#which only punches through clogs

[emergencyplumbingil]

Can hydro jetting prevent ingrown roots in pipes.

Hydro Jetting: The Key to Preventing Ingrown Roots in Pipes.

When it comes to keeping your plumbing system free from blockages, one of the biggest threats is ingrown roots. Over time, tree roots can invade your pipes, seeking moisture and nutrients, causing clogs, cracks, and even serious damage to your plumbing. Fortunately, hydro jetting is a highly effective solution that can not only remove these roots but also prevent them from growing into your pipes in the future.

What is Hydro Jetting?

Hydro jetting is a process that uses highly pressurized water to clear blockages and thoroughly clean the interior of your pipes. Unlike traditional methods like snaking, which only punches through clogs, hydro jetting cleans the entire pipe surface, leaving it spotless. The intense water pressure eliminates debris, grease buildup, and, most importantly, those stubborn tree roots that can damage your system.

How Often Should You Schedule Hydro Jetting?

While every plumbing system is unique, many experts recommend hydro jetting at least once a year, especially if you have large trees near your home. Regular maintenance ensures that your pipes stay clean and clear, preventing costly root damage down the line.

Protect Your Pipes Today Don't wait for ingrown roots to cause expensive plumbing problems. Contact us today to schedule your regular hydro jetting service and keep your plumbing system flowing smoothly!

Phone 224-754-1984

[aretrothing]

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[runariya]

My Beloved Villain (JJK) • Chapter 1

pairing: hero!Jungkook x villain!reader genre: dark romance, gore, villain!AU, hero!AU, slow burn fic rating: MDNI, 18+ warnings: panic, trauma, blood, physical violence such as punch!ng, de@th of both parents + witnessing it + footage, Dojin has influence over law enforcement and whatnot, mentions of underground fight club and mafia, mentions of wounds, jealous Jungkook, autopsy lap, mentions of bodies, please lmk if I forgot something word count: ~ 5.1K

a/n: okay Angels, here's the first chapter *yeeey*! It's just a little warm-up to the story. Hope you enjoy ☺️ a/n 2: This work is purely fictional. All characters and events are entirely imaginary and do not reflect reality. Content errors related to med school are not excluded. Please do not use this story as your own. No translations are allowed without permission. Thank you for understanding! 💕

prologue • masterlist • 02

The warmth of the September sun wraps around you like a tender embrace as you sit on the wide field of grass of the campus park with your closest friends. The day is nothing short of perfect, yet their conversation drifts past you, lost in the gentle chorus of birdsong from the tall and old trees above. You close your eyes and breathe deeply, letting the sun’s rays and the dappled shadows of leaves play across your flushed skin. Somewhere in the distance, church bells toll at lunch hour, their echo both a call to mess and a cue of time’s steady march. It’s a peaceful moment, one that you savour with quiet reverence, knowing all too well that such moments are fleeting.

Taehyung rests his heavy head in your lap, his hair soft beneath your fingers as you play with his curls all while he relaxes before your next class. You remember the days when you begged him not to ruin his hair with dye, and back then, he didn’t listen. But now, he leaves it natural, save for the perm that enhances the curls you adore so much. It’s a small victory, even though this victory didn’t arise from you, but won through his newfound obsession with colour analysis,  face shapes and whatnot which you’re thankful for nonetheless. 

But as your fingers weave through his hair, your mind drifts back, step by reluctant step, to a night you’d rather forget—a night with the sight of Taehyung’s hair dyed an electric blue. You remember standing at the door of his family’s home, drenched in the blood of your parents, clutching the CCTV footage your father had obsessively recorded of your house’s every room. You never understood his need for those cameras, but that night, you were as grateful as you were traumatised.

Taehyung had opened the door after you rang their door bell repeatedly like a madman, his freshly dyed hair framing a face shocked to the core as he took in your pale, frightened expression and the dried blood covering you. Without a moment’s hesitation, he yanked you inside behind him by the front of your shirt, quickly glancing around to see if any neighbours were watching, and immediately shut the door behind you as if trying to shut out the nightmare you had brought with you.

“Oh my God, ___! What the fuck happened to you?” he asked, his hands hovering above your shoulders, his eyes searching your body for injuries. 

Fresh tears left your eyes then, carving paths through the blood on your cheeks. You didn’t recognise your voice, feeling utterly alienated by its rawness as you stuttered out, “Auntie…Uncle…”

“MUM! DAD!” Taehyung belted without a second guess, he had always understood you, even when words failed.

He dragged you into the living room where his parents froze at the sight of you, the shock in their eyes mirroring the horror in your own fragile heart.

“What happened? ___, where are your parents?” your aunt inquired, her voice trembling before she even knew what happened. You couldn’t bring yourself to answer, couldn’t force the words past the lump clogging your throat. How could you tell her what had happened not only to her sister but your whole family?

Instead, you forced your hand up, clutching the CCTV footage with all your strength, terrified it might disappear. It took every ounce of your willpower to pry open your cold fingers and offer the device to them.

On high alert, your uncle and aunt stepped closer. Your aunt, unable to tear her eyes from your dilated vibrating pupils, remained frozen by your side. With concern etched across his face, your uncle gently took the device from your trembling hand, retrieved his laptop, and plugged the footage in at the coffee table, all the while your aunt stayed close, her gaze never leaving you.

“Honey, should we get you cleaned up?” your aunt bid you softly, attempting but stopping just after she moved to caress your hair as she always did, sensing you were too fragile to be touched.

You shook your head, only pointing to the laptop for her to just watch. She turned just in time to see the front door of your house being kicked in on the screen, in another frame, your father shoving you into a closet in a desperate attempt to protect you.

Slowly, you all gathered around the laptop as if hypnotised by it’s screen, the room falling silent as the footage played, each of you transfixed by the horror before your eyes. The door to your parents’ bedroom burst open on the screen, and as Dojin with his bodyguards began their brutal assault, your uncle’s grave voice broke through the spell, “Taehyung, take ___ upstairs and clean her up.”

“But, Dad…”

“Now!” he boomed, and with difficulty to get his eyes off the screen, Taehyung led you away from the gruesome repeat of a nightmare.

In the bathroom, he cleaned you with a soft cloth, washing the blood from your hair over the sink as best as he could, all while moving quickly. After, he brought you a fresh  set of his clothes to change into, meanwhile you sat motionless on the closed toilet seat, staring ahead like a broken and lost doll.

When you finally emerged, clean and dressed, the house was eerily quiet, save for the sound of your aunt’s anguished sobs echoing from downstairs. Her cries tore at your heart, ripping open the fresh wound that was your new reality.

You had become an orphan in the blink of an eye. Dojin had taken your parents from you, the people who had meant everything to you, without a moment’s warning or a care in the world.

You sat down at the top of the stairs, where Taehyung held you as you silently wept, his gaze fixed on the distant flickering of the laptop screen. From where you sat, the details were blurred, but you could still make out the terrible truth captured by the CCTV cameras.

Soon after they finished watching the recording, you all drove to your house. You couldn’t quite grasp why; they had seen the footage to the end and knew there was no one left to save. You remember sitting in the backseat with Taehyung, watching the houses you passed, each one brimming with life and laughter, happy families enjoying their evening together. All the while, your world had come to a standstill, shattered into pieces like fragile glass, leaving everything around you feeling devastatingly meaningless.

Throughout the drive, your uncle tried calling the police. The first time he reached an officer, the line abruptly disconnected as soon as he mentioned your parents’ names.

“He just hung up.” Your uncle frowned, glaring angrily at the display on the centre console.

“Maybe the signal was lost. Try again,” your aunt reasoned quietly, trying to hold on to hope, though her voice had already faded into a broken whisper. But as the subsequent calls went unanswered or were immediately declined, it became painfully clear that the mayor’s influence reached far and wide, and with it, any hope of retribution was snuffed out.

When you arrived, your house was already burning down in hot raging flames, the crackling drowning out your inner screams. The police present dismissed you once more, leaving you more powerless and desperate than you ever felt.

Weeks passed as you lived with your relatives. Taehyung gave up his bed for you, sleeping on an inflatable mattress nearby. You recall fragments of the funeral, the strain of attending school while keeping your grades intact, and the mask you wore for the public as you fought against the official statement that your parents had perished in a fire caused by a forgotten stove. But after weeks of crying, mourning, and desperately seeking justice—whether through the authorities or the media—all your efforts proved futile.

One night, unable to bear the helplessness any longer, you lay awake until the weight of your anger and agony drove you to action. You dressed in silence and ventured into the city, determined to find someone who could help. The despair and fury within you pushed you toward desperate measures, and you knew then that justice would have to be taken into your own hands to rid the city of its devil.

It took seven nights before you stumbled upon an underground fighting club, where Kim Seokjin, the owner and Godfather, took an immediate interest in you. To your surprise, he listened to your story and agreed with your perspective, though he refused to let you fight alongside what he disdainfully called “those Neanderthals.” Instead, he trained you in private. It was during your first session, when you were obviously hurt for the first time in your life, that you discovered a rare condition you had inherited—one that left you unable to feel pain.

NTRK1, a mutation in your genes that prevents the development of certain nerve cells. You learned that your mother shared this mutation, explaining her stoicism on that fateful night, and that your father had been a carrier of the same mutation.

It was truly absurd how this condition swiftly elevated your skills, almost as if it were in agreement with your darker side and wanting to pull you to your full potential. You learned with remarkable speed and efficiency, especially how to assess the severity of your injuries without the sensation of pain as a guide.

Nearly two years later, Taehyung uncovered your secret as he caught you throwing up blood in the toilette after you arrived home early in the morning from training when the sun hasn’t even risen just yet. The confrontation was intense, but he eventually accepted your decision after days of radio silence and evil side-eyes, and supported you as best as he could, even if it meant simply covering for you in front of his parents or hiding your bruises with makeup where you couldn’t reach them. 

When you started medical school, you were relieved that Seokjin allowed you to leave with an arsenal of weapons of your choice, though you knew all too well that his acceptance came with a debt attached.

The vibration of Taehyung's laughter pulls you out of your thoughts, bringing you back to the present, where the sounds of the world around you slowly come back into focus. The gentle rustle of leaves, the distant tolling of church bells, and the low hum of conversations among other students fill your consciousness once more. You open your eyes, blinking against the dappled sunlight that filters through the trees above, and glance down at Taehyung. 

His laughter is infectious, his face half-hidden behind one hand as if trying to contain his mirth, but failing miserably. His other hand clutches his stomach, his entire body shaking with the force of his laughter. His eyes are squeezed shut, and the corners crinkle with joy, the lashes fluttering as his laughter bubbles over like a tsunami hitting the shore. His lips, stretched wide in a broad grin, reveal the perfect rows of his white teeth, something you both inherited from your mothers, and the sound that escapes him is rich and full-bodied, resonating deep in his chest, a melody that never seems to tire. It’s the kind of laughter that makes you want to join in, regardless of whether you know the joke.

You tear your gaze away from him and look up, taking in the scene around you. Your friends are gathered in a loose circle on the grass, all high-achieving students like yourself, brought together by your shared aspirations and ambitions. ‘Birds of a feather flock together,’ they say, and on the surface, it might appear true. But only Taehyung knows what truly lies beneath your carefully constructed exterior, the only legacy of your happy childhood. 

Like you, Taehyung was a remarkable student in high school, his ambition clear as he set his sights on a career in the medical field as well. In those early semesters of med school, his passion for perfection became his guiding force, leading him to specialise in plastic surgery—a choice that suits him as seamlessly as a lid fits its pot. Taehyung embodies beauty, his eye for aesthetics almost uncanny, each detail observed with an artist's precision. His finesse in sculpting is flawless, and the way he’s able to seamless stitch skin up—a skill he’s honed on you over the years, using you as his more or less willing test subject after all the injuries you endured—stands as a testament to his natural talent and the field he’s chosen, one where art and science blend in perfect harmony.

Yoongi is sprawled out lazily on the grass to the left of you both, one arm bent behind his head as he taps away on his phone with the other. His expression is indifferent, almost bored, as if the conversation around him holds no interest. But you know better. Yoongi is always listening, always aware. His sharp, calculating mind misses nothing, a quality that makes him perfect for the path he’s chosen—neurosurgery. He carries himself with a quiet confidence, a subtle superiority that others might find off-putting, but which you have come to admire. His brilliance is undeniable, his genius almost intimidating, and in many ways, you’ve taken a leaf out of his book, learning to project the same calm authority when needed. 

Next to him sits Hoseok, or Hope as everyone of the friend group calls him. He’s also engrossed in Yoongi’s phone, his face full of concentration as if the device was his or holds the secrets to the universe. Hope is destined to be a heart surgeon, a choice that fits him as well perfectly. He once told you that he wanted to mend broken hearts, to give hope and love to those who needed it most. It’s a noble goal, and one that suits his gentle, empathetic nature. Yet, at this moment, he’s as distant as Yoongi, the two of them forming a quiet duo on the edge of the group, absorbed in their own worlds.

Jennie sits directly across from you, her eyes fixed on you with an expectant expression. She’s a vision of meticulous care, her skin glowing under layers of sunscreen, her large sun hat casting a protective shadow over her beautiful, doll-like face. Jennie is training to be a dermatologist, and it shows. Her otherworldly radiance aligns perfectly with her chosen field, as does her keen eye for aesthetics and detail. She’s the kind of person who never steps into the sun without a shield, and you can spot others like her scattered across the field, equally guarded against the elements. It’s amusing, really, how easily you can identify someone’s future specialty with just a glance.

And then there’s Jeon Jungkook, the quietest of the group but perhaps the most intriguing. He’s sitting not far from Jennie and on your right, his dark hair parted neatly in the middle, the short strands catching the sunlight and shining with a healthy sheen. His eyes, large and expressive, are fixed on you with an intensity that never fails to catch you off guard. He rarely speaks, yet there’s a quiet strength in his presence, a steadfastness that draws you in. 

Like you, he’s pursuing a career in trauma paediatric surgery, a demanding path that you’ve shared since the beginning of your studies. Though you don’t talk much, there’s an unspoken understanding between you as the only two students specialising in this extremely rare field, a bond forged through countless hours in the same classes, the same labs, and the same late-night study sessions. His gaze remains locked on yours, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. The eye contact is so intense it leaves you a little breathless, a little unsettled, his dark eyes holding yours with a quiet question you can’t quite decipher as he cocks his head to the side. He’s toying with his teeth, his lower lip caught between them as if he’s waiting for something—for you to say something, to answer a question you didn’t hear.

“Huh?” you ask, glancing around the group, feeling a little disoriented. Jennie’s raised eyebrow brings you fully back to the moment.

“I asked if you and Tae are dating or what? You live together, and now this,” Jennie says, gesturing to where Taehyung is still snuggled against your thigh, his laughter finally subsiding into quiet giggles as your fingers still absentmindedly play with his hair.

You snort, amused by the absurdity of the question. Before you can answer, Taehyung starts laughing again, the sound bubbling up like a toy doll—the kind that never seems to run out of laughter, perhaps something like a Laughing Elmo, the comparison would definitely fit perfectly. The ridiculousness of it all hits you, and you can’t help but join in, your laughter mixing with his in a joyful belting that rings through the air.

