldn’t feel his bones stretching longer. But each one was stretching out to its new length, growing denser to support his new weight. His average build quickly disappeared as muscle packed onto his recent lean frame. Little by little, he felt constricted by Martin’s clothing. The shirt pulled at his chest and shoulders while the shorts barely contained his thick, muscular ass, with his thighs growing like tree trunks, stretching the fabric to its limit. His shoulders broadened, turning into large round orbs jutting from his sides. Two mighty pecs pushed a bit in front of him while a firm set of abs grew more defined right underneath. His biceps bulged out of his arms while his forearms widened to support the new strength building within him. Amid the chaos of conflicting memories, his average-sized dick, the butt of Martin’s jokes, quickly grew to new heights. What had been his maximum hard was now his flaccid member. His calves grew to the size of most men thighs. Meanwhile, his feet grew well beyond the previous size 8, increasing to the point of competing with Martin’s stinky paws, which had to be at least size 13. The changes also hit his face, which took on a more squared-off, rugged look, with his button nose growing and turning into an aquiline nose that could’ve easily been broken in a fight, which only reinforced the raw masculinity taking over from his previous cuteness.

Finally, a smile formed on his chiseled face, oozing confidence and displaying his internal arrogance for all to see.

Seeing that smile appear, Martin knew his work was nearly done. And when that new Shane let out a fart and a burp, he knew it was all over. Feeling that new putrid smell mix with his own musk, he turned to the other man.

“Damn, Shotgun, you’re rank!”

“I didn’t get the name Shotgun Shane for nothing, man; it was for the shots I could take back in college, but I almost got called Stinkbomb for what I let out. Now, if you’re gonna complain about the smell, you better get those damn feet outta my face!” Shane shot back, his arrogant smile widening. This made Martin lift his feet off Shane’s face while cracking up.

“I knew we’d be best bros the moment we met, Shotgun,” he said, admiring the result of his handiwork.

“Me too, bro; way better having you as a neighbor than that faggot who lived here before.”

“If you compare me to some queer again, I’m gonna mess you up.”

“You can try!” Shane replied, flexing one of his powerful arms before continuing. “But you’re right, there’s no comparison, dude. To make it up to you, how about I take you to check out the hottest club in town? Celebrate the move by picking up some chicks?”

“Now you’re speaking my language, bro!”

….

Martin hated waiting on others, even though he himself had no problem showing up late. Apparently, Shane inherited that same trait during his transformation. The other man had gone home, took forever in the shower, and then posted some pretty provocative videos on his social media. The first one showed off his well-developed muscles while he seductively invited all the girls interested in him to meet him and his best bro at a city club.

In the second video, he just slid the camera down, revealing the huge package he had stuck in his underwear. All of this under the suggestive caption, “You really gonna miss this?”

Martin was super stoked with the results of his actions. Moving to a new city was tricky, but having a bro made it a whole lot easier, no matter that bro had been crafted by him. Still, he wondered if he hadn’t put too much of himself into the other man while he waited for him with a frown and his arms crossed. After a reasonable amount of waiting, he saw the gigantic figure strutting toward him down the first-floor corridor and was sure he had indeed put too much of himself into the other man, which could lead to some friction in the future when they had to sort out their power dynamics, but at that moment, that didn’t matter; he just wanted to have a good time, and there wouldn’t be better company than someone who was practically him in another body.

That became even clearer when Shane stopped in front of his irritated face and flexed his muscles playfully.

“What’s with the ugly mug, dude? You wanna throw down?”

“The ugly mug is because you took your sweet time, Shotgun! And you can joke all you want, but you can’t compete with this,” he replied, flexing one of his powerful arms. “Now let’s go after some hot chicks, or what?”

….

Malcolm didn’t quite know why he was in that dump of bigotry and toxicity. He just felt like something was missing and couldn’t quite put his finger on what. His trip to the place was the result of an Instagram video where one of the typical patrons invited all the interested bitches to come on down. Malcolm didn’t consider himself a bitch and usually would’ve laughed if someone said he might be into a dude like that, yet here he was. Knowing he had no chance of getting close to that man radiating toxicity. But only when he saw that self-proclaimed Shotgun Shane chatting up a hot young woman did something stir within him, a memory of a passionate kiss shared just that morning.

“S-Shane…?” he murmured, though he didn’t know exactly who this man was, he felt something deeply wrong was going on. While he stood there, dumbfounded, the man made his move and kissed the woman, which made him decide to leave the place as he was hit by another wave of strangeness and sadness mixed together.

However, he wasn’t the only one watching the scene; on the other side of the club, Martin saw his supposed wingman score before he did.

“Damn, I really put too much of myself in that dude,” he muttered as he weaved through the crowd. That’s when he saw Malcolm hurrying along with a look of confusion.

Well, if his wingman bailed on him, he could just make another one, right? It’s not like there was a shortage of material to work with, as that other faggot’s presence left abundantly clear. He just needed to be a bit more careful not to overdo it again, although he didn’t really have that refined of a control over the final result, and the most likely outcome would be ending up with another bro exactly like him. But he didn’t care that much; to him, there wouldn’t be better company than his own, and if someone asked him where and with whom he rather be, the answer would always be the same, he thought, smiling as he approached his future bro.

[47lake]

valentine's

synopsis: billie comes home late on valentine’s day with lots of surprises, she’s willing to try just about anything if it will make you feel good.

you’re sitting alone in your apartment, music playing, lights dimmed, you even have on her favorite lacy set of yours.

the clock showed 11:45 pm. she texted you an hour and a half ago that she was on the way home, and there you sat, waiting for her arrival. it only takes her thirty minutes or less to get home, what was taking her so long?? and on valentine's day???

you were just about to call it a night and head to bed as you hear the door knob rattle, finally. she comes in, arms full of bags.

“i’m sorry i was late baby, i promise it’ll be worth it.”

she turns around to see you lounged across the couch, on display for her.

she drops everything and rushes over to you. she pulls you off the couch and into her arms, kissing you eagerly.

“you look so pretty.”

came from her lips between kisses. you kiss her and then pull away, distracted.

“so.. whats with the bags?”

she jumped and practically ran over to them.

“i just picked up a few things i thought you would like!”

an innocent smile covered her pretty face as she picked up a bag and it read ‘spencer’s’ across the front. your face instantly turned red and heated up, were all these bags from spencer’s???? what the hell did she buy????

she picked up the bags and grabbed your hand to walk you to your bedroom, she laid you and the bags on the bed as she scrambled for a pair of scissors.

“don’t peek!”

she shouted from the kitchen, and just like that she was back again.

she dumped all the bags out at once, toys scattering the bed. a new dildo, a vibrator, body safe wax, just to name a few of the things you saw.

“happy valentine’s day sweet girl,”

she grinned, you covered your face at the sight.

“billie..”

she looked up from her collection with a proud smile.

“what’s the matter?”

she teased, she could obviously tell you were flustered by the sight in front of you. she reached her hand in the pile and grabbed a box at random, out came a blindfold with her hand.

she smiled and you could tell she was already picturing all the things she could do with it. she pushed the rest of the stuff off the bed and climbed over next to you. you looked at her, waiting for her command.

she silently took the blindfold out of the box and whispered in your ear.

“hold still.”

as she slipped it over your head. once it was on everything was pitch black, but you liked it. you could hear billie scrambling out of her clothes, holding in your giggle when you heard her almost trip over her pants.

you suddenly felt her warm lips against your neck, a loud gasp spilling out of your mouth, billie chuckling against your skin.

she kissed along your jaw. you ran your hands through her hair as she made her way to your lips. kissing her like you needed that kiss more than you needed air. you felt her warm hands undoing the clasp of your bra and slipping off the set you spent ages picking out just for her.

the air felt much colder when you were fully exposed for her, you shivered and gasped as she lightly ran her fingers across your skin.

you could practically see that cocky smile through this blindfold. suddenly she was kissing along the inside of your thighs, you squirmed wishing she would just fuck you already.

“fuck me, billie!”

you begged her, you needed it more than anything.

“say please.”

she spoke against your skin.

“please baby,”

as soon as those words fell from your lips she was already pushing her tongue inside of you, your back arched off the bed, hand immediately finding its way to her hair.

you were a mess of moans and whines as she tasted you like you were her last meal. your thighs tight around her head, tongue flat against your clit with her fingers quickly pumping in and out of your dripping heat.

“billie.. i need more..”

you whined, hips bucking.

“yeah?!”

you heard her get up in excitement followed shortly by boxes rumbling around on the floor, she was obviously searching for something. you heard her basically destroying a box and running to your shared closet, fumbling with something as she got closer.

“hold still, sweet girl.”

she whispered in your ear as she lifted you up by your hips and flipped you over so you were face down, ass up for her.

“you always look so pretty like this.”

you felt something against your entrance, gasping as a dildo slowed slipped inside of you, knuckles white as you gripped the sheets.

she paused when your hips were flesh against each other. leaning down to kiss your shoulder.

“you’re doing such a good job”

she mumbled into your skin.

“faster.”

you cried, your words muffled from your face against the bed.

she grabbed a handful of your hair and pulled you up, using it to pull you back against the strap as she fucked you. her pace wild as you felt the warmth of her breath against your shoulder as she leaned down to kiss it.

“billie make me cum, please.” her fingers found home against your clit, tracing fast circles against it as she fucked you harder.

your moans getting louder and more sporadic as you felt the knot in your stomach get tighter.

“cum for me, baby.”

she whispered in your ear, and just like that you unwound against her strap, sighing heavily as your body fell limp against the bed. she slipped the strap off and pulled the blindfold off your face.

“i told you it would be worth it.”

this one is a bit long, my bad! hope this is not total shit 😣

[k0yaz]

Helloooooo I'm not the Acheron anon but I'm probably just as down bad as the both of you she's literally everything to me and I absolutely love the way you've been writing her so I'm dragging my down-bad self to your box to ask for more crumbs 🥺

If it's not too much trouble can I request a one-shot with vampire Acheron? I've had thoughts about her white-haired emanator form (I mean have u seen her stance in the character info menu when in the ult IT'S SO GOOD AHHHHH) and I just feel like she'd be a very convincing vampire in that form. Can be sfw or nsfw I'll leave the decision up to the chef ;)

Sorry this isn't super concrete or anything it's my first time sending an ask but I couldn't help myself... Next time I crawl back into your ask box I'll try and give u more to work with I promise 😅

trepidation.

Pairings: acheron x fem!reader

CW: sfw, female reader, vampire au, vamp acheron my beloved, suggestive, blood, yummy, slight horror scary oooooo, it’s ok yall will be fine it’s just acheron being weird, I WROTE THIS AT 2 AM and I’m too eepy rn, I’m scared it didn’t turn out good, fluffy yay, not proofread.

