#whistles mendes dress

[zeawesomebirdie]

The moment I get my sewing machine serviced, I'm making a housecoat

[ckret2]

The second dimension has just been burned; Bill—who's definitely an innocent victim in this situation and totally didn't have anything to do with the fire—is inside the nightmare realm "dream realm" with a bunch of dying shapes from the neighboring dimensions that also caught fire; like a million gods are at the scene of the fire trying to figure out what happened; and the Axolotl's just been hit with a nonstop barrage of cosmic horror. But he's about to face an even greater horror: watching politicians and contractors try to get a single task done.

Here, have a fic. It's part three of a series about the Axolotl witnessing the aftermath of the Euclidean Massacre before anyone's even figured out what happened or whose fault it is. Here's part one and part two.

####

Outside what used to be the incinerated wall named Dimension 2 Delta, what seemed like half a city's worth of gods had assembled within just a few hours: agents from the Apocalyptic Threat Task Force, concerned local politicians, firefighters, cops, paramedics, reporters, rubberneckers, and volunteers. The scene was one of simmering panic being just barely suppressed by training and professionalism: everyone there had a job to do, everyone there was focused on doing it, and none of them knew whether it would be enough.

Behind what used to be the incinerated wall named Dimension 2 Delta, where there was supposed to be an empty void with the point-sized Dimension Zero, there was now a multicolored cosmic foam, frothing and roiling nauseatingly in a way reminiscent of waking from a fever dream to discover that you're actively in a state of delirium and behind the wheel on the freeway. Only the Axolotl knew that, inside that foam, there was a mad dance party of the enslaved dead and dying, overseen by the party host ghost who called himself the Magister Mentium.

Neighboring what used to be the incinerated wall named Dimension 2 Delta, five 1D and 2D dimensions had been burned down to nothingness. The ATTF had just confirmed that a sixth had joined them, two more were well on their way to full incineration, and there were unconfirmed reports trickling in that efforts to contain the fire had failed and two more 1D dimensions were burning up like fuses. The flat and linear living beings of thousands of worlds had been rescued; shapes huddled together uncomfortably on 3D worlds, evicted ghosts haunted ghost worlds, and gods who had once seen themselves as above all mortal concerns now found themselves sitting shellshocked in an "above" they'd never imagined—and they were the lucky ones. The ones who hadn't burned up in the pale blue fires or fallen down into the eternal dance party.

And amidst it all—all the fear, the fire, the death, the panic—the desperate attempts by gods that didn't know each other or didn't like each other to find a way to make this right—those who thought a crisis of such interdimensional magnitude called for kindness and compassion verbally wrestling with those who thought it called for punishment and control—a Time Giant in a hard hat, whistling a country song she'd heard on the radio that morning, completely ignored everyone else there, strolled right up to the sickly swirling border of Dimension Zero as though it were the most natural thing in the world, and started looking around for the wall named Dimension 2 Delta she'd been called out to inspect.

She was dressed in goggles, a flannel shirt, sensible overalls, and leather work gloves. There were several tools strapped to her belt: a time tape measure, a space hammer, and a utility repair kit with patches and sewing needles for making quick mends to the fabric of reality. She eyed Dimension Zero's undulating border, glanced down at her tiny repair kit, and frowned dubiously. It seemed that the problem she'd been called out for was too big to hand stitch back together. She shrugged in resignation.

The cop who looked like a crab with two mushrooms growing out of his hollowed-out eye sockets smacked one claw against the cop made of two interlocked burning rings. "Hey. Is she supposed to be here?"

VENDOR turned, took in the Time Giant's appearance, and shouted, "Hello! Excuse me? What are you doing?"

She gestured with a thumb at Dimension Zero. "I was called about a prematurely crunched dimension. Here to do an inspection."

Irritably, VENDOR said, "You're supposed to be inspecting Dimension 2 Delta, not—this thing!"

"Well, I don't see D-2Δ around here. Looks to me like it's gone," she said. "Some jackass has been blowing up my office phone all day trying to rush me out here. I had to cancel three other inspections, call another guy in on his day off, and come out myself to get this over with so we can shut this guy up. So I ain't here to stand around painting my fingernails. Unless you can point me to D-2Δ, I'm gonna inspect the dimension that is here."

VENDOR, the jackass in question, said, "I'm the one who called you and I'm saying you can't go in!"

"Uh huh." Behind her goggles, the Time Giant's expression was completely unreadable. "Anyway, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go do my job."

The flaming rings whirled between the Time Giant and Dimension Zero's border, hundred eyes narrowed threateningly. "This is an active crime against reality! It's still under investigation."

"Then what was the big rush to get me out here!"

The argument was clearly audible over the general din as the Axolotl and the storm cloud with the ATTF returned from inspecting one of the many out-of-control fires. "Cops," the storm rumbled. "Hate cops."

The Axolotl's frills fluttered in agreement. "Interesting from an apocalypse cop."

Static crackled irritably over the cloud. "I prefer 'apocalypse agent.'"

As they caught up, the Time Giant was saying, "I ain't got time for this." She pulled out a length of time tape without unlatching the measure from her belt. "So when won't this place be an active crime scene?"

"Hold on!" The cloud flicked VENDOR's metal side with a lightning bolt to catch THEIR attention. The crack of thunder startled the Time Giant and cops into looking its way as well. To VENDOR, it snapped, "This isn't your investigation, back off." To the cops, it said, "And this is not a crime scene." To the Time Giant, it said, "I put in the initial call. Dimension 2 Delta spontaneously combusted; we want to know why. He says"—it gestured toward the Axolotl with a fork of lightning—"whatever's left of it is in there, so that might as well be where you start your investigation."

"Thank you," the Time Giant sighed. She let the tape snap back into place. "ATTF, right?"

"Right."

"I prefer to get my info from whoever's actually in charge of a dimension. So, we got any gods that can tell me about 2Δ—property owner, in-house maintenance...?"

There was suddenly a large wall of steel and glass in between the storm cloud and the Time Giant as VENDOR physically shoved THEIR way back into the conversation. "2Δ is in Lady Morgenstern's district, but she's still on vacation—(and apparently decided this incident wasn't worth coming back into the office for)—but, I am on the urban planning committee. If there's anything you need to know, you can talk to me. I can request any municipal records we have on 2Δ's construction and maintenance."

The Time Giant screwed up her mouth. "How long will that take?"

"A few hours, most likely."

The Time Giant's scowl deepened.

She wouldn't get anything useful from a career politician from a different district who knew bupkis about Dimension 2 Delta. The Axolotl said, "If you need somebody who personally knows 2Δ, I... might know someone. A mortal from the wall."

"Uh-huh." The Time Giant didn't look much less dubious about this offering. "It better be a mortal that's at least a quantum physicist. Preferably one with experience in dimensional maintenance."

"I... don't know." The Axolotl nearly added I don't think so—but he was growing less certain he knew what that triangle was capable of, and he didn't like his suspicions. "But—he is an eyewitness to Dimension 2 Delta's destruction from the inside."

The Time Giant chewed on that; then sighed, pointed at VENDOR, and said, "Okay, you request whatever files you can get," and pointed at the Axolotl and said, "In the meantime, I'll talk to your guy. Where is he?"

"Turn around, jumbo."

The group flinched in surprise. They turned toward the missing wall and the grotesquely bloated singularity behind it.

From the zeroth dimension's impossible border, the shining yellow triangle, hardly larger than a fleck of dust, blinked blearily out into the third dimension. He was holding a red plastic cup and wearing a party hat. He looked very much like a hungover homeowner trying to sign for a package at 7 in the morning.

They stared at him.

VENDOR demanded, "What in the world are you?"

"I'm a triangle," said the triangle. 

"You're not supposed to be in there. Get out."

"Hmm! Let me think! No!" He floated up to camera level with VENDOR, apparently not noticing he'd started tilting at an angle. "Why don't you make me?"

"How dare—! Do you know who you're talking to, mortal?"

"Nope. I only know the people worth knowing."

The Axolotl had to choke back a laugh as VENDOR's lights buzzed brighter with irritation.

The cloud quietly asked, "Your friend from 2Δ?"

The Axolotl nodded. "This is the Magister Mentium. He's the only survivor of Dimension 2 Delta. That I know of, anyway." He looked to the triangle, hoping he'd tell him that he was wrong—that the triangle's dancers really were his people from his own dimension.

But the triangle neither confirmed nor denied the claim. He just shot the Axolotl a dirty look. The Axolotl's heart sank.

"Are you sure he 'survived'?" VENDOR asked. "He doesn't appear to have a body. I don't think he's alive."

"What's with everyone's obsession with how alive I am today," the triangle griped. "Hey, worlds-for-guts! Come over here and I'll show you how 'lively' I can be."

"I beg your pardon?!"

"Beg harder."

The crab cop snapped his claws. "You think you can threaten a god? Better watch your mouth, mortal."

"Oh, now I'm mortal again!" The triangle laughed. "Hey, make up your minds! Am I dead or not?"

"I warned you��!"

The Axolotl quietly inserted himself between the two, muttering to the crab, "I'm sure I don't need to remind you that 2Δ isn't one of the dimensions hubris is illegal in?" From the corner of an eye, he could see the triangle pinching his fingers in mocking imitation of the cop's claw snaps. He blocked the triangle from the cop's view.

"It is up here—"

"He isn't up here. He's down there." The Axolotl stared at the crab until he backed off.

Throughout all this, the Time Giant was surveying the triangle dubiously, jaw set in an unimpressed line. Finally, she asked him, "Is uh—is your god home...?" (Even as tense as he was, the Axolotl had to fight back a chuckle. You could always tell when someone wasn't used to talking to mortals.)

"There's no gods here," the triangle retorted. "I'm the magister of this dream realm. So who're you and whaddaya want?"

No gods came up to smite the triangle for denying their existence, so the Time Giant shrugged and continued to address him: "Civil engineering inspector, cosmic structure maintenance. I'm here to figure out why D-2Δ collapsed, look over the place you're in now, see whether it's is up to code."

"Ugh, it's about time," the triangle groaned, as if he'd had any involvement in the Time Giant's appearance or any reason to expect her to be here. "According to these jokers, we got given a flimsy universe! Bad wiring or something!" (Had the triangle been eavesdropping on them the whole time?) "It'd explain a lot! The place wasn't very robust!" His irritated gaze circled the group of "jokers" in question—Axolotl, storm cloud, vending machine, the cops—then did a double take at the cop made of two flaming wheels. "Whoa, and I thought frills here was the freak. How many eyes do you have?" He squinted and started trying to count them. The rings rotated irritably and the triangle flinched. "You can shapeshift 'em. Wowww, optometrists must hate you."

The Time Giant waved a hand between the triangle and the rings to get his attention back. "So you are in charge of whatever's left of D-2Δ in there?"

"Of course he's not," VENDOR said. 

"Yep, that's me," the triangle said.

"Fantastic," said the Time Giant, loudly ignoring VENDOR. She pulled out a miniature clipboard strapped to the back of her toolbelt. "Then you get first priority in deciding what happens to the place, as long as it don't violate cosmic construction code. What's your ideal outcome here? Gut this dimension, clean out the rubble from D-2Δ, and rebuild somewhere else?"

"Don't even think about it," the triangle said. "Stabilize our dream realm."

VENDOR cut in again, "You can't expect to stay in there! A void at the center of the multiverse is no place for three million squatters—"

"You're way behind, Jack," the triangle said gleefully. "We're up to ten million now!"

THEY gasped in horror. "Ten million?!" THEY started cycling through THEIR stock of moons for one better sized for the population.

The request to stabilize the dimension gave the Time Giant pause, but before VENDOR could try to jump in again, she said, "Sure, got it." She made a note on her clipboard. "I'll look around, figure out if it can be repaired, make sure it isn't about to collapse around your ears—or whatever you have. Corners?"

"Great! I keep hearing this awful grinding noise! And the electromagnetism keeps flickering on and off! Can you do something about that?"

"I'm here to try," the Time Giant said. "Can I come in?"

The triangle hesitated. He looked to the Axolotl. "Hey, frills. Do you vouch for this freak?"

His gills fluffed in surprise at the question. Him? "Yes—she's a professional." The Apocalyptic Threat Task Force wouldn't have her on call if she wasn't dependable.

"All right," the triangle said. "Both of you come in. Welcome to the dream realm."

The Axolotl and Time Giant exchanged a look. She shrugged, scooped him into her arms like an oversized house cat, and headed into Dimension Zero.

####

"Wow. I've never seen nothing like this before." That was the fourth time the Time Giant had said that so far. (Two of them had been spent on the eternal dance party. She'd made eye contact with a square who was coughing an endless plume of black smoke out from around his dry and cracking eye, and the Axolotl—still being cradled in one arm—had felt her shudder before she deliberately turned away. If she was horrified, she was doing a better job of locking it away than the Axolotl had.) "Just moved in?" 

"Pretty recently," the triangle said. "I can't tell you exactly when! I abolished time."

"Probably for the best. This place is a real fixer-upper—I don't know if it could handle time." She had started poking and prodding as soon as she entered Dimension Zero—feeling the quality of the fabric of reality, flipping open invisible breaker boxes to inspect the fundamental forces. She paused as she peered into one box. "Where's the gravity?"

"Beats the heck outta me! I gave up looking for it. Think I like it better without gravity." The triangle had been weaving around her during her whole inspection. He was still clearly under the influence—but now, the Axolotl was less certain what influence he was under. The more the Axolotl saw him separated from his eternal dance, the less he looked like a partied-out drunk, and more like he was distracted to the point of dissociation. His voice fluctuated randomly between "loud" and "too loud." He tilted and zigzagged when he moved, drifted when he tried to hold still. He simultaneously flickered around the dimension like an indecisive quantum particle that couldn't figure out where it existed and maintained a steady, unblinking, spotlight-like stare at the Time Giant and what she was doing. "But the gravity's nothing. A while ago, the weak atomic force went out for like a whole week; you can imagine what a pain that was to get working again!"

She whistled under her breath. "Is this your first reno project? Should've started with something simpler, like a 2D universe, and worked your way up to 3D. 1D's beginner-friendly too; but honestly, with all the restrictions it's not worth it unless you're really creative with portals. 2D's a reasonably accessible middle ground."

"We came from a 2D universe," the triangle said. "After all the work we put into getting to the third dimension, I'm not about to go back!"