When the laughter finally dies down, you wipe the tears from your eyes, still grinning as you look back at Jennie and Jungkook. Jennie’s expression is a mix of irritation and curiosity, a reaction that doesn’t surprise you. She’s never hidden her infatuation with Taehyung, a sentiment she’s held since your freshman year. But what does surprise you is the similar look on Jungkook’s face—something close to annoyance that gives you pause. You clear your throat awkwardly, trying to stifle the last remnants of giggles that threaten to escape. 

“We’re cousins, Jen,” you say, the words slipping out between breaths as you attempt to regain your composure.

The surprise on Jennie’s face is immediate, her mouth dropping open slightly, while Jungkook’s expression softens into one of mild disbelief. Yoongi, who’s been silent all this time, glances your way with a knowing smirk, his eyes glittering with amusement. Hoseok, Taehyung, and you can’t help but start laughing again, the absurdity of the situation too much to keep in.

“Oh…” is all Jennie manages to say, a flush of pink rising to her cheeks in embarrassment. “I didn’t know.”

You shrug, still smiling as you reply, “No one really does. It doesn’t matter much, does it?”

Jungkook’s eyes meet yours once more, a subtle smile playing on his lips, his eyes shining with something that looks like relief. You don’t quite understand why the relief is so evident in his gaze, but it has a calming effect on you as well. You send him a small smile in return, a silent exchange that’s broken only when Yoongi groans and begins to rise from the grass, his movements slow and lethargic, like an old man who has trouble moving with age.

“We’ve got class, kids. Get up,” Yoongi announces, his voice dry as he stretches, his joints cracking loudly in the otherwise quiet air.

Reluctantly, you all begin to gather your belongings. Jennie links her arm through yours as you stand, a gesture that’s as familiar as it is comforting. Taehyung trails behind her, still chuckling softly to himself, while Jungkook falls into step beside him, slightly to your side. It’s something you’ve noticed before—Jungkook always seems to gravitate toward you when the group is together, as if drawn by some invisible force. You’ve dismissed it as a byproduct of your shared major, nothing more than a coincidence of proximity. But there’s a part of you that can’t help but wonder if there’s something more to it, something unspoken that lingers in the spaces between you.

Yoongi and Hoseok lead the way, Hope talking animatedly as always, his hands gesturing in the air as he makes a point. Everyone instinctively makes space for Yoongi as he walks, his presence commanding a quiet respect that few others can match. The group moves as one, a well-practised rhythm that speaks of years spent together, each of you falling into your familiar roles as you head toward the autopsy lab.

The path is well-trodden, the grass worn down by the passage of countless students over the years. The midday sun sits high in the sky, casting sharp shadows across the campus, the air thick with the full warmth of the day. Despite her sunscreen and wide-brimmed hat, Jennie still shields her face with her free hand. You walk in silence for the most part, the only sounds the rustle of leaves overhead and the distant chatter of other groups making their way to their respective classes as well.

As you approach the lab, the building standing proud in its massive built, its stone facade weathered by time, ivy creeping up the walls in a silent conquest. The heavy wooden doors stand open, the cool air inside beckoning after the warmth of your lunch break as you step inside, the familiar scent of antiseptic and old books hitting you immediately, a smell that’s become synonymous with your studies. 

The group disperses slightly as you each head to your lockers, retrieving the necessary equipment for the class. Jennie is still linked to your arm, her earlier embarrassment forgotten as she chatters away. Taehyung is beside her, humming to himself as he pulls on his lab coat, his hair a dishevelled mess from where you’ve been playing with it.

Jungkook, as always, lingers close by, his presence natural, almost indispensable. His movements are precise, each action deliberate as he retrieves his lab coat and other small materials, methodically preparing for the class ahead. There’s an ease to the way he handles everything, a confidence that doesn’t leave you room to breathe steady. Even in these seemingly mundane moments, he exhibits a meticulousness that reflects his commitment to mastering the complexities of the field, and it’s this very dedication, this quiet intensity, that first drew you to him.

You’ve always admired his unwavering determination that reflects your own, the way he approaches each task with such care, precision and intelligence. It’s no wonder that over time, those feelings of admiration began to multiply like tumour cells, developing into a quiet crush that you’ve never quite managed to shake. His character, his relentless pursuit of excellence, and that calm, assured demeanour—these are the things that have captivated you, leaving you secretly drawn to him in ways you’ve yet to fully understand. Even now, as his gaze occasionally drifts in your direction, though he says nothing, there’s a desire for him you can’t ignore, a magnetic pull that keeps your attention fixed on him, even as you all prepare for the class ahead.

You exchange a few words with Yoongi and Hoseok, the latter of whom is still engrossed in whatever conversation he’s been having with Yoongi, though it’s clear Yoongi’s mind is already in the lab, his focus sharpening as the thrill to dissect draws near. The energy in the room shifts as everyone dons their lab coats, seriousness descending as you prepare for the new semester.

You step into the autopsy lab with your friends and two other students whose names escaped you long ago, the cold, sterile air immediately wrapping around you like an welcome embrace you longed for all summer break as your steps squeak on the tiled and freshly cleaned floor. The harsh fluorescent lights bathe the room in its pale glow, illuminating the gleaming steel of the dissection tools and tables that stand waiting, four in total, each an empty stage for the work that will soon begin. Mr. Choi stands by one of the tables, looking as though he could be mistaken for a cadaver himself, his skin drawn and pallid, eyes sunken into deep sockets. His expression is as lifeless as the bodies soon to be laid out before you.

"Good morning, everyone," he greets, his voice a flat monotone that does little to lift the sombre atmosphere as you and the others line up instinctively, muscle memory guiding you to your usual places from previous semesters. Without a word, he tosses a small tub of Vicks VapoRub toward Yoongi, who catches it with effortless accuracy, not even glancing up from his phone. 

As Mr. Choi begins his customary review of the last semester, recapping the techniques and knowledge you’ve all supposedly mastered, the tub of ointment makes its way down the line. One by one, each student takes a small amount, dabbing it beneath their noses—or in Taehyung’s case, smearing it more liberally into his nostrils—to block out the inevitable stench of decay and death that permeates these walls. When it reaches you, you pass it straight to Jungkook, not bothering to use any yourself. Jungkook's tattooed hand hovers in place when he realises you’ve skipped it, his brow arching in that familiar, questioning way.

“You sure?” His voice is low, soft, the kind of voice that always makes your pulse quicken slightly. He holds the tub out to you, lingering a moment longer than necessary as he waits for your response.

You shake your head, declining the offer with a small, dismissive gesture. “’S fine, thanks,” you murmur. The smell of death has never bothered you—not since the night you were bathed in your parents' blood, not since Seokjin showed you what true decay smells like and what the sound of an infinite number of flies sound like. In some twisted way, the scent is almost comforting now, a reminder of your secret purpose.

Jungkook’s eyes search yours briefly, but he doesn’t press further. “Okay,” he says, his voice just above a whisper as he takes a small amount of the ointment and rubs it along his perfect Cupid’s bow, the menthol sheen catching the light momentarily before he caps the tub and passes it along to Ben.

“This semester, ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Choi resumes, his voice taking on an uncharacteristic note of enthusiasm—or perhaps it’s just your imagination, “we’re going to spice things up a little. You’ll be working in pairs—well, I’ll be assigning the pairs—and together, you’ll dissect two of our friends here over the course of the semester. Each pair will be responsible for writing a detailed report on both dissections, and these reports will determine your final grade for the class.”

The room erupts into a low murmur of excitement, with a few claps and cheers punctuating the otherwise grim mood. You join in half-heartedly, your mind already racing ahead, wondering who you’ll be paired with. Ideally, you’d be matched with Taehyung, Yoongi, or Jungkook—people whose work ethics and routines align with yours, whose presence wouldn’t be a distraction. But as the names are called, you can feel your anticipation teetering on the edge of anxiety.

Mr. Choi pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his lab coat, squinting at the list of names. “First pair: Ben and John.”

One of the unfamiliar students immediately speaks up, correcting in a flat tone, “My name’s Juan, sir.”

There’s a smattering of laughter around the room, and you feel Taehyung lean in toward you, his breath warm against your ear as he whispers, “Same same but different.”

Jungkook chuckles quietly beside you, and you have to elbow both of them, suppressing your own giggles like the hypocrite you are. The room settles down as Mr. Choi offers a terse apology, the faintest hint of embarrassment colouring his otherwise lifeless expression.

“Next pair,” Mr. Choi continues, “I would call this one mind and heart.” He chuckles at his own joke, though the room remains silent. “Yoongi and Hoseok.”

The two men exchange a high five, their smiles wide as they pull each other into a brief hug, their deep friendship between them clear in their mutual excitement. You can’t help but smile at the sight—there’s something infectious about their excitement, something that makes the dark work ahead seem like a walk on rainbows. 

Mr. Choi scans his list again. “Next pair, our future beauty doctors: Jennie and Taehyung.”

Your eyes shift to Taehyung and Jennie as they turn to each other, their faces lighting up with matching smiles that seem to glow with a warmth that could almost outshine the harsh overhead lights. It’s a look that makes you realise something you hadn’t noticed before—an attraction Taehyung seems to have for Jennie that you’ve been oblivious to until now. You silently root for them, hoping this shared project might be the catalyst for something more.

And then it hits you, like a slow dawn creeping over the horizon. The only ones left are you and Jungkook. The realisation wipes the smile from your face, leaving you with an odd mix of anxiety and anticipation twisting in your gut.

“And last, but certainly not least,” Mr. Choi announces, “our future superheroes who will someday save all the children: ___ and Jungkook.”

Your heart skips a beat as you turn to face Jungkook, who’s already looking at you with a grin so wide it crinkles the corners of his eyes. His ears, you notice, have turned a vibrant shade of red, a sure sign that he’s just as affected by the pairing as you are. That gleam of triumph in his eyes, the kind that says he’s more than pleased with this outcome, makes your own smile waver. You force yourself to reciprocate, though you’re acutely aware of how hard it’s going to be to stay focused on your work with him so close, day after day. Something you previously ignored in its fullest. There’s something between you, something unspoken but oh so real, an longing that you can’t afford to let bloom. Not when you know that no sane person would ever truly love a killer, someone who hides a part of themselves so dark and twisted that full honesty is an impossibility.

Mr. Choi continues, oblivious to the turmoil beneath your composed exterior. “You’re free to use the lab whenever you need to. The first autopsy and report must be completed and handed in within six weeks.” He strides over to the cadaver cooler and, with a theatrical flourish, pulls open two of the stainless steel doors. The sound of the vacuum seal breaking echoes through the room, and two bodies slide out on their own, propelled by the sudden rush of air.

Glancing around at the faces of his students—some pale with nerves, others flushed with excitement—a ghost of a smile playing on Mr. Choi’s lips as he quips, “May the odds be ever in your favour.”

prologue • masterlist • 02

a/n 3: lmk what you think in any way you like! 👀

a/n 4: please send me a message, ask or comment if you would like to be tagged for upcoming chapters 💕 also - character asks and drabble requests are open

Like what you read? Check out my other work here!

taglist: @darkeneddiary, @dumbheadblog, @jksusawife, @jayhoneybeecomb, @kookienooki

All Rights Reserved © @/runariya 2024

[seat-safety-switch]

Have you ever thought about how weird it is that you can buy pineapples at the grocery store? Someone pulled this shit off a tree tens of thousands of kilometers away, and then sent it to me. If I don't buy it, they'll just throw it in the trash.

Global trade is a really remarkable invention of our species. My neighbour's Hyundai was born in South Korea, shipped here on a boat, and will never see its mother or most of its siblings again. Even so, it was only slightly more expensive than a locally-made Ford. Sorry, did I say "locally-made?" That was also made in a different country and shipped here under duress. We don't even notice such a miracle unless we check the registration.

My Volare was sent here from The America, a country which has been going through some rough times lately. I figured that maybe it would want to go back and see Missouri, its land of creation, at least once. That Hyundai would never get the opportunity: who would bundle an Elantra into a steamer ship? Driving there, though, was basically feasible. Well, feasible for anyone who wasn't operating a badly-maintained, 47-year-old example of one of Mopar's shittiest cars.

You guessed it: I broke down at the end of my block. There is good news, though. A couple months ago, I found a bicycle clogging the sewage drain near my office, and I was able to bang it mostly straight with a hammer. Ever since then, I've been throwing it in the trunk, and using it to ride home whenever one of my cars leave me stranded. It's been great for my cardio, but more importantly, it was built here. Plans changed. Volare out, whatever this bicycle is "in." I rode it to the bike shop that assembled it, stopping periodically to ingest fried food, craft beer, and ice cream so as not to unnecessarily improve my health from over-exercise.

Unfortunately for everyone, when I got to the bike store, the snooty repair-shop crew considered my quest incomplete. They didn't make the bikes there, just threw them together. The frame and wheels had come from China, they explained, a big integrated factory that punches out the parts, spitting out thousands of proto-bikes per second without any form of human involvement. You'd have to get on a plane and take it to go visit the mothership in Guangdong.

Confronted with the choice to either abandon my quest or willingly board a Boeing product, I decided to take the safer route and return home. Perhaps it was foolish to try and figure out the maternal bonds of soulless, inanimate methods of transportation. Or perhaps I just picked the wrong kind of product, I decided, picking up an apple at the grocery store on my way home. Surely, this thing came from here, I thought right before I read the label.

As soon as I figure out where "Northern Spy" is, you'll be the first to know.

[whumpelstilts]

First they were attacked from behind, a swarm of attackers lunging at them from the shadows. Their arms wrenched behind their back until their shoulders creaked, the fragile crying out of bones and ligaments before they snap. They’re not expecting the quick punch to the solar plexus or how it steals the breath from their lungs. Before they can gasp for air, blunt punches rain down from every angle. Both cheeks catch different sets of knuckles at the same moment. Something crunches. Their head drops forward - trying to hide, trying to escape - and a fist bangs down on the crown of their head like with all the hesitation of someone banging on the breakfast table. A tight grip fists through their hair, tilting their face up towards the shadows, and the blow that comes leaves blood spilling from their mouth, their teeth, their numbless formless lips. Held tight by restraining arms, their soft underbelly is exposed to the assault of someone aiming over and over for the space below their ribs.

Someone changes tactics, looking for an unmarked spot, and when the punch hits their chest, a sharp ring pops through the skin. Then another, and another, until blood flattens the shirt to their heaving, panicked chest.

With lips swollen and their own iron on their tongue, they barely register the gag until it is far too late. The rough fabric slotted and pulled into place, stretching their jaw around the thick wad until it feels like they’ll suffocate. Tears flee down their cheeks, itchy and mingling at the corners of their stretched maw, slipping behind the gag to clog what little air they have left.

They only have a moment, a short gasp of relief, to revel that the blows have stopped.

The loud rip of tape.