A/N: i love all the other acheron lovers here yall are amazing ALSO I AGREE ON THE WHITE HAIR FORM PART IT LEGIT REMINDED ME OF A VAMPIRE and off topic but yall should’ve seen me when I was first pulling for her when she came out back then I was PRAYING like someone pull me off the fucking ceiling atp 🕯️

Blurry sights of the dim candlelight filled your vision as you blinked opened your eyes, your entire body limp and splayed out on the mattress. Each deep breath made your chest rise and fall rhythmically, scanning the room for any oddities present. A sudden sense of uneasiness washed over you upon remembering where you were, hands scrambling to your throat and brushing your fingers along your skin to find any traces of a bite.

A relived sigh blew from your lips upon failing to find any sign of the woman you were currently living with potentially sipping your throat as if it was a hearty snack. Acheron never drank any blood from you, nor had she even attempted. She’d usually cocoon herself in a random spot within the manor whenever hunger overtook her, attempting to control herself as shivers racked her body each time. It wasn’t the most pleasant sight to say the least. You found yourself engulfed with a sense of alarm each time you saw one of Acheron’s unnerving reactions.

The way her blood red eyes drilled into you made your pulse nearly cease from pure terror, stomach nearly dropping as your chest tightened in those moments. However, Acheron never mauled you like your internal self told you she would. Your thoughts exaggerated a bit, sure. But a vampire allowing you to live with her without anything in return couldn’t help but raise a few suspicions within you, she surely wanted your blood, right?

You were still a bit wobbly in your movements when you rose to your feet, heavy lidded eyes blinking groggily as you shouldered the heavy red curtains to the side. Faint rays of the orange light diffused into your room, giving view to the small cemetery garden located right below the large mansion. The solid stone tombs stuck out of the ground firmly, piles of soil scattered at the foot of the gravestones. You couldn’t help but think to yourself at the halfwitted thought process that could’ve gone into placing a cemetery garden right next to a vampire’s residence, also striking in the possibility that Acheron could’ve been the reason for half of the tombs in there.

The thick crimson curtains barely allowed any light to pass through, their deepened color bearing an uncanny resemblance to blood. Still a bit uncoordinated, you decided to pace around your room in circles to recollect yourself, bare feet thudding against the spruce flooring.

“You’re awake.”

The sudden low voice struck your body upright, slowly turning around to be met with Acheron’s piercing eyes. You rubbed your elbow bashfully as your chest tightened once more, feeling a sense of clawing fear once more within you. You couldn’t help it, she was terrifying. Every time she’d walk up behind you or toward you, even with good intentions, your heart felt like threads had wrapped around the beating muscle, and tugged outward to bury the threads within it.

“Sorry if I startled you.” Acheron replied coldly, seemingly being able to sense your fear. You let out a pathetic cough in response, attempting to cover up your initial trepidation. “Right- ah..don’t worry about it, Acheron. I’m just a little tired.”

Nodding, Acheron rolled her shoulders back as a stretch before turning away from you. You tilted your head at her avoidant behavior, the evident ominous feeling lingering in the air. She had always been the quiet type, yet something seemed…off. Shrugging, you shouldered past Acheron silently, keeping your gaze locked onto the ground or the ceiling—anything but her.

Your muscles tensed upon feeling her skin graze yours, puzzled at the odd feeling. It was warm, yet cold at the same time. The specks of vermillion cracking up her arms and seeping down the collar of her neck felt different from her bare skin. Yet the strangest thing was, she had tensed up as well as you brushed your shoulder against hers, as if she feared you just as much as you feared her. However, that couldn’t be the case.

After heading to the first floor of the manor, you couldn’t help but pick up on the thick ominous atmosphere clouding the entire place. The housekeepers themselves were shaken up too, all disheveled as if they hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep the previous night. A heavy feeling seemed to weigh down your body, as a sense of caution rang within your head. It was as if gravity had tripled, yet the day didn’t seem off, just normal like usual.

You mulled over all the possibilities as to why such an unsettling tension plagued the entire space, not being able to think of even one. That was until the faint sound of ragged breaths grew louder and louder, each breath increasing in volume than the last. The noises formed a disturbing bitterness piling up inside your throat, making you recoil physically as you heard how strained and guttural each cycle of inhales and exhales were. No doubt, it was probably Acheron.

Swallowing back your fear, you headed up the stairs slowly, time nearly stopping as your breath hitched with each anticipated step. You felt like a large, heavy stone was resting within your stomach as you stood before the door, a sliver of dim light peeking through the slight opening. Acheron’s huddled form made you feel all the more worried, brows furrowing and wrinkling up your face as you saw her body twitch occasionally.

Her white hair draped down her back and over her shoulders as her back hunched over, nails digging into her own arms as she hissed in pained intake of air through her fangs. You gently creaked the door open, making her jerk in response, but still facing away from you. Although you were afraid of Acheron, it hurt to see her like this, in pain and keeping to herself.

“Acheron..?”

You began in a hushed voice as to not startle her, reaching a hand out carefully. She was quick to snap her head around, fingers nearly bruising her hugged arms. You drew your hand back to your chest as it seemed to instinctively repel from Acheron’s bloodthirsty gaze. Her hand was pressed against her mouth as she squeezed her eyes shut. It almost seemed like…she was in pain? Surges of pity for this poor woman’s famished state began to race through your mind.

“Sorry.” She croaked out hoarsely, trying to keep her voice indifferent yet evidently failing. You felt your heart almost burn at the sting of guilt you felt when she apologized, wanting to take her in your arms and hold her tight. You felt like you were in love with her all over again-

Wait, love?

You feared her, why was your brain suddenly spewing nonsense claiming to be in love with her?

No. That wasn’t it.

The reason you’d avoided Acheron was due to the way you couldn’t properly articulate your feelings to her. How you wanted to grow closer to this alluring woman and caress her cheek, whispering into her ear tenderly. How you wanted her fangs to dig into your throat and swallow each drop of your blood carefully like a divine meal she’d be honored to consume. Fear was just a mask used to avoid the fact that you’d fallen in love with someone your kind would’ve killed in an instant. Someone who your parents had always told you to beware of.

You quickly circled your arms around Acheron, squeezing her as you leaned into her back. Her expression softened, her breathing still heavy, yet seemingly calming down at your touch.

“(Name)…?”

“Hungry?”

She nodded at your upfront question visibly ashamed and embarrassed. You only pulled her to your chest, pale strands tickling your face as you buried your face into her silky hair. Acheron rested her hand atop yours which was encircled around her stomach, shaky sighs pushing past her parted lips periodically. Your thumb massaged soothing circles against her skin, eyes gently closed as you pressed a kiss to the shell of her ear.

“It’s alright. I’m here.”

Her eyelids drooped in comfort as she felt warmth course through her veins, her breathing still echoed throughout the manor, yet it seemed to calmed down quite a bit. Acheron slowly began to regain some semblance of calmness, her heavy lidded eyes locking up onto you from below. You simply flashed her a soft smile, finding it useless to hide any longer as you pulled her to your chest.

And it didn’t take long for you to unbutton your collar, tilting your neck to the side.

A/N: IM SORRY IF THE PLOT WAS TOO SUDDEN I NEED HER SO BADLY RN IM GONNA GO BUY AN ACHERON PLUSHIE ATP AND ITS SUPER LAYE SND IM SLEEPY IM SORRY 💔

I promise my next work will be better

I hate how this turned out

[trulybetty]

toothache.

pairing: joel x unnamed ofc word count: 1,305 warnings: none, just a itty bitty ficlet estimated reading time: 6 minutes summary: just a little random thing that hit this afternoon in my notes app and couldn't stop adding to it. ao3: linked

Her love for him didn't come like a strike of lightning, love at first sight or even like at first sight. No, it'd been more like a toothache. A dull persistent throb, easy to ignore with a couple of painkillers, and just move on.

People didn't seem to understand, "He's so lovely!" they'd say, "Such a handsome man", "how is he even single after all this time?" She would just roll her eyes, force a polite half-smile as she continued sliding tins of soup or boxes of cereal into her cart. It happened almost every time she had to go to the local grocery store on the corner of Stillman and Cross, where everyone seemed to know everyone.

Older women would lean in conspiratorially, all ruffled blouses and pearl necklaces as they tried to solve a mystery she wanted no part in. Even the cashier, a young teen with thick-framed glasses, would lift an eyebrow, as if expecting a juicy morsel. But she'd offered them nothing, just a shrug of her shoulders. After all, she was there to get groceries—not entertain gossip.

But then, much like a persistent toothache she couldn't shake, he began to appear more often. At first, it was just small coincidences—he would be taking out his trash at precisely the same time she'd be dragging hers down the driveway, she'd endure enough forced small talk in her pyjamas to the point she now made sure she was dressed before stepping out. She'd thought it was a little odd, but coincidences happen, didn't they?

Then, one rainy afternoon, when her old sedan decided enough was enough and spluttered in protest on the driveway, refusing to start, there he was again, stepping out into the drizzle with jumper cables in hand.

It was almost too perfect. She really wanted to roll her eyes at him—just as she did on every other occasion—but it was harder this time. He'd looked so genuinely concerned, so earnest. She'd really tried not to notice how his dark hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck, or how his laughter seemed to linger, making her feel warm in his assurance that her car would be fine in no time.

They'd worked in silence for the most part, she having no clue how any of it worked so was putting her full trust in his abilities. Occasionally they'd meet eyes and say something simple: "Weather's turning finally, isn't it?" or "Have you tried that new bakery over on 5th?". She'd nod and mumble a response, something to keep her voice betraying what she didn't want to admit.

The truth? That he was starting to become an ache she couldn't ignore.

Her feelings of course didn't come all at once, no overwhelming emotions that struck her to her knees. Instead, they settled deep in her chest, a subtle throb reminding her that something was there.

So she tried to carry on, focusing on the humdrum of everyday life—the pile of unopened mail she'd yet to address, the leaves that needed to be swept off her porch. Yet, she couldn't deny he was seeping into those quiet corners, no longer a stranger that lived three doors down, but someone who was getting harder to forget.

She was sat, slumped into one of those metal folding chairs that always seemed to appear at school functions, watching him schmooze his way through the small clusters of parents and teachers scattered around the gymnasium. It was your standard PTA gathering—the kind where the coffee had been left out too long and the cookies stale, hardly tempting fare to keep people there longer than necessary.

She rolled her eyes the moment the bright yellow flyer had slipped out of her daughter's backpack a week earlier, proclaiming: "Come join us for a night of community, discussion, and fun!!!" she hadn't missed the extra exclamation points, they had Denise's fingerprints all over it.

Denise from across the street had a particular zeal for these kind of things—committees, subcommittees, planning groups—endlessly recruiting volunteers with the fervour of a missionary. Years ago, before she knew any better, she'd allowed herself to be pulled in under the lull of Denise's big smile and relentless optimism.