"Fair enough." She shifted the Axolotl from where she'd been carrying him in her arm to set him up on her shoulder so she could free her hands. He draped over her shoulder with his tail hanging down her back to watch as she shined a flashlight into the breaker box. There were five switches labeled in marker on tape, "ELECTROMAGNETISM," "STRONG WEAK ATOMIC FORCE" "WEAK  STRONG  WEAK  STRONG!!! ATOMIC FORCE," "????," and "???????? (DON'T TOUCH!!)" The weak atomic force switch was being held in the "on" position by a bundle of black rubber bands that, upon closer inspection, appeared to be made out of the triangle's own arms. The ???? switch had been replaced by a wormhole.

She prodded the wormhole with the butt of a pen. The triangle yelped and flinched. "Hey, whoa! If you're gonna get handsy, at least buy me dinner first!"

She stared at him, slowly shook her head, and muttered, "Never seen nothing like that before." She shut the breaker box. "Well, this place is no Goldilocks zone, but it's honestly kinda impressive it hasn't imploded yet."

"I'm taking that as a compliment!"

She put away her flashlight, pulled out her clipboard, and said, "So you mentioned a grinding sound. What's this grinding?"

"Right, that!" Now that she wasn't doing anything interesting worth watching, the triangle zoomed in front of her to make direct eye contact. "Every time I try to move, all of existence starts creaking and groaning."

"You're moving now and I don't hear anything."

The triangle rolled his eye. "I don't mean moving in here, I mean moving!"

She frowned.

The Axolotl suggested, "I think he's—at the center of the dimension. When he moves, we move... through the dimension. Perhaps he means when the dimension's literally moving with him?"

"Uh." The triangle squinted uncertainly. "Yyyes?"

"Huh. Dimensions shouldn't be moving." She unhooked her time tape from her belt, held it up in front of her, and said, "Can you move about... twenty lightminutes away?"

The triangle sighed heavily. "Yeah, sure." He zoomed off to the side. Existence seemed to zoom with him. The whole time he was moving, the Time Giant stretched out more of her time tape.

The Axolotl felt something very far away rumble.

"Is that all you needed, or are you gonna ask me to roll over and bark, too?"

"Haw haw," she said flatly. "Yeah, that's it." She glanced at the Axolotl. "How long did it feel to you like it took him to move?"

The Axolotl tried to think through the momentary vertigo. "Thirty, forty seconds?"

"Uh-huh. For him to move twenty lightminutes in thirty seconds, he'd be moving forty times the speed of light."

"Oh."

"Is that good?" the triangle called.

The Time Giant grimaced. "Well..."

"I can do it faster!"

"D—don't do it faster." She held up the time tape for the Axolotl to inspect. "Look at this."

Every measure mark on the tape was labeled 0 sec - 0 sec - 0 sec - 0 sec.

The Axolotl gave it a baffled look. "He did say he abolished time."

"Sure, but there's relative time, and then there's absolute time." Which was probably a statement that made sense to Time Giants, but all the Axolotl could guess was that she meant the time tape was not supposed to say zero seconds.

She let the tape retract and stroked her chin with a gloved hand. After a moment of thought, she said, "Lemme check something out."

####

(Thanks for reading!! If the art lured you in and this is the first chapter you read, this is part 3 of a probably-7-part fic about the Axolotl in the immediate aftermath of the Euclidean Massacre. Here's part one and part two if you missed it. I'm posting one chapter a week, Fridays 5pm CST, so stick around if you wanna watch the Axolotl slowly discover just how much of a monster that silly triangle he likes really is.

It's ALSO chapter 61 PART THREE of an ongoing post-canon post-TBOB very-reluctantly-human Bill fic. I'm gonna fix the chapter numbering once I know how many chapters this plot is. If you're not sold on the idea of a human Bill fic, I've also got a oneshot about normal triangle Bill escaping the Theraprism if you wanna read that.

If this is NOT your first time here and you already knew all of the above: okay, I lied that last week was the least horrifying chapter, but it's only because this chapter ran so long I decided to cut it in half. The horror comes next week. Enjoy this brief lull while everyone acts like this is a totally normal property inspection.

Anyway, lemme know what y'all think, and next week we're right back on the cosmic horror!)

[cosmicpearlz]

aching bones

summary: exes are supposed to be okay with each other having feelings for another person. but not when it’s your best friend. maybe things aren’t what they seem.

pairing: chad meeks martin x fem!reader, some tara carpenter x chad meeks martin

a/n: this is kinda long and it goes through different povs but i hope you enjoy! <3

chad was the love of your life in a distant time. he had been your first everything. at some point, you guys decided it would be best to let the relationship go. mutually agreeing that the arguments and fighting were tiresome. that didn’t stop you guys from being friends and still hanging out with each other.

tara, your best friend, had helped you all throughout the break up. seeing you at you worse but being there to pick up all the pieces and mend the brokenness. you didn’t know what’d you do without her.

“tara! what are you wearing to the party?” you hollered at her from down the hallway, as you made your way to her room. you opened the door to find the girl with three different hangers in her hands.

“i’m thinking about doing a dress but then there’s these cute pants. but then y/n, there’s the cute mini skirt,” she turns to you with a pout on her face.

“help me!”

“babes, i dunno how to help you,” it was hard to contain your laughter. tara frowned even harder, causing her eyebrows to turn downward too.

“y/n!”

“okay okay,” you grabbed the hangers out of her hands and inspected each item carefully. you hand her the purple mini skirt, hanging the other two pieces back into her closet. you go into her dresser and grab a white halter top to throw at her.

“hey! i said help not be aggressive.”

“there. now, shower and get dressed. i’m ready to dance the night away. does sam know you’re going?” she rolled her hands at your teasing smirk.

“yes asshole. now get out of my room! by the way, your outfit is too cute!” she gestures to your sheer black rhinestone dress that you paired with black spandex underneath and some black chunky heels.

“you can never go wrong with a little black dress,” you winked at her and closed her room door.

walking back to the living room, you didn’t notice everyone else was already there. ethan, chad, mindy, anika, and quinn sat waiting for tara to finish.

“woah look at this hot mama!” quinn whistles at you, you smiled and do a turn.

“hehe thanks quinny!” you blew a kiss to her and sat next to anika on the couch, laying your head on her shoulder.

chad was blown away by you once again. the dress fitting your body in just the right places. showing off your gorgeous legs. the way your heels made you slightly taller. just as he was thinking about you, tara walks out to the living room. it made him want to confess to tara that he had feelings for her.

it felt wrong having feelings for two girls that happened to be friends. best friends at that. chad knew he’d always love you but to him, he thought there was no chance to be with you again. even though the breakup was mutual, he had missed you just as much as you missed him. at that time tara had caught his eye.

“who's ready to party?”

-

chad doesn’t know how he got here. one minute he’s taking shots with ethan and the next he’s in a quiet room, sitting with tara. shoulder to shoulder and feeling a little tipsy, chad feels like this is the perfect time to tell tara.

“tara i have to te-“

“chad i have something to-“ they both share a laugh before chad nudged the girl to start first.

“i was just gonna say that i think i like you. as in more than a friend,” chad freezes for a moment, not expecting tara to say what was on his mind. he leans in a bit closer to the girl, while she did the same.

“i was just going to tell you that-“

“hey tar, are you in here?” you opened the door and paused upon seeing your ex and best friend sitting too close. almost as if they were gonna kiss.

“what the fuck?” blinking back the fast tears that threaten to fall down your face, you backed up out the doorway.

“wait y/n, it’s not-“

“stay.. the hell away from me,” your voice cracked with every word. you shook your head and turned to walk away. tara is quick to follow you and grabs your arm. you shook your arm from her hold and turned to face her.

“how could you?”

“y/n.”

“seriously fuck off tara,” ignoring the pleads from tara and chad, you hastily walked out to get fresh air.

-

never did you expect your best friend to betray you like she did. tara had known that you still had feelings for the stupidly handsome boy, how could you not? he was everything you could ever want and more.

you drowned yourself into your blankets and the comfor of your own bed. too afraid of running into either of them. you couldn’t bear the sight of seeing them be together, not when you still loved him.

“y/n, you have to leave the bed at some point.”

“the bed would never hurt me.”

“my brother is a major asshole. i know he still loves you. maybe there’s a good explanation for this,” mindy continues rubbing your back, while you rolled your eyes.

“yeah right. if he loved me, he wouldn’t try to get with my best friend.”

mindy didn’t know how to fix the problem. she just knew that chad and tara had to figure out how to make the situation better before it got worse.

-

chad paces back and forth throughout the dorm room, making ethan slightly concerned for the boy. he had never seen chad so distressed. usually, he was the up beat one in the group, always smiling.

“i ruined everything eth. she will never talk to me again.”

“what did you do?”

“i almost kissed tara because i thought i had feelings for her. well i do have feelings for her but they’re not as strong as the feelings i have for y/n. we’ve been broken up for some months now and i thought that would help me get over her but it didn’t. ethan i dunno-“

“chad chad, i need you to breathe. have you talked to tara about any of this?”

“no! because losing y/n for the second time, made me realize i could never be without her. i should have fought-,” chad took an audible glup to compose his many thoughts. “i should have fought for her, it was stupid to break up.”

“man, you need to tell her. and you need to talk to tara, letting her know you still love y/n,” chad chuckled dryly at ethan’s words.

“kinda ironic that i used to help you with girl problems and now you’re helping me,” ethan walks up to chad to place a hand on his shoulder.

“this is what friends are for. mainly, i’m just tired of your pacing.”

“i hate you ethan landry,” the two boys shared a laugh, which made chad feel lighter about the situation at hand.

-

tara didn’t know what to do. how to make you forgive her. how to even make you look at her again. she had lost you for feelings that she wasn’t even sure of. sure, chad was cute but he was also your ex. one too many drinks and she did something that was practically unforgivable.

so the girl decided to have a quick conversation with chad. many thoughts ran through her head but the only one that matters was getting her best friend back.

“hey tara, you asked to meet?” tara looks up from her phone to meet chad’s brown eyes. she gives him a weak smile and motioned him to sit down across from her.

“whatever we thought was there isn’t there. chad, i can’t afford to lose you as my friend and especially not y/n. she’s my best friend and she won’t even talk to me,” tears well up in her eyes and she bites on the corner of her bottom lip. chad sighs and patted tara’s hand.

“i agree with everything you said. i’m truly still in love with her and i think losing her completely made me realize that.”

“has she talked to you yet? she won’t answer any of my calls or text messages.”

“same here tar. every single piece of contact gone unanswered and ignored.”

“there has to be something we could do to get our happy girl back.”

-

if there was a word to describe chad’s sour mood, it’d be jealousy. maybe a little bit of anger. he watched as you were pressed up against one of the frat brothers, who happened to be his friend. dylan didn’t deserve to touch you. didn’t deserve to be close to you.

“you know chad, maybe if you didn’t royally fuck up that’d be you with her right now.”

“fuck you mindy,” chad threw his shot back aggressively, hoping to shake the feelings away. although, it did nothing to help. irrationally, he decided he would pull you away to talk to you. he wanted his girl back.

“y/n can i talk to you,” you stopped dancing to stare at him with disgust.

“no.”

“but i need-“

“chad, the lady said no.”

“dylan, you’re my friend bro but mind your fucking business. y/n.”

“i have nothing to say to you chad.”

“i have something to say to you, so let’s go,” chad pulls your arm to lead you both outside. you were supposed to be mad at him but in a way his actions were hot.

once you were outside away from watchful eyes and listening ears, you pull your arm out of his grasp. you crossed your arms around your chest and waited for him to start speaking. the boy was nervous under your gaze.

“i’m sorry. baby, you don’t know how-“

“don’t call me that. you lost that right when you decided my best friend was your new companion.”

“y/n listen to me, i don’t want her. i want you, i will always want you.”

“if you wanted me so bad, you wouldn’t have tried to kiss my best fucking friend! the both of you are backstabbing assholes,” you yelled at him while loose tears fell down.

“i fucking love y/n! i will always be in love with you. i see your smile when you go to pick out new books to read. i see the way you light up when someone in our friend group gets a good grade. the way you’d excitedly show me a new ring you wanted to add to your collection.

you are my sunshine and the reason i look forward to waking up. when we broke up because of our ridiculously petty fights, i should’ve never let you walk out those doors. i should’ve pulled you closer to me but instead i let you go. i hurt you and i don’t know if i’ll ever forgive myself for doing so. i’m so fucking sorry.”

you were speechless after chad’s confession. even though you weren’t sure if you fully trusted him fully again, you ran into his arms. you cried as he held you into his warm embrace. rocking you back and forth.

“i’m so sorry. please forgive me.”

after a few minutes of crying into the boy's arms, you removed yourself and wiped your face. sighing, you bit the inside of your cheek.

“i dunno if i could trust you fully. let me have time to myself before i try to be anything with you again. i need time to heal and if you can’t respect that, then we definitely need to stay away from each other.”

“i support whatever decision you make,” you put your head down looking at the rocks. chad closes the distance between you two and grabs your hands.

“hey look at me,” you set your gaze back to his eyes watching him softly smile at you.

“it’s your decision. take all the time you need. i will be right here waiting for you,” he squeezed your hands once more before letting go and stepping back. the boy had tears that fell down his face unwillingly.

chad wasn’t sure if you’d ever come back to him but he sure hoped so. the only he’d know is if he let you go again. it killed him to do so but the last thing he wanted to do was force you into something.

if you love somebody, let them go, for if they return, they were always yours. if they don’t, they never were.

[eleanorblythe]

Romantic Homicide - Anton Chigurh x Original Female Character - Chapter 2

This has been so much fun to write. I had honestly just intended to write some filth and call it a day, but the more I wrote the more I cared about these characters. I promise filth is coming, but right now it’s a whole lot of angst and emotions.

You can STILL use this as a reader insert because I STILL haven’t given her a name, but I think at this point it’s more of a deliberate choice than the lack of a good name, it gives her some mystery (and maybe makes me a little pretentious??)

I don’t think this will be a fully fledged fanfic, like I said this was meant to just be some disgusting smut, but apparently I need foreplay and I have ideas in the back of my mind for one off scenarios - so if I do continue this I would be open to any suggestions you have or want to see - requests will be open.

Also on Ao3 with author notes and translations - here

When she rose the next morning it was almost easy to forget there was anyone else in the house. When she walked through the dining room and peered into the bathroom to get to the kitchen, everything was exactly as it was meant to be. There was no mess, no blood and no glass. She couldn’t help but look over at her cabinet and see the empty spot where her sixth rocks glass ought to have been, but there were slightly more important things to worry about.