Someone’s hand, wide and warm on their forehead, tilting them back so that another can carefully seal tape over the gag. Fingers digging against a swelling jaw. Cursing when they find moisture. A sleeve wiping their cheeks clean. Fingers again, carefully affixing the tape into place and making sure the corners are pressed down tight.

A bag slides over their head, replacing shadows with terrifying clarity of the senses. The rank smell of their own fear and sweat. The rippling spasms through their abdomen, muscles tensing and untensing as they fight against anticipated blows. The oppressive heat of bodies, so many bodies, crowding them from every side. Surrounded. Arms held captive with warning pressure pushing into the sockets of each shoulder. The hands on the front of their chest keeping them upright. Another set of hands on their hips, holding them in place or keeping them from sliding to the ground.

They jump as hands clasp around their head, palms flattened over their ears. A muffled discussion happens above them, and then the hands are pulled away and in their absence comes a familiar weight made foreign through the distance of the cloth.

Noise canceling headphones.

A switch flicks on and the world shifts into a mute.

The grip holding their arms back relaxes. Pins and needles rush in to greet the tips of their fingers, which wriggle of their volition like fish baited by the hook. Their arms shake with the effort of existing, and no sooner have they sensed freedom than they’re grabbed again, this time by the elbows, nearly lifted off their feet as they’re dragged forward forward, until they exit the alley, until the cold unencumbered wind kisses the new wet spots on their cheeks through the rough cloth bag. Until they’re pushed against something, the hard knock of something unmovable against their legs that sends them sprawling forward. Until their captors with their hard grips step inside, and the ground shakes under them, a vehicle creaking at the weight. Until their captors tug the helpless inside behind them. Until the door that slams shut is a whisper of air and the arrival of instinctive of knowing when the trap has sprung shut.

Until they’re sat, shivering, between two unknown masses who are blood warm with the weight of their violence. The heady promise of anticipation in the air that comes from knowing they will taste it again soon.

Until all they can do is shiver in revulsion at the heat.

Until sitting takes a taxing toll, leaves them shriveled up in pain and leaning against the same brutal bodies for support. Until one of them releases their elbow and, in the cruelest parody of gentleness, wraps their arm over their shoulder instead, encouraging them to rest.

Until all they can do is choke on their own gasping sobs, gagging when the intruder in their mouth won’t even grant them that much. Until they’re quiet; until they’re numb.

Until all they can do is wait.

[signedkoko]

Hi again~! Your first batch of valentines are super cute, you did a great job! Also, I would be honored to be 💙 Anon if you’d like! Sorry for responding late, but I didn’t want to clog up your inbox! Maybe one day I’ll be brave enough to come off anon. 😂

I have a fresh request for you too, I hope you’ll like it! Would you please do romantic headcanons or a little oneshot (I’ll let you decide which you feel like!) for Vox and f!reader going out dancing? I got the idea in my head recently and it won’t go away! Like just imagine him taking reader to one of those 1950s style nightclubs with the big ol’ dance floors for a night out—I think it’d be so cute! 😊

Thank you as always for all your hard work!

-💙

Rum Punch [Romantic]

In which on one random boring night you bring up how you miss dancing at clubs, and Vox only wants to make you happy. Reader is female.

Song - Don't Start Now x Hung Up Remix

There was nothing peculiar going on for you or your husband tonight; just normal days highlighted by seeing one another. There was nothing wrong with repetition, of course, you were both comfortable and happy as you were most nights.

But tonight, you couldn't help but feel inspired by the various songs switching as Vox scrolled through sinstagram. 

"If you like staring at me so much, why not take a picture?" The voice blurted from your phone, and when you looked down at it, Vox's head had taken over the screen. 

Rolling your eyes, you swiped the screen, which caused his visage to switch back to his main monitor. 

"Not you, though I know you just love the idea of being my only focal point." Your neutral expression shifted into a smile, enjoying your usual teasing. 

"I was just feeling..." As you trailed, the overlord leaned toward you expectantly. "Inspired?"

Reaching over, you pressed a button on the side of his screen, which immediately closed off his face and opened up his home screen. An angry grumbling came from your phone again, and you couldn't help but laugh as you used his monitor to look up the nearest club. 

He swatted your hands away once you finished typing, and his face came back with a look of annoyance. 

"Listen, if you want to party so bad, I'll take you to a party! Best of the best, every celebrity you could ever-"

"That's sweet and all, but I mean a real party—an old club with a big dance floor and shitty drinks!" You stood up, holding your hands far apart as you expressed the size of the dancefloor. Vox only sat back, sinking into the couch. 

He looked up to the sky as you jokingly showed off some disco moves to exaggerate your point, though he stopped you when he held up a hand. 

"Well, if my baby wants to party, then party we will! But I get to pick the place." 

. . .

Only an hour later, the two of you were dressed and on your way. You argued that you didn't want to draw any attention, so he begrudgingly called a cab instead of his usual driver. 

"So! Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

"Not even a hint?"

Vox only shook his head, though he laughed at your interest. Hell had a fuckton of bars, most shittier than the rest, so he made sure to pick a place he had minor ties to, that way he could ensure your safety.

Not that he would tell you that. He knew you liked the authenticity of being a stranger to others, but you should have thought of that before you said 'I do' to hell's most known man. 

When you arrived, Vox could see the excitement creep onto your face upon seeing the club. It was run down, certainly, but it had a full parking lot and the music was blaring. 

He seemed quite proud of himself, knowing he'd done a good job, but he quickly straightened himself out and offered a hand to you. In no time, the muffled music turned into a rhythm your heart could beat too, surrounded by friends and couples dancing together. 

This was certainly old school—older than you expected—it was tacky, but it was perfect. Everyone's heels tapped on the waxed pine floor, which made every step louder than it seemed and filled the room with the drum of dozens dancing. 

It looked to be some kind of tropical theme, with fake palm trees along the walls and many colourful cocktails with pineapple wedges or mini umbrellas. 

All the chairs were wicker, along with the tables, though those had glass slabs on top of them to protect from the likely hundreds of spills this place saw per night. The seating surrounded the dance floor, most tables had a few people who would take turns on the dance floor. While you were interested in the warm-toned string lights hanging around the ceiling, Vox was interested in grabbing a drink. 

"For the lady, a rum punch...and I'll go for the blue Hawaii." There were almost too many options, but you couldn't go wrong with the classics. 

You were still distracted taking in the scene as he leant against the bar, glancing at you with a chuckle. He was sure he could have picked anywhere and you'd have been happy, but he liked to think he did a good job. 

"You know, this sorta scene really reminds me of my startup in hell." A drink in each hand, Vox let you take a sip of both before handing you the one you enjoyed more. As always, you stared at him when he drank, probably still weirded out by how a monitor drank. Vox chose to ignore it as per usual. 

When your gaze never left him, he figured he might as well continue. 

"Val and I have known each other a long, long time. He got into business before me, and you know his thing. He'd go to every nightclub in the city, trying to find people who'd hear him out." Vox stiffed a laugh, seemingly amused, thinking of Valentino's struggle to fame. 

"He needed a cameraman, and I was better than nothing. But cameramen were easy to hire, so quickly I was moved to handling the website, and you know the rest from there." He turned his monitor to the dancefloor, his now mostly empty drink placed on the table you were standing by. 

"Places like these were all the hype. We went from scouting in them to blowing our paychecks in them to owning them." In his peripherals, he saw you down the last of your drink, sitting it next to his and pumping your first in the air. 

"Here's to the past! And how much better it feels looking back on it than being in it." You dropped a lighthearted comment to pull him back to the present, grabbing his hand to drag him into the mingling hot bodies dancing as if they were going to die tomorrow. 

He had to duck and squeeze between everyone, seeing as you were far smaller and could get through easier. But eventually, you were in the centre of the dance floor, facing each other. 

"Are you sure it's okay to dance after chugging a drink?" 

"I can't hear you! Just dance dumbass!" He could hear you just fine, but he shrugged it off with a grin, seeing you bust out the same moves you had in your living room just a few hours ago. 

Only this time, he grabbed one of your hands and joined in. 

Song after song, you two were never further than a few inches from each other. While Vox focused on keeping you close to him, you were busy singing out the lyrics to songs he didn't even know you knew. He made sure everyone saw that you were all over him, and he was just the same back, to make sure there were no incidents with stupid demons thinking they could take you away from him. 

Even in the heat of dancing, Vox would always be jealous enough to worry about others looking at you. 

But those thoughts were easily distracted when you'd pull him in for a kiss or push up against him, asking him to do a move with you. 

A few drinks later and the night was a blur shaped vaguely like you, something that danced around his head until, eventually, he could remember that you both had work the next day and needed to leave. 

When you left the building, there were only a few cars left in the parking lot, the building having mostly cleared during the handful of hours you'd both spent there. 

Vox was holding you in his arms, bridal style, while you held loosely onto the heels you really shouldn't have worn. 

This time, he called for his driver and let you comfortably lay in the back with your head in his lap, his claws carefully tracing through your hair and scratching your scalp. He could tell you were half asleep, but still coming down from the high of the club. 

"Vox."

"Mhmm?"

"Thank you for taking me out," You paused as if you had something else to add, but when the pause continued for what felt like minutes, Vox realized you'd passed out on his lap. 

For once, his grin was nothing but a careful smile, his hand leaving your head to rub circles into your shoulder. 

"Thank you for reminding me what it felt like to be human."

Author's Note - This was SO HARD TO WRITE but not because of the story 😭I was so excited for this prompt, but I had a 7hr exam right before I started this, and then I finished it at 8 am after being awoken by the window cleaners PRESSURE WASHING MY WINDOW. Scared the hell outta me!

Anyways im rambling, tysm for requesting blue anon! I am so glad we have an indicator for you now 🖤

Word Count - 1,432

[chaosticbraindo]

Kaijune - day 17: penetrate 🪲 🦿

Chaos Megalon

After Gigan’s defeat, an alien race known as Zetopyons followed its tract to earth. These beings are benevolent and lawful, planned to hunt down the rouge cyborg with their own creation that they worship as a god, Megalon. However, upon their arrival to the solar system… they suddenly changes course and began an attack on earth...

In truth, such a decision is not hard to understand. The solar system is now overran with powerful and unnaturally unstable kaijus number in the dozens, many of which are too powerful to even confront… Yet, as a race bound by law and order, for them to let such a dangerous place be is simply not an option.

As they look they realized that not only is Earth the source of the chaos, almost every kaijus that roams the planet are destroyers, and each have the power destroy entire planets worth of life forms- along with a massive tear that is barely clogged up with but a single benevolent kaiju. Knowing they are in way over their heads, they deployed Megalon before fleeing to seek help.

Megalon, after being left to on Earth in its pupa state, soon completes its metamorphosis and emerges. Addressing the most destructive threat around, it sees Rodan and made a B line towards its volcanic nest. Surprisingly, Gojira suddenly change course upon Megalon’s awakening and start moving towards the cyborg weapon in search of a confrontation, mistaking it for another cyborg kaiju, Gigan.

Of course, with the order to take out any kaiju it cross path with, Megalon have no qualms with confronting Gojira as well, slamming full speed into the atomic horror and punching a hole right through its torso with the combination of leg strength and drill arms. Ignoring the massive hole in its torso, Gojira began grappling the insectoid cyborg while being pushed for miles upon miles with each jump from Megalon.

different to Gigan who was made to be sharp, fast, and efficient in its killing, Megalon is built to be direct and powerful, fighting by leaping into the enemy and piercing them. Moreover, Megalon’s arsenal are more diverse than Gigan albeit less deadly. From powerful lightning to condensed napalms that explodes on contact, Megalon was more than capable of overwhelming Gojira. Beyond it all, Megalon have a natural power to freeze reality similar to that of Shimo. Unlike Shimo who express this ability in the form of a breath, however, Megalon can only use this ability to put up a flat barrier for a fraction of a second- yet, this barrier can still block all form of attack. With this power, not only can Megalon protect itself but also freeze the area beneath its paws, letting itself jump at full strength and not worry about sinking into the ground.

One would be hard pressed to find a kaiju that can best this juggernaut of a machine… but Gojira was one of those kaijus. With unrivaled regeneration and immense physical strength alone, Gojira was able to take on attacks one would consider lethal- without even letting go, all while slowly crushing the protective shell of Megalon and showering the cyborg with its atomic breath. Megalon, powerful as it was, was lacking in both regenerative powers and resilience, and was soon taking on damage beyond repair.

after a battle that was rather short but of unrivaled intensity, Megalon slump down, having one of its leg, its strongest asset, torn right out of its socket. In a last ditch attempt to take out Gojira, it open its maw to let out a final napalm barrage but was unfortunately hit in turn. Having an atomic breath blasting directly to the mouth, all the napalms within Megalon goes off, exploding itself from the inside out.

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

Hiiii, Cyprus ❤️ Did you like my surprise? I trashed your apartment since you never seem to leave mine! I'm not mean like you though, so I left all the pieces of your now broken phone at the bottom of this note. Also I pissed all over your mattress <3 You cant keep fucking with me and expect me to take it, right? Anyways, suck a fat one and see you at work on Monday, babygirl!!

[Author's note: Cyprus doesn't like going to your apartment. He prefers it if you stay at his, hence the stealing and manipulating to get you to come over to his place. Canonically, he wouldn't leave you alone at his place either.]

Tw: afab reader, cyprus being a dick

Your heart was pumping when you arrived at the office on Monday. Ready for a confrontation with Cyprus. All the worst-case scenarios ran through your mind and you hoped he would lash out at you publicly, getting himself fired in the process.

Only to find out that he isn't coming in today, he pulled one of his emergency leaves. The office was asking you what happened to him since it was already established very well that you're his girl. You said you had no idea, which made them probe you even more. As they didn't believe you.

That was... Anti-climatic. You're somewhat relieved yet tensed because you know something is about to happen yet you don't know when or what. You're not receiving any calls, or text messages from him either (as expected, you mangled his phone), not even an email that he could have sent through his laptop.

The workday went by uneventfully, save for your nosy coworkers pestering you for more details about Cyprus's absence during lunch and punch-out time. To your surprise and many of your colleagues too, Cyprus wasn't there to pick you up, you truly had no idea what had happened to him. It was complete radio silence from the hothead. Very uncharacteristic of him, you thought he would fly off the handles at your offences.

Maybe he gave up. You're too much trouble than what you're worth.

You grinned, thinking that you're one step closer to freedom from that man, you will have to figure out how to deal with the animosity that will inevitably arrive when he comes back to work. You knew Cyprus was vengeful, he's going to do something to fuck up your career as revenge.

You said your goodbyes to your coworkers as you head back home. The trip was also nothing out of the ordinary, it's just like how it was before accidentally snaring Cyprus's fiery heart.

However, when you arrived back to your apartment, your landlord, a few other tenants, a group of cleaners and a pair of plumbers coming in and out of the lobby was waiting there for you.

You asked what was going on.

The tenants seems distressed, they were too busy chatting amongst themselves or on phone calls. The only person who's willing to fill you in is your landlord, who doesn't look too thrilled to see you either.

He said he would want to talk to you outside. You obliged and follow him to the entrance, where the both of you are illuminated by the door lights and street lamps.