It'd been some fundraiser or something, she couldn't even remember what the cause was now, but it had involved countless emails, late-night poster-making sessions and a last-minute scramble for raffle prizes. Afterwards, she'd emerged from it as if from a battle zone—exhausted, frustrated and vowing never again.

Ever since then, she'd tried to keep her distance, ducking behind shelves at the grocery stores, or pretending to be very busy when she came by with the next "opportunity to get involved." Yet here she was again, trapped in an uncomfortable chair trying to look like she belonged. All because her daughter had casually mentioned that "everyone else's parents would be there," and that had struck the parental guilt nerve strong enough to make her put aside her previous vow of avoidance.

And there he was, the man who had elbowed his way into the edges of her life, weaving through the crowd. He moved smoothly from one conversation to the next, all easy smiles and soft laughter. She watched, sipping warm wine from a paper cup, as he leaned in to listen intently to a story an older teacher was telling, quickly then turning to greet a tired-looking father with a firm handshake.

People liked him, that was plainly obvious to anyone. And though she tried to tell herself it didn't matter—he was just another handsome neighbour (the handsome part was a new addition), after all—but she couldn't deny the way her chest tightened just a little bit more each time he caught someone's eye, as though she were waiting for him to look her way.

Then it happened, she'd given up on old the folded metal chair, he'd caught her watching from across the gym. In that instant that toothache—the one that had begun as a dull ache? Now an unignorable throb—a full-blown abscess that pulsed in her chest, an alarm she could no longer silence. No over-the-counter meds were going to relieve it, and she should know, because she'd already tried.

She'd tried ignoring him, trying to relegate his existence to background noise, attempting to convince herself he was just another face in the neighbourhood. But now, under the buzzing florescent lights, and amid the folding chairs, he saw her and something inside her twisted tight.

She was versed in the array of smiles he had, the polite one she'd grown accustomed to watching him use most of the time with others. The apologetic smile, the one he'd given when advising one of the moms on the PTA, that she didn't actually need to hire a contractor for the small job she'd proposed. She'd watched him brush off over-the-top compliments about his parenting, a tight line that could almost be called a smile as he gave a small nod. She even knew the half-smirk he gave just before he made a gracious exit, a look that left others blinking and wondering how he'd slipped away so smoothly.

But this smile? The one with a warmth that could be felt from across the room? It was pure, something so unadulterated. The warmth of it spreading over her skin, like a secret meant for her only. The corners of his mouth curving up slowly, as if he were savouring the moment. There was no mistaking its intent—it was an invitation no one else in the room could claim. If he'd reached out and pulled her into his side, his fingers skimming her jaw, he couldn't have made it any clearer: this smile belonged to her and no one else.

[waterfallofspace]

Hello! Just wanted to say that reading your fics has reawakened the t/m/a hyperfixation in me. I am loving it so I must thank you for that XD

Since you asked for prompts, would you consider writing J/on trying to push through a massive dust allergy in the archives? Maybe he forgot to take his meds and is still trying to quietly tackle the monumental task of organizing G/ertrude's hellscape of an office by himself. Unfortunately for him, it doesn't go to plan ^v^"

Have a good day/night! 🧡

I'm glad!! it's such a hyperfixation for me too haha~ thank you for the prompt, I hope I managed to do it some form of justice!~ this is early days though, so do be warned that Martin and Jon will not have the uh, more friendly vibes we know of them from later!~ <3 which did actually hurt a little to write ;-;

Malfunctions

The one in which Jon experiences some... bodily malfunctions.

Word Count: 3.5k Characters: Jon, Tim, Martin

“Boss?” 

Jon waves a hand for Tim to enter, barely glancing up from the paper he’s scouring. If he’d have known what kind of state the archives was in when he was offered the position… well he’d still have taken it, but he might have negotiated a better pay. 

“-about it, right?” Tim says, seemingly the end of a sentence, not the beginning. 

Wearily, Jon looks up, groaning softly as he realizes Tim has definitely been talking this whole time. “Apologies, I was… a bit preoccupied. Would you mind repeating that?” 

Tim simply shrugs, giving Jon a winning smile. “It can wait till later. What’s got you so distracted? Another case not workin’ on the laptop?” 

“Quite. It’s frankly unbelievable, the state Gertrude left these archives in.” Jon starts, clenching the paper slightly in his hands. “Boxes and boxes of files and paperwork, all scattered and randomized and don’t make any sort of sense- You’d think someone with such a meticulous system of numbers would bother making it a usable one!”

There’s a slight chuckle from Tim, but Jon hardly even registers it. 

“And then the fact some won’t even record- Not to mention the fact they’re mostly just rubbish fiction, it’s starting to feel like her entire existence was aimed at making my job as difficult as possible,” Jon finally trails off, slightly out of breath. 

Tim chuckles at this, giving Jon a playful smirk. “Much as Gertrude may have been a bit of a waste of an archivist by the end, I don’t really think you can blame her for your laptop not recording properly.” 

“I can blame her for whatever I damn well please…” Jon finds himself muttering under his breath. Tim’s raised eyebrow proves he heard it, but neither of them acknowledge this. Instead Jon simply nods, letting out a long sigh.

“Anyways,” Tim continues, gesturing to the file that- Jon didn’t even notice he was holding. “Found another one fallen behind a shelf, figured you’d want to know about it.” 

Another weary sigh, followed by Jon nodding for Tim to leave it on the nearest pile of boxes. What Jon meant was for Tim to set it on top of the boxes so he could go check it out once he was finished here. What Tim did, however, was drop it on top without a care in the world. 

A plume of dust rises from where the file hits the box, drifting around into the office air. Tim immediately coughs a few times, waving a hand in front of his face in an attempt to clear a bit of it. Jon, on the other hand, winces visibly, fighting the urge to pull his shirt over his face. He settles for running a knuckle under his already twitching nose. The slight itch that he’d been fighting since this morning spreads into a burning tickle, and it takes everything he has not to sneeze. 

“Woah,” Tim exclaims, still coughing slightly. “Bloody hell there’s a lot of dust around here.”

“Seems cleanliness was hardly one of Gertrude’s strengths either,” Jon replies, each word bringing him one step closer to the brink.

Mind over body, he does not have to sneeze. He’s not allergic to dust, and his eyes are not beginning to water. He’s a professional, damn it. And professional archivists, head archivists, are not taken down by something as simple, and common, as dust. 

“I mean I knew it was bad in storage,” Tim continues, seemingly oblivious to the struggle Jon finds himself fighting through. “But I figured at least in your office it would be a bit cleaner.” 

“I haven’t had a chance to get a deep clean done,” Jon retorts, feeling annoyance start to creep into his tone. “I’ve been quite busy, if you hadn’t noticed.” 

Tim holds up his hands in mock surrender, “Right, right, wasn’t making a comment on your work ethic or anything. Honestly I just figured Elias would have sent someone to do it for you or something.” 

“I know,” Jon offers, softening his tone. “I’m sorry. I’m just a bit…”

“Yeah,” Tim replies. His smile is back, but it seems a touch more genuine this time. “We’re all pretty stressed. Gertrude left us a hell of a mess to clean.” 

“Quite literally,” Jon says, giving a small smile of his own. “And yes, Elias did offer, but there’s hardly been a reasonable hour that I haven’t been here cleaning up hehh– her mess.” 

It’s only for a second, but Jon feels his entire body go slack as the sneeze begs to be released, teasing up the edge of his nose. He manages to turn away from Tim enough to pinch his nose for a minute. It does nothing against the deep itch that’s beginning to creep up into his ears and eyes, but at least for now it stalls the sneeze enough for him to turn back. 

Tim, for his part, doesn’t seem to be paying attention. Instead, he’s standing in the doorway, holding up one hand with the other hovering in front of his face. At first, Jon can’t for the life of him figure out what the hell Tim’s doing. Is this some form of practical joke? 

It takes him right up until Tim gasps, with Jon nearly jumping to his feet at the sudden noise, before he realizes. 

“hiehh– hiH’YIESHh’ooo!” 

Jon finds himself damn near envious of Tim. He always seems so carefree and unashamed. Those were never qualities Jon shared, even with something as trivial as this. His own nose throbs fiercely in response. 

“Wheew,” Tim sighs, lowering his hand with a dramatic sniff. “Sorry ‘bout that, not normally that affected by dust, but I guess if there’s enough it’ll get to anyone!” 

There’s a beat of silence, Jon finding himself physically incapable of response. The tickle’s damn near unbearable. His entire being is aching for the release. He knows there’s no point in fighting, it’ll just make it worse when it finally breaks free, but still. A boss should be able to control themselves. The Head Archivist should be able to control their own body. 

“What, no blessing?” Tim mocks playfully after a moment of silence passes. He pauses slightly when Jon still shows no sign of response. Finally, Tim seems to get bored, waving a hand in front of Jon’s face as he chuckles out, “Boss? You still in there?” 

It’s barely a breeze, but the movement is enough to stir the dust in the air around Jon’s face again. Imperceptible to anyone else, but Jon sees the particles begin to swirl. It’s just enough to break his focus, and he hardly has time to pinch his nose before the sneezes begin to break free.

“hh’nGT–! ah’gNDt–!” 

“B-less you boss! See, that’s how you respond when someone sneezes-” Tim begins, trailing off slightly as Jon shows no signs of stopping. 

“ah’gNT–! gNNT’ch-! hh’gNDTchh-! Good lord... h-hehh– ah’dNGT–iuh!” 

“Bless you some more, wow you really-” 

“hH’NNGT-iuh! ah’knDGT-dhh!” 

By this point Tim has the decency to look concerned, reaching across Jon’s desk and pulling the tissues closer. Jon blearily grabs a handful, pausing for a series of desperate sounding hitches before ducking into the pile for a few more tight stifles.

“Damn, boss,” Tim says, seemingly a bit lost for words. If Jon’s misery wasn’t the sole cause, he might even find that a bit entertaining. It’s hardly a common occurrence for Tim to be speechless. 

“‘Scuse mbe. I’b fide-” Jon begins, noticing Tim wince at the congestion in his voice. Can’t really blame him for that. 

“You certainly sound ‘fide’,” Tim mocks gently, moving the tissues closer again. Jon blushes slightly at this, taking a few and turning away politely to blow his nose. Tim, for his part, seems unfazed by this, simply waiting until Jon finishes to resume his taunting. 

“That was a hell of an attack, never knew you were so allergic to dust!” 

“I’m not,” Jon starts, almost by instinct. Tim’s immediate raised eyebrow confirms there’s really no way out of it this time. “Alright, maybe a little, but it’s usually not nearly this bad. I juhh… hehh– eh’GNDt–iuh! Excuse me. Just forgot to take my medication this mor- enGT-uhh! Excuse me. This morning.” 