But first. Coffee.

Like with everything else in her home, she had the best (his) money could buy. So she was lucky enough to have a coffee machine that came with all the bells and whistles. This included a steam wand that was used for frothing milk. She quickly filled a small cup with milk and turned on the steam wand, letting it make the most awful noise. Screeching and wailing while she simply turned on her stovetop and placed her stovetop coffee maker on it to make a pot of black coffee.

She never has milk with her coffee.

Her antics did the trick. Before long Anton came wondering into the kitchen, somewhat bleary eyed and wondering at the hideous cacophony of sounds emanating from her kitchen. Her eyes tracked him from the dining room and once he set foot onto the linoleum of her kitchen she switched the steam wand off and poured her cup of frothy milk directly into the sink.

Anton clenched his jaw as his eyes bore into her. He watched her pour black coffee from her stainless steel pot into a rather elegant looking glass coffee cup.

She raised her cup, in the form of a mocking cheers or toast and kept steely eye contact with him as she sipped her coffee with one hand, and proceeded to pour the entire pot of freshly brewed coffee down the sink with the other.

Anton exhaled through his nose, whether it was with amusement or frustration or derision, she could not say, his face betrayed nothing.

But his eyes did. There was anger, exhaustion and…hurt? With her or at the loss of a very nice cup of coffee, she wasn’t entirely sure.

She made a satisfied sound as she savoured the first sip before she wondered out of the kitchen to go about her usual morning routine, once again leaving him with barely an acknowledgment of his existence.

She knew she would eventually have to confront the issue head on, but for now he would have a small taste of the type of existence she has lived through these past months.

Or perhaps he would prefer it this way?

She dressed and readied herself for the day. She had nowhere to go, but she contemplated whether to take herself off somewhere for the next eight hours, until she realised she was being childish.

This was her home, why should she be the one to leave it?

Instead she granted a small kindness, by calling Andrews from her bedroom and asking him to visit discreetly, as she was not convinced Anton had the skills to mend his arm on his own - skilful as he was.

She stepped out onto the front porch to collect the mornings’ paper. She noticed an unfamiliar car sitting on her driveway behind her own car. She thought he might have had the foresight to park it far away from the house, but the pain must have overridden all else. She took a moment to look out at the rest of the neighbourhood. Quiet. Calm. Private. She surprisingly found herself suited to the suburban life, what a difference a few years can make. She could have done without the snobbery of some of her neighbours, but she found that she was able to combat them in other, more creative ways now, that didn’t involve guns. Or knives. Or ropes. Or explosives…

She was not entirely sure Anton could. But she was sure once his arm was mended he would be back on his way again. The only sign he was alive being the regular cheques found in her mailbox. There was never a letter or note accompanying the cheque. Ever. Just a rather large number and his signature.

She looked along her fence and saw one of the boards had splintered slightly. She resolved she would have to replace the whole fence. Ridiculous. She knew, but she kept up hope believing that one day she would finally have wasted too much money on all these frivolities and open the door to find Anton glaring down at her and be given the dressing down she so dearly deserved.

And needed.

And wanted.

Desperately.

She shook herself out of her reverie and came back into the house to find Anton sitting in the living room staring at the television - that wasn’t on. It was her turn to exhale through her nose, her derision quite clear. She turned on the tv as she passed before seating herself at the far end of the farthest chair and opened up her newspaper making as much unnecessary noise as she could possibly make.

Anton’s deep, withering gaze slowly made its way from the screen to her, but by now she was completely covered by the broadsheet with only her hands peaking out holding up the sides. He noticed she still wore her ring. Not all hope was lost then.

The newscaster quietly droned on in the background, Anton wondered if this was what domesticity was. Well it would have been, he supposed, without the arsenal of weapons they both had buried under the floorboards.

There was now a reporter standing outside a motel in El Paso, surrounded by police and caution tape. He talked about the bloodshed that occurred there and linked it back to similar incidents in other motels within the surrounding area.

At the mention of El Paso, the newspaper came down a little until she was peering over the top. She knew that was one of the places Anton had been and wondered for a morbid moment whether they would show any of his handiwork on the screen. The reporter mentioned something about locks being punched out of doors. From behind her paper she allowed herself to smirk, knowing his trademark.

“Your work, dear?” She finally asked, after raising the newspaper back up when the report was over.

“Some of it,” he mumbled, his eyes still glued to the television. He couldn’t help but hear the bite in her voice at the word “dear”

She offered no other comments or conversation and for a while they remained in this seemingly blissful image of home life. Until there was a knock interrupted the quiet.

Anton snapped his head towards the front door and wished he had his pistol to hand. She curled the corner of the paper down and peered out of the window.

“You’d better get that, darling, being the man of the house and all…” she said as she folded her newspaper and tossed it onto the coffee table. The sarcasm dripping from every word.

He was skeptical, but she didn’t look too concerned so it was probably a neighbour. He rose slowly and stalked his way to the front door glancing through the peephole before releasing a long suffering sigh, recognising who was at the door.

He opened the door just wide enough to poke his head around. Andrews met his eye and his grip tightened around his medical bag.

“Mr Chigurh.” He gave a a tight smile and a nod.

“I didn’t call you.”

“N-no sir, but your wife did.”

“Why?” He practically seethed.

“Because you were half delirious and drunk when you attempted to fix yourself.” Anton heard behind him. She stepped forward, ushering Anton out of the way with a limp wave of her hand. “Come in, Andrews. Use the back room, keep him quiet, not that, that should be a problem,” she opened the door further to allow Andrews to enter.

Andrews squeezed himself between the small gap left by the couple who had both at one time or another been “patients” of his, as they entered into something of a stare off. He hurried down the hall and began to set up in the back bedroom. She had given him a brief explanation of what had happened and while he was aware Anton was more than capable of taking care of himself, it did sound like a rather serious incident that needed at least some modicum of professional care.

Anton eventually came into the room, with her in tow. She remained in the doorway as he gingerly sat on the edge of the bed.

“We’ll start with the arm, if you please, but I’d like to take a look at your leg too,”

“My leg is fine.”

A quiet scoff pulled their attention.

“Just do what the man says, Anton.”

Anton saw from his peripheral vision, Andrews gulp and exchange a tense and worried look between the two, then pretend to busy himself with his latex gloves.

She continued to stare at him, like a teacher deciding whether he needed admonishing. She must have known what he knew. The bone wasn’t set properly.

He needed help.

He did contemplate rolling his shirt sleeve up but it was too tight to do so without causing pain and he didn’t want to cut up yet another shirt. He slowly began to unbutton the first two buttons before stopping and flicking his eyes up to her. Her eyes narrowed in questioning then widened and barked out a laugh at his apparent shyness.

For a single moment, Anton saw warmth, even tenderness creep into her eyes. It quickly dissolved and she looked on in that cold and dispassionate way of hers. The whole moment reminded him of watching her at work, the way she could switch between different people, different personalities like a switch.

Once Anton begrudgingly finished unbuttoning the rest of his shirt, Andrews helped carefully peel off the shirt and started to examine the red and swollen area, all under the watchful gaze of her.

He tried. He tried so hard to show no weakness. Not in front of her. But with every poke and prod, he could feel his mask slipping. At one point Andrews must have struck a nerve because Anton flinched violently and let out a small shuddering gasp. He couldn’t help but look back at her.

She had the most inscrutable expression. Her eyes obstinately on his arm, but she could feel his eyes on her. Her eyes were moving, almost frantically, between Anton’s arm and whatever Andrews was doing with his hands.

After rummaging around in his medical bag, Andrews drew out a scalpel, he cut through the stitches Anton had obviously done the previous night and she watched as the deep crimson seeped out and started to bleed further down his arm and drip onto the plastic sheet spread over the bed and floor.

She was reminded of another time - all that blood, all that pain…

Anton gritted his teeth and kept his reactions to the pain as minimal as he could. He decided to anchored himself to her, tried to find his strength in her. His eyes never leaving her face as he waited for her to look back.

When she did finally look up at him, he was a little taken aback. Her jaw was stern, her mouth drawn in a thin line, her nostrils flared, her eyebrows drawn. But her eyes…

There was no anger, no contempt, no mocking, just total understanding, empathy and…fear. He watched as her eyes glistened with unshed tears. Her lips parted as she drew a sharp inhale, like she wanted to say something, but snapped her mouth shut and immediately left the room.

Andrews muttered something of an apology followed by an almighty crack. Anton gave a chocked off scream mixed with a groan. He gripped the edge of the bed, the rustling of the plastic sheet almost deafening.

There were other cuts, other breaks that had to be made and throughout he felt weaker and weaker. At one point he had passed out.

He awoke to the pleasant relief of a cool towel being dabbed against his forehead, he opened his eyes to see her leaning over him. She met his gaze and lay the towel against his forehead. He felt the faintest brush of her fingers down his temple and cheek as she reached for something he couldn’t see. He then felt the unpleasant stab of a needle in his uninjured arm.

“Morphine.” She said quietly. “I found some, in your stash,” she pulled the needle out and placed a cotton wool ball over the small bead of blood that escaped the puncture wound.

“How long?” He all but croaked.

“A few hours. Andrews said it was worse than he thought, but it’s done. He suggested a cast, but,” she glanced over at his left arm, so did he. He saw instead of a plaster cast, an arm brace; “I thought this would be a better alternative,”

“What else?”

“The gunshot wound to your leg is already healing quite well, he didn’t need to do too much, the laceration on your other leg has a few stitches as well as the one on your forehead. You broke 3 ribs, but I imagine you already knew that, you’re to remain here for the next six weeks. After that…” she gulped as she tidied away the morphine and needle “You can go back to what you’d like,”

Anton now knew what was wrong. He never pretended to know about people and their seemingly unnecessary emotional ways - that was always her strength, but he always thought he’d at least be able to read her well enough. Perhaps the reason for his problem was the very reason she was upset and trying desperately to hide it behind her cool and facetious exterior. He wasn’t here. He hadn’t been here. For months. A wife needs her husband, and if he was honest; this husband needed his wife. The work gave him purpose, but she sustained him.

It was, perhaps, easier for her when they were both in the field, the fleeting moments when they might cross paths on separate jobs and frenzied, passionate nights in dirty motels when the adrenaline was coursing through both of them. It had been enough then to sustain them both, but after what happened, when the tables were turned on them, on her…

They both knew they always had to be prepared to die to do what they did, it was an inevitability and reality they confronted everywhere they went, but for her, it was not the fear of death, but a deep betrayal that had forced her to step away and after months and months of recovery, almost slipping into death’s arms so many times, she found that she would not - could not - return to that world, even after her arteries stitched themselves back together and wounds and scars faded to faint lines along her skin(Anton had counted and treated every one of them, with rapt attention).

He had stayed throughout her recovery, made sure she had everything should could ever need or want. He was the one who had saved her from bleeding out. He was the one who stitched her up. He was the one who relentlessly hunted down the ones who did this to her. He was the one who suggested marriage. He was the one who gave her the home he was currently laying in.

And yet despite it all.

He was the one who needed her.

So why did he stay away for so long?

It was something he continued to turn over in his head while she cleaned and tidied up her equipment. When she rose from her perch on the bed to leave, he attempted to sit up.

“Mi querida…”

“No.” She said, finally broken. She gently pushed him back down and picked up a tin tub that was filled with murky red water. “Ve a dormir.” He always enjoyed hearing her speak in his native tongue, but now she sounded so fragile, so heartbroken, so alone.

She left without looking back and closed the door behind her. She emptied the tub, put away the morphine, did the washing up. She did anything to keep herself busy, but the second she stopped a loud and horrible sob ripped it’s way out of her and she could do nothing but slide herself to the floor and try to silence her own cries.

And from his bed, Anton heard it all.

[megachiraztfs]

Family

Oscar had been living on the street for three years now, ever since his father had kicked him out. Not because he had done anything bad. No, because he was interested in men. Since his mother had left them both, everything had become terrible. In these three years he had had to learn many things: how people ignored him, how the security simply threw him out even if he wanted to buy something to eat with the money he begged and didn't want to steal anything, how he was driven away from good sleeping places by other homeless people because he cried at night.

It was raining and Oscar had luckily managed to take refuge in a doorway. He was far from the busy city, there was no one here. His stomach growled and he was tired. His cap, which he used for begging, was lying in the rain. He no longer held out hope that anyone would give him anything. Tears came to his eyes again.

"Young man?", Oscar heard a voice and looked up. In front of him, a smartly dressed middle-aged man stood under a black umbrella and smiled at him. "Wonderful, I was about to call an ambulance because you seemed to have collapsed on my doorstep."

"I'm leaving right now, please don't call the police, I'll be gone in a minute," Oscar muttered, gathering up his decrepit coat and about to stand up, but the man shook his head.

"No, stay calm, as long as you let me through, you can stay as long as you like. But, tell me...what are you doing here in the middle of the rain in this lonely area? Shouldn't you be at home? Or somewhere more… dry?" the man asked, sounding very friendly.

Oscar said nothing and looked down at the ground. Only the dripping of rain from the gutter next to them could be heard. Somewhere in the distance another siren sounded.

"You don't have a home, right?" Oscar said nothing, still ashamed of it.

"Come on, you can dry off at my place and then take a hot shower - if you want, of course. And no, I don't want to hold you to turn you in to the police. I promise." The man unlocked the door and waited for Oscar's decision.

"Really not?", Oscar inquired, still unsure.

"Really not, come in before you run off with this downpour and catch your death," the man said and Oscar stepped inside. He watched as the man folded his umbrella, took off his hat and hung up his coat. The house was nobly furnished. The man probably lived here alone. "What is your name, young man? We haven't even introduced ourselves."

"Oscar Miller, sir."

"Pleased to meet you, Oscar - if I may call you that? I'm George Newfield, very pleased to meet such a well-mannered young man. But now go on and have a shower, I'll put on some tea for us. The bathroom is three doors down the hall," Mister Newfield explained and disappeared into another room, probably the kitchen. Oscar tried not to leave any traces on the beautiful red carpet and after a few moments he also found the bathroom. He peeled himself out of his clammy old clothes - the shirt he was wearing had been the last thing his mum had given him. He might even be allowed to use the washing machine.