"There was a clog that caused the toilets in a handful of units to flood." He said.

You were worried, thinking that you're one of the affected too. You asked if you could check your room out too, but your landlord only stopped you there.

"We are doing what we can to settle the situation. However, I must talk to you about the cause of it." He pulled his phone out and opened his photo galleries.

"It came from your apartment. You flushed something down that you weren't supposed to." Your eyes landed on a picture, showing you a rusted, dirty water pipe, gaping on one end and what seemed like a soaked, crumpled period pad. You don't think it was even originally used, you're not even on your period. How did it-

"I will be charging your account for the repairs." Your landlord told you.

You tried defending yourself, saying that you didn't do it. You accused Cyprus of trespassing and causing the clog because you and he had a "fight".

He shook his head. "I wanted to believe that too, because I never expected you to be this reckless. I checked the surveillance cameras, no one entered your room other than yourself."

You tried to desperately fight your case, you do not want to pay for damages you didn't do! You knew Cyprus is behind this somehow, but you couldn't prove it. Frustrating as it is, you couldn't do anything except to bite the bullet.

Your landlord excused himself to handle the situation at hand, leaving you alone to think about what had happened alone. Outside, with the darkness surrounding you.

You sighed and frowned. Maybe you should call your mom, dad, sibling or online friend to rant about your day. You were too immersed in your thoughts and misery that you didn't realize a certain sedan car has been circling around the block a few times now. Still, not aware of your surroundings, you pulled your phone out.

But you got distracted by the icon of your favourite social media application. You ended up launching that instead of calling someone for advice or help. You had to pacify yourself and what better way than to use mind-numbing brain junkfood?

However, during mid-scroll, your precious device was yanked away from your hands by none other than Cyprus.

But before you can even inhale a complete gasp, the deafening sounds of your lifeline shattering reached your ears first. Followed by successive crunching of your already abused phone under his heavy, combat boots.

You stared at it slack jaw as he continued grinding his heel against the pieces out of pure spite.

"I read your little note." He gruffed, continuing to destroy whatever is left of your gadget. "I was fucking pissed." He continued, glaring at you as he fits in a couple more stomps.

"But now, we're even." He pulled something out from his pocket and pelted it at you. It isn't heavy, you thought he threw the crumpled note itself at you since it looked thin, paper like and light.

Only when you took a closer look, your face paled in horror.

It's an empty menstrual pad wrapper.

"Come on, princess." He clamped his hand around your wrist, dragging you along with him. "We're going out for dinner. I don't feel like cooking today."

You wrenched your hand away from him and said you didn't want to see him. He disregarded that with a click of the tongue and a roll of the eyes.

"You know, you really can be a handful sometimes." He grabbed your hand again. "I'm not mad anymore, okay? You learned your lesson; I won't be fucking your shit up as long as you leave mine alone. I'll be paying for the damages and I'll get you a new phone after dinner. Now, let's go. I'm hungry and I bet you are too."

You still resisted him, planting your feet firmly on the ground and trying to tug your hand away from his iron grip. You said you're tired, you just want to be in your room.

He scoffed. "Trust me, you do not want to go in there. I took everything important, you should have no problem staying over at my place. The sheets are freshly washed and I deep cleaned my mattress just for my angel girl who could do no wrong." Heavy sarcasm was dripping from his words at the end of his sentence.

You still put up a fight, which thinned his patience.

A yelp escaped your lips when he suddenly groped your ass. His grip was firm, a bit too firm that it hurts a bit. Wincing, you unintentionally loosened your posture, allowing Cyprus to whisk you off your feet and draped you over his shoulder. You made a fuss, kicking and hitting him but he was like a mountain made of steel and concrete- nothing fazes him.

"Stop squirming, you fucking brat. Or I'll bite you." He growled, walking towards his car and tightening his hold on your legs, you're trying your best to kick him in the head. It was already hard having your upper body dangle off his back shoulder.

Of course, feeling the sting of humiliation, you didn't stop. You kept struggling against the much stronger man, hoping that he would either give up or drop you.

But to your surprise, you felt a sharp pressure on the side of your ass cheek. Shouting in pain, you realized that Cyprus held his word and sunk his teeth into your soft flesh. That was effective in stunning you in place, the scream dying down in your throat and you ceased your flailing.

"I warned you, pretty girl." He unlocked his car door with his key fob. You sighed, this is going to be a long week.

[urielsdaybreak]

Do you have any headcanons for the Bellringer?

Lots! I have a list of old headcanons for him, but I’ll write out a new one since it’s worth updating them.

Physical Structure

1. The yoke of the Bellringer is made out of wood - an unnatural and a magical kind produced from his hometown that he keeps secret. The wood itself is malleable and flexible, and it branches around his entire body - being his central nervous system more or less - and being covered by his brass platings. The wood is sensitive, so he often protects his yoke when in combat.

2. He can detach his head and still control his body which leads/has led to funny scenarios. He will punch you though if you try to attempt removing his head - he doesn’t like it. He can also control the movement of his bell (so a person can’t just spin it around out of the blue) using his yoke.

3. Healing Bell is the ability to focus one’s magical capacity (remember that the wood itself is magical, so that’s where that comes from) into one’s chassis and funnel that all through a bell and then release that magic with a chime me to heal cogs. He has to know the structures of the cogs he’s healing (even if just vague) or have the emotional will (moral or immoral) to heal someone - for example, if a close friend of his got hurt, even without knowing their structure, the stress and sorrow would be enough to substitute it. Healing Bell is not the only ability he can do, and there are many more such as Overcharging. (Yes, this means there are rules to the magic, as well.)

4. His combat style in boxing is being more agile rather than relying on the damage of his punch. He exhausts his opponents by constantly healing himself using his healing bell, before eventually knocking out his opponent and winning the round. This has led him to develop a higher pain tolerance which is why he can sustain explosions on the daily. Alongside his fitness, his 12 years in the resort carrying tons of luggage on the daily has most likely heightened his endurance.

5. HE DOES NOT EAT USING HIS CLACKER (though that is a very funny interpretation). He eats and drinks via the grey area of his neck where his yoke is attached to. There’s an aperture that opens up there, allowing him to throw and ingest said food or drink. He can only eat little by little or else he could clog up his digestive tract since it is quite narrow.

Personality - "Eyes and ears open at all times; I've probably heard it all."

1. I don’t think he is physically/literally tone-deaf (as referred by Jennifer’s interview notes of him). That’s meant more metaphorically that he is deaf in reading the room and continues blabbering on about his gossips or talking shit about other managers. This also leads me to think that he would have a nice friendship/rivalry with Graham as they don’t have regards to anyone other than themselves and Suits they care about, and they both also crave/love attention. They sing together in Dave’s shows sometimes, and other times they make a competition out of how many followers they can get on their social media account.

2. He is friendly, extremely charismatic, and a great conversationalist… on the surface. He certainly has a “mask” that he puts on all the time to maintain his image in order to trick Suits for his selfish motives or maintain surface-level relationships - personal or business. Underneath, he is a sly and manipulative suit that people-pleases and sweet talks his way into things he needs and wants. When he's in trouble, he does his best to comply if its for the betterment of his self-interests but that's not to say he can't be silly and not give a fuck at all (wrt to official comic with Plutocrat). Lying is a constant in his entire life which is why he makes such a great Sellbot. This also means he has severe trust issues. His nosiness ties into that aspect, but for the most part, he just loves hearing other people’s businesses because it gives him a sense of control over them.

3. Underneath the “mask”, he’s scarily perceptive that he knows things about other people that they might not. It’s possible he has stalked Suits before talking to them in order to find their sweet side, and/or his experiences in espionage has led him to deduce things easily and subsequently take advantage of people’s attributes. His chattiness can be an intended tactic to make conversations go side-tracked and steer it to how he wants it, and his conversation with the secretaries is to gather information on other employees. Despite this, he still upholds his strong value of being authentic to himself despite the ironic immoral actions he is committing. Why? Sure, he finds the life of lying second nature to him, but there is also a naivety within him that yearns for true connections and truthfulness to himself, and he is desperately trying to keep that part from drowning amidst the cruelty of Suitopia’s society.

4. Since Bellringer uses he/they pronouns, I always saw him expanding his gender and sexuality beyond his masculinity. He’d definitely love to go to drag shows, wear dresses, and get his nails done. Whether he’s potentially a trans-woman/trans-man/non-binary is an interesting aspect and that will depend on the reader’s interpretation. I personally think he is comfortable representing both as a man and a woman, which is the absolute gender I strive for. <3 I also believe he speaks out against toxic masculinity and, if given the opportunity, also supports feminism because it’s in his personality to be as authentic & comfortable as he wants to be, and anybody that opposes that will get a rightful talking to.

Backstory

Let’s start with what we know.

1. He was a bellboy for 12 years in Golden Rose Resort and we know that he did some of his own “business” while working there since Jennifer notes he has a lot of knowledge about Suits and C.O.G.S. Inc’s rival companies. It would not be too surprising if the reason why he chose to apply for C.O.G.S. Inc. is because he deduced that this would be the dominating company in the following years compared to rival companies. It’s no doubt he utilises his chattiness to make shady deals with high-end clients during his time as a bellboy, gain information about powerful people and the companies they work for, and blackmails some Suits for his own means or someone else’s.

On a lighter note, I think he picked up the ventriloquist hobby (wrt to ventriloquist Bellringer comic) during this time likely to entertain guests in the hotel either as part of the job or a means of getting extra money or tips for his service, or — having been doing espionage at this time — he could have learned it for a specific mission and simply happened to like it then picked it up even after being employed at C.O.G.S. Inc. Funny how he uses puppets that would be a clear metaphor to his control over other Suits, right? Nah, I’m simply looking too deep into this and he just does it to troll people, haha.

What about before that?

2. Espionage demands a lot of exercise, and that didn’t just come from nowhere. In his earlier years, I would imagine he had joined some underground boxing ring for money. Why didn’t he just do minimum wage jobs to survive? Firstly, he’s not going to spend his next 12 years in a fucking McCognalds. Secondly, he has his own personal issues in his past that he eventually found boxing as a healthy outlet for his emotions. Thirdly, he finds the thrill of a challenge exciting, especially one that brings him at death’s door. If you can heal your wounds with a ring, you’re bound to develop a twisted false mentality that you can survive anything, and soon enough that could become an addiction that is drunk in pride. Winning the boxing matches gives him the attention he wants, and it gives him the addicting thrill he desires. After being hired at the resort, he needed to feed that addiction of thrill, and so he would lead a life of espionage and continue his immoral ways.

It would also explain why he shirks doing his actual duties in C.O.G.S. Inc. and instead gets distracted because he doesn't really want to do the boring parts. He just wants the fun of being in other people’s business and the thrill of combat in the streets (he incredibly despises Toons. All the more reason to explode them!) Because of that, I don't blame him if he looks tired all the time if what his position demands is torture to him, lol.

3. With the amount of charisma he has, he most definitely had sexual and romantic relationships. Most of them were just fleeting, and some of the rarer healthier ones would almost convince him to quit his adventurous addiction, however those types of relationships - where he exposes his vulnerabilities - hurt the most, especially when they end because of his own faults. Benjamin has grown an infatuation for Brian in his current position, but he has no intention to confess due to his lingering fear of trust issues, putting someone he cares about in danger because of the consequences of his immoral actions, and the self-deprecating belief that he cannot fix himself to love someone else, not after all the lies, deceit, and misdeeds he has done.

4. Of course, there’s still the question of what the origins of his hometown are, especially with that deal with the magical properties of his chassis, his aforementioned personal issues in his past, and most importantly… what about his family? He surely has a family somewhere in United Cogdom, right? I’m telling you that, yes, he does have a family and, yes, his mysterious origins are something I know and I am sure you’re keen to know about. After all, a Suit like him is extraordinarily bizarre - from his personality down to the nature of his powers. He’s bound to pick those habits from somewhere, right? Unfortunately, well…

It’s rather rude to talk about someone who’s listening…

[peskellence]

Rule Of Nines

New Order

Explicit content, Graphic Violence (18+)

Pairing: Reed900

Tags: AU, Multi-Chapter, Lovers to Enemies, Kidnapping, Crime and Violence, Oral, Anal, Dom/ Sub, Toxic Relationships

Previous Chapter

Read on AO3 here:

Summary: In a world where loyalty is currency and compromise is weakness, Gavin Reed, a ruthless mobster, lives by his own rules. When an old enemy resurfaces with a deadly demand, his life is thrown into chaos-as his trusted second-in-command, Nines, is put to the ultimate test of allegiance. Will he stay committed to Gavin, or will the loyal guard dog begin to stray? (Human Mob!AU)

Warnings: Major Character Death (before events of the story), Graphic Violence, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Dubcon and Noncon

Tag List: @sweeteatercat @wedonthaveawhile @ladyj-pl @tentoriumcerebelli @negative-citadel @faxaway @moriahadi424 @unicorn4genocide @cptjh-arts

♡If you would like to be added to the tag list for future projects, please let me know♡

ONE YEAR LATER.

There had been a hit on one of the Delray warehouses. All contact had been lost with the guards stationed there, and family members sent to investigate had soon become unreachable too. Following an extended period of silence, Nines took matters into his own hands, proceeding to the location himself.

Upon entering the space, the halogen bulbs of the loading bay failed to activate. It was dark outside, the lack of windows only exacerbating the vacuous black. The scent in the air was oppressively potent, clogging his nostrils. 

Gunpowder and blood.

He already knew what they were about to discover as their torches were raised and the first beam of light sliced through the darkness.

Bodies lay strewn across the ground amidst a series of overturned crates, gutted of their contents. The hollowed-out panels proudly presented, with some of the lesser goods strewn haphazardly on the floor. Fairly innocuous, given the extensive stockpile of munitions that had once been contained.

Either the culprits had left in a hurry, their infiltration discovered sooner than anticipated, or they simply took what they’d wanted—the surplus serving to send a message, a brazen exhibition of dominance. Mockery.  

A disrespect which ignited a flame in his gut as Nines bent down to inspect the bullet punched neatly between the eyes of Meyer. Vacant pits that bore up at the ceiling—ashen and lifeless. 

He stayed there for a moment, running a hand through the crimson streaks blossoming from his wound. Connor stood close, glancing down at the body, watching as mislaid life seeped through the cracks of his brother's fingers. While nothing was said, there was a distinct air of sorrow in the way he bowed his head. A show of silent respect and gratitude. 

Vincenzo was more vocal in his discontent, knocking one of the smaller crates with the end of a steel-capped boot, propelling it across the room. “Christ, what a mess. Who’d you think is behind this shitshow?”

It was difficult to say. Most gangs in Detroit, as well as wider Michigan, knew better than to cross Nines. He ran a decidedly more ruthless operation than Reed, seldom opting to take prisoners. The repercussions of such a stunt were well understood, with even the most hardened criminals knowing better than to provoke him. 

This had to be the work of a fledgling organisation, unaware of their precarious position in the hierarchy. Men filled with bravado and confidence that hadn’t yet been beaten out of them.

Nines would be more than happy to serve them this well-earned lesson in humility.