Tim looks a touch taken aback, staring at Jon with a face Jon can’t quite place. Almost… concern, but with a bit of respect? 

“How do you function like this?” 

“It’s not normally like this,” Jon replies, massaging the brink of his nose gently. “That’s the point of the medication. I simply was in a rush this morning, and it slipped my mind to take.. t- take… hH’ENGT-dhh! ah’kNDt-iuhh! Excuse me. To take some. Then with your little file incident-” 

“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that,” Tim interrupts, giving a bit of a smile. It’s equal parts sheepish and mocking. “If I’d known you were so allergic, I’d have been a lot more careful.” 

Jon fights back his lecture about ‘carelessness in the archives’, and instead settles for a deep sigh. “It’s alright. No way you could have. Like I said, it’s usually quite manageable.” 

“Well,” Tim continues, “It’s still quite early. You could run home and grab some medication, I’m sure the archives can survive without you for a quick hour or so-” 

“I appreciate the suggestion,” Jon cuts him off, “but I’m fine. I am perfectly capable of running my archives.” 

Tim simply shrugs. This is obviously a battle he doesn’t feel like fighting. Jon gives his nose another rub, shivering slightly at the lingering tickle that’s steadily only growing worse. 

“Ihh.. If there’s nothing else?” 

“Nope! That was all. I’ll leave you to it,” Tim replies, starting to exit the room. Just before he leaves though, he turns on his heel and gives Jon another winning smile. “Oh, and I’ll be sure to tell Martin to pick up some more tissues.” 

Jon just grimaces, half certain Tim’s simply trying to get a reaction out of him. But knowing the man, he’ll do it just to get some entertainment. Still, telling him not to would just be ensuring it happens. There’s really no winning here. 

Thankfully, Tim closes the door as he leaves, and Jon finally has at least enough privacy to let out another small fit without prying eyes. 

“hH– enGdt-iuh! eh’gNT-uhh! ah’ngxT–! eiH’ZSHhhuh! Good lord…” 

The last one breaks free, and Jon silently hopes Tim was far enough to not hear it. It’s mortifying enough that Tim’s witnessed what he has, he certainly doesn’t need to see or hear anything further. 

Sheer power of will carries Jon through the next two statements relatively uneventfully. Sure, the recording has to be rapidly paused once or twice, but that’s simply a slight malfunction that he quickly corrects. On audio you should hardly be able to tell. 

One such… malfunction, however, does manage to slip onto a tape. Of course it had to be one that would only record on the damn tapes. Jon internally (and perhaps externally) curses the  statements for refusing the digital plane. A slight hint of editing could remove this error in mere moments, as he perhaps did with a few others. Instead, he sighs deeply, ignoring how damn itchy that sigh was, and rewinds the tape. 

“Statement of Elyse Williams regarding unusual activity in her attic. Original statement given March 21st, 2011. Audio recording by Johh…” 

Jon pauses for a second, collecting himself and stalling off the impending interruption. 

“Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Mahh… hH- h’nDGxt–dhh! Christ.” 

The tape clicks off again, and the whirring sound of it rewinding sets Jon’s teeth on edge. Head archivist of the damn Magnus Institute! What kind of archivist, head archivist, can’t even control themselves long enough to record a statement. 

With the next go he manages to make it almost halfway through before another interruption.

“It was then that I saw them, crawling all… all around my… hihh– eh’knDgt! ek’nGDt–dhh! Good lord.”

This time he doesn’t even bother rewinding, settling instead for grabbing a new tape entirely. He’ll record over this tape later, but with so much to rewind… it would simply be a waste of time to do it now. 

“Statement of Elyse Willaims regarding unusual actihh… activity in her attic. Original statement gi- hh’nXGt! given March 21st, 2011. Audio reco- eh’ngDT–dhh! Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head… hhh– Head Ar… Archivistofthe- hk’ZSHHieuhh! Goddamn it!” 

There’s a timid knock at the door, and it takes everything Jon has not to throw something at it. Letting out a low groan, Jon clicks the tape off and calls out, “Come in, Martin.” 

As expected, the door swings open to reveal Martin with a collection of boxes stacked in his arms. He seems to hesitate slightly in the doorway, futilely attempting to control the concern and worry lacing his features. 

“S-sorry to bother you, I was just looking over some of these files and had a few questions about the research you asked me to do- oh, but you’re recording and I should have checked and I’m-” 

Jon sighs loudly, cutting off Martin’s rambling. “It’s fine. I was… taking a break. What are the questions?” 

Martin starts off on them, most of which are fairly trivial and Jon finds his headache beginning to grow. He manages to sneak a couple of silent stifles, passing them off with a light cough or simply timing them when Martin’s preoccupied. 

“Martin-” Jon finally interrupts, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He can pass it off as the headache that he does have, but he can’t help but admit it might have more to do with the blooming tickle. After a pause he continues, “make a list of the questions. Tim and Sasha can handle most of them, and the ones they can’t I’ll answer or pass on for Elias to answer.” 

“Oh, r-right!” Martin stutters, gathering up the boxes into his arms again and heading for the door. He pauses, once again lingering at the entrance. 

“Is there somethh… something else?” Jon asks, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth. The tickle is growing unmanageable, and he has mere minutes to get Martin out of his office. 

Martin’s still standing, fidgeting with the boxes as he seemingly builds up the courage for something. Irritating at the best of times, of which these are decidedly not. Jon can’t help but sigh, though he does notice a slight shudder run through Martin at the sound. 

He can’t linger on this however, as the sigh pushes his nose over the edge and he finds himself ducking into his wrist for a tightly contained- “hk’nGDT!” 

“Oh, bless you Jon!” Martin says. Apparently able to form words now. Perfect timing. 

“Thank you, do excuse me. Now, are you just planning to wait in my office for the remainder of the workday?”  

The tone is harsh, and he knows it. There’s a pang in his chest as Martin’s face falls for a moment, but Jon quickly crushes it. He’s wasting time, and lord knows they don’t have enough of that to spare. They should both be working. The tone is warranted. 

Despite this, Jon finds himself softening slightly when he speaks again. “Is there anything further I can help you with, Martin?”

“N-no, not really, just the questions, I’ll make the list like you said,” Martin rambles, still not moving towards the hall. Jon raises an eyebrow, not missing the way Martin blushes slightly. 

“O-okay… well… yes, there is… well-” 

“hk’gNDt–dhh! Excuse me.”  

“Bless you, that’s actually- that’s uh, that’s actually what I wanted to…” Martin trails off, setting the boxes on the ground and rummaging through one of them. He produces a box of tissues along with a handful of travel packs, and Jon curses Tim under his breath. 

“So I take it Tim told you to… t-to… hk’nGT–dh! Excuse me. Tim told you to bring those?” 

Martin mumbles a blessing, but lets Jon finish his sentence otherwise uninterrupted. There’s another awkward silence as Martin stands frozen, eyes wide as he seems to be running through a million possible answers in his head. 

“He- he did mention something, yeah,” The answer finally comes, Martin blushing slightly again as he places the box on Jon’s desk. “But um… well, you’ve also been- it’s uh, it’s not exactly been… subtle?” 

The tone pitches up towards the end, and Jon feels the heat begin spreading over his own face in return. He wants to say something, make some form of denial, but… he’s not an idiot. And at this point, denial might be a bit out of reach. 

Case in point, Jon finds his breath catching again, his mouth falling open slightly. Martin takes notice of this, and timidly holds out a travel pack, offering a warm smile that Jon merely glimpses as his eyes begin to flutter closed. He accepts them, weighing the embarrassment of accepting help with the mortification of letting this fit out into his hands. 

“Thankyou-” Jon manages, breathy and high, before he ducks into his stapled hands, tissues pressed in them. 

“hH’nDGt–dhh! hk’gnDXt–uhh! Excuse me. Oh god… I’m gon- gonna… hH’DZSHHhuhh! eh’zzZSHhhh’oo! hH’DZSHhhuh!” 

The last of the fit breaks free, and Jon finds himself blushing behind his hands. 

“Bless you a lot, Jon, Christ. Are you alright?” 

“I’b fide-” Jon starts, still from behind his wall of tissues. There’s no point in attempting any discretion now, and he gives Martin an apologetic glance before swivelling in his chair and blowing his nose. It barely helps the itch, but it does help reduce some of the congestion before he speaks again. 

“I’m fine. Please do excuse me, that was-”

“Quite the show!” Martin interrupts, laughter beginning to seep into his tone. It doesn’t feel cruel, nor does it even carry the tone of mocking Jon had grown so accustomed to from Tim. This laughter feels… almost light. As if he’s included in the joke, instead of being the subject of it. Despite himself, Jon feels the hint of a smile ghost his face. 

No. It’s unprofessional, and… he has to be mocking him… just, he’s better at hiding it. That's worse than Tim's blatant lack of respect. At least he doesn't pretend to... to care.

“I suppose. Now, back to work,” Jon says, letting the ice dip into his voice. 

Martin blushes a bit, beginning to stammer again, “R-right, of course, well I just- I mean, I didn’t mean- I’m just- I don’t want to pry but… I wasn’t- uh, are you sure you’re fit to work right now…?” 

The question is almost whispered, Martin’s voice dropping off in what might be… concern? Jon finds himself biting down the urge to reply. To tell Martin that no, he’s not fit to work, he needs to go home, and that he just feels… miserable, to put it frankly. But no, it isn’t concern. It’s… pity. It has to be pity. 

“I am fine,” Jon begins, standing from his chair. “I am more than fit to continue my work, and more than that I am capable of continuing to act as your boss. This is nothing I can’t hahh– hH’NdXGt–dhh! Nothing I can’t handle.”

Martin whispers a blessing, but goes a bit pale while doing so. Jon feels that familiar pang start in his chest, the one that says… maybe you went too far. Honestly, he’s not even sure why Martin brings that out of him. Tim mocks him all the time, Sasha even can cast a glance and throw a joke but… somehow when it’s Martin it just… 

“S-sorry, you’re right, I’m sorry-” Martin’s rambling cuts through Jon’s thoughts just in time for him to see Martin beginning to walk into the hall. 

“No, I’m sorry Marti-” Jon starts, but finds it comes out merely a whisper. The door closes, and he hears Martin’s footsteps retreating down the hall. 

Well, that’s that. Jon grabs a handful of tissues, choosing the box Martin had brought for… well because it’s closer. That’s why. That’s the only reason why. 

He blows his nose a few times, letting out another stray “hH–dnGt’uh!” into the soft folds. After a few rounds of this, he clears his throat, and finds the quality satisfactory. He still sounds a bit rough around the edges, but on such an old device you should hardly be able to tell. 

Clicking on the tape again, Jon starts the statement over from the beginning. Again. He pointedly ignores the guilt beginning to fester in his chest, devoting himself entirely to the recording. He was merely being the boss, doing what he needed to do. Martin was speaking out of turn, and had to be reminded of such. 