When Oscar came out of the shower, there was a small table in front of the door. With mended, clean clothes. They were apparently a bit older, but in impeccable shape and all brand-name clothes. A pair of light jeans, a dark jumper, packed underwear and socks. He was quite touched and dried off quickly. Oscar didn't care, the feeling on his sickly-looking skin was indescribably comforting. How he had missed proper clothes!

As Oscar walked back out into the hallway, he heard the whistle of a kettle and followed the sound. Mister Newfield was standing in his luxurious kitchen, humming as he attended to the tea. "Ah, welcome back, so you look a bit more chipper!" the other man greeted him, giving him another smile that warmed Oscar's heart.

"Thank you very much for the things, sir, when I leave you'll get them right back," Oscar said gratefully, not wanting to be a burden to the generous man.

But the man shook his head. "Don't be silly, the things are yours now! And now please take a seat, the tea is ready."

The hot drink warmed the last parts of Oscar's body that the hot shower had not reached. He literally clung to the cup and looked into the liquid. After several prompts, he also took one of the biscuits that were in front of him.

"I don't mean to pry, but... would you like to tell me something about yourself? You are also welcome to ask me questions afterwards. Maybe you can explain to me why you, of all people, ended up on the street?" asked Mister Newfield over the rim of his teacup. Oscar looked down at the ground and his hands shook slightly. When had anyone wanted to hear what he was thinking? Maybe even how he was feeling? Surely it was all a trap and the nice man was about to kill him. Homeless people disappeared all the time. So, what could go wrong? It couldn't be worse than starving alone and abandoned and crying himself to sleep every night. Oscar began to tell the story. Where he had grown up. What his favourite show had been as a child. How nice everything had been until his father had kicked him out, with only the clothes on his back. Without money, without anything. What he had experienced on the streets afterwards. How alone he was. Oscar even told, why it had happened, until he started to cry and the salty tears fell into his tea.

Mister Newfield had still laughed when it came to Oscar's childhood - had even told him what his favourite comic books had been when he was a little boy. But at the point of being kicked out, his expression turned serious for the first time.

"I see." That was all Mister Newfield said. Oscar hastily wiped away his tears and was sure he had told the man too much. Surely, he would throw him out in a minute, like his father. Oscar had half risen when Mister Newfield's features softened again.

"I won't kick you out, don't worry. I harbour no such irrational resentment as your father. Forgive my scowl, I was just so shocked by that story and didn't want to throw that beautiful mug against the wall to compensate my rage."

Oscar exhaled in relief and then looked out of the kitchen window. It had stopped raining. "Sir, I really think I should go anyway and don’t try your patience any longer - thank you for everything, it's dry outside again by now, so I’ll be okay," Oscar said, pushing the empty teacup away from him.

There was a brief silence and Oscar took this as a sign that he could leave. But then his counterpart spoke up again. "I can understand you, Oscar," Mister Newfield said quietly, looking into his teacup as Oscar had done before. He looked thoughtful. "To be alone, without someone to catch you when you're feeling down, is cruel. But to be hated for who you are and what you can't change, that's sad." Oscar sat back down, not sure if the man was playing him. He had a home after all, obviously enough money to live on.

"Money alone doesn't make you happy, Oscar - not when you don't have anyone to share the good things in life that it makes easier," Mister Newfield said, smiling a little sadly at Oscar. "A-are you all alone, sir? Don't you have any family?" asked Oscar cautiously now.

"My parents have been dead for many years, I am an only child - everything my parents earned, I got. But at what price did I inherit all this? The people closest to me are gone forever," Mister Newfield told me and Oscar felt sorry for the man. "I've always dreamed of having a family of my own - of having a son to show off to my colleagues because I love him so much, just for being my son. Who I can love and care for, who can keep me company and who I can watch grow up. But as a single man, that's difficult, even impossible. Especially because having children with men is a bit complicated."

Oscar's eyes snapped open. The anger earlier suddenly made sense. That wasn't false pity. This was sincere. "Are-are you too...?" stammered Oscar, looking at Mister Newfield in amazement. The man nodded. "I can understand you very well, Oscar. That's why I would like to offer you this - I would be happy if we saw each other more often. You don't have to come over if you don't want to. And no, this isn't an attempt to convince you to do anything sexual either." Could the man read minds? "You don't have to decide right now, sleep on it, the guest room upstairs is free." Oscar swallowed. He was afraid that despite everything, Mister Newfield wasn't telling the truth now.

"I-I... sir... I..." stammered Oscar, unsure of what to do now. He was a little scared. Had heard stories. Bad stories. And at the same time, it was a chance of having one good night full of sleep. And peace.

"Before you go, I want to tell you one thing: you are a good person, well-mannered, modest and kind. That's how I always pictured my son. I would be happy if I could help you a little. You deserve a better life than you have now."

Again, there was silence between the two men. Oscar's heart was pounding. What was happening here right now? Surely this was too perfect? Someone wanted him to be okay? Was this actually real?

"Sir, t-that's incredibly generous, but... I still... can't," Oscar tried to justify to himself that he was actually overwhelmed. Was it perhaps the tiny hope of being taken back in by his father after all? Maybe the fear that Mister Newfield was playing tricks on him? He didn't know.

"But if I could sleep in a real bed for one night, I'd be delighted, sir," Oscar said then, and Mister Newfield's expression brightened. "Of course, of course - I didn't mean to put you under pressure, I'm sorry about that. I'll put everything in order quickly and then you can go to bed soon, you must be tired as a shepherd searching for his flock for one week." Mister Newfield did not even allow the objection that Oscar could also make up the bed himself and that was far too much trouble to be fully voiced.

Half an hour later Oscar was standing in a pretty guest room. It had once been a secret chamber to hide riches, that's why there were still bolts on the inside of the door, the other man had told him. Oscar thought about it and pushed one of the four bolts in front of the door. Better safe than sorry, he thought to himself. Then something on the bedside cabinet caught his eye. Next to an old alarm clock and a glass of water were lying a sheet of paper and a small glass tube. Oscar took the paper in his hand as he read his name there.

Oscar,

in my family we have an old secret: it's called magic. Next to the water glass is a small vial with a little red spot in it. It's a special brew that contains a family spell. I don't want to force you to do anything, you can always leave and come back as you please, you are always welcome. Even if you just want to take a shower. Feel free to take a front door key with you, if you feel you need to leave. But I believe that you and I have something to offer each other. I a loving father to you, you the son I have longed for.

If you wish to become my son, all you have to do is drink the potion. I understand that you probably don't believe anything now and think I'm crazy. But I am as honest with you as I was this afternoon. I can't promise you that I will be a perfect father - but I can be a better one than your actual one was.

Have a good night

George Newfield

Oscar put the letter back on the bedside cabinet and sat down on the bed. His head was buzzing, he couldn't think straight, he was so knackered. It had been months since he had slept in a real bed. And he was so exhausted that he drifted off into the land of dreams almost as soon as his head touched the soft pillow.

But it was rather the land of nightmares that he had entered. Again and again, Oscar relived the moment when his father scolded him, threw him out, forbade him to ever show his face again. He woke up crying from his sleep and lay there shaking and drenched in sweat. It was the almost morning, just before six o'clock. He stared into the darkness until he decided to switch on the lamp. The yellowish light fell on the letter. With a fixed gaze, Oscar looked at the letters and the small glass tube that lay right next to them.

"I don't want to go back," Oscar sobbed, "not to the street, not to my father." If this stuff was going to kill him, then he didn't have to go back either way. Slowly he uncorked the tube and a strong smell of fresh wood rose to his nose. A soothing scent. For some reason it relaxed him incredibly. At that moment Oscar decided to take a chance and emptied the vial in one go. It tasted bitter, like a brandy, which made Oscar cough.

Dark smoke came out of Oscar's mouth and filled the space in front of him a little. Whatever stuff he'd picked up on the street that had weakened his lungs dissolved into smoke, leaving a perfectly healthy, strong lung behind. The colour returned to his skin, the sickly appearance slowly disappearing under the light of the lamp. Oscar stared at his hands as he suddenly felt constricted. As if his shirt and trousers, which he had been given earlier, were suffocating him. "I have to get out of there," Oscar groaned and tore off both until he was standing naked in the guest room.

Breathing heavily, he looked at the mirror on the wardrobe and could not process the surprise that he no longer looked emaciated, but only slim, when pain mixed with the surprise. Oscar grunted and forced himself to keep his eyes open because he wanted to see what was happening to him.

His narrow shoulders, slightly hunched from life on the streets, snapped apart and widened considerably, but his stature remained slender. Where before bony skin was stretched, a healthy amount of tissue stood out - not particularly drastically, but still enough that the difference was clearly visible. His protruding ribs disappeared as strands of muscle slowly multiplied under the skin. His pecs, never existent before - he had always avoided the places where men changed for fear of being spotted looking after them - rose slightly and stood out under the skin. The thin, feeble arms took on new energy, biceps and triceps of someone who paid attention to his body without overdoing it quickly showing.

On top of his head it began to tickle - it itched like hell! But when Oscar lifted his hands to scratch at the free spots between his thin blond hair, he met not the skin of his scalp but thick brown hairs that sprouted and grew longer by the second. Stunned, he looked in the mirror and watched the hair work its way down to his shoulders.

"I have hair again... so much," Oscar whispered, running his hand through the long dark strands, wrapping them around a finger and shaking his head so he felt the tips tickle his bare skin. The strange tingling continued on his face. His barely-there eyebrows also became dark brown and thick. Then his face began to itch as dark spots appeared under his skin there too. Slowly stubble broke through his skin, denser and stronger than he could ever have had before, and grew. Oscar stared into the mirror as he grew a short beard that crept high on his cheeks, circling his mouth, leaving no gap, not even under his chin. With a trembling hand he touched his new beard and... he wasn't imagining it. He had a real beard! And he loved the feeling!

The dark hair that had already taken over his head did not stop at the rest of his body either. On his now toned chest, more and more brown hair appeared around his nipples and above his sternum, spreading downwards to cover his belly as well. Under his arms, the armpits filled in and Oscar raised both arms to look at the result. Something new hit his nose, it was... the same smell as in the potion he had drunk. His body began to smell like fresh wood, with a certain masculine undertone.

His face began to crack, at which Oscar closed his eyes. His nose became pointier, straighter - his face taking on greater resemblances with each passing second to the man who had given him shelter today. And the similarities were getting stronger by the second. When Oscar opened his eyes again, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

"I... look so good, I look... healthy, I look.... kinda hot," Oscar muttered, a sudden blush shooting up his face. For while his legs blended in with the overall picture, becoming more muscular and slightly hairier, his crotch stood out clearly. And there was a feeling that coursed through Oscar that he had almost forgotten. Carefully, he let his distinctly veiny and larger hands slide down his hairy belly, feeling the curves of his beginning abs. A shiver ran through him. And with a gasp, his balls grew larger and hung lower, pumping hormones through his changing body. His gaze met his eyes, which went from a pale grey to a dark brown, and then he gripped his cock, eager to feed his pleasure.

"Oh yeah, ungh, yeah, oh god...", Oscar almost gasped, and was turned on even more by his voice - it got a little deeper, but it had the same melodic sound as Mister Newfield's. Between his hands his cock grew longer and a little wider, he probably could have held it well with two hands. But the other hand was attached to the cupboard with supports so that his knees, wobbly from arousal, wouldn't give out.

Once more he looked in the mirror. There was nothing left of what he had looked at in the showroom windows and had learned to find repulsive - nothing was left of the young guy who had been kicked out by his own father. In this place stood an attractive man to whom all doors, socially and sexually, would be open.

And with tears in his eyes and sweat on his forehead, Oscar came on the mirror of the wardrobe, covering it with thick seed at least three times and plopped down on the wooden floor with his bare buttocks, which were clearly better proportioned. He remained sitting there breathing loudly. Trembling, Oscar raised his hands in front of his face. Gently he ran his hands over his nose, his chest, his beard - pulling his long hair in disbelief.

"This is real... this is damn real," Oscar breathed, feeling a little lightheaded, still in the afterglow. Slowly he stood up. Then he remembered that he had covered the cupboard and was about to get a cloth and some water from the bathroom, but... the cum had disappeared. Instead, the wardrobe now stood slightly open, revealing a whole row of suits. And as if it had been an automatism of the last decades, he took one out and got dressed. White shirt, waistcoat, jacket, trousers, cufflinks from the top of the wardrobe, a belt, dres shoes, socks, tie. Everything fitted perfectly. As if it had just been waiting for him. And as Oscar looked at himself in the mirror, he couldn't help but feel a little horny. Oh yes: Oscar loved suits, and not just on himself. Others did too. A little bit of his old self had been preserved after all, it seemed.

However, he couldn't let his mind or his hands again wander any further because there was a knock on his door.

"Oscar, if you like, I’ve prepared a little breakfast for us," Mister Newfield said in his friendly tone and for a second Oscar stood there paralysed. His gaze darted to the little extra lock on the door. With two steps he was at the door and opened it. He stepped out into the hallway.

"Ah, wonderful, you're already awake - I wasn't sure…," Mister Newfield began and then faltered when he saw Oscar. The man swallowed and put his hand over his mouth.

"I... think I would accept your offer," Oscar said, smiling kindly. "I would love to be your son." It was a little unnecessary, he still thought to himself as he said it. Because, after all, you could see it. And Oscar could feel it, in the good fit of his suit in all the right places, in the feel of his hair on the back of his neck and the voice that had never had to beg for money or food on the street.

"My son," said Mister Newfield, at whose words another word popped into Oscar's head, evoking only good associations: Dad. "My wonderful son," the other man said with tears in his eyes and enclosed Oscar in a tight hug. Oscar could feel the love the man felt for his son. The love he felt for him. The true love of a father. A comforting warmth spread through Oscar's chest and when he put his arms around the other and returned the embrace, the last part of the family bond spell was complete. Memories of a wonderful childhood full of love displaced the coldness of his old life, life at his beloved dad's side made him smile. It was a life full of happiness, love and carefree. A life in which he had always done his best to make his father proud, to follow in his footsteps. But at the same time, his mind was filled with gratitude for his father who gifted him a precious life.

He was no longer Oscar Miller, the displaced young man without a home. He was Oscar Newfield, exceedingly beloved son, loved and supported by his father in all circumstances. Who shared his father's love of suits and fine clothes. Whose father couldn't wait for his son to bring his partner home to welcome him into the family. Because that's what they both were, a family. "Thanks, Dad. For everything," Oscar said, hugging his father again as tightly as the other had before. He was home. He had family who loved him. And a  little later in the evening, maybe he would look for a hot suited man in town and put his new life to the test a little. After all, he had some catching up to do.