“He’s still warm,” he said plainly, standing from his crouched position. “Scope the area, I suspect we have company. I'd like to have a discussion with them, should they be man enough to show themselves.”

The words served as instructions to the family but also a pointed appeal to any rodents cowering in the shadows. Goading their movement, on the presumption they would act in the same callous abandon that had been demonstrated up until now. Compromise their own position, saving him the trouble of doing so.

His ploy worked flawlessly—as a sudden, flurried rustling broke through the stillness. 

The attention of all family members was drawn in unison. Arcs of light snapped to the source, casting a spotlight on the nearby debris. Then the noise grew louder, more frantic, signalling the creature was preparing to flee. 

Finally, they broke from their hiding place, a blur of frenetic movement tenuously resembling a person. As they darted through the sparse cover, Vincenzo raised his pistol, bellowing out a sharp deterrent: 

"Don't move, you piece of shit!"

The figure refused to comply.

A warning shot was then fired at the nearby wall, just barely missing their shoulder. As the bullet skimmed past, a curse echoed through the warehouse, and heavy footfalls momentarily faltered. Floyd and Rooney closed in, restraining the stranger before they could regain their bearings.

“Let me go, you fucking assholes !”

Nines felt shards of ice permeate his veins as matched fractals stabbed their way through his eardrums. Because the sound was not strange at all—but cruelly familiar. 

The same harsh, biting octaves that had relentlessly haunted his consciousness. Poisoning his every thought and memory like a fatal disease that refused to be cured.

The cold beneath his skin was quashed as the man came into view, face partially obscured by tousled brown hair—but still recognisable. His stocky body thrashed and writhed against the grip of his captors, confirming to Nines that this was real.

“Well, would you look at that?” As though further confirmation was required, Rooney grabbed a fistful of hair, pulling back and presenting Nines with the snarling visage he had hoped to never see again. “You've got a lotta fucking nerve, Reed, showing yourself ‘round here.”

Really, this could have been predicted. It wasn't so hard to believe that he would have had some involvement in this. 

There had been rumours of his re-emergence. Ascending from the gutters in order to align himself with a group of freshly rallied degenerates. Charged to a particularly repugnant beast whose name Nines made no effort to learn. 

All he knew was he was similar to DeLuca, without any of the duplicitous charm or cunning. Making enemies left, right and centre in a constant bid for more . The sort who indulged in everything to excess—be it food, drugs, or sex. Although he doubted the latter was something claimed freely; more likely bartered for.

Despite this gluttonous sphere of influence, Gavin looked frustratingly good. Healthy. As though he'd been thriving under the new regime. 

He’d gained weight since the last Nines saw him, a far cry from the skeletal bundle left beaten and bloodied in his basement. New clothes, a clean shave, coupled with a potent reek of aftershave that could be smelled from several paces back.

Amidst the rising swell of revulsion, there was curiosity. Whatever Gavin was doing to win the favour of his newfound associates, it was working. This, in turn, raised the question of what that might be. 

What exactly could warrant such preferential treatment, given the man's contemptuous reputation and lack of social delicacy—

“Eat shit and die.” 

As though to illustrate the point, Gavin swung his legs back and began kicking at Rooney's thigh, flailing and screeching like a madman. This was before he abandoned the effort in favour of an even less dignified lunge. Aiming for his forearm, attempting to sink teeth into flesh. 

As his neck arched, veins bulging from the added exertion, the marks became visible. Some were old and fading, while others were tellingly fresh—patterned in red and purple buds all across his skin.

Revelation struck hard, bringing with it a staunch clarity. It seemed the man’s newest keeper was having to do far less bartering than anticipated in satisfying his physical needs. 

As Gavin accepted he would not be able to brute force his way out of the situation, his demeanour shifted. Much less hostile, although it was clearly a farce. He was simply waiting for the right moment, biding time until a distraction emerged. 

“Good to know you dipshits still can't secure a perimeter to save your lives.” He gestured to the pronounced sea of death surrounding him, snickering cruelly. 

His attention then passed the living occupants, disdainful glare returned with matched abhorrence. It was clear just how desperately the men wished to execute their own justice. Extinguish the spite and overconfidence gleaming in his eyes.

Then focus shifted to Connor, and the sickening display intensified. Murky green turned bright in awe like a child opening presents on Christmas morning. The corners of snarling lips were all but pinned to his ears in an uncomfortably large, twisted grin. 

“Holy-fucking-shit...” He whistled softly, speaking in a slow, mocking simper. “Loving the eyepatch, Connie, very stylish.” 

It was Connor who came close to faltering first, succumbing to lethal temptation. His gun was raised, safety removed, as he trained the barrel on the man taunting him. He was unable to hold the weapon still—shaking with anger, compounded by the persistent tremors that already blighted his muscles.

Despite extensive physiotherapy, he had never fully adjusted to his new left-handed grip, nor the loss of his depth perception.

"I guess I have you to thank for it.” The words were seethed, with bitterness spat from every syllable. “Maybe I should return the favour. What do you think?” 

Gavin was less than fazed by the threat. Taut lips puckered into a kiss as he shamelessly fluttered his lashes. A man with his head on the chopping block, all but begging for the blade to drop.

“I'll pass, don't think ‘pirate’ is really my style.” The sarcastic expression morphed into a commiserate pout as he clicked his tongue in feigned sympathy. “I’d say ‘sexy pirate’, but let's be real. You look like someone was roasting a marshmallow and forgot to take it off the fire.” 

Connor tensed, his finger poised on the trigger. Twitching reflexively as it threatened to pull, shattering the man and his self-satisfaction into a thousand scattered pieces. 

Nines shared in this burgeoning bloodlust but understood allowing the man to escape so quickly would be a kindness undeserved. With tenuously held composure, he applied gentle pressure to the barrel of the pistol, angling it down. 

“Let me handle this.”

His brother looked at him, lips parted, poised on the brink of protest. The rest of the family was equally stunned, as Nines seemingly denied his sibling a golden opportunity for vengeance.

What they couldn't see were the wheels of cognition beginning to turn, spurring with them sadistic machinations. Nines offered assurance to Connor in the form of a subtle nod, a gesture he knew would be understood.

A promise that this wasn't the betrayal it appeared to be, and that the situation was under control. 

Gavin would not be permitted to slip through the cracks of his judgment a second time. He would know precisely the damning mistake he'd made in coming here. 

With the siblings distracted, at least as perceptible from the outside, the captive seized his opportunity. Vying for escape a second time, he successfully clamped down onto the taut flex of Rooney's bicep. The man howled in pain, arm reeling back, as Floyd moved instinctively to assist. 

Dropping to the floor, he swiftly clambered to his feet and sprinted across the warehouse. Pressing a hand to an overturned crate and vaulting himself over before emerging between opposing trails of wreckage.

Guns clicked in unison—an orchestra of impatience—until Nines conducted their restraint, raising his hand before bringing it down in a decisive sweep.

“Don't shoot.”

He watched carefully, observing as Gavin darted and weaved through the obstacles, his confidence mounting with each maneuver. What proceeded was inevitable, shameful in its predictability, as he craned back to mock his would-be pursuers, offering a pointed flourish of his middle finger.

Nines could feel the bemused huff pressing at his lips as he subsequently failed to notice the large metal beam entering his path. He struck it cleanly,  tumbling to the side, landing in a heap on the gnarled concrete.

His head ricocheted off the ground, snapping back unnaturally before flopping limply to its original position. The man groaned, lying sprawled and stunned, incapable of movement.

Nines closed in swiftly, making his way through the chicanes of debris until he was standing by his side. Nudging Gavin's limp form with the tip of his shoe, he mimicked the condescension of his previous tuts. 

“You know, you really ought to watch where you’re going.”

He then kicked against the sensitive junction between his shoulder and neck—hard—rendering the already debilitated man entirely tranquilised. 

By the time Gavin woke up, Nines had gone to extensive measures to ensure he wouldn’t run again. Instructing his subordinates to secure their catch with heavy-duty fastenings before transporting him to a secure location outside the city border. 

It was on a need-to-know basis where they were headed, with provisions made to ensure the captive would not secure membership to this club. 

Nines watched with clinical detachment as his senses returned. Draws of breath fluttering against the inside of a burlap sack, mingled with pained murmurs until his body seized and the fluttered movements steadily ramped in pace.

Pulling material into the heaving gape of his mouth, he struggled against the restraints. Thrashing wildly in a vain attempt to rock the chair he’d been anchored to. Cries of protest were muffled but nowhere near enough to prevent a profound auditory assault.

Nines took little note, pacing evenly around the chair—a wolf circling its prey. He relished the signs of struggle, the mounting desperation that emerged from an inability to anticipate strikes.  

Despite all the bravado and rage, every footstep was matched with a flinch. Gavin was scared—a primal fear, an innate drive for self-preservation, that was completely unavoidable.

For Nines, it was euphoric. The sense of control that came from watching him reel and squirm, with little that could be done to mask it. He paused in place, calmly removing the rope that bound the sack to his neck before tugging it away. 

Gavin's jaw was forced closed by the clawing grip of his hand, and he was left with no option but to face his captor. He glared up at him, squinting through the sudden onslaught of light as Nines cooly addressed him:

“It's been a long time.”

A grumbled response rumbled from within clenched bone and muscle, sounding indistinguishably similar to “Not long enough.”

"I was surprised when your bloated corpse didn't wash up in a river somewhere. Your father made more enemies than allies, and you've certainly never been popular.”

His chin was released, as Nines opted instead to burrow fingers into his dress shirt, rumpling the gaudy silk as he yanked him close. In the new proximity, he was rudely accosted by a heavy whiff of aftershave. 

It had been bad enough from a distance, but now, the stench was overwhelming. Nauseatingly rich, clinging to him like a second skin. Powerful citruses mingled with a sickly, cloying musk that Nines struggled to place.

“DeLuca was far from the only person who wanted you dead. I wonder what you did to convince your new ‘friend’ to offer protection.”

He already knew, just wished to hear it from Gavin's mouth. To draw the shameful confession from his lips. Ones that formed a humourless smirk as he sharply replied:

"I'm just that fucking charming.”

The grip on his collar was abandoned, gliding down silky trails of fabric before reaching Gavin's hand. With precision, he seized one of his fingers, twisting back until it was strained at an increasingly grotesque angle. His captive hissed, attempting to pull away but being stopped by the hold of his restraints.

"Tell me, how long did you last on the streets before you got down on your knees for the first man who’d have you?" 

He pulled back, further still, until the tip drew close to the knuckle. "How many times have you let him fuck you? Heaving up and down, grunting and straining to keep it hard as his disgusting body drips with sweat—”

"I don't kiss and tell.”

One of the bones reached the limit of its flexibility, snapping in two. "Was it worth it, Gavin? Losing me? Losing everything?”

The mangled digit twitched and spasmed, then stilled, as did the man attached. He gritted his teeth, clenched so tight they also threatened to shatter before they were bared in another hideous grin. 

He wouldn't be willing to succumb so easily, falter to such paltry torture. Nines would have to escalate matters if he wished to secure the desired result. 

The middle finger was clenched next, a known favourite amongst the appendages. “Answer me.”

"I don't have to answer shit.” Gavin's body shook, a combination of defiant chuckles and involuntary trembles. “What about you, Nines? You found someone else to stick it in, or is it all about the hookers these days?”

It was Nines’ turn to fall silent. His hold on the digit tensed, tightening substantially but failing to execute decisive action. 

“You ever think about me when you're pumping their guts?” Another goading flutter of lashes, as though the mockery wasn't already transparent. "Such a shame you kicked me out; we could have been so beautiful together. Had a spring wedding, settled down in the suburbs, maybe adopted some kids—" 

"Stop talking.”

"Did you ever think about it, huh? Us, having a future together?”

The carefully planned finesse of his torment was swiftly forgotten. Nines struck Gavin in the chest. A show of raw, primitive brutality. Fist propelling into ribs that broke with sickening cracks against his knuckles.

The way his skin and bones yielded obediently to the impact, moulding to the shape of his hand, felt almost intimate. This was only exacerbated by the winded gasp which passed his lips as the man buckled over. 

Because it had always been this way, hadn't it? 

It had never been about love or appreciation or even the most meagre pursuit of shared satisfaction. It had always been about control, the desire to take , claiming exactly what they wanted from one another, and omitting anything else. 

Gavin tilted his head to the side, hawking a wad of spit to the floor below. The impact had caused some form of concealed damage, evident in the slither of blood curling its way through the puddle, catching the lights above.

What followed had not been part of the plan. 

Nines had intended to bring Gavin here in order to rectify mistakes. Beat the man to the point of submission, inflicting physical torment comparable to what his brother had been forced to endure one year prior. Leave him for dead, as he’d done to Connor.  

But as Gavin looked at him—blood streaking down his chin, eyes ablaze with provocation—it triggered another, more dormant instinct. Beyond the desire for revenge. 

Because the current arrangement was familiar, starkly resemblant to the warped closeness they had once shared. It was something Nines could only go so far to remove himself from, its heavy hand having been paramount in shaping his identity. Sadistic desire, ingrained as deeply into his psyche as the need to breathe, conditioned by almost a decade of ritual.

Nines had lost his composure, strands of hair tumbling loose from neatly gelled coils. They descended his face like tangled vines. He felt equally discordant, gripped by insanity that only the monster in front of him inspired.

He didn't think, couldn't think, as he lunged for Gavin a second time. This time, capturing his waist with the bruising grip of his thighs. Grabbing his chin, he wiped away the lingering crimson with his thumb and leaned close to growl a demand against the shell of his ear. 

"I said shut your fucking mouth.”

The response came in a broken wheeze, rumbled through a shattered chest. Barely intelligible, yet maintaining a pronounced degree of obstinance. “Make me.”

Nines took this as an invitation, falling prey as he sank deep into temptation.

The kiss was crushing—bruising—not allowing for any protest. The territorial hold on Gavin’s jaw had formed into an iron lock grip, ensuring he couldn't pull away. 

Nines wanted to rip him apart. Tear to ribbons the visage of the man who had come so close to taking everything.

With each movement, he sought to channel this hatred, poised on the tip of a tongue shoved forcefully down his throat. He wanted to show Gavin just how weak he was. Remind him of all the mercies granted up until now and how they formed no indication of power or influence.

Nines had spared him because he wanted to. He was in control, having granted the man an opportunity to escape on one basic stipulation that he couldn't show the decency

[raven-loop]

Hidden Away [Part 1]

Pairing: Heimdall X Female!Reader

Summary: Heimdall does something considered cowardly, it takes him somewhere he never thought it would.

Warnings: Violence, injuries, fighting (I'm terrible at warnings)

[Picture not mine]

AN: Had a small idea for this lovable jerk.

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

No...

No!

This wasn't how it was suppose to go. Heimdall was suppose to show up and defeat Kratos! Not the opposite!

"You absolute MORON!" Throwing another bïfrost attack, all Heimdall could do was watch as Kratos effortlessly avoided it and ran at him with that stupid spear.