Still… he makes a mental note to thank Martin for the tissues next time he sees him. Suppose maybe he’s not entirely useless after all. 

“Right, now then,” Jon says, grabbing his papers and placing the recorder in front of him. 

“Statement of Elyse Willams regarding unusual activity in her attic. Original statement given March 21st, 2011. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.”

[beanieluvr7]

Music Box

Ray x fem!reader

summary: reader has a special music box given by her parents when she was young but it was accidentally broken by the younger kids. Fortunately, Ray takes it in his care to fix it.

TW: mentions of blood, use of Y/N(does that count?)

A/N: this is my first fanfic I’ve ever posted on any platform and i apologize in advance for any mistakes or if it’s just bad. I came up with this idea after ordering a Howl’s Moving Castle music box on Amazon today ( ´ ▽ ` )

Y/N grew up in the Gracefield Orphanage among her 38 siblings. She was told her parents perished in a fire when she was born and the only thing that had been left for her was a music box.

A beautiful one. It had stars and the moon on the lid and would light up as it played its gentle melody.

She often finds herself winding it up throughout random points of the day or when she is sitting in the field by herself. 

More often than not, Ray sits beside her, humming a melody of his own.

“Where did you get that melody from?” Y/N asked.

Ray look at her without turning his head, still humming the tune. When he finally stopped, he replied, “I remember hearing it when I was in my mother’s womb.”

Y/N found it fascinating that Ray was able to remember that far back and nodded. “That’s cool.”

While the day went on, Y/N wounded up her little music box as she and the other children cleaned, or cooked, or did anything.

When she headed to her room, there were many children running around, causing Y/N to clutch onto her fragile box.

As she avoided getting knocked over, she didn’t notice Thoma running behind her.

Before she knew it, her box was flying out of her hands as she fell on the floor.

When she landed on the floor, her chin smacked the floor, causing it to bleed. But that was of little concern to her. She heard the box make contact with the floor and heard the little parts pop out and scatter all over the place.

The room became silent as she looked up with wide eyes. Thoma and Lannion stared with a mortified expression. She carefully picked up her box with delicacy. She stared at it, some gears were missing and springs popped up all crooked.

Emma, Ray, and Norman walked in and saw Y/N on the floor with the other kids staring at her.

Her chin was dripping with blood and she stared at the broken box with tears in her eyes. She whimpered as she gathered all the parts she could, trying to put it back how she remembered it was but to no avail.

She began to full on sob as the older kids ran up to her. Norman taking the box from her hands and Emma holding her in her arms as she cried.

Ray scolded the children, telling them they had to be careful and they shouldn’t ever be this reckless.

Norman found all the pieces missing from Y/N’s little pile and handed it to Ray, “do you think you can fix it?” He asked.

Ray inspected it for a moment before nodding. He made his way to the library with the pieces in his hand and pocket while the other two older kids instructed the younger kids that it was bedtime.

Emma and Norman took Y/N to Isabella’s office to clean her chin. While Isabella was cleaning the wound and putting a bandaid on it, Emma went to get a change of clothes for her.

“Don’t worry, dear. I’m sure we can fix it in no time.” Isabella reassured. Y/N only stared at the ground, slowly nodding her head.

Emma and Norman took the girl to bed and tucked her in before heading to the library to find Ray. They opened the door to see him in the farthest corner of the library working away to fix her music box.

“How’s it going?” Emma asked.

“Good so far. It looks like I might have to stay up. Most of these parts belong on the bottom of the box, I’m honestly really surprised they were able to pop out.” Ray explained.

“How long will it take?” Norman asked.

“I don’t know. I might need to work on it tomorrow.” He said while screwing in a cog.

Emma stared with a worried expression, “But what if Y/N is depressed because of her box?”

Norman chuckled, “We’ll just have to keep distracted, won’t we?”

Emma nodded her head with a determined look.

Norman turned to Ray, “we’re going to head to bed. Good luck on that and don’t stay up too late.”

Ray hummed as the duo walked out, closing the door behind them.

Ray had stayed up all night, making sure it was fixed.

The next day when Y/N woke up, she reached out for her music box on her nightstand but didn’t find it. She realized that it had broken and it made her sad.

The other kids got up and got dressed along with y/n and ran to the dining room for breakfast.

When the table was set up, y/n sat in her usual spot before she heard Thoma and Lannion call her name, “Y/N!”

She looked up and stared at the boys, who were standing in front of Isabella. Isabella had a noticeable vein sticking out her forehead as she kept her composure.

The boys bowed and basically folded from how low they were, “We are so sorry!” They said in unison.

“We didn’t mean to break your music box!” Thoma said.

“We‘ll make it up by doing your chores for a month while you rest!” Lannion said.

“No words can express how sorry we are!” They both shouted.

Y/N stared at the boys and nodded her head, “it’s okay. Thank you for apologizing.” She smiled.

The boys hugged her tightly and sat down with Isabella sitting in her own chair.

The children ate their breakfast and did their daily tests before going outside for free time.

Y/N sat under the tree with her eyes closed, humming the melody from her box.

Ray walked up to her with a F/C box in his hands. “Yo.” He said before sitting next to her.

“Hi.” She replied, not opening her eyes.

“How’re you holding up without your box?” He asked.

“Terrible.” Y/n bluntly said.

Ray hummed, “well, I guess I’m gonna make your day.” He placed the box in her lap and she looked down, finally opening her eyes.

She carefully opened the box and gasped when she saw her music box.

It looked brand new. It was fixed and cleaned.

She looked at Ray, who was smiling. “Wind it up.” He said. Y/n winded up the little lever and let the familiar melody play in her ears.

Her tensed shoulders began to relax again and she rested her head on the tree.

Ray held up a cylinder, “you can replace that one with this. Obviously, you don’t have to, but you seem to like it when I hum my tune, so I made this for your box.” He explained.

Y/n took the cylinder from his hand and opened the box, carefully pulling out the cylinder and replacing it with Ray’s new one.

When she turned the lever, it played the melody Ray hummed. She looked at Ray with a big smile on her face and tackled him in a big hug.

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” She quickly said.

Ray chuckled and wrapped his arms around her waist and gently patting her head. 

fin.

[bcdrawsandwrites]

Day 14: Bleeding Through the Bandage Characters: Otto Mentallis, Morceau Oleander Warnings: Blood, injury Summary: Otto could not shake the feeling that something was going to go terribly wrong.

Otto had never put much stock in premonition. As the concept of being psychic became slightly less taboo, more and more fortune tellers and the like had sprung up—people who insisted they could read the future through various means. Many were, of course, frauds, and most weren't even psychic to begin with.

Premonition always turned out to be more mundane than anything, when it was present. He recalled with amusement when one employee had been certain something terrible would happen in the break room, and it turned out to be the microwave burning out just before lunch. Other times it turned out to be the opposite of what was "seen," like when one intern had a premonition of some evil presence arriving the same day Nick Johnsmith was hired.

Honestly, Nick!

So when Otto himself felt a nagging sensation that something was going to go terribly wrong, he was inclined to ignore it. Instead he simply went about his day, tinkering with one of his drones.

Yet the sensation persisted, accompanied by the feeling that he should really check on Oleander's garage. The thought made him laugh—Morry's pet projects were never anything serious, and the last time he'd built something potentially dangerous, he hadn't even been able to get it out the door. Besides, Morry needed to be preparing to head to camp. There was no reason for him to be dilly-dallying around in his garage.

The feeling continued to nag at the back of Otto's mind like an unreachable itch, making it difficult to work. At one point he glanced at his toolbox, noticed one of his screwdrivers was missing, and, heaving a sigh, he finally broke away from his work to head toward the Otto B.O.N. It couldn't hurt to check, he supposed. Besides, he would need that screwdriver back eventually.

No sooner did he enter the garage than a terrible pop-BANG reached his ears. Something was flying at him, and he barely managed to toss up a weak shield just in time to reflect a few pieces of shrapnel.

"Good heavens, Morry!" he cried, dismissing the shield and heading in the direction the noise had come from. The shop was a mess, with random pieces of scrap and piles of boxes scattered every which way. "You need to be careful with this equipment! You could really injure—"

He rounded a tower of boxes, and the words died on his tongue. For a moment, all he could think was: That is far too much blood.

Morry was lying near a chunk of metal, and an angle grinder was sitting at his feet. The side of his face was covered in red, which was already seeping into his work clothes.

"MORRY!" Otto cried, scrambling over to him as Morry held a shaky hand up toward his face. When Otto reached his side, he found what little of his face was still visible beneath the blood to be deathly pale. The sight made him lightheaded, but he couldn't lose his wits now.

Otto frantically cast his gaze around the cluttered garage, searching for a red-and-white box. As he did so, he found himself rambling: "What were you thinking?! Where is your protective equipment?! What are you even doing here now?!"

Morry could only mumble incoherently in response.

He soon had the first aid kit ready, for all the good it would do, and had Morry seated in front of him as he frantically retrieved bandages and gauze. It was only then he realized there was no way for him to use them in this situation—the slice was vertical, crossing Oleander's entire face from his chin to his brow, including—Otto's stomach churned—his eye socket.

Not knowing what else to do, he gathered up the items and pressed them into the lengthy cut and guided Morry's hand to help him. Meanwhile, he put a hand to his temple, stumbling over a list of names he could contact and landing on Truman. Truman? I need your help.

What is it, Otto? If it's about your inventions—

There's been an accident. I need medical attention at the garage now!

Thankfully the urgency in his mental voice came across, and Truman agreed to send some medical staff over while he called an ambulance. Otto's shoulders sagged in relief.

"Okay, help's on the way, Morry," he said, turning back to the young agent.

His blood ran cold at the sight of the bandages already turning red.

"...Otto?" Morry said, his voice slurred and his gaze distant. "Somethin's wrong... with my eye..."

Otto wasn't sure what to tell him.

All he knew was that he'd be making a lot of bottled fear today.

[callsignfangs]

141 + Fangs with the reader who has a paper star making addiction. (Platonic) /nf

You feed me so well pooks 😇

For context: Fangs is also a CoD oc sorta thingy of mine 😚 I’ll add theirs at the end for anyone who’s interested 💟💟

-

141 + Fangs & Paper star addicted reader <3

Price:

• Really doesn’t get it. He adores how often you gift them to him but has absolutely no clue what to do with them.

• Ended up repurposing one of his desk drawers to fill them with. Also generally always has some laying around.

• Is irrationally pissy whenever someone insults them. Think they’re weird? At least his partner loves him enough to spend their time making things for him instead of shitty storebought gifts every other month, Samantha.

Gaz:

• Is absolutely giddy about them.

• Learns to make them with you so you two can make a collection together 😇

• Came up with the idea of making them out of sugar paper and incorporating them into food as well, bc why not??