I had the idea for this story in the middle of the night and wrote it down almost in one piece. I hope you like it. If anyone of you people have ideas for future stories (long or short) -  drop me a message or ask a question! I’d love to hear your thoughts! Have fun and stay safe! <3

[number1spongebobfan]

James and the Coaches

James was enjoying his life on the Island of Sodor, but he still had a lot to learn.

"You're a special mixed traffic boy," said Sir Topham Hatt. "You can pull coaches and trucks quite easily, but you must learn by your mistakes."

James knew what Sir Topham Hatt meant. He could remember that dreadful accident on his first day.

"Be careful with the coaches, James," said kind little Edward. "They don't like being handled roughly."

Everyone came to admire James. "I'm a really splendid engine!" he thought as he suddenly left off steam. Wheesh! A shower of water fell on Sir Topham's nice new top hat. Just then, the conductor blew his whistle and James thought he and his friends, Ruby, Chite and SpongeBob had better go.

"Go on, go on!" he puffed to Edward.

"Don't push, don't push!" puffed Edward.

Ruby: It's nice our magic still works here on the Island of Sodor. SpongeBob can finally breathe on land!

Chite: Refreshing!

The coaches were grumbling too. But James wouldn't listen. When at last they stopped at the next station two coaches were beyond the platform. They have to go back to let the passengers out. But no one seems to know about Sir Topham's new hat, so James felt happier. Presently they came to the station where Thomas was waiting with his two coaches.

"Hello James," said Thomas. "Feeling better? That's good. Oh, that's my conductor's whistle. I must go. I don't know what Sir Topham Hatt to do without me to run this branch line."

And he puffed off importantly. Edward and James passed the field where James had his accident. The fences were mended and the cows were back again. They ended their journey and rested before setting off for home. James was still wondering what Sir Topham Hatt would have to say about his new hat. Next morning, he spoke severely to James.

"If you can't behave, I shall take away your red tank top and have you wear a blue one instead."

James didn't like that at all. He was very rough with the grumbling wagons as he brought them to the platform.

"Don't talk, come on!" Gordon never fetches his own coaches, he thought to himself. And he wears jeans.

To make James even more cross, this time no one came near him.

I'll show them, he thought. They think Gordon is the only engine who pulls coaches. "Hurry, hurry, hurry!" puffed James.

SpongeBob: You're going too fast James! Slow down!

James laughed and tried to go faster, but the coaches wouldn't let him.

"What's the matter?" James asked his driver.

"The brakes were on, leak in the pipe most likely. You banged the coaches enough to make a leak in anything."

"How should we mend it?" asked the conductor.

"We'll do it with newspaper and a leather bootlace," replied the driver.

"Well, where's the bootlace coming from?" asked the conductor.

"Ask the passengers." said the driver.

"You have a leather bootlace there," said the conductor to a smartly dressed stick figure. "Please give it to me."

"I won't."

"Then I'm afraid the train will just stop where it is."

The passengers all said what a bad railway it was. Then they told the man how bad he was instead. Everyone was very cross. SpongeBob, Ruby and Chite wanted to know what tf was going on. At last, he handed his laces over. The driver tied a pad of newspapers tightly around the hole in the brake pipe, and James was able to pull the train.

But he was a sadder and wiser James, and took care never to bump coaches again.

[junglekarmapippa]

C is for Card (old version)

The Alphabet of fluff

RJ adjusted his tie the way his father had taught him. He grabbed the vest of his three-piece suit and put it on, doing the buttons so it closed over the tie.

It was a grey, Italian suit and it made him look very elegant. He secretly loved that suit and had over a dozen ties and 6 shirts to wear with it. He couldn’t help but add a dash of color with his new purple tie.

He brushed his hair and checked his face, making sure there were no red spots after his first clean shave in months.

He buttoned the cuffs of the shirt, with a very elegant pair of silver cufflinks his father had gifted him many years ago.

He walked out of his bedroom and was welcomed with whistling and joking by his students.

”Look at him!” Casey called. “Tie and everything.

“Very funny, yes,” RJ agreed, looking at his very expensive watch. He couldn’t just go to the bank in the JKP delivery truck.

“When did you become a millionaire?” Fran asked.

“The day after I was born,” RJ answered, looking out the window to see if his taxi was there.

“Wait a sec,” Casey said. “Did you just say you became a millionaire the day after you were born?”

This made RJ look at them. “Yes. The woman who birthed me abandoned me in a hospital, safe heaven law, etcetera. My mother heard me crying as she and Dad made a visit to see how much they’d have to donate to redo the hospital’s ER.” He leaned to look out of the window, waiting for his taxi. “I’m technically worth a little over a billion dollars,” he added.

“You never told us this!” Lily said.

“Yeah!”

“I don’t like to flaunt my wealth. Also, my father had disowned me, until I saved him from Dai Shi.”

“RJ,” Casey asked, moving to where RJ was standing. “How much more are you hiding from us?”

“I made a list of all the stuff I have to tell you now that Dai Shi is defeated. I can’t remember where I put it.” A car honked. “That’s my cab.”

“Hang on,” Casey said, standing between him and the door. “Is anything we know about you, anything we saw from you a lie?”

“Of course not, Casey. I was my truest self when we were training to fight Dai Shi. You know me well enough to know this,” he gestured to show him the suit he was wearing. “is not me. Well, not completely, not anymore.” He walked towards the door and looked at them. “Even after mending my relationship with my dad, you guys are still my family.”

“Where are you going so well dressed then?” Dom asked.

“The bank. I have to pay the last installment of the loan I took for the restaurant.”

The taxi drove RJ to the bank branch he needed to go and he paid, got out, and walked into the bank.

“Mr. Finnsen!” He was greeted immediately.

“Mrs. Jones,” he saluted the receptionist.

“What can I help you with?”

“You called me, something about the American Express—”

“Centurion, yes,” she picked up her phone and dialed an extension.

“I’d also like to pay the mortgage I took,”

“Lucy will be with you shortly, can I offer you some coffee?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He waited for a couple of minutes, Mrs. Jones brought him a cup of coffee and he drank it slowly, feeling completely at ease with his surroundings.

He supposed anyone who didn’t know him since he was a child would assume this kind of environment would make him very uncomfortable, but this bank had nothing on his childhood home.

“Mr. Finnsen?” Lucy called as she approached him.

“Robert, please,” He said, handing Mrs. Jones the empty coffee cup.

He followed Lucy to her office and sat down across the desk from her.

“I have your centurion card right here, Robert,” Lucy said, unlocking a drawer.

“I’d also like to pay my loan,” RJ commented.

Lucy looked at him. “The whole thing?”

“The whole thing.”

“Okay, let’s start with the card and then we’ll deal with the loan.”

An hour later, RJ walked out a debt-free man, holding his Black AmEx. He hailed a cab, got in, and was about to give the driver the address to the loft when his sight fell on his new card. He gave a different address.

Casey, Theo, Lily, Fran, and Dom were starting to get worried. RJ had gone to the bank, but he was an exclusive client, it shouldn’t have taken him this long to return.

Finally, they hear RJ say “Thanks” and a car door shut. A minute later, RJ opened the loft door and entered, carrying several shopping bags.

“What on Earth?” Theo asked.

RJ put the bags on the training mat and smiled at them. “For you,” he said with a big smile.

“RJ… why?” Casey asked.

“Because you’re family. And I love you all very, very much,” The Wolf Master said. He was going to say something else but was interrupted by Lily.

“ARE THESE CAPEZIOS?!” She was looking into one of the bags, her face frozen in shock.

RJ turned to her, smiling. “Yes.” He looked at them all as he took his jacket and vest off. “You guys are my family. Please, don’t think about the prize tags on these. Just accept them, please.”

Lily was the first to move and she hugged him tightly.RJ hugged her back. Then Casey joined and RJ hugged them both. Finally, Theo and Dom joined and they stayed like that for a long time.

A long-needed group hug.

“You deserve them,” RJ said, from the center of the hug. “You always worked so hard.”

“Thank you,” Casey said. “We will cherish them.”

“Hopefully, the way I cherish you.”

[archetypal-archivist]

My Outer Wilds OCs

This may or may not be relevant to my current projects...

Gypsum is small and pale, frail-looking with a sweet smile and only a few spots on their cheeks. They wear a lot of uncolored cloth and a scarf of dark blue. Green eyes, claps to the music. Gypsum is chronically ill and is usually stuck on bed rest; they work when they’re able by mending clothes, calculating star distances from pictures, and a lot of other busywork. As a person they are gentle, soft-spoken, and very low energy and apologetic about it, as their illness keeps them from much else. They have a core of steel when needed though.

Citrine wears olive drab overalls with lots of pockets and a tattered, pale green sweater. They also have a giant clunky work belt, clompy boots which are a bit big for their average size (same as Feldspar), and a black flat cap hat. Blue eyes, plays the spoons. Citrine is very autistic-coded, they work as a janitor and general handyman in the village as their special interest is cleaning and maintenance. They became friends with the much more gregarious Slate when they started cleaning up their messes when things went wrong, then stayed friends when Slate realized they’re fine with being conscripted for projects. Citrine prefers things simple and safe, but they chronically cover for other people's errors to keep from rocking the boat. This does come back to bite them sometimes, but they're learning to stand up for themself better.

Orogeny is standard hatchling model, tall and lanky, with a washed out, grey scarf. Yellow eyes, plays the violin. Orogeny is a calm, horribly practical hatchling with a firm grounding in reality with bends towards despondency. They fall into apathy easily but also find a lot of simple joy in things.

Chlorite is a tall and sturdy person, a little on thicker side because they are very fit as part of being an astronaut. They wear a dark green scarf and have a few scars on their arms. Yellow eyes, plays the kazoo. Outgoing, reckless, brave, a little dumb sometimes, but stubborn and well-meaning. Their friends growing up were Marl and Hal.

Beryl is a very tall, very thin person who wears dark blue pants and a grey long-sleeve shirt with a leather lap apron over it. They wear a lot of white and brown patches on their clothes, these patches being scraps of undyed cloth. Orange eyes, plays the lyre. Beryl is the cloth-maker and dyer of the village, they act very courtly. They’re on the gentle side and polite, with a love for their craft and a sheepish lack of knowledge about sewing or anything to do with the cloth after it’s made.

Kaolin wears a brown dress with an orange shawl overtop, lots of patches on the lower hem of the skirt. They are on the shorter end, but they make up for it in sheer presence. Yellow eyes, plays the concertina. Kaolinite works as the Hearthians’ librarian/archivist, keeping all the books and papers that aren’t private in their house and sometimes lending them out for research or light reading. They’re friends with Esker in that Esker will deliberately keep a book until it’s overdue just so Kaolinite will visit the radio tower and call to yell at them. They are kinda granny-coded, outspoken, and a horrible gossip, with a rivalry with Hornfels over their work and where papers should be kept, as well as organization.

Orpiment is average size, same as Gossan, and they wear a grey miner’s helmet, tan pants, sturdy boots, and a red shirt with a gray kerchief around their neck. Blue eyes, plays the penny whistle. Orpiment is a lot like Feldspar but of the mines, their job as a miner allowing them free reign to explore the tunnels under the crust left by the Nomai. Their likeness to their friend causes Gossan some grief, as does their recklessness, and they clash once or twice because their safety and how they act isn’t for Gossan to control. They are cheerful, brave, and an optimist with a realist bend, with a love for song. They’re good friends with Tuff and they work together regularly with Tektite doing miner things in miner cultural fashion.

[headingalaxys-spicy]

Any headcanons for Nyo!Canada?

I’m going to headcanon her name as Violet Matthew’s because I think it works for her. And I was unable to find a common name that people call her I just looked it up on the Hetalia Wiki and the fandom seems to not have picked a name for her soooooo. Here we are.

An absolute sweetheart with a heart of gold 🍁

Her home is decorated with all Sanrio, large stuffed teddy bears that are dressed in red and white ribbons with maple leaf charms.

Her closet definitely has a plethora of berry, bunny, and teddy bear-themed sweet Lolita-Fashion clothes. She attends tea parties with Alice in them and is active in her community of frilly friends.

She’s talented at sewing and embroidery. She even crafts some of her own hats and hair accessories.

She makes the most fantastic baked goods and of course, her famous Maple pancakes that never fails to light up the face of any who try. The soft fluff of the pancakes mixed in with the fresh butter that is made by a local farmer pulled together with the fresh farm eggs will make you pause and relish in the delightful flavor.

She can be timid unless she’s accompanied by her loud and rambunctious sister Amelia. Whom also gives her lessons on how to be brave. She’s learning slowly. But she still likes to keep to herself with her cat and talking bears up in the Canadian woods. She goes shopping every so often at the local markets down below in Saguenay, Québec .

She definitely stargazes on most nights when nights are calm and quiet and she enjoys the sound of the calm crisp winds that whistle past her ears. She also lights to watch her fair town illuminate at night with colorful lights that grace the river beside it. It’s where she does find her inspiration to create and comes up with new ideas to create embroidery patterns. She also does a little bit of light sketching while she lets her mind wander on the rooftop.

She enjoys the festivals that are put on ear year but her favorites are: The International Rythm of the World, FIAMS Festival des arts de à marionette a Saguenay, and Festival des Bières d’Alma. (She does like to get swifty from time to time with Beer or wine.)

She’s talented at ice skating and does beautifully executed Salchow jumps, Axel jumps, and her favorite : the Quadruple Axel. (Anya definitely helped her learn these moves together the two of them look like graceful swans.)

Her favorite musical artists are Taylor Swift, Porter Robinson, Benne, Shawn Mendes, to name a few. And yes, she totally dances around in her home and has fun with that for hours.

❤️ Her Psychology & Relationships ❤️

She can be co-dependent on her older sisters Amelia and Alice when they come to visit. What that looks like is she’s overly apologetic when Amelia or Alice cause a ruckus with their antics. Alice when she summons demons and it causes some poor shop owner, or anyone who may have been rude to have a haunting until she can get an exorcist or Alice herself to reverse herself. She even comes to the person who has been at the back end of the curse to bring them flowers, sweets, and an apology letter. When it’s Amelia, she usually has to apologize to anyone foolish enough to challenge her because they will usually end up in the hospital or sometimes dead.

Amelia somewhere in the background: “IT HAPPENED ONE TIME, DAMN IT AND IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!”