This time he managed to avoid it as Kratos threw it at him. Unlike before, how he caught it, not expecting the spear to explode. It caught him off guard. The bleeding wound on his face told that tale for him.

It became apparent that he was not prepared properly for this fight. Who would have thought, the god of foresight - not prepared.

And that's when he did something stupid. Something only a coward would do.

Summoning all his strength, Heimdall threw another, even more powerful bïfrost attack at Kratos. Bright purple erupted in front of Kratos, and he couldn't avoid it as it covered his entire body.

Heimdall used up too much magic, he couldn't summon more. So he took his chance and ran. Adrenaline coursing through him, his legs took him far despite the injuries he sustained. It wouldn't last long, which is why Heimdall had to take advantage of it.

The scenery around him changed, the forest grew bigger it seemed. But he wasn't paying attention, he just ran. Ran until his lungs started burning. Until his wounds bled too much. Until his vision grew blurry.

Until everything was black.

____________________________________________

When his vision came back, it was clear he was somewhere entirely different than where he passed out in. There was a roof above him to start off, and his wounds didn't hurt anymore.

Slowly, once he had enough strength, he sat up on what seemed to be a bed, it felt comfortable enough to be one, and looked down.

His wounds were healed.

Though his clothes were still bloody and tattered. But... Who healed him?

His head jerked at hearing the small thud of something hitting a table. Immediately he was in a defensive mode, seeing someone - a lady - standing by a table not too far from him. She didn't notice he was awake.

You were oblivious of the man staring you down until you turned, freezing at seeing him awake. Both you and the man stared at each other, not knowing what to do or say. You swallowed and approached him, "Hello. I'm-"

You were cut off as he tried reaching for his sword, only to be confused when it wasn't there. "What did you do to my-" "It's... There on the wall," you pointed to the sword hanging from a rack, Gjallahorn was also there, "I took them off you so I could tend to your wounds better."

Either the herbs were clogging his mind or he thought you were lying, but he asked, "Why did you heal me? And where am I? You better tell the truth... No use lying to me."

"I have no reason to lie. I am Y/N... as I was going to say, and I healed you because you were bleeding out near my home. Currently you are in said home of mine."

He went quiet before scoffing, "You're a fool for healing me."

Ouch.

Frowning, you watched as he got up and took his horn and sword off the rack. You took a step back, fearing he would use it on you. Thankfully he just placed it on his side.

"I'm not a fool. I did it out if kindness-" "You did it out of pity," He scowled, "I don't need your pity..." Now it was your turn to scowl, "A 'thank you' would be nice. I saved your life!" He chuckled, "No. All you did was waste your stupid resources."

Your fists clenched, how you wanted to punch him so badly. You couldn't understand how someone could be so arrogant, even after you saved his life. But you swore you would never hurt anyone, not if they didn't hurt you first, so you pushed your anger back.

In a calmer tone, you spoke, "Look... Your clothes are still dirty and so are you. If you'd like, there's a river nearby where you can wash off in. And don't worry, there aren't many who can find their way into this forest, Heimdall."

"So you do know who I am..." You smiled slightly at that, "I've heard about you, yes." You glanced at Gjallahorn, it was hard to mistake him for anyone else. Clearing your throat you spoke, "The river is just past a patch of flowers outside."

Heimdall stared at you, and for a moment it looked like he had something to say. Though after a tense moment he swiftly walked past you and out of your home. "You're welcome!"

No response. Of course.

Once he was gone, you sighed. Looks like you had a lot to work with here...

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

AN: OOH BOY.

This started off as a tiny idea but turned into a lot more than I expected it to. Honestly I have no idea how far I'll get with this skndidjd But tell me what y'all think, I already got quite a few ideas for how this story could progress <3

[wispstalk]

bruma vignettes

Bruma in spring: The roads, clear of snow for the first time in months, offer no easy passing. The forested slopes soak up meltwater; the roads turn to mush, rutted deep with wagon-tracks, the movement of herds to fresh pastures where the grass bursts from the sleeping soil.

The Hero of Kvatch and his apprentice go out ranging. Looking for sinister signs among this flurry of movement: reddening skies, whiffs of sulfur. Combing the wilderness for arches of black stone, witnessed only by themselves and the hawks. One erupts from the spongy ground of a pristine glade, turning it hard and cracked and burnt. Sparrows and stags and pine martens flee. The two hunters enter.

After the gate falls, the Hero of Kvatch stalks back to the trail. No one is faster than his apprentice, but his long legs outpace her. Absorbed in his brooding, he vanishes around the hairpin turns that snap back and forth across the mountain.

She finds him waiting for her on a rocky ledge that punches a gap in the masses of trees. A nice view of the valley below. He’s chewing something. Holds out his hand: a spruce tip, such a bright green it seems to glow with reckless optimism.

For fending off scurvy and spring sicknesses, he tells her. That is the lens through which he sees the world: its ailments. He sets about filling his hip pouch with the buds, claims it makes a pleasant tea. Raw and fresh, the initial taste is bitter, the texture like soft caterpillar legs dancing over her tongue. She almost spits it out. Endures. Savors the reward of subtle earth and spice that lingers in her mouth, all the way to the temple.

—

Bruma in summer: Sweltering days giving way to cool nights. No one quite knows how to dress themselves. Pile on layers, peel them off, odd assemblies of thick woolen shawls and trousers hacked off at the knee. Sticky, fragrant shade beneath the bowed branches of the laurels; sere fields and pastures where they have been cleared away. The sun makes lazy exits and the markets become livelier in the evenings once the breeze kicks up. Music and chatter drifting from tavern doors, flung open wide.

—

Bruma in autumn: A storm surges up from the balmy Abecean. The Jeralls turn their backs and let it blow itself out. Pounding rain recruits cold and wind on its way north, turns to hail: the lash of Kynareth or a tribute to the stone.

Down in the foothills, the trees throw out one last defiant burst of color. Clad like festival dancers, they form a circle around the valley with all its smoking chimneys, a sort of reverse bonfire. They shed their red and gold finery in tantalizing pieces. Naked grey branches, stoic in the wake of their revels, keep weary watch over the houses nestled in the cradle of the mountains.

Peer through the windows of those houses, glowing gold with lantern-light. See that there are harvests on the tables within, despite everything.

—

Bruma in winter: There is a path, hidden by hemlock branches and the bare skeletons of wormwood, that carves its way into the sky. Now it is so clogged with snow that those who walk it must wear bearpaws of bent willow and tie trailing sprays of pine to their packs to mask their footsteps.

When the snow-haze lifts, the temple in the sky can almost be seen. A determined eye might catch a rocky ledge where the shapes are a bit too regular. The temple meets that gaze with indifference: any challenger must first survive the climb.

Within Cloud Ruler, there is safety and boredom. The Blades spread crushed rock on the icy battlements, in part to make their patrols less perilous, and in part for something to do. The heir to the throne is a fixture in the great hall. His eyes grow shadowy as the long nights, his hands stain with ink, the cedar smoke of the hearth sinks into his hair and the roughness of his rare-used voice.

He realizes that it has been days, or weeks, or— some time since he has been out to greet the sun. Its wan light feels like a cruel mirror. But he goes around gathering up armor against the biting wind: a shirt that smells of a friend, smoke and sweat and horse and iron. A bearskin coat over that, and an old worn blanket of checked wool.

His slippered feet are unsteady on the hard-packed ice despite the gravel. He makes it to the battlements, stares down at the expanse of grey and white that yawns beneath him. Snaps an icicle the length of his arm off the ledge of the wall. Holds it up, considers the way it gathers up enough wan light to glitter.

He hucks it, like a spear, at a crooked spruce that clings to the downslope. The tree shudders and drops its burden of snow. The shatter and soft thump are amplified, bouncing off rock faces, and a patch of snow shifts and slides until it comes to rest against a boulder.

He lets out a soft curse and a laugh. Careless. Petulant. All the snow that mantles these moutains could be brought down, perhaps by a shout of anguish or frustration or sheer bafflement. The heir to the empire has had enough of inviting catastrophe. He knows how to take pleasure in a little peace and quiet.

White peaks scrape holes in a matching sky and vanish into them. These austere mountains have borne the cold for countless turns of the season, before there were people to do any counting. They will weather more yet.

[kirk-says-wah]

May I have a request for James and Lars. Lars finds out that James has been cheating on him. James wants to save the relationship by going to couples counseling. 😃

Thank you for the request! You can also read it here

𝐔𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧

Pairing: James/Lars

- angst

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

It’s Lars that says it, but James is adamant this is the way forwards. Lars won’t even talk to him anymore, won’t even sleep in the same bed. James knows it’s his own fault, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try to fix it.

He loves Lars, even if he hasn’t been the best partner. He’s always loved him, that hasn’t changed. He wonders if Lars even loves him anymore.

The woman opposite them is small, short hair chopped by her chin, a buttoned shirt and tulip skirt that make her look important.

She’s watching them closely, a book in her lap, glasses pressed down on her nose.

“Why do you think that, Lars?” she asks, voice even.

Lars rolls his eyes, keeping his head propped up with his arm. He won’t look at James.

“Because I’m not even sure there’s anything here that can be salvaged,” he says, and it’s like a punch to James’s gut. He’d feared that too, that they’ll come here to try and make their relationship work only to find there’s nothing left to save. Which can only mean one thing. Lars doesn’t love him anymore.

The woman looks between them.

“What do you think, James?” she asks.

James swallows, unsure of how to answer.

“I think-“ he starts, before choking a little on air, panic starting to fizzle in his veins. He wants to look at Lars, to feel reassurance, because Lars is always the one to help him in these kind of situations. Lars has always been the talker. James doesn’t look though. He doesn’t want to look at Lars and know this is over.

“I know I still love him,” he states finally, if not a little quiet.

“Don’t love me enough not to sleep with other people though, right?” Lars bites, voice sharp. It punctures through James, has his chest feeling heavy and unsure, but he knows he caused this. He did this. He’s got to be the one to fix it.

“Why did you sleep with someone else, James?” the woman asks, voice soft, gentle.

James clears his throat, shame pinching at his cheeks. He presses a sweaty palm to his thigh.

“I felt lonely,” he finally replies, feeling a bit disgusted with himself.

Lars is quiet. James can tell he’s looking at him. He can’t look back. He knows he’s not gonna like what he sees.

“Me and Lars we haven’t-…” he stops, his throat clogging up, eyes wet. He won’t cry. He won’t. This is all his fault.

“We were kind of drifting apart. I felt like he was more interested in Metallica than me.”

“That’s bullshit,” Lars snaps, crossing his leg over the other, finally lifting his head up. “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“Lars,” the woman says, giving him a pointed look, obviously stressing for him to settle down. He does, if not a little begrudgingly. James doesn’t have to look at him to know that he’s angry.

The woman writes something down before looking back up at James, face still soft. It doesn’t make him feel any less guilty.

“Why did you think that James?”

James fidgets, fingers scraping at the denim of his jeans, picking at a hole starting to fray by his knee.

“He hardly spoke to me about anything other than the band. He worked all day and all night. He hardly even came to bed.”

“So why didn’t you just talk to me?” Lars cries, and James finally risks a glance at him. His cheeks are slightly pink, short hair pushed from his face, eyes wide and wet. He looks just as upset as James feels, if not more. James doesn’t blame him.

“I tried,” James replies. “I tried but you just didn’t get it.”

“So what? You slept with someone else to get back at me?” Lars shoots, twisting in his seat.

“No, of course not,” James retorts, getting a little bit angry now. He tightens his hands into fists in his lap.

They simmer in silence then, mostly because James doesn’t know what else to say and Lars is looking away, jaw hard.

The woman clears her throat.

“Before we go any further, I need to know something. Lars, to be able to save this relationship, there’s got to be work from both ends. I can’t force you together if you don’t want it.”

Lars doesn’t answer her, eyes still on the wall next to him, blinking rapidly. This is exactly the question James has been dreading. Maybe Lars doesn’t want to work on things? Maybe he doesn’t love him at all anymore?

James waits with bated breath as Lars sniffs, eyes flicking to the woman. When James glances over, there’s tears tracking down his cheeks. He just wants to hold him close, tell him it’s all going to be okay. But he caused this. He made Lars hurt.

Lars takes a minute but eventually he replies.

“I still love him,” he says quietly, swallowing hard.

The woman nods, eyes flicking between the two of them.

“But is that enough for you to continue on?”

James’s breath halts in his chest. He can’t breathe. He’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

[waywardrose-archive]

THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY | 10

stranger things

eddie munson x reader

rated e

5.5k

spotify playlist

for @punk-in-docs​​​​​​​​​

fem/witchy/goth!reader, magic, slow burn (for me), friends to lovers, no y/n only pet names, series-typical horror, period-typical sexism and homophobia, historical inaccuracies and anachronisms, drug dealing and use, smoking, alcohol use, masturbation, fantasizing, one-bed trope, making out, fingering, dirty talk, consensual pursuit and capture, oral sex, handjobs, condoms, piv sex, reader’s father is a dirtbag, mild spanking, magical violation, mental torture, body horror, aftercare, nightmares, strict parenting, panic attack, tags will be updated as needed

Eddie would have to wait until his lunch break to see this new, hot, weird chick. He wondered which flavor of weird she was. Art weird? Theater weird? Band weird?

Weird weird?

He shrugged. He liked weird.

In other words, you’re the new girl in town, and Eddie is intrigued.

note: Again, heed the tags, y’all. If you need spoilers, please DM me. For previous chapters, check the #em tagd tag below! Thanks for reading!

10

Hands wrenched you awake. Your chest pumped for air like you’d been drowning. You blinked as the dark room swam, then flashed red, gray, settling in the hazy orange from a streetlight. A human-shaped shadow loomed above you. You squeaked and tried to get away, palms skidding across unfamiliar sheets.

The shadow shushed you, voice mellow. “Whoa, hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. It’s me.”

It was Eddie.

You were in his bed. He’d picked you up from a convenience store. A spell had gone wrong. You’d been attacked and depleted.

Your attacker was still out there. No salt circle would protect you — or Eddie — or anybody — from it. You couldn’t cast a proper circle now, anyway. You were useless.

“Sorry,” you said, eyes stinging with tears.

“No, don’t be.”

He lay on his side next to you. His hand found yours under the blankets. You laced your fingers between his and focused on the ceiling.

You’d been in that red-lit hellscape again. Instead of a tiled room, a soundless expanse had surrounded you. Fractured pieces you almost recognized floated nearby. Pillars of vines pointed at a sunless sky. Black ichor gathered in puddles on the ragged ground. You’d spun and spun, finding no way out.

Then it had growled your name.

You’d run away, your shoulder banging into a pillar. Mist clogged your senses. You’d run into another pillar, which gave under the pressure to envelope your hands. It sucked one of your arms into it. Inside was warm and soggy. Thick liquid oozed around your fingers, hot like blood.

You’d twisted and yanked at your arm as it growled your name again.

“You shouldn’t be here,” it said.

You agreed. You shouldn’t have been there.

A clock had gonged a few times, each knell echoing through the expanse.

Eddie had freed you by shaking you conscious.