• Puts them literally everywhere. He has little tupperware boxes and mugs full of them placed all over his room.

Ghost:

• Secretly loves sitting and watching you make them. Seeing your fingers curl around the paper with each other fold, it’s just mesmerising to him.

• Can’t get the hang of it himself, though. Poor lad’s fumbling, catching his fingers on every other corner, his hands are just too big.

• Has at least one on him at all times. On a mission? Scattered across his vest pockets. Out running errands? One on the specially made keychain his house keys are on.

• Gets surprisingly upset if any of them get ripped/damaged. Still has a few on his floor because god knows this man has knocked over piles or containers of them, and/or used them as extra ammo during pillow fights.

Soap:

• Similar to Gaz, also very happy about them 😇

• Incorporates them into random things in his life. Definitely shaved a few stars into his mohawk. Maybe even got a star-related tattoo.

• Has them literally everywhere. Whenever he cleans up or redecorates his room, he’ll find at least a dozen just strewn about.

• Can’t exactly get the hang of tiny paper stars either, so whenever he makes them with you he gets big strips of paper so he can actually fold them.

• Always complains about how disarming explosives/tinkering with the tiny, intricate little bits in his snipers is somehow easier than folding those stupid bloody bits of paper.

• Angst warning ahead - Have you lot seen that tiktok video of the person who’s father hid rubber ducks around their house, and after he passed they found one in the console of their car? Yeah. That’s what you’re met with after MW3. You’re welcome 😇 (edit: found it on reddit instead of tt 😚)

Fangs:

• A little confused at first, but eventually catches up with it.

• Will get deeply upset if they lose one you’ve gifted them. Yeah, they have at least three hundred others, but it was a gift from you!!

• Like Soap, starts bringing them into projects. Impulsively starts a full art project based completely around them, and has to shamefully slink over and ask you to make them more 😇

• Sorta gets the hang of them. To say they’re a bit wonky is an understatement, but they’re trying their best, and they don’t really mind as long as they’re having fun (silently raged for at least half an hour over them).

• Paints a star on their favourite rifle. Price wasn’t very happy when they went on a night mission and he spotted a little painted star glowing in the dark, and they very reluctantly peeled of the paint and replaced it with a less noticeable colour.

-

Giggle donee 😇 My brains been kinda rotting over this lately and I have a Farah ask that I’m going a liiil feral over so yippee 🎉 (if ur seeing this i love u farah anon(s?) /p 😋)

Okok yaya but thanks pooks this dragged me out of my like writing hole very happy 💪

[mordenheim]

It’s a new day, let’s go

It was dark in the house. All of the blinds were shut and the curtains had been drawn over them. If not for the vast array of electronics idly blinking away throughout the house it would likely be pitch black inside. Azurite sighed as she picked her way through the room on her soft paws.

The feline put her hands on her hips as her feline eyes let her easily see in the darkness and the place was a mess. Shaking her head, she bent down to grab a pizza box in her black-furred hands. Her tail swishing in annoyance, she tossed the stale crusts in the trash and broke down the box before folding it and sticking it behind the overflowing trash can that Steve used for recycling.

She hadn't heard from her friend in a few days and the group was pretty worried. They know that the crow was susceptible to bouts of depression, especially in the later months of the year. He didn't like to talk about it much, but she knew that something happened that left him hurting.

“This... Is a bit much..” She kicked at the random garbage scattered across the floor, making a face at the loud clatter of soda cans strewn everywhere. Reaching out tot he wall, she tried to click on the overhead light, but nothing happened. Either the florescent tubes had burned out and he hadn't replaced them or something was wrong with the light itself.

Grumbling under her breath, she shoved a few more takeout containers aside and uncovered a desk top lamp. Trying to turn this one on also did nothing. Taking a closer look she could see that the bulb had been removed leaving only the empty socket.

“Oh, dammit Steve, come on!”

Pulling her cell phone from her pocket, she clicked on the flashlight app and looked around the room. Now that she could make out colors everything was so much worse. There was trash piled on almost every flat surface in the room. The television was buried under a leaning pile of garbage. There were even red streaks on the wall, like he had tossed pizza at it to see if it would stick!

Wrinkling her nose, she picked her way through the living room and into the hallway which was mercifully devoid of mess. She tilted her head, her ears twitching as she tried to pick up any sign of him.

“Steve? Steve are you in here?” She knocked softly on the restroom door. “I'm warning you, if the door isn't locked, I'm coming in!”

Carefully pushing open the door, she prepared for the worst. Instead the restroom was completely spotless which came as one hell of a surprise. She stepped into the room a bit further and tried the light switch. This time the lights came blaring to life, blinding her for a second and making her mew reflexively!

Once her eyes adjusted, she blinked. It appeared to be clean, but that seemed to be from disuse. Everything was covered with a thin layer of dust as though he hadn't used it in days, if not weeks. She ran her fingers through the fairly thick powder and rubbed it between the pads of her fingers and thumb.

“What the hell is going on here? Steve? Where are you?”

Making her way back out into the hallway, she made her way through the now dimly lit hallway to Steve's room at the end of it. Several miniature posters were plastered all over it, her favorite of them reading, “Don't make me angry, I'm close to leveling up and you look like just enough exp.” She chuckled a little before nibbling her bottom lip with worry.

“Steve? Are you in there? I'm coming in!”

She turned the knob and slowly opened the door with a creak. It was even darker in here than in the rest of the house. It looked like he had taken everything out of the room except for his bed and a dresser. She slipped in quietly and looked around.

Everything in here was clean too, except for what looked like one of the pizza stains on the wall again. Steve was here, curled up in bed and sound asleep. She snarled in annoyance at the sight of him, safe and sound while all of them had been worried sick! Squaring her shoulders, she marched tight into the room and around the bed, heading straight for the closed blinds and curtains.

“Steve? Steve! It's a new day, let's go!”

With that, she ripped open the curtains and grabbed the string pull for the shades, yanking them up out of the way to let the early evening sun shine in!

The next thing she heard was Steve's bloodcurdling scream! The crow woke up instantly, using his hands and wings to shield himself from the sun. Azurite was about to scold him for being so dramatic when she saw it. Little bits or bright orange glowing in his dark feathers. Embers.

Those embers quickly became a roaring flame so hot that her whiskers curled up upon themselves as she shielded her eyes. Within seconds all that remained on the scorched sheets was a faint outline of her friend that quickly crumbled into a pile of ashes.

[visions--of--collisions]

for @peachaberri who asked for 600 words of something that's just an idea still. here's 600(+) words of the don't look under the bed AU no one else was writing so i said fine i'll do it myself. eventually. a (non-spoilery) plot summary: miles morales returns home from college for the summer to find a strange atmosphere awaiting him: his little sister's night terrors have started up again, and his dad is run ragged with cases of vigilantism in the area. the neighborhood is buzzing with tales of elaborate pranks and weird happenings. when a guy dressed up as spiderman shows up claiming to be billie's imaginary friend, miles is about ready to throw his hands up. but after the strange events go from strange to dangerous, and from dangerous to personal, miles has little choice but to accept hobie brown's help.

EXCERPT: but it's hard to be hard i guess (when you're shaking like a dog) • hobie/miles, supernatural, friendship, angst, romance, psychological, horror; rated: t

“It’s a bloody shame, innit?”

Miles grit his teeth. “Man. Not now.”

To his surprise, Hobie fell silent. He didn’t actually leave; Miles could see his reflection lingering in the mirror at the foot of his bed. Imaginary Friends could cast reflections, who knew? Miles was more concerned about whether they could put a sock in it, personally.

Apparently, the one in his room could.

Miles tossed the pad on his bed and scrubbed at his face. He wasn’t even sure why he was still looking at this point. There was a weird, detached kind of fascination involved with combing through every dedicated sketchbook or drawing pad he’d ever owned and finding gaping holes cut out of every page he’d drawn on, while the blank ones or even the places where he’d scribbled random notes were untouched.

There were weird, dark rings around the edges of each hole, almost like they’d been burned into the pages. He reached out and hesitated with his fingers centimeters above the paper. Something about deliberately touching it gave Miles the kind of stomach-flipping feeling he associated with vertigo. He lowered his arm.

The pages weren’t burnt. He didn’t need to put his hands on them to know it.

Over his shoulder, Hobie was eyeing the books scattered across his bed, arms folded across his chest. “S’it all of them?” he asked, quietly.

Miles sighed. “See for yourself,” he said, gesturing vaguely. He glanced at the binders and notepads that had ended up on the floor and turned his chair; the box where they’d been kept safely for years lay on its side on the rug where he’d dropped it. Miles pulled it towards himself and gingerly gathered up the fallen books, piling them back in. 

The vertigo sensation still threatened when he moved too fast, like another one of those holes had opened up in the bottom of his stomach. Maybe there’d been some spores hanging out with the dust motes that sprang up when he opened up the box; maybe he was coming down with something. Maybe he was going into shock. Could finding years of progress, the work of your whole life basically, maliciously destroyed send you into shock?

The ‘C’ in ‘C-PTSD’ stood for ‘complicated,’ Miles was pretty sure.

“What’s the thread, here?” Hobie stared at the old composition book he was holding like it had the secrets of the universe hidden in its few untouched pages. In his hands, it looked smaller and older than Miles remembered. Fragile like a relic, like a memory buried so deep it'd gotten compacted under the weight.

Uncle Aaron got him the Spiderman stickers on the front.

“I don’t get it,” Hobie went on. His eyes were trailing across the drawings on the wall, the silk-screened shirt on Miles’ desk chair. The project on his drafting table absorbed Hobie’s attention for a long minute - long enough that Miles started feeling a little self-conscious about it - before he shook his head. “Everything else is fine, it’s just …?”

“The books. Just the books.” When Hobie glanced at the bedroom door, Miles assured him, “Trust me, I checked. My Dad still pulls out the birthday cards I made him every year. He thinks nobody knows, but …” The fond twinge felt strange, so close to the pit in his stomach. Miles looked over at his phone, thinking about calling his Dad. They’d face-timed on his way home from the diner, Miles doing his best to pretend it was a casual check-in and not a panic-driven impulse to make sure his family was safe because of a literal Boogeyman.

When Hobie showed up in the background of the call, watching him like he knew something was up, the wash of relief Miles felt had caught him off-guard. He’d said he’d watch out for them, and he was. They were okay. And if they weren’t, there was more that Hobie could do to protect them with his freaky magic powers than Miles could. Shy of making live bait out of himself, maybe.

“Morales? Oi. Earth to Brooklyn.” Miles stiffened when he realized he was staring. Hobie was watching him with a grin that lifted one corner of his mouth higher than the other. The light from Miles’ desk lamp bounced off his lip ring. “See something you fancy?”