Viloet’s mantra in her head is something to the effect of if they’re upset about something she will do anything to fix it even if it’s something that is out of her control or not even her fault. She wants the two of them to approve of her and her activities constantly. It’s a hit or miss usually when she presents new trade deals, treaties, or economic plans when at world meetings. Violet does have to practice in a mirror for at least an hour or so before she goes to any world meetings. Her anxiety dictates that she has to do so unless she feels like she’ll fail miserably if she doesn’t. However, if you do listen closely she does quiver a little bit.

Her anxiety also applies to some of the things that she crates if she doesn’t deem it perfect then she won’t post it on her Pinterest or other social media that she uses on occasion.

Violet is close friends with Anya they are able to meet up every six months or so for a week to go shopping, go to a convention, go to a spa, and other fun things they do together and keep it on the down-low. Anya to some degree acts as her confidence coach and teacher her to stand up for herself by having rage room sessions and giving her tips on how not to give into her overbearing anxiety.

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Tuesday 5.. March 1839

7 40

2 ½

cousin came just after breakfast 35 minutes with A- before dressing – finish dullish cold wind-whistling morning F37° inside and 33° outside at 9 a.m. breakfast at 9 20 in ½ hour – read a few pages and made  a little note or 2 before breakfast – afterwards with Robert Mann + 2 at the top terrace, and set him to lengthen the temporary flag in front of the house with Robert the joiner ordering about door into Johns’ pantry to 2ft. 8in. broad and 6ft. 3in. high – then had Booth – charged him to see that Mark Hepworth understood that he was bringing the stuff from St. Annes’ street Northgate by the cube yard – the glazier (Firths’ man) here mending windows – putting a new tap on the kitchen pipe and removing the once-intended housemaid closet (little field reservoir) water pipe – to come again on Thursday to fix it in another place – about 11 or afterwards had Messrs. Holt and Garforth – the latter had examined the drum of the steam engine – he said it will not do as it is – it wants the small shaft taking out, and making smaller so as to work easily in its place – and the thread at the end wants to be coarser so as to throw it in and out of geer quicker – G- would do all the above work, being all that is required, in 2 days, supposing the screw to be made which would take one day in making – that is, G- would do the whole in 3 days for the sum of two pounds – asked him how much he thought the engine-business would cost more than it ought to have done – he asked £300 – I turned to Holt and said I laid that to him he ought not to have let it been so – he said, it was somebody elses’ fault (SW.’s) not his (Holts’) – he could not help it – I merely said, if I got off for £300, it was as little as I expected – on talking the matter over I said as G- would answer for setting the drum right in 3 days, I could want that time longer – after waiting – (been delayed) 6 months 3 days longer did not signify much and the Scotch engineer deserved no better from us than to let him fail again – so Holt to leave the drum to its fate, and merely let the Low moor people know to fit up the boiler with the extra piping required so that that might be ready when the cylinder arrived – Holt and Garforth and if possible Mr. Harper to be here to see the engine tried – Holt said he never was in such a place in his life as A-‘s Hinscliffes-pit – a throwdown of 5d. or 15? yards – wondered how they got the coal – ½ acre of Hannah Walkers’ coal to get – would consider a few days about the value of the remainder of the coal A- has to get – unlet – to stick up to the present price £200 to see what Hinscliffe really would give – but he would hardly give (Holt thought) so much as £150 per acre – mentioned to Holt Mark Hepworth having told me on Saturday that Speight of Scholes would come forward to prove that he had helped to get and measure the Hinscliffes’ father and Walsh and co. stole from my uncle – Holt to take Mark Hepworth with him and go over to Speight and inquire into the matter – Thomas Pearson killed one of the pigs this morning – the horses ordered for 2pm. and came about that time – but I was with Robert the joiner in the tower cellar cutting away part of the bottle crate opposite the door, and moving the lead pipe – dressed – off with A- in the carriage to Heath at (near) 3 – about an hour there – went with A- she going there to see Mr. Wilkinson and tell him her wish to give up the Sunday schools’ at midsummer – Mr. Wilkinson not at home – gone to Huddersfield on the surrogate business it being the 1st Tuesday in the month – Miss Wilkinson and Mr. and Mrs. Fenton received us – the latter at the gate, and turned back with us – Miss W- nervous and sorry at A-‘s giving up the schools’ but much obliged and behaved very well seeming very anxious to settle matters to the satisfaction of his fathers’ parishioners – Mr. and Mrs. Fenton, too, very civil etc. etc. but it struck me that he was neither sorry nor surprised at A-‘s giving up – from incidental conversation I should think Mr. F- a supporter at heart of the Oxford Tract men, and .:. not anti Roman Catholic – he maintained that there were no conversions - the Roman Catholics opened their purses to build chapels but the congregations were Irish – no conversion – F- had 300 or 400 in his late parish (Ilkley) never preached against them – no conversions there  unless there was a farm to let or something of that kind – (Mr. Middleton the squire there an influential Roman Catholic) – when I mentioned the tract-men, and asked what could be thought of them, F- made no answer – suspicious silence! I am heartily glad A- has at last mustered up resolution to get rid of these schools in creditable time – before any hint, clerical or otherwise, that better management than hers might be attained – from Heath to Mr. Parkers’ – had P- in the carriage – Sunday little business of A-‘s; and I mentioned the Hinscliffe coal-trespass – P- says we must file a bill in chancery – has heard of the Manns’ business with Mr. Freeman – Report says the Manns are worth a thousand pounds – Robert told me this morning Mr. Alexander had had a letter from Mr. Higham purporting that F- would let them off on paying £50 – if not would proceed against them – from Mr. Parkers’ to Whitleys’ – ordered Wilds’ map of Asia minor – then to Nicholsons’ but did not get out of the carriage – home at 5 ½ - Robert had lengthened out the flagging way in front of the house (with old causeway stones) to within 4 or 5 yards of the terrace wall – A- and I walked there till after 6 – then about in the house – dressed – dinner at 7 – A- read French in the dining room – coffee – asleep – read the newspaper till 10 – then wrote all the above of today till now 11 ½ pm finish dullish day – came upstairs at 11 50 at which hour F37 ½° inside and 31° outside – above ½ hour with A- left her at 1 5 – then sewing up a napkin for cousin  till two and twenty five minutes

[obsidiinium]

Chapter 3: The Lord is Dead

Part 2

———

“Bahamut really does smile upon you.” A voice murmurs from behind Zythraul. Focus and another acolyte approach the altar as Zythraul stands.

“It is nice to see everyone is well here. We noticed Zythraul that your clothes and armor could do with a clean and a repair. If you are in no rush to leave, we could have a few of the initiates tend to it for you? It won’t be long. I’m sure Holme would love the time for catching up.”

Zythraul glances down at their outfit. their shirt is tattered from the battle the night before, and the scales of their armor had spots of rust coming through.

“You know what? I won’t turn it down.”

Zythraul moves out to the garden where Lilli has begun a gentle calming tune on her violin. Holme and a few others litter the courtyard. Some commoners coming in to the temple to seek a sense of reverence and safety; There are signs that people stayed overnight after the attack on the festival. Young ones in initiate robes tend to the garden or simply sit and listen to Humility’s music. Humility sees the glint of Zythraul’s silver scales on full display, etched and inked tattoos lining their chest as they walk past and she whistles, winking at the shirtless Dragonborn as they make eye contact. Zythraul feels slightly more self conscious as Holme sees them and comes over.

“Ah! Zythraul. Humility told me how you two fared last night. Not too much lasting damage to you I see. Bless Bahamut for keeping you alive. And protecting children! I would expect nothing less. Walk with me? Let me show you all the new growth in the garden since last you were home last.”

Zythraul bows quickly and nods, falling into step with the halfling. They begin a walk around the garden.

“What do you know of last night? What happened?”

“Did Lilli not say?”

“No, she did. She does love to embellish her tales though.” Zyth snorts.

“That she does. Neverember went to make his speech. Then he was silenced and disintegrated. The crowd was attacked. We were attacked. By monsters and guards both. Do you know anything more?” Holme shakes her head.

“Alas no. What Focus knows is all we know. Information gathering isn’t really a conscious pastime of ours, it just sort of… Happens. There are awful things happening to people all around the city at the moment. It feels worse than normal. More people come to us for aid, but we can only do so much. Attacks on the High Road, people losing their minds in the streets...”

“And now Neverember…”

“And now this! The people of Neverwinter have seen enough lately. The death of the Lord can only bring worse things down on us. I know you probably weren’t thinking of staying in Neverwinter, Zythraulthillan, but we could use your strength here. You could do a lot of good.” Holme glances up at the Dragonborn as they round the corner in the far end of the garden. The path ends at a small group of hot springs, fuelled by deep underground geothermal heat sinks and filled by the nearby Blue Lake. The humid air settles on the garden surrounds, giving them extra vibrancy and life. Holme glances once more at Zythraul.

“Your stuff won’t take too much longer to mend. I’ll leave you be, but please… consider my thoughts.”

Zythraul takes off the last of their clothes and takes a dip in the hot springs, submerging themselves under the water for a bit and warming their scales.

They get out and find their stuff waiting for them on a nearby tree stump. Zythraul dresses and goes to find Humility who is playing the final few notes of a song on her violin. After a few goodbyes the two adventurers leave the temple and start to head through the lower class parts of Neverwinter.

“So, we go and give Galodir a visit, and see what he has for us I guess? It’s been a while since we checked in.” Humility says as they walk. Zythraul nods. A blur flashes past Humility and her bag is jostled. A small goblin creature cackles as it runs past, holding a fistful of fine smoked meats and a small puzzle box.

“Hey! give that back! What the heck! Zythraul! Catch it! Hey! You! Stop!” Humility shouts forcefully at the little goblin looking creature, who freezes in it’s tracks. Zythraul gets a good look at the creature now it has stopped, ill gotten gains clutched in its hands. They walk up and grab it. It almost drops but barely holds onto it’s loot.

“Heya! Leggo o’ me you brute! I meant noffin by it!” It wiggles around for a minute in Zythraul’s hand before taking a swing at them, smacking them with a small scepter.

“Ow! Cut that out! Give me our things back and you can be gone in peace.”

Lilli stalks up and snatches the puzzle box out of the creature’s hands. She looks at it for a moment.

“You’re a nilbog. What are you doing in a city? That’s a bit risky isn’t it?” It looks forlorn now, hanging in Zythraul’s hand without being able to escape.

“Yeeeee well I was snacky. Ci’ies have all the good snacks! And besides, I was boo’ed from me clan for bein’ a nuisance.” Zythraul rolls their eyes.

“I can see why.”

“i CaN sEe WhY.” The nilbolg mimics Zythraul mockingly.

“I’m going to put you back on the ground, and you can leave. Keep the meats. If we ever see you again you are going to owe us. Okay?” The nilbog nods excitedly.

“Yes yes! Oke. Of course. I di’nt mean anyfin harmful by it! I’m sorry, I won’ do it t’ you again!”

Zythraul places the nilbolg on the ground. It rights itself and straightens out it’s clothes; an assortment of brightly coloured rags belted on. Lilli bends down. The nilbolg flinches.

“Do you have a name?” Lilli asks. The nilbog glances furtively at her.

“Is Krat. why you wanna know?”

“Nice to meet you Krat. I’m Humility, and this is Zythraul.” She reaches out and shakes Krat’s hand. It takes it and shakes it back.

“Why you bein’ so nice t’ Krat?”

“Like you said, you didn’t mean anything by it. Have a lovely day Krat.” and Lilli stands up and she and Zythraul walk off.

[hazbinned]

When Angel said he'd come with him, a flicker of satisfaction passed through Vox's mind, though it was short-lived in its relevancy. He hadn't the time to tell Angel that he hadn't been watching him when the events had transpired. The spider just stumbled forward, a tragic mess in his low-backed black dress, and Vox instinctively threw his arms out to catch him— but he was too far away.

His feet had stayed set in place, unlike his hands, so he could not so much as lay a finger on him.

A failed attempt at a save. Not enough conviction.

Now he had a stained carpet.

The television Overlord poked his teeth into his 'lip' for a moment, wincing at the sight. Drinks had vanished from Angel's hands, and the spider had grappled in drunken shock with the sofa. The next thing Vox knew, Angel had thrown himself at the shards, picking at the pieces and lamenting his distress.

Specks of bright crimson cut through white fur, stains of blood upon a fresh bed of snow.

What was he doing?

Vox dropped to his knees in front of the hysterical arachnid, and struggled against him to lock Angel's wrists in his claws.

"Angel. Angel, stop. It was me," he hissed, shifting his hold to the spider's top two hands in an attempt to keep the star from injuring himself further— futile, it seemed, as the media demon was ill-equipped to restrain someone who had been blessed with four arms. Angel was hell-bent on mending the unmendable. "Stop," Vox repeated, "He's gonna hear you."

Still, nothing.

Vox, stunted in the realm of comforting one's former enemy (and everything else emotional), was left with only one option-- quick and easy and with a one-hundred percent effectiveness rate. His fans whirred, and his left eye shot open wide, swirling and spinning and demanding attention from its unwilling viewer. Vox tilted Angel's chin upwards with one sharp-tipped finger, and stuck his face in his.

"I broke it, Angel. You saw it happen. You don't want to clean my mess, so stop touching it."

Hypnosis. A series of untruths, and one singular command; a new narrative.

Vox had created a world in which Angel Dust was not responsible for this.

Only after he was certain that his influence had penetrated Angel's mind though and through did Vox will his eye back to normal. Spirals faded, his clutch on the spider's hands lessened in intensity, and he guided the still-dazed actor to his feet, wherein he did not let go. Instead of gripping him, though, Vox merely held on.

He let Angel lean on him.

He was there for support.

Wordlessly, Vox directed Angel to their bathroom, and locked the door behind them. There was a stool with a metal back and a fuzzy, plum-colored cushion, stuck in the corner between the tub and the sink. He steered Angel toward it and did not release him until he was seated and stable.

Then, he sunk to the ground and started digging through the cabinets.

"Does the dress show everything?" Vox asked, shoving shampoo bottles and skincare products out of his way. He hoped Angel would understand what he meant; the garment was revealing, so was all of the glass visible through the opening in the back, or was there more still? He hoped, with a hypocritical 'ew' in the back of his mind, that Angel would not have to undress in front of him.

It was almost like he didn't go out of his way to see it on the cameras all the time.