What if someone else was pulled into that hellscape, though? What if it had been Eddie? What if he didn’t have anyone to wake him? What if you weren’t there?

The trailer’s silence offered no peace from the thought. Silence was where your nightmare thrived. It wanted you silent. It wanted suffering.

“Could you turn on the radio or something?” you asked Eddie.

“Sure.”

Eddie eased out of the blankets — a wisp of cool air sneaking underneath — and went to the boombox on the dresser. He messed with a few settings before the boombox crackled to life. The newest song from WASP whispered through the speakers.

“That good?” he asked as he approached the bed.

You nodded, then curled onto your side.

He got into bed, lay on his back, and closed his eyes. You recalled feeling his beautiful energy in Chicago, how he’d been a silver flame. Trying to feel him out now was like punching a bruise. You could touch him, but you couldn’t sense that internal fire. You couldn’t explain that to him, either. He’d never believe you.

You’d lost something only you knew existed.

Eddie’s profile blurred. A heavy tear glided over the bridge of your nose and rolled across your cheek. Another followed, disappearing into the pillowcase.

You suppressed a ragged breath with fingers over your lips. Eddie must’ve felt the movement, because he turned his head towards you. His eyes widened before he gathered you to his side.

“It’s okay, baby.”

You rested your head on his warm chest, wishing that were true. The steady rhythm of his heart calmed you like nothing else could, though. You synced your breath with his until your tears dried.

“Do you want something?” he asked.

Your voice broke as you asked, “What?”

“You want something to help you sleep? I got stuff.”

“Oh...” You bit your bottom lip, thinking of a dreamless night. “Uh, alright?”

“If you’re not into it, it’s cool.”

He put a hand on your arm and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

“No,” you said as you pulled away to let him get up once more. “I’d like that.”

He shuffled to his desk to open the lower drawer. His sleep pants hung from his lean hips and obscured most of his pert ass. He pulled an old-fashioned lunch box from the drawer and set it on the crowded desktop.

“Close your eyes. I gotta turn on a light,” he said.

You shielded your eyes with a hand. The wall sconce for the desk clicked on, flooding the room with soft light. A blackened water stain discolored the corner above the sconce. It spread across the ceiling and walls, moldering everything in its path as it undulated towards you. It sprouted into the ceiling fixture to overflow it with writhing black spiders.

Your breath caught in your throat. You pushed yourself against the wall. Your elbow knocked into the chest, which served as a second nightstand. On top, a stack of cassettes toppled and an empty mug teetered. You grabbed the mug to keep it from falling.

When you looked again at the water stain, it had retreated to the corner. The spiders were gone. You sighed and placed the mug where it had been.

“You good?” Eddie asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah,” you said and neatened the cassettes. “Just clumsy.”

He didn’t comment further, only muttered he’d be right back with water. As he left the bedroom, you slumped and rubbed at your eyes. You couldn’t have been dreaming. You were awake—

Right?

There was no way of knowing for sure. Your nightmares felt as real as anything else.

You bent to sniff Eddie’s pillow. It smelled of detergent, his products and musk, and a hint of smoke. You rubbed your nose on the thin pillowcase and snuggled under the blankets. It would be impossible to recreate the scent in a dream. This was the first time you’d been in his bed, anyway — and the whole thing smelled of him.

You hugged the pillow with a sigh.

“Was I gone that long, sweetheart?”

You jolted, cheeks heating, and scooted to your side of the bed.

“Sorry.”

Eddie’s grin was all sweet tease as he closed the bedroom door.

“If you want that pillow, you can use it.” He offered a glass of water. “I don’t mind.”

You took it while saying, “I’d rather use you.”

His grin faded, yet his eyes remained warm.

“I’m at your disposal, sweetheart.”

His earnestness caught you off-guard. Before you could reply, he went to the desk and fetched a prescription bottle. He returned, placing a knee on the bed to sit facing you.

“This is k-pin: Klonopin,” he said as he opened the bottle and shook a tablet into his palm. “No real high, but one’ll have you sleeping for the night.”

With a nod, you said, “Sounds good,” and plucked it from his hand.

“You ever take benzos?”

You shook your head and studied the tablet.

He said, “They’re soft-ish. Half a pill takes away pot paranoia.”

“That’s why you have them?”

“Well, not for me. Some customers need it.”

“Gotcha,” you said, then popped the tablet in your mouth and swallowed it with a drink of water.

He closed the bottle and walked it back to the lunch box. You set the half-full glass on the chest before getting comfortable and fluffing your pillow. He asked if you were ready and turned off the sconce when you said you were.

You threw the corner of the blankets down for him. The bed trembled slightly as he flopped beside you and tugged the blankets over his chest. He looked at you and lifted the blanket.

“Your personal pillow awaits, milady.”

“You sure?” you asked.

“Uh, positive.”

You tucked yourself against his side, hugging his torso and crooking a knee over his thigh. He arranged the blankets over you and kissed the top of your head.

Softly, he asked, “Good?”

You hummed in reply, closed your eyes, and breathed deep. Eddie’s heartbeat lulled you into a calm you’d only felt with him.

-

When your eyes opened again, bittersweet-orange light tinged the room. The other side of the bed was empty. Beyond the closed door and radio, male voices talked lowly. You assumed it was Eddie and his uncle, Wayne.

With a stretch and jaw-cracking yawn, you rolled across the bed. The digital clock on the nightstand read 2:49.

Oh, shit.

“Oh, shit,” you said, and scrambled onto your knees.

The room subtly spun as you blinked. How could you have slept that long? Eddie said Klonopin would make you sleep for the night, not for half a day.

You were dead. You were fucked. When you got home, you were going to hear about how you disappointed your father and worried your mother.

A knock on the door added to the dread welling in your gut. You wiped the crust from your eyes and told Eddie to come in. Your voice was rough, and you cleared your throat.

Eddie poked his head between the jamb and the door, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. His hair was a wild mop of brown waves.

“Good morning, my little ray of pitch black.”

You groaned and buried your face in a pillow.

The door clicked closed. A second later, the radio went silent. Then the bed dipped beside you. A hand smoothed up and down your back. You rolled onto your side away from Eddie, but he kept petting you. The simple gesture made your throat tighten and eyes burn.

What was wrong with you?

You’d never cried so much in a 24-hour span in your life. You should’ve been cried-out by now — or at least been dehydrated. You were a mess. Your head was a mess. Your life was a mess.

Eddie deserved so much more than taking care of some hysterical person.

He pressed his chest to your shoulder and kissed your temple. His hand spanned the side of your ribs.

You hiccuped a sob and covered your face with your hands.

“I’m sorry,” you said as a few tears escaped.

“What? No, it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” You pulled your hands away and looked at him. “I’m a stupid mess. You don’t want to be involved with me.”

“Hey,” he said, tone serious. “You’re my mess.” He cupped your cheek. “If you couldn’t tell, I’m a mess, too.”

You shook your head even as you leaned into his touch.

“Look at my room. You think I got it together?” he asked with a small grin.

You huffed a little laugh and covered his hand with yours. His thumb stroked your cheekbone.

“I’m King Mess, baby. A super senior stuck in this Podunk town.”

“But not forever,” you said, feeling certain to your bones.

He shrugged in a noncommittal way, his face a neutral mask.

“Seriously, Eddie, you won’t be stuck here forever.”

“Neither will you.”

You smiled and said, “We’ll go on another adventure.”

That mask dissolved until he beamed from ear to ear.

“I can get behind that.” He bent to give you a gentle kiss. “You hungry? Want breakfast? Or would you rather go home?”

You groaned as you remembered the time.

“Oh fuck, home. I’m dead.”

“Rather hole up here till the heat dies down?”

With a snort, you said, “No, that’ll only make it worse.”

He nodded.

“I can take you home, then.”

With a nod of agreement, you said you wanted to use the bathroom and brush your teeth. He stood and went to the dresser, saying he’d find you a pair of clean socks to wear. With his back turned, you admired the lines of his silhouette and his pretty hair.

Before you could doubt yourself, you closed the distance to mould against his back and wrapped your arms around his middle.

Cheek resting on his shoulder-blade, you whispered, “Thank you.”

He clasped one of your forearms and pressed it to his stomach.

“You’re welcome.”

You let him go and hobbled to the bathroom as fast as your wounded foot would allow. There, you used the toilet, washed your hands, and threw water on your face. The toothbrush you’d used last night was in the cup with the others, your name written in black marker on the handle.

Eddie had made space for you, given what he could, and took care of you when he didn’t have to.

Did anyone know how generous he was? How kind? Or did everyone assume he was some wastoid loser? Had they written him off as just a freak?

Because he wasn’t. He wasn’t.

This time, tears didn’t prickle as they came. You blinked them away easily and took a deep breath to shake the near-grief away. You knew who Eddie was and what he meant to you. That was what mattered.

You used the mirror to neaten your hair as best you could. At least you didn’t look like something had magically violated you, had an unearthly creature’s tooth yanked from your foot, taken an illicit prescription, and slept for, like, twelve hours. Because you certainly didn’t want another sex-and-drugs talk from your parents.

After brushing your teeth, you returned to the bedroom. Eddie had pushed back the curtains. He’d changed into jeans and a thick hoodie, and now sat at the illuminated desk.

“How’s the foot?” he asked as he faced you.

“Sore.”

He hummed in thought. “Want to wear my sneakers?”

“Sure,” you said. “Just for the ride, of course.”

“Of course.” He nodded at the bed. “Found a pair of decent socks for you.” He’d laid out your sweater and placed a white ball of socks on top. “They’re from middle school, I think. I had a growth spurt before freshman year and couldn’t wear them anymore.”

“And you kept them?” you asked as you sat on the bed.

With a shrug, he said, “I kinda forgot they were in there.”

That made you smile as you stretched a sock over your injured heel. The thick sole of the sock felt nice against the puncture. As you pulled on the other sock, Eddie retrieved his sneakers. Compared to the socks, your feet swam in them. You laced them tight, but they still looked absurd.

You waggled your feet.

“I look like a muppet.”

In a terrible impression of Kermit the Frog, he sang, “It’s not easy bein’ green.”

You laughed and put on your sweater.

“You should do a metal cover of that.”

He barked a laugh before offering you a hand to help you stand, which you took. You still kept most of your weight off the injured foot, though the socks and sneakers offered plenty of cushioning. You lumbered behind Eddie as he led the way to the living room.

It was a touch warmer beyond the hallway. Wayne sat on the couch, reading a section of the Sunday newspaper. He’d stacked the other sections on the coffee table.

“I’m taking her home,” Eddie said as he reached for the front door. “I’ll be back soon.”

Wayne lowered the newspaper with a grunt. Without the barrier of his truck, he looked tough and serious. When his steely gaze turned to you, your first instinct was to apologize for intruding.

“My nephew here said you had a nasty night.”

“Yes, sir.”

To Eddie, he asked, “You offer her breakfast?”

“Yeah, of course.”

To you, he said, “You’re welcome to stay for supper.”

“Oh, thank you, sir, but I should be getting home.”

Wayne nodded in acceptance.

“Well, I hope your next visit is under better circumstances.”

“Me too.”

His eyes softened, a hint of a grin warmed his expression.

“Our door is always open.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate that.”

He said to Eddie, “You best give her a coat. It’s cold out there.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Eddie plucked his jacket with a denim vest from the back of a dinette chair and held it open. It settled heavy on your shoulders, surrounding you in his scent.

Wayne nodded again — this time in approval.

“It’s good to finally meet you, Mr. Munson.”

“You too.” He flicked his newspaper to pop the crease straight. “Y’all be careful out there.”

“We will,” said Eddie and ushered you outside.

“Thank you again,” you said to Wayne before Eddie closed the front door.

Wayne had been right: it was cold. The overcast sky didn’t look like rain or snow. It was just a wan shade of gray. A gust of wind pierced the weave of your sweater, making you want to cross your arms and scurry for shelter.

“Need my keys,” Eddie said softly and drew near to block the wind.

You patted the jacket’s pockets, finding the ring of keys.

“You sure you want to go home?”

You offered the keys in your palm.

“I’d rather get the lecture over with, thanks.”

With a sigh, he took the keys. Then he spotted you down the porch stairs. You made it into the van with little fuss. The interior still smelled of old plastic, weed, and boy-funk. The scuffs on the dash and center console were more noticeable in the light of day. He’d retrofitted a tape-player into the dash, too. The surrounding plastic was scratched and jagged.

Eddie plopped into the driver’s seat, making the van sway. He gave you a grin and started the van, which rumbled to life.

“Want some music?”

You nodded with a ‘yeah,’ because anything was better than being alone with your thoughts.

He riffled through a shoebox taped to the floor, produced a Motley Crue tape, and shoved it into the player. It started mid-song, but he didn’t rewind it. He turned the volume up and shifted the van into Reverse.

The drive to your house was quicker than you remembered. The van was in your driveway before you were ready.

Eddie clicked off the tape-player. Teeming silence filled the van. You didn’t know what to say or how to begin. There was too much jumbling together.

“I can come in with you,” he said.

“No, it’s okay.”

“I don’t like this.”

You unlatched the seatbelt.

“I know, but I can handle it.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you loosened the laces of his sneakers and toed them off.

“I’m serious,” he said. “I’ll help explain.”

“No, honey, I...” You shook your head. “Not like this, okay? I want you to meet my parents — I do — but not like this.”

He growled to himself as his shoulders slumped. “Fuck.”

You planted a hand on the console and leaned towards him.

“Give me a kiss.”

“Call me later.”

“I will, promise.”

He moved in, wrapped a hand around your nape, and caught your lips in a desperate kiss. You sagged, returning the kiss with equal fervor. He made you not want to leave the van ever — even if it stank.

Yet you had to.

When he finally pulled away, you almost changed your mind. You wanted to tell him to keep kissing you and take you back to his place. You’d eat supper with him and his uncle, sleep in his bed again, and go to school tomorrow. Forget your parents and your car and your stuff.

“You better go before I kidnap you for real.”

You smiled.

“Can’t kidnap the willing.”

He released you with a groan and sank into his seat. His expression was a mixture of frustrated lust and genuine concern.

“I’ll call you tonight,” you said as a peace offering.

“You better.”

You told him not to wait, because you’d be going in through the kitchen door. He nodded and straightened. You climbed out of the van, took off his jacket, and folded it on the passenger seat. You met his eyes and grinned.

“Catch you on the flip side.”

“Not if I catch you first, babe.”

Feeling heat creep into your cheeks, you closed the door and took a few backward steps. The concrete was frigid under your feet. Eddie gave you an encouraging nod. You returned the nod and sped unevenly up the driveway to the path which led to the deck. The van’s brakes squealed as Eddie reversed it onto the road.

You paused on the deck and inhaled a centering breath. You had no magic to mask your presence or influence your parents. This was going to go like it did for any other teenager who’d stayed out all night.

The kitchen was bright through the window over the sink. Mom wasn’t visible. However, she wasn’t one to leave lights on. Your father didn’t hang out in the kitchen, preferring the living room or his office. If he was in the living room, he would’ve seen Eddie’s van.

Well, you thought, let him see.