Maybe relief had been overselling it, Miles decided. He scoffed and hauled himself out of his chair. “‘See sum-ting yew fan-see?’” he parroted, grabbing up the box. “Jeez. I should’ve known you weren’t real. Who talks like that?” Miles hefted it onto the bed, treating Hobie to a hairy eyeball that only made him smile wider, for some reason.

He tugged the box out of Miles’ hands and started putting the books back inside. “I’m real as it gets, I’ll have you know,” Hobie informed him. His arms moved faster and faster until it almost looked like he had eight of them; like Miles was seeing a cartoon motion-blur in real life. A notepad that had ended up at the head of the bed got snatched up without Hobie bending another inch, somehow. Some of the eight arms shuffled the books around until they were better arrayed. Miles blinked and then the lid was covering them, and the box was being eased into his arms. “Don’t forget it, now.”

Miles could’ve sworn the lid had been laying on the floor somewhere. Hobie was still smiling when he looked up at him, but it was a smaller, knowing thing. Belatedly, Miles slipped his arm under the box and braced it against his sternum. “Okay.”

Hobie raised his eyebrows. “‘Okay,’” he echoed. “Cool.” He stepped back and tucked his hands in his pockets.

Miles frowned at the buttons on his vest. He remembered the last time Hobie stood in his room like that, shrugging off the fact that Billie couldn’t (or wouldn’t?) see him anymore. The hole in his gut ached a little, like something had gotten lodged inside. “That wasn’t what I meant to say,” Miles blurted.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

[archiveoftara]

London Boy

Part 1

"Welcome to my humble home."

With the click of the door, I was greeted by a light lavender & peppermint smell. The room was small (one bedroom flat), an open kitchen to one side and a bed on the other. A small candle was lit on the kitchen table.

Y/n instantly took off her shoes and slowly sat on her bed. I hung my jacket on the chair and looked around the cozy environment. "Your home is nice."

"hmm" she lets out a small whimper when I find her head low, trying her best to stay awake. Her flat looks exactly the way she is, mysterious. The flat is pretty clean, you can't find anything to know more about the person residing except a pile of papers on the kitchen table.

"I know but it's getting late, you should head home." She coughed. I rolled my eyes and put my palm against her forehead.

"I can't leave you like this." She gives me a confused look with those dazed eyes.

"You're burning. Where do you keep your medicines?"

"I'm fi-

"If you say 'fine' one more time, I will fire you."

"Technically Lockwood can fire me." She said with a cheeky smile. Not the smile, angel .

"You can find a box on that top shelf." She points at the kitchen. I silently thank her and start doing my work. I quickly checked her temperature which made me curse, when I felt her hand on mine. Aww she fell asleep. It's past 10 PM and the poor girl haven't had dinner yet. The least I can do is cook her a meal.

After 20 minutes or so, dinner is ready. I made some soup with all the ingredients I could find. Her fridge is empty unlike ours. Maybe she didn't got the chance to shop or maybe she eats take-out? I was lost in thoughts that I almost missed her voice.

"You're still here? Okay you're doing that thing with your eyes again. It's scary."

I chuckled and help her with the dinner. We silently had our meal and she had her medicines. I found myself on the foot of the bed. We were enjoying each other's company when she broke the silence.

"I thought you didn't like me."

Oh my god, was I that bad? I masked the hurt with a casual tone "What makes you think that?"

"I don't know..the way you make sarcastic comments when I make a mistake or maybe the way you just don't leave a chance to scold me. I know you love your job and want everything to be perfect but it hurts sometimes." She mumbles. Her eyes still dazed.

After a moment of silence, I sighed "I have a hard time with people at first but I never meant to hurt you. I'm sorry for being a dickhead, it's just. Honestly, it's just I don't know how to act when you're near me. I feel so nervous--"

I was interrupted with light snores. I chuckled to myself and wrapped a blanket over the angel.

I slowly began to clean up when my eyes fell on the familiar piles of paper. I didn't want to intrude in her privacy but curiosity got the best of me. I picked up the papers carefully. It looked like bills and sketches. What is this?

*Y/n's POV*

Warm light peeked through the curtains. I groaned and snuggled deeper inside the blanket. I had the most random dream, I saw George made dinner for me and tucked me like a child. That's when I realise someone is cooking. I threw my blanket aside, froze to see him in front of my eyes.

"Good morning." His voice felt like honey dripping from his lips.

"G-Good morning." It wasn't a dream.

"How are you feeling?" He sat beside me while handing me tea.

"Much better. You- How was your sleep?"

"Not my usual kind but I managed." The sun made his honey brown eyes sparkle. stop being so pretty.

"Why didn't you go home?" I argue.

"I told you I can't leave you like this." He argued back. When did he become this bold? I tried to hide the blush. "Well..thank you."

I walk past him to cool down a bit. My flat looks so clean. Everything looks organised, no mess, no scattered papers on the table...WHERE ARE THE PAPERS???? I frantically look around when George calls me.

"Are you looking for these?" He held those sketches. The moment I dreaded the most came sooner than expected.

"I didn't know you could draw so well." He smiled.

"I'm sorry." I look down in shame. George looked perplexed.

"I came to London six months ago, escaped my toxic family. My dream was to open my own jewelry brand but it was easier said than done. I didn't have the money and you saw those bills. I needed a job to survive."

I couldn't read his face. He was standing there for like whole 5 minutes, not saying a word, deep in his thoughts. I sighed "I'm sorry George. I didn't had a choice. It was not my intention to hurt you or Lockwood or Lucy."

He still didn't say anything, zoned out. I felt my eyes sting. This is it. This is the end. "I'll submit my resignation this evening. Thank you everything George." I turn to leave the room, to hide in some corner, away from this world.

Just when I was about to step out, I felt an arm around me. I was met with those honey brown eyes which sparkled under the light.

"You're not going anywhere." He pulled me closer "We knew something was wrong. Your eyes gave in the moment I opened the door"

"I'm sorry " I whispered.

"No. I can understand.. I've been there."

"I kind of escaped my family because of certain circumstances. I'll leave that for another day. Y/n stop doubting yourself, you're the best of us."

I rolled my eyes "I'm not half as good as you George."

"Like I told you, stop doubting yourself. I'm here for you."

I think my heart skipped a beat. I can't believe I'm in his arms, The George Karim who I thought hates me.

"You're crazy."

"Normal is boring anyway." He takes my hand and leads me to the table "Besides, I'm here to help you achieve your dream. Your sketches are beautiful, we can totally nail this."

I grin at his enthusiasm. This ship is ready to sail and I have George by my side. What else do I need?

Hello readers, I'm back with a new chapter. I honestly don't know what to say about it. Not my best work, would love to hear from your side.

[channwie]

𓍯 NONVIOLENT COMMUNICATION ⋆ GOJO SATORU & GETO SUGURU ─ ⋆

maybe satoru forgot he wasn’t the only one who got left behind .

no wc ⋆ fem!reader ˖ implied satosugu x reader ˖ angst, hurt no comfort ⋆ notes ˖ wdym suguru’s not coming back?

He stands in the doorframe of your newly bought studio apartment, cardboard boxes piled on top of each other and scattered across cold white tiled floors.

“How much more stuff you gotta bring up?” He asks, dark sunglasses perched atop his nose, snow white brows scrunching up as he looks around the barren place you’ve told him you’re about to call home. He’s judging you. He really doesn’t know any better, you can’t even blame him.

“Just the silverware and sharp stuff.”

You’re just as unenthused about this clean slate as he seems to be. Something's missing. You both know that.

But when Satoru Gojo asks you to pack your life away in boxes taped shut and cushioned with styrofoam, you do it.

There’s a pregnant pause in the room, arms crossed over your chest as you lean against a pristine wooden bookshelf, a gift from Nanami, empty and lounging in the passage of what’s to be your living room. From one hopeless friend to the next.

You don't even own enough books to fill it.

You hear Satoru thinking of words to say.

“Did he call you?” Gojo asks, a pale and slender middle finger pushes his sunglasses up, blue orbs hidden behind tinted lenses. He never liked it when anyone looked into his eyes for too long. Is it that? Or is he steeling his nerves for more?

No, you know better.

He doesn’t want you to see his eyes when he asks you. He doesn’t trust what they’ll say.

Satoru can’t lie to you with those eyes.

“No, he hasn’t called.”

It’s been days since the incident. Almost a week.

You woke up on a random Sunday with ten missed calls from Satoru and a text that made you drop everything, abandon your post overseas training new freshman and book a flight to Japan the next day.

‘Suguru left.’ It said.

And you, of all people knew, Gojo couldn’t be left to his own devices. Not when Suguru, the one person you and Satoru held dear, ran off overnight.

He hums in response, shrugging your words off with a chuckle, one that doesn’t quite meet his eyes, doesn't rumble from his chest like it should, and you dig your fingernails into the wood of the bookshelf.

I'm not strong enough for this.

“He’ll come back.” You say, and it comes out way shakier and forced than you mean it to. “He always does.”

Suguru wouldn’t leave us like that. You’re insulting him when you talk like that, ‘toru.

Suddenly, your heart betrays you, and you wonder if spending your third year as a transfer was worth it. Maybe if you’d been there—

You're not Suguru.

You can't be what he is to you and Satoru. Geto’s mind is stronger than yours, his resolve unshaken, his temper stalled, his love for you, his love for Satoru—

“He blocked my number.” Satoru says, and you retract your nails, without sparing a glance towards him. You scoff, thoroughly unamused. “No, he didn’t.” You oppose, stalking towards the empty kitchen.

The conversation ends there, Satoru.

Suguru would say.

You wished you had the strength.

But Satoru is persistent, and he pushes his body forward off the doorframe, posture slouched to hell as he follows you. “My calls won’t even go through.” He says, and you ignore him, busying yourself with sorting through a miniature looking cardboard box on the marble counter.

Satoru calls your name and you ignore him again. You dig through the half full box of styrofoam and resurface an egg timer, decorated like a penguin. It’s old, you think. Where did you even get this?

Satoru slides his palm across the counter, contemplates holding his tongue, it’s cool on his fingertips and he pulls back, intruding in your field of vision, forcing you to look at him.

What would Suguru say to you?

There’s no cord. Is this thing electronic? You shove past him, moving to the parasol shaped kitchen table to test the thing out.

“Don’t pretend like I’m invisible.” Satoru complains, his footsteps lag behind you. “If you’d just listen to me—”

Ah, you remember now. No wonder the stupid thing’s so old, must’ve been a dumb drunken gift from Suguru. He only ever gifts quirky household items when drunk.

“And just, I don’t know,” He groans, creeping closer behind you. “Call him from your phone or something.” Cold hands take his sunglasses off, and rake through his hair in frustration.

You click a few buttons on the silly little device, it doesn’t do anything. Did Suguru ever give you a manual with this thing? You inspect it a little closer.

“Will you just fucking look at me, please?”