Vox rose to his feet, supplies in hand. He set everything on the sink, quiet while he listened for an answer, and ran a miniature towel under the faucet. After it had been soaked with water that was chilly but not freezing, he leaned over and pressed it to Angel's forehead, moving one of the spider's own hands up to keep it in place.

A silent instruction: cool off, calm down.

Vox turned and headed rather brisky for the medicine cabinet, where he gathered the last of his things: a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a pair of tweezers. These were set beside his earlier haul of cotton balls, a second towel, and bandages.

Vox gave a sharp whistle and pointed at the space in front of him.

"Either move the chair over here, or come sit on the sink. I need the light."

... Morbid curiosity, unsatiated by implications alone.

"What'd Val do?"

Valentino swayed and split in Angel's increasingly compromised line of sight, the sharp claw that lifted his chin forcing him to fix his gaze on his host for the evening. The flick to his head only further disrupted his swimming vision, although a fortunate side effect of his trance-like state was to be non-responsive. Val would either have thoroughly enjoyed his plaything wincing from this gesture, or found it pathetic and irksome - neither of which would be pleasant.

But, finally, with a swish of his hips, the moth was gone and Angel was alone.

Like prey relinquished from a predator, the relief of being released threatened to take hold of him, but the spider did not allow himself to succumb to such a temporary moment of safety. It would only be greedily snatched for him the moment Valentino returned. The best he could hope to do was hang limply where he sat upon the sofa and continue to numb himself with the indeterminate liquor in the hopes that the cocktail of alcohol, dissociation and Val's Love Potion would knock him out cold.

Through the haze, the distinct sound of the fridge opening reached the horizon of Angel's awareness, and those faint traces of anger jostled within him. Val was looking for more food? For fuck's sake, was he about to be disregarded in favour of cake again? Was it on purpose? Was Val toying with him, deliberately making him feel ignored and unwanted for his own pleasure?

It was only when a voice from behind him cut through the silence, expressing a strikingly familiar sentiment, that Angel recognised he was in the presence of someone else entirely.

Vox.

If it wasn't for the Overlord alluding to a time where their roles had been staunchly reversed, Angel might have assumed the other demon had come to gloat, gleefully rubbing Angel's face in Val's disdain for him as he so often did. Addled-minded, the actor didn't consider that Vox hadn't been peeping when the events of the evening occurred, only half-aware of Vox's surprise when he had shown up at the Penthouse. His default assumption was that the Media demon was privy to any and all happenings within Vee Tower (and often outwith), so it didn't so much as cross his mind that perhaps Vox had missed the show.

It could barely be considered a laugh, the noise that Angel made in reaction to his company's reference to a time when Vox had been on the receiving end of a patented Valentino tantrum, but it certainly tried to be. Amid the horror and the hopelessness, gallows humour seemed as appropriate a response as any.

"Last one ain't far off," Angel croaked, his voice hollow and listless as he took another swig from the bottle. "But ya knew that, right? Since yer always watchin'."

As the beverage was pushed in his direction once more, Angel reluctantly accepted, swapping the half-empty bottle for the glass of water and taking a reserved sip. Was this... was Vox looking out for him?

Ever since the day that Angel had sat beside Vox in his compromised state, shards of shattered glass surrounding the sullen pair, the Overlord's treatment of Angel had changed. It wasn't that he was kind to him, rarely even civil - but there was a definitive shift in how his distaste for the porn star was expressed, as well as in what triggered this distaste. Of course, Vox was still irritated by Valentino's infatuation with Angel, turning his indignation against the object of his partner's affection rather than Valentino himself, but with distinctly less animosity.

However, actually approaching Angel after one of these incidents? Offering him water?

This was new.

Tempting as it was to stay seated on the couch and drink himself into a second grave, the suggestion that Angel go with Vox while he awaited his owner's return was similarly enticing. There had been a time where even being in the same room as the television demon would boil his blood, but today? The prospect of being alone with his thoughts was far more disquieting.

"Sure," Angel mumbled, two hands busy with the water and the alcohol while another two pushed him unsteadily to his feet. Already, the alcohol surging through his bloodstream made staying upright rather difficult, his bruised, adrenaline-depleted body hardly up to the task of standing without the addition of booze. He wobbled in place, feeling utterly foolish - here he was, a limp rag doll in a party dress, as if a change of clothes somehow undid all the damage. Married to the mask he wore, the actor could not stand being seen in such clear distress, the kind that couldn't be hidden beneath a slick of lipstick or a tight-fitting dress.

As he took a step towards his companion the world spun unforgivingly and Angel wordlessly tumbled forward, graceless in his grappling for the couch to steady himself. It was only after both drinks had already smashed to the floor, the second shattering of glass that evening, that Angel even noticed he had dropped them.

Shit.

"Fuck," he whispered, clumsily scrambling backwards to try to gather the shards in his hands, the booze soaking a stain into the carpet. No, no, no, not now. Not again. Not after everything else.

Val was going to be furious.

"Shitshitshit, no, fuck!" Angel burst out, still scooping up glass into his damp, bare hands, heedless to the pinprick wounds he was recieving. His eyes watered - fuck, he wasn't going to cry. Not again.

Helpless, he could do nothing but look up at Vox pleadingly, clutching a handful of blood-smeared fragments as he begged his body not to betray him by letting any more tears fall. He couldn't even bring himself to ask for help - he simply stared in blank horror, petrified, unable to put the pieces back together no matter how hard he tried.

[renna-fyth]

Journal

It's been a while since we last spoke. A lot has happened and...my heart still won't allow me to put the words to page yet. I think seeing them in ink will bring a finality to them and...well I'm just not quite there.

However, I will say that we're freelancing as of late. Whether it's been hunting, gathering, or mending, I've been finding a lot of work with the various guilds out in Limsa Lominsa. Work...keeps my mind off things...

While finishing an assignment in La Noscea for the guild, I found that the path I was taking was a lot muddier than usual. In fact, I nearly fell once or twice over some bramble as I was traveling, and it caused me to leave the path and take a route I don’t normally take.

Suddenly, while following the backroad the air reverberated with the shriek of a terrified adventurer, and the growl of something large. Rushed into action, I rounded the rock face in-time to see a young Midlander male, wielding a two-handed axe that would probably be a single-wield for most seasoned marauders, and a massive jackal landing the final blows of a terrible, desperate conflict with one another. Both combatants had fallen to the ground. And both…gurgled and gasped as the last ebbs of life began pooling beneath them.

Panicked, I called for help to anyone within earshot as I rushed over to the man. Minutes felt like a moon as I prayed and hoped, even though I knew this man's fate had been placed in my hands.

Flashes, doubts, visions of my dreams of late bombarded me as I knew what I must do. I quickly emptied my pack into the dirt and mud, and began rummaging for my stores. The first drips of the elixir seemed to pain the boy as they touched his lips, though that was probably more so from me having to raise his head to drink. I don't know, I didn't ask. Instantly the tonic seemed to soothe the Hyur, slowing his breathing, and seemingly reassuring him that this might not be the end. Placing a couple of basic field dressings, I used what training I could muster and did my best to mend any internal wounds sustained, and whistled for a nearby chocobo that I assume was his.

Moments later the Hyur’s hunting partner came bursting frantically through the bramble, clearly shook as he thought he had lost his friend…or left him to die? We loaded the boy up onto the chocobo and the three of us made for Limsa. I don’t know why but I felt like I was charged with this man’s care, so I stayed with him all the way back until we could get him home.

Now, sitting on these docks watching the boats I feel somewhat at peace. I've gotten so used to always having others around that sometimes I forget that I am capable. Dare I say being faced again with Golmore...and my nightmares within, the outcome might have been different this time. Even if it's a fleeting thing I'll take it. Victories don't always come my way, especially as of late...

~Til next time, Journal

[polkadotpopp]

Who: Princess Eugenie

What: 

Whistles Mendes Dress

Jimmy Choo Multimedia Wedges

Jimmy Choo Lockett Petite Bag

Aya Africa Mosi-oa-Tunya Earrings

Princess Eugenie x Daisy Jewellery for the Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital Bracelet

Daisy Base Chakra Bracelet in Red Cord

Daisy Jewellery Alpha Bracelet with Letter E

Where: Hauser & Wirth Honors Mark Bradford | 6th December 2017

Photo Credits: BFA/South Florida Insider, Whistles, Net-A-Porter, Jimmy Choo, The Jewellery Editor, Daisy Jewellery

[tonyspep]

and you can keep up all the chatter bout my happy ever after (cause all that really matters is he’s mine)

a/n: this is for @jostystyles 2.6k top tracks writing challenge celebration. the lyrics i chose were "i've got his name i've got his nights" from the song "bragger" by kelsea ballerini and the player i picked was erik johnson. his love interest is an actress who looks like camila mendes from riverdale, palm springs and do revenge. thanks to @fallinallincurls who helped me brainstorm and is just the best. gif credit goes to @landyskog​

~*~and you can keep up all the chatter bout my happy ever after~*~

(cause all that really matters is he's mine)

pairing: erik johnson x oc

summary: isabel ramos has always tried to keep her private life away from the white hot glare of the spotlight, but with a man like erik johnson on her arm, how can she not brag

rating: t

[red carpet debut]

he ain't from round

this side of town

but he fits into every crowd

and he knows just how to do my body and my heart right

At this point red carpets - for vanity liquor launches, for the latest Netflix drama or superhero tentpole flick to even the Oscars - Isabel had been there and done that. She knew what to expect; the white hot glare from all of the lights, the constant flashes of hundreds of cameras, forty different people shouting her name and of course the dozens of interviews from various entertainment news outlets.

Tonight - walking the white (pun intended) carpet - for the second season premiere of HBO Max's newest crown jewel in White Lotus would be just a little different. She wouldn't be walking the carpet alone. She knew everyone was gossiping about her and her co-star, the handsome British actor, Theo James, but tonight she was putting those rumors to bed for good.

Guiding her down the carpet for the first time was going to be her husband (yes, husband you read that right) Colorado Avalanche stalwart defenseman, Erik Johnson. Her lips couldn't help but curl proudly as her long time makeup artist worked her magic. Keeping things private was never easy, not even Ben and Jen had managed to keep their wedding reception from leaking. But Erik's teammates were sweet in respecting their wishes and her friends were all too familiar with things getting out to the public before you wanted them to.

She touched the four point five karat sapphire ring on her finger, her heart picking up speed while butterflies erupted in her stomach. She had done this a hundred times - since she was sixteen and had broken out on the soap opera General Hospital, playing mobster Sonny Corinthos's headstrong daughter whose mother was his former lover and attorney, Alexis Davis - but this was truly different. Even though she had walked carpets with her exes and flings and everything in between, Erik wasn't them. He was everything she had hoped and dreamed of as a girl watching every rom com she could get her hands on.

Slipping her wedding ring from her left ring finger to her right, she laughed softly. There were still some things they wanted to keep for themselves.

"Hola, esposa," Erik's jumbled Spanish made Isabel smile, her own dimples appearing to match his. "Nice try, Blanquito," Her voice was soft and placating but Erik took it in stride, her teasing making his stomach tumble like only she could.

Growing up with Brazilian parents, Isabel learned Spanish before she learned English and could speak conversational Portuguese as well. Erik was trying his hand at Spanish and more often than not he mostly succeeded in making her laugh as he asked why she couldn't just teach him the naughty words.

Once her makeup was finished, he let out a whistle at seeing her full white carpet look. A summery silk maxi dress in a deep green with a plunging neckline and silvery strappy heels while her velvet black hair was twisted into an elaborate braid crown gave her the glam of the star she was and kept with the show's luxury resort theme. It was hard to believe she was his. He was just a hockey player, a Minnesotan born and bred raised in his small town that somehow made it to the league, forget being drafted number one overall and now winning the Cup.

Their first night, the thin Mountain air around them, her sneaking into Denver on a private flight in the wee hours (Erik knew it wasn't his best display of leadership but fuck it, Isabel was too good to be true) on a game day, she told him - their bodies plastered together, sticky with sweat, that's what she liked most about him. That he was the small town boy who made good. It reminded her that she was a small town girl, having left her Brazilian tropical life behind, for a brighter future in the States, her parents wanting to give her everything they never had. That she was just Isabel. Not this international celebrity, a point of fascination for strangers, but a girl who ached for love like any normal person would.

Everything was dimmer with Erik on her arm - the white hot glare warm instead of intense, the shouting not as invasive - except her smile. She knew it was blinding as they posed, his large hand on the small of her back. She missed the cool metal of his ring against her skin but she would make do. No one needed to know everything about her.

The headlines from The Cut to Duemoix to TMZ came fast and furious once they were at the after party at Balthazar with the rest of the cast and director and creator, Mike White.

@IsabelRamosUpdates WE TOLD YOU!!! WE TOLD YOU!!! OUR GIRL DID NOT DISAPPOINT ON THE WHITE LOTUS RED CARPET. SHE LOOKED STUNNING IN VINTAGE CHANEL AND OH YEAH DID YOU SEE HER MAN???? CHECK HER FOLLOWS SHE'S BEEN FOLLOWING AND LIKING THE COLORADO AVALANCHE POSTS SINCE LAST JUNE!!! SHE HAD Y'ALL FOOLED WITH THOSE THEO JAMES RUMORS HA HA HA HA @TMZ @THECUT @VULTURE @USWEEKLY AND WE HAVE THE RECEIPTS

[screenshots of her likes] [video clip of her saying she does not have a man] [posing with fans at the avs playoff games] [instagram comments on @6erikjohnson6's photos/videos]

@IsabelRamosUpdates come to us for the real stuff our girl was slick and got herself one good looking man. 6 '4 235 SIGN US UP AND DOES HE HAVE FRIENDS???????????

@TMZ on the white lotus white carpet dazzling isabel ramos gushes about new man, hockey player erik johnson "he looks pretty good huh?" "i'm very happy" "oh i'm always at every game i can go to just because you haven't seen me doesn't mean I'm not there"

@USWeekly theo james who???? putting to bed those pesky rumors two time emmy nominee isabel ramos debuts hockey player beau on the white lotus red carpet. she jokes with our carrie reynolds "a lady doesn't kiss and tell buuuuut all that time on the ice has its benefits''

Isabel wasn't surprised how easily Erik fell in with the cast and crew, charming them like he had charmed her. She couldn't imagine being any happier and that meant she was entitled to brag, posting a black and white shot of them in a heated embrace in their private car on the way back to the hotel. His large hand slipping under the silk of her dress while her hands were tangled in his soft blonde hair, their lips locked in a steamy kiss.