Through the kitchen’s double doors you saw Mom sitting at the table, reading a paperback romance, the cordless phone by her elbow. Her head snapped up when you opened the door. She rested the book on its face to save her spot. The house was quiet and warm and smelled of roasting chicken.

As you closed the door, you said, “I’m sorry.”

She stood, yet kept hold of the back of her chair.

“Where the hell were you?!”

You grimaced at her volume.

“You’re lucky your father’s at the country club.”

Tension drained from your shoulders.

“Well?” she asked. “Where were you?”

“I was with a friend.”

“What’s this friend’s name?”

“Eddie.”

“I’m assuming Eddie is short for Edward.”

You nodded and averted your gaze, keeping to the other side of the table. You knew how it sounded.

She snorted and stomped to the fridge.

“I went to your room when you didn’t show up for breakfast. The lights were still on and your bed was untouched, but you were gone.” She pulled a bottle of white wine from the door. “No note to tell me where you were or why.”

“Does Dad know?”

“Goddammit, don’t you worry about him.” She pointed the bottle at you. “You’re talking to me right now.” The fridge door clapped shut behind her. “What the hell were you thinking, huh? Going out in the middle of the night to see some boy.”

You came around the table, wincing when you stepped too hard on your heel.

“Are you hurt?” Her eyes went flinty as she left the bottle on the counter and came closer. “Did this Eddie hurt you?”

“No, he didn’t hurt me!” You motioned to your feet. “These are his socks. He patched me up.”

“Where are your shoes?” She examined your sweater. “Where’s your coat?”

“I wasn’t wearing them.”

“So, you left without shoes or a coat when it’s almost freezing at night?”

“I sleepwalked,” you said, because it was the easiest, if inaccurate, explanation.

She gave you a flat look.

“You’ve never sleepwalked in your life.”

“Well, I do now!”

Tears suddenly burned behind your eyes. Their heat suffused your entire face.

Her anger vanished with a sigh, like a candle snuffed.

“Did you actually sleepwalk?”

“I think so? I was walking on the side of the road, and I didn’t know where I was.” You wiped away a fat tear before it rolled down your cheek. “I found enough change in a gas-station parking lot and called Eddie, okay? I didn’t know who else to call!”

“You call home,” she said, and crossed her arms.

“But I didn’t know where I was.” You spread your hands. “He’s lived here his whole life.”

She huffed with a shake of her head.

“How did you hurt yourself?”

“I stepped on something sharp, but Eddie took care of it.”

“Want me to take a look at it?”

“No, it’s fine. Just sore.”

“Are you hungry?”

You shrugged. Your stomach was in a knot, but it had been a long time since dinner. Maybe a little food would help with the emotional rollercoaster you’d been riding.

“I could eat.”

She told you to sit as she went to the pantry. You limped to the table and settled into a chair. The dread that had been building since you woke faded. You wanted to sleep for a million years. But your nightmares lived in silent sleep. Maybe you’d slept long enough.

A plate with a plain ham sandwich slid in front of you. Mom set a glass of wine next to it. You hadn’t heard her uncork the bottle. You must’ve been more out of it than you realized. Or the Klonopin was stronger than Eddie let on.

She sat in her seat, a glass of wine in her hand. You thanked her and took a bite of the sandwich.

“This doesn’t mean you’re not in deep shit. Because you should’ve called me from his place.”

“I know.”

“Do I need to get you a pregnancy test?”

You dropped the sandwich as you coughed around the half-chewed bite. Mom pushed your wine closer. You knocked back half the glass, washing everything down.

Voice a little hoarse, you said, “No.” You patted your chest. “We didn’t— I mean, last night I just slept at his house.”

She hummed like she didn’t quite believe you.

“Trust me, okay?” Your face heated anew. “Doing it was the farthest thing from my mind.”

You remade your sandwich and took another bite — to hide your face, if nothing else.

“Alright, fine. I’ll find a doctor tomorrow and make an appointment.”

“For what?”

“For your sleepwalking, of course.”

You swallowed, and the food landed heavily in your stomach.

“This is the first time...”

“And you left the house. That’s pretty serious.”

“But they’ll put me on meds.”

“Maybe you need medication.”

“I won’t take it.”

She sighed and took a long drink of wine.

“I know it hasn’t been easy: moving to this small town, away from your friends and all you knew.”

“That’s not the problem.”

The problem was fucking Hawkins. No amount of medication would make this place normal.

She said, “It’s been stressful.”

“So you want to drug me?”

“No, I don’t want to drug you. I want a doctor to make sure you’re healthy.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“No, you want a doctor to give me pills so I won’t be a problem for you or Dad.”

“I’m going to overlook that because I know you had a bad night.”

“A bad night?” You scoffed. “Try a bad fucking life.”

“A bad fucking life?” She leaned towards you. “We’ve given you everything we didn’t have.”

“I don’t want everything you never had!”

“Then what, huh? What do you want?”

“I want to be treated like a person, not a problem to manage!”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Maybe you should.” You pushed away from the table and stood. “You’ve never apologized for anything.”

“You sit down right now, young lady. We are not done talking about this.”

“No, screw this. I’m not going to the doctor.”

Her eyebrows shot up her forehead.

“Are you admitting you were lying?”

“I didn’t lie!”

“Go to the doctor, or you’re grounded.”

“Then I guess I’m grounded.”

You marched as fast as you could from the kitchen.

“You’re grounded for two weeks!” Mom called after you. “With no car!”

-

The book stacks soundproofed the school library’s back corner. A row of carrel desks lined the wall. You sat criss-cross applesauce at the last desk, struggling with your Trig homework during lunch. The bubbles in your Dr. Pepper fizzled against the sides of the metal can.

After working out the seventh of ten problems, you dropped your pencil, relaxed in the chair, and drew the open bag of Combos near. Whoever put letters in math needed to be murdered slowly. Or roasted on some demon’s pitchfork.

You ate a few Combos and wiped your hands on your jeans before taking a drink of soda. Not that torturing the father of trigonometry could help — despite the thought being satisfying. And it wasn’t like the threat of fiery doom would hardly persuade Mr. Wessel from collecting your work tomorrow.

With a sigh, you set the can in the far corner and picked up your pencil. Three more to go. You copied the eighth problem — sin3cosx = sin7xcos5x — and glared at it. You wanted to bash your forehead on the desk. Which formula solved this piece-of-shit problem? You paged through the chapter section, looking for a miracle.

A male voice growled, “You can’t eat in here,” as your chair shook.

Your heart leapt into your throat. The nightmare had found you. It had broken through. Your knee banged the underside of the desk as you uncrossed your legs. You had to get away before it overpowered you again.

You pushed away from the desk, textbook plowing into the Combos bag. Your foot caught on your purse you’d dumped beside the chair. It skittered across the low-pile carpet. Normally, you’d chase after it, but not this time. You needed to run.

You surged to your feet. If you didn’t run, it would kill you. Arms wrapped around you, pinning your own to your torso. You stomped with your non-injured foot. Your heel slammed into something soft.

“Ow! Shit, shit, shit!”

You wriggled in the powerful arms to loosen their hold.

“Baby, it’s me. It’s me. It’s Eddie.”

“Eddie?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Jesus Christ, it’s okay. I’m here.”

You sagged, yet couldn’t catch your breath. It was too hot. Your heart pounded like a prisoner trying to break free. The room spun, the myriad of book spines swirled together. You squeezed your eyes closed and tried to swallow.

In a soothing tone, Eddie said, “Let’s sit down.”

You nodded.

He guided you to your chair. Though it was a step or two away, it felt too distant. Your legs quaked. You collapsed sideways into the chair, gripping the back so hard it hurt.

He crouched in front of you, his warm palms on your thighs. You stared at his hands. They really were well proportioned.

“Hey, you gotta breathe.”

You nodded again, focusing on his rings and counting the skulls on one of them.

“Breathe in,” he said, and counted to four. “And out.”

It was difficult to match him for a minute, but he kept counting until you could. You released the chair back and leaned against it. Your hands shook too badly to do much of anything, anyway.

Slowly, he rose and retrieved the half-full Dr. Pepper can. You cupped it with both hands, one of his under it for insurance. You took little sips, which helped settle your tight stomach.

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t think.” He crouched, hands on your thighs once more, and met your eyes. “I was sooo excited to find you.”

You thought you grinned. It was hard to tell with how floaty your head felt.

You kept sipping Dr. Pepper, which was cold and bubbly. It was nice. The can’s condensation wet your fingers. That was nice, too. You concentrated on breathing, then drinking and swallowing, and breathing again.

Little by little, you trickled into your head. Your heartbeat was steady, lungs fully functional. Yes, your hands quivered, but you could manage. The worst was over. Eddie was there.

He gnawed on his bottom lip — probably had been gnawing on it. You touched his lips to draw attention to his actions. He stopped, looking into your eyes. His lip was puffy and flushed a deep pink.

You wrapped your hand around the can and tried to convey with a look you weren’t angry. Because you weren’t angry with him. Or even upset. He wasn’t the one who’d drained your magic.

“Wanna skip the rest of the day?” he asked. “I still have The Last Starfighter at home. We could smoke some weed and heat a couple frozen burritos.”

That sounded great, but you couldn’t.

You shook your head.

“I shouldn’t. My mother’s home all day, and she’ll see you drop me off.”

“I don’t have to take you home. I can drop you off at your bus stop.”

If she discovered you’d skipped school the first Monday after being grounded, you’d never hear the end of it. Most likely, she’d add time to your grounding until you wouldn’t be free until mid-December. You couldn’t imagine only seeing Eddie at school. You couldn’t imagine not having your car until then, either.

“We’ll do movies and burritos after Thanksgiving, okay?”

He nodded, resembling a kicked puppy.

You added, “And I’ll come to your next show.”

“I’m going to miss you tomorrow night.”

“I’ll call you after, and you can tell me all about it.”

He snorted. “I’m sure it’ll be a thrilling tale.”

“It always is with you, Eddie Munson.”

[crispy-ghee]

Sending an ask cause those reply boxes are small and I didn't want to clog your notes.

Yeah, it really did feel like they were just hitting the highlights until they actually took the time to slow down with the lunch. There was a play I saw where it was also based on a real event, it was just one days filming of a talk show, and they were able to completely give all the background needed, with a lot of the more theatrical elements being used for things like flashbacks to give context. I think if they did that instead of trying to cram everything into the play, pick just one or two things, like just the lunch. They could have narrowed it down to that day, really double down on the character dialogue and interactions, a real character study. Then you can break things up with the theatricality for flashbacks or like how winning time breaks the fourth wall, but instead it would be to provide actual background (the stats) to the story instead of kinda pretentious philosophizing that wasted time that could have been used better elsewhere.

And since Magic and Larry gave input, maybe it was a lot worse before and it looked better in comparison? Maybe Larry's just really used to bad impressions of himself at this point.

I think that the play definitely did have some issues picking out what the crux of what they wanted to show was. I was honestly kind of confused as to why they started the play off with the phone call between Larry and Magic about his diagnosis. It means that you're entering the damn story already seeing the two of them as friends, when the emotional punch of that moment could've come from Larry *finally outwardly expressing* his friendship and care towards Magic after an entire career of them hating each other.

The Lunch really was the only moment where the play took its time and they had a scene and conversation together, everything before and even *after* that really was a highlight reel, yeah. You get the feeling that the Lunch *is* meant to be the emotional core moment of the story, but things were rushed through so bizarrely it felt like it wasn't actually built up to?

But yeah, I can imagine it starting off with Magic arriving at French Lick, them setting stuff up and talking about the commercial, and both him and Larry separately going "This was a bad idea." Dialogue and flashbacks as the day goes on showing their rivalry, explaining why something like a commercial shoot is actually super tense, eventually leading up to Larry asking Magic to come with him to meet his mom, and then during that time, as they talk, you get more flashbacks, but flashing *further* back, to childhood memories that made them who they were before/outside the rivalry, which are what eventually kind of bonds them together. Ends with them breaking bread and hints that there's the potential for a friendship, at the very least an understanding. But mostly focused in on getting to really know who these two people are internally and how that vibes with the other.

It wouldn't cover the full story about Bird and Magic but you would need a bigger production to cover all of that effectively, I think.

And yeah, Magic seemed to suggest that they helped with the script???? Unless he's just talking big. He does that sometimes. I do know he probably had input, dude pays a lot of attention to how people portray him.

And yeah...like I said, super easy to caricature Bird. I commend the dude from Winning Time who said he wanted to avoid pushing it too far into that zone, but how successful he was in that is up for debate. The guy in the play though, from what I've seen, is just.......................

arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

[wuxiaphoenix]

Worldbuilding: The Agony of De Feet

Footwear. Very important. Yes, I know there are people who like to wade or walk on the beach barefoot. I wouldn’t advise it. If the water’s warm enough to swim in the shore is often hot enough to burn your feet.

Not to mention when you mix water and humans having fun, there’s often broken glass, and a shard in the pad of your heel can lead to months of misery even if it doesn’t get infected. Maybe especially if. Guess how I know.

I consider footwear one of the lifesaving human inventions, because when you’re running from lions, tigers, and bears, it doesn’t help to get away now and die of a thorn in your toe later. What are your characters wearing on their feet?

If you just want to go with generic boots, shoes, or atmosuit mag-soles, you’re probably fine. As long as your characters are wearing something that fits local conditions, it’s a reasonable handwave. On the other hand, if you do want specifics, this is an excellent way to get in some worldbuilding.

Shoes are never just shoes. They’re human-made (unless you’re dragging in fay or aliens), meaning they’re a product of the materials you have available, the skills you have to make them, and the environmental conditions, physical and social, that you have to deal with.

For example, if you have sea-pirates who never touch land, and they have classic buccaneers’ leather boots, then either that leather’s some kind of fish or cetacean skin, or they trade with people who do live on land. Likewise, if you live where the streets will flood, or there are four-inch thorns ready to punch through skin, you’re not going to be wearing straw sandals. Upper-class shoes are likely to go with leather, lots of it, and tougher materials if they’re available. Peasants? Wood clogs or geta are good bets. Poke around. Look up oddities like the first rubber shoes. The history of footwear can be fascinating.

And that doesn’t even scratch the surface of shoes and fashion. Emergency Jimmy Choos and several-hundred-dollar sneakers are only the latest manifestations of humans showing off. Earlier incarnations include porcupine quill-beaded moccasins, foot-high oiran’s geta, and Renaissance footwear with toes so long you had to tie them near the knee. Yikes.

If that’s not daunting enough, sometimes fashion details can be plot-important! I read a snippet once of a cop lurking undercover at a mob funeral to pick up info. He had the suit, the haircut, the slang, everything seemed to be going well....

Except the mobsters were staring at his shoes. His very practical, relatively cheap cop’s work shoes. Next to everyone else’s imported Italian leather.

...Needless to say, the cop quickly put heel and toe to the use for which they were designed, and beat feet before someone beat him.

Consider shoes! After all, if we send our heroes walking these mean streets - they’re going to need a lot of sole.

(Cop anecdote was in, I think, Connie Fletcher’s What Cops Know. Neat book.)