Satoru never shouted at you. His hand grasps your wrist to turn you around and the egg timer clatters to the ground, the plastic hitting the floor makes a sharp plap sound.

You barely react for a moment. Satoru’s hand is cold on the skin of your wrist, his fingers wrap at your pulse point, and you tilt your head up to look at him— his eyes are dim.

In your gaze, for a split second, he sees Suguru, and he drops your arm as if he’s been burned.

You still scold him when you aren’t even in the room, Suguru.

“I’m sorry—” Satoru begins.

You cut him off, “It’s fine.”

It isn’t.

He’s hurting, Suguru.

Satoru takes a breath. Suguru would kill him if he saw him lay a hand on you like that.

He calls your name, and you shake your head. Satoru takes a step back and you bend down to pick up the egg timer.

He’s not stable, he knows that. Suguru’s been gone for days, he knows that. You don’t deserve this, he knows that all too well.

Something inside you grows tired of housing memories of Suguru in the corner of your heart while Satoru looks for him in every crevice of the earth.

Come home already, Suguru.

Satoru calls your name again, it’s softer, he’s mulling over the syllables on his tongue.

“I’m sorry.” He repeats, and turns away from you.

You’re silent, back turned to him as you kneel on the floor, egg timer with bright painted penguin eyes looking at you.

“You’re not the only one suffering, Satoru.”

It’s a punch to his gut, and he exits, fresh wound reopening. You loved him too, didn't you?

Sorry, Suguru.

I can't even protect her while you're gone.

The egg timer goes off the moment Satoru heads through the door, and you grip it so tightly in your palm, you’re afraid it’ll break.

The three of you have run out of time.

[unclewaynemunson]

For the prompt list - clarkson & 34 😘 (no pressure tho!)

Yaaayy a clarkson prompt i love it!!! :D (Apparently I'm unable to write something short for them, my apologies)

34. things you whispered in my ear

Wayne had always liked the quiet. He had always enjoyed spending time on his own, in his trailer, with the door closed, keeping the world outside. He had liked the quiet - until Eddie moved in with him and the quiet abruptly became something of the past. It was not just the noisy music or even Eddie's big voice, no, everything about Eddie was loud: black clothes scattered everywhere, dirty dishes piling up on every flat surface available, all kinds of boxes and containers filled with questionable goods in the most random places... And when that loud presence disappeared from the trailer for good, Wayne suddenly found out that he wasn't so fond of the quiet anymore.

He knew that it was simply the way things were supposed to go, that it was only healthy for children to move out and start a life of their own. Steve and Eddie were over the moon with their tiny apartment in the city, and Eddie still called him almost daily - but the empty, quiet space he left was so very tangible. Wayne couldn't even bring himself to take back his place in the bedroom that had become Eddie's. He wanted that room to stay available for Eddie and Steve when they'd come to visit, or for the other kids who had wriggled their way into Wayne's life and would randomly show up at the trailer at the most inconvenient times. Even though the quiet of that room was taunting him, he needed it to keep being Eddie's room.

He was balancing on a ladder, scrubbing at a big piece of mold on the ceiling that he'd never even noticed when Eddie was still occupying the room, when he heard the front door open.

'Over here!' he called out upon the sound of Scott's voice singsonging his name.

A few seconds later, the man appeared in the doorway with that signatory bright smile of his on his face.

'Are you cleaning up the room?' He sounded surprised.

'Just makin' it habitable,' Wayne muttered, vaguely gesturing to the big black spot above his head. 'For when someone stays over, I mean.'

He carefully climbed down and discarded the gloves he was wearing to greet Scott properly.

'Hey,' Scott said, quietly. 'I always thought that this would go without saying, but just to be clear, you always have a place with me. You know that, right?'

Wayne frowned. Usually he was the one struggling to say exactly what he meant and Scott the one to read between the lines without any trouble. He didn't quite know how good he was at this thing now that the roles were reversed, so he decided to play it safe and not try to fill in the blanks by himself.

'What do ya mean?' he asked instead, simple and to the point.

A somewhat sheepish look crept over Scott's face. He took his time to reply, opting to press a kiss to Wayne's temple first, and then another one to his cheek, before softly brushing his lips over the tip of Wayne's ear and whispering, 'You can move in with me.'

Wayne tightened his grip around Scott's waist and rested his head in the crook of Scott's neck, letting himself be gently rocked back and forth while he thought about the right answer.

It was a big question. A loaded question even, for Wayne. Even though they had been together for almost five years, they had never actually talked about living together. Scott had always tacitly respected that Eddie and Wayne were an inseparable unit - until they weren't anymore. Until now.

It wasn't like Wayne had never thought about it. But he had a hard time actually imagining himself living in Scott's house. The trailer was his home, no matter how crappy it was - but it was even more than that. It was about who he was as a person. He was a trailer park guy, through and through. Had never known anything else. It was part of his DNA. And even though he had no qualms staying the night at Scott's place multiple times a week, something inside of him still squirmed at the thought of actually living in some neat three-bedroom house in the suburbs. Truth be told, it felt goddamn suffocating to him.

'I don't think I can,' he finally admitted. 'I'd feel like a guest in my own house.'

'You still feel like a guest in my house?' Scott asked. He didn't sound hurt or rejected at all, only mildly amused. God, Wayne loved this man so much.

'Not when you're there,' Wayne quietly admitted. 'But I wouldn't feel at home in the suburbs.'

His counter proposal died on his tongue before he could even think of saying it out loud. It was far too ridiculous, asking Scott to come and live in this goddamn trailer with him, to sell his house and instead come live among the trailer trash, where the water ran cold half the time and mold was spreading over the ceilings, not to speak of that leak in the kitchen or the fact that they wouldn't even have a real bedroom to sleep in. He knew that Scott would never laugh at him, but there was no doubt that Scott would feel just as much out of place in a trailer park as Wayne would in suburban Hawkins.

'Okay,' Scott simply said, placing another gentle kiss against Wayne's lips. 'Want me to help you combat that mold, then?'

And who would've ever thought that loving could be so easy?

XXX

Scott didn't bring it up anymore, after that. He seemed perfectly content having Wayne stay over two or three nights a week and visiting him in the trailer park after work. It was what they were used to, after all, a routine they had built over the past five years, and it was enough, even though the quiet left by Eddie became even thicker on the nights Wayne didn't spend with Scott.

One Saturday, when they were having their morning coffee together at Scott's place, both with a part of the newspaper in their hands and wrapped in comfortable silence save for the occasional remark about what they were reading, Scott pointed at something in his part of the paper.

'Have you seen this?'

Wayne leaned into him to see the article he was pointing at: it was an advertisement on the real estate page. A grainy black-and-white picture of -

'That the cabin at the other side of Lover's Lake?' Wayne asked.

Scott nodded enthusiastically, an eager sparkle lighting up his eyes.

Wayne thought about it, tried to imagine it: neither trailer park nor suburbs, but their very own secluded place in the woods they loved to hike through, where no one would watch them or judge them or gossip about them, where they could make a new home together.

'How many bedrooms?' he asked, and like always, Scott understood what was behind his words without even having to think about it.

'Just one, but it has an attic we could use as a guest room,' he answered. 'It's a fixer-upper, apparently, but I happen to know this guy with magical hands who loves to fix things.' His fingers brushed over Wayne's rough hands as he said it, and Wayne lifted an arm to brush through Scott's neatly combed hair.

He imagined sitting side by side with Scott in the morning sunlight every day, sharing newspapers while drinking their coffee together. Yeah, a cabin might just be the perfect place for both of them.

[itsahotminuteinbetween]

Hello there! You've been visited by the random question fairy! ~ ☆

What is your character's living situation like? Do they enjoy where they live? Would they change anything about their living situation?

oh! I've been blessed with the presence of the question fairy!

Not sure which characters this refers to, so I'm gonna go with both my ocs and my witch au cuz I wanna ramble more about those!

Alright, so Loup Doop and Bloo share an empty broom closet close to Loup Doop's station. It's...not terrible. They're not really held as highly as any of the Glamrocks or even the Daycare Attendant, so they try to just be happy they aren't bunched with the staffbots or the endos. They tried decorating it with some stuff: Bloo has a collection of Daycare souvenirs he stores behind some of the boxes, plus some old plushies and fun looking toys he managed to scrounge up at the Lost and Found. Loop Doup doesn't really own much, and most of her stuff is just extra parts or small scraps of paper and drawings the DA made for her. She has a small shelf she set up for her borrowed books and little projects. Were it up to them, they would have definitely changed their living space, moved out of the Pizzaplex and never looked back, but they know they're stuck here, so they try to make the best of it. They've tried staying the night in the Daycare, but even if they could override Sun's protocols, the security guard always manages to drag them out. Pulsar doesn't really live anywhere; it just hangs around its designated stations for the night.

For the Witch Au:

Sun and Moon live off the edge of town, a good twenty miles out. Moon set up a defense system to keep people from noticing a random cottage in the middle of nowhere. Though Sun isn't always home, it's all they've had for years, and neither of them would trade it for anything else.

Earth lives across the woods, so fairly far from the boys' cottage and extremely far from town. She estimates having been there for perhaps 6 or 7 years. The cottage seems older than her, though, and she quickly gets to work on personalizing it and making it her own. It's her pride and joy, along with the garden. After the mishap with the woods, she doesn't really leave much, so she's never known any other home. Anything she wants to change, she can, so she doesn't see a reason to leave or go out to see the world. She has everything she wants, and though she does sometimes find herself wanting more, she's never really taken that step. (A merchant stops by one day and sets out to change that...so does another, far more dangerous entity...)

Eclipse lives in the original cottage. Unlike Moon, he never left home when KC disappeared, a decision he almost regrets. He absolutely loathes the place; it reeks of old memories and rancid emotions and broken promises, all the things he would rather forget piled neatly in one place. The first thought on his mind after acquiring the amulet was finding a new place to live, somewhere far away from the past and truly fit for him. In spite of all his hatred towards it, however, he's never actually made any attempts to change anything; everything is in it's place, just as KC left it. Though all of his belongings are scattered and discarded half-hazardly throughout the place, everything else is left untouched, save for some dutiful vacuuming and dusting. The door to the old room upstairs remains closed and locked. Lunar asks him why thick layers of dust only seem to coat certain objects. Eclipse refuses to explain himself. He hates trying to explain the meaning behind it, and he refuses to acknowledge how sentimental he is.

The Blood Twins live in the woods between the boys' and Earth's cottage, the woods that Earth accidentally grew that one time. They hate it with a passion, not because of the place itself, but because they remain trapped there. Due to the nature of the field surrounding the woods that Sun set up for Earth, they are bound to that plane and cannot leave unless summoned, and while they hate summonings, anything is better than the rotting wood and dying green. Fortunately and unfortunately, this latest summoning has given them many new liberties that they are quick to indulge in...