@isabel life has never been this good @6erikjohnson6

[banner night]

i don't want to be a bragger

but my man's a heart attacker

like mcconaughey and jagger

Tonight at Ball Arena they would be raising the Avs Championship banner and she wouldn't have missed this for the world. Filming for her next project - playing Sue Storm in the upcoming MCU version of the Fantastic Four opposite Henry Golding as Reed Richards - wouldn't start until the next summer, so now she was in supportive wife (girlfriend to everyone else) mode. The custom denim jacket Mel Landeskog had made for herself and the other wives and girlfriends fit well. The burgundy crop top and ripped jeans were more sporty than she normally dressed but the platform sneakers made her feel more like herself, elevating her closer to Erik's towering height like her trustee heels would normally.

The hat she wore belonged to him, the scent of his cologne lingering and that distinctive warm vanilla and woodsy scent he naturally carried made heat course through her veins.

He was too good to be true, stepping out of their bedroom in his well fitted suit, the broadness of his shoulders too much for her to take.

As good as he looked in his suit, when he took the ice in his full pads and jersey, she couldn't resist snapping a picture and if her caption sent people spiraling oh well.

@isabel [picture of erik during warm ups] whatta man whatta man whatta whatta man whatta mighty mighty good man

@ISABELRAMOSUPDATES OUR GIRL IS THIRSTY AND WE SUPPORT IT GET IT QUEEN 

@tonyspep quote tweet STARS THEY'RE JUST LIKE US LOOK AT KRISTINA (she'll always be kristina from gh to me) THIRSTING OVER MY GUY ERIK JOHNSON YOU LOVE TO SEE IT

[live with kelly and ryan]

and he'd never tell you he don't want attention 

but he's just too damn good not to mention

"Now, Isabel…." Kelly started, waggling her eyebrows while Ryan laughed beside her. "Let's talk about this very handsome, very tall man named Erik Johnson. Have you heard of him? I hear you two are close."

"Have I heard of him? Hmmmm. His name sounds familiar. Would you happen to have a picture? Maybe if I saw what he looked like I could answer your question, Kelly." 

"Well, Ryan I do believe we have a few pictures don't we?"

"Yes, Kelly, I believe we do. Just queued up from Miss Ramos's instagram ready to go. Like this one from the night of the White Lotus premiere, you're amazing on the show by the way. There's also this one from Del Mar race track. This one is from their kitchen. People eat on counter tops, young lady. And oh this one is from the night his team raised their championship banner."

"Huh, I guess I do know Erik Johnson. Oh my Gosh he will kill me for this as he likes to think he's all mysterious. He's really a big teddy bear. He throws his weight around on the ice and all that, but when we have down time we're usually with our horses and dogs and he loves those animals so much. We have our five dogs and then we foster Berners and Goldens, too. So it's crazy at home sometimes and that's actually how we met; I ride, I've done it since I was five back in Brazil and he raises race horses. And it doesn't help that he looks very good in his jeans on the ranch."

"And on the ice, too. Judging by this comment on the picture you posted of him. Is this what the kids would call thirsty, Ryan?"

"You would have to ask the kids, Kelly."

"Oh my gosh! Stop it!"

"We'll be right back with more Isabel Ramos after the break where we promise to ask her about the crazy second season of her show White Lotus!"

[one year later]

i've got his nights, i've got his name

there ain't no shame in this girl's game

if he were yours you'd do the same without apologizing

@isabel [picture of her and erik lounging by the pool his hand on her butt, wedding ring on display] [picture of them with her hand on his abs, her ring on display]

now playing "bragger" by @kelseaballerini i've got his nights/i've got his name #itsisabeljohnsonbitch

@ISABELRAMOSUPDATES [SCREAMING] OUR GIRL WENT AND DROPPED A WHOLE NEW NAME!!! WE HAVE TO RUN SCREAMING INTO THE NIGHT AS WE CHANGE OUR @ BECAUSE QUEEN HAD A WHOLE SECRET WEDDING!!! AND OMG LOOK AT THAT ROCK!!! ALSO THOSE ABS ON HUBS WE ARE LOOKING AND NOT RESPECTFULLY WE MIGHT BE BACK IDK WE ARE HAVING A FULL ON MELTDOWN GAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!

TMZ newsroom "okay wow wow that is all i have to say!!! wow!!! over the weekend superstar isabel ramos broke the internet with her reveal that she is MARRIED!" harvey yelled.

"you guys," charlie gushed. "this is aaaaamazing. like first of all the pics she dropped were hot af. like look at her! and look at her husband!"

"charlie is plotting how she can reveal jake as her surprise husband," derek joked. 

@USWeekly SECRETLY MARRIED!!!!! [pictures of erik and isabel]

Their phones hadn't stopped buzzing and eventually Erik put them on do not disturb. Rolling over so her lithe frame was pinned under his bigger, stronger body, he started to kiss her neck, slow and sweet the way she liked best.

Her back arches, bare breasts rubbing against his bare chest. She sighs softly, her tongue melting with his own as they kiss. Her fingers rake across the muscles in his broad back while his hands mold to her curves, feeling every inch of her porcelain skin.

"Should we get started on a secret baby now?" He asks, lips sucking at her perky breasts. "Who says we haven't been already?" She arches a perfectly shaped brow.

"Izzy," He's the only one who calls her that and hearing it, so soft and hopeful but still with that growling edge because he wants her so bad, makes her heart skip several beats. "It's too soon to know for sure," Her cheeks flush, soft smile on her pretty lips. "But I'm late." She confesses and by the pool, in the hot Denver sun Erik shows her just how bad he wants to start their family if they haven't already.

[ten months later]

if he were a wine he'd be the shelf at the top (top)

if he were a house he'd be the end of the block (block)

walked up to my heart and went knock knock knock

so i've got to show him off

@isabeljohnson this isn't a surprise @6erikjohnson6 and i could keep a secret matteo "matty" david johnson was born yesterday at mount sinai. he weighed in at 7 pounds and twenty one inches long and we couldn't love him more #mama #daddy

[picture of isabel, erik and matty]

[the-wild-wolves-around-you]

hear those bells ring: chapter 2 (a deaf!bakugo x reader fic)

Summary: Reader has to deal with the aftermath of Dynamight exploding through her window and trying to bleed out on her floor. 

Pairings: Katsuki Bakugo x Reader; Katsuki Bakugo x You

Rating: M(ature)

Warnings: Blood, descriptions of gore, and adult language. 

A/N: Here’s chapter two, hope you enjoy! ~*~*~ No spoilers or anything. This is just a self-indulgent AU fic with aged up characters. Everyone’s in their mid-20s. Fic title is from a song called “Achilles Come Down.”

AO3 Link: Here 

Ch 1 Tumblr Link: Here 

Chaos. You intellectually knew the word, in several languages in fact, but nothing could have ever prepared you for the reality of it. 

Information assaulted your senses in a deluge. The gust of cold air whistling through the broken window, raking icy fingers down your exposed arms. The bright flare of flames, even behind your clenched eyelids. The dissonant, haunting wails of several car alarms, each one just a second out of sync with the next, barely audible over the loud ringing in your ears. The taste of ash, gritty on your tongue as you sucked in heaving, panting breaths. The sharp smell of smoke and something… sweeter. Like caramelizing sugar. 

The sweet scent, incongruous with every other heinous detail, seemed to snap you fully back into your body, and your eyes flew open with a gasp. 

You were curled up in a tight ball below your now broken window, and you gaped at your ruined apartment. The lights were out, so the only illumination you had to see by were the flames behind you on the street, but it was enough. 

It looked like a tornado had torn through your home. The remnants of your window and wall—broken bits of glass, wood, and plaster—covered everything in sight in a fine layer of white dust. Your sewing desk/kitchen table was in splinters, and even with the dancing shadows, you had the distant thought that the dress you’d just finished mending was most definitely ruined. 

Then someone shouted outside on the street, and you felt it like a sledgehammer to the skull. 

Oh, god. The villain. The heroes. 

You scrambled up onto your knees, hissing when shards of glass tore through your sweatpants and bit into your skin. You’d worry about that later. For now, you focused on getting to your feet… 

And not falling out of the gaping hole in your apartment wall. 

You stumbled back a few steps from the edge, stabilizing yourself on one of your kitchen chairs that seemed to have survived the blast. The smoke was thicker now that you were off the floor, and you coughed and squinted against the hot, irritating air. 

The street in front of you was a warzone. 

The windows in the building across from you were all blown out, the empty frames like black gaping voids. The building housed a café/tea shop owned by Mr. and Mrs. Yamato, and you felt a small modicum of relief at the knowledge that they didn’t live above the shop like you did with yours. They lived in a neighborhood not too far away, and they wouldn’t be happy when they came to open in the morning, but at least they were safe. 

Safe… 

“Mr. Takeyoshi!” you gasped as you remembered your neighbor. He’d been standing on the street and nearly attacked by the villain, but a blond hero had pushed the middle-aged man out of the way. 

Your eyes scoured the street as you leaned forward as much as you dared, and just as your heart was beginning to clench, you spotted him. Mr. Takeyoshi was sitting on the curb across the street and about four storefronts down, hunched over with his head in his hands. Two heroes stood above him and seemed to be tending to him, and all three of the men looked whole for the most part. 

“God.” You exhaled shakily, your heart still stuttering in your chest, and then movement in your peripherals caught your attention. 

One hero seemed to possess a water quirk, and she was quickly working to spray down the numerous small fires still flickering up and down the road. As you watched her work, you realized the street wasn’t as badly demolished as you first assumed. It was still pretty wrecked—all of the asphalt was cracked and even just missing in some places—but aside from broken windows, the rest of the shops seemed mostly intact. The worst of the damage was centered just in front of your apartment, and as your gaze flickered over the large crater in front of you, you saw another two heroes dragging a third body out of the pit. 

The villain. 

The hero with the water quirk paused in spraying down the smoking remains of a car and turned to shout something at the other heroes. You couldn’t hear what she said over the persistent ringing in your hears, and you frowned as you focused your own quirk toward your ears. 

In your hopped-up-on-adrenaline state, you didn’t even notice the energy dip, and a moment later, your hearing returned with a loud pop. Thankfully, all of the car alarms seemed to have been cut, so you could hear the heroes pretty well.

“—still alive,” a tall hero in a red and purple suit said. You didn’t recognize him. “He’s pretty beat up, but he’ll make it.” 

“Great,” the water quirk hero sighed. “Let him be the cops’ problem now.” 

As if on cue, you could hear a siren start up in the distant, slowly moving closer. 

The threat was over. The villain was neutralized, the fires put out, and the authorities were on the way. 

So… why did you feel so on edge, like you were waiting for the other shoe to drop? 

“—fuckin’ Dynamight,” one of the heroes suddenly spat and drew you out of your thoughts. 

You frowned in confusion as the words registered. Dynamight… why did that sound familiar? 

Then your eyes widened as you remembered the blond hero, literally exploding onto the scene. His face—snarling and illuminated by the white-hot flare of his quirk—flashed in your mind’s eye, and you dropped your gaze back down to the street below. 

Dynamight, Japan’s Number Two Hero. You couldn’t believe he had been the one to turn up and save you. 

Well, not you specifically. Your neighborhood. 

You’d seen the ash-blond on television before. Usually, the media just liked to harp on his crude language or brash attitude, but you’d seen this one story of how he had saved every single person from a collapsed building. A teary blonde gushing about Dynamight rescuing her had gone briefly viral, but the clip that stuck with you was when a reporter asked the pro hero why he decided to go into the unstable building without any reinforcements. 

The blond had scowled into the camera, sweat and dirt still streaked across his pale face, his scarlet eyes flashing from beneath his black mask. 

“What was I supposed to do?” he scoffed. “Leave them in there and sit with my thumbs up my ass while the fire department takes their sweet fuckin’ time? Don’t ask me stupid questions.” 

Of course, the media had another field day with that response, but… something about it struck you as incredibly genuine. Yeah, the pro hero could have phrased it better, but the core of what he was saying was he couldn’t sit back when people were in trouble, no matter the risks. 

You had thought that very brave. 

And now you’d witnessed his bravery first hand. You weren’t confident—or really self-centered enough—to go down and thank him for what he’d done, but you thought you would just be satisfied with seeing him from afar now that things weren’t so dire. 

But, the longer you looked, the more the pit grew in your stomach. 

You couldn’t see the blond hero anywhere. He wasn’t with Mr. Takeyoshi, still hunched over on the curb. He wasn’t with the two heroes who were trying to establish a perimeter and keep out the arriving crowd of spectators. And he wasn’t with the other heroes standing watch over the unconscious villain laid out on the sidewalk. 

The rest of the heroes seemed to be arriving at the same conclusions as you. You could hear Dynamight’s name being thrown about, and then the heroes were splitting up, taking different sides of the street, peeking into broken windows. 

You wrung your hands as you watched them search from your apartment. No one had noticed you standing there yet, and you were just contemplating going downstairs to try and help in some way when a noise caught your attention. 

In the grand scheme of things, the noise wasn’t very loud, especially given the shouting on the street and the loud sirens now that the police were arriving on scene. 

But since you lived alone, someone coughing in your apartment, someone who wasn’t you, was cause for a little alarm. 

You inhaled sharply as you glanced back over your shoulder, every atom of your being standing at attention. The apartment behind you was a study in contrasts, dark shadows and the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles outside. Your eyes fell on the empty spot where your couch used to be located, and then your gaze followed the drag marks that had been carved into your wood floor. 

The couch was half embedded in the wall beside your front door, with one of the armrests denting into the plaster and the other pointing toward your gaping window/wall. The sofa’s legs had been broken, so it slumped to the floor at an angle, and some kind of stuffing spilled out of several rips in the cushions. 

But your eyes were glued to the leg sticking out over the armrest and the arm thrown over the back of the couch, which was blocking the rest of the… person from view. 

Oh, fuck. That was a person. 

Your legs reacted before your brain could even process what you should do, but you were at least cognizant enough to pick your way over the worst of the debris. Your thin, rubber-soled slippers would protect you from the small pieces of glass and rubble, but you really didn’t want to step on a nail if you could help it. 

Since your apartment was so small, and there weren’t any full pieces of furniture in the way anymore, you crossed the distance in a handful of strides, but you jerked to a stop when you reached the back of the couch. 

Your lungs seized up so suddenly they hurt. The smell of caramelized sugar was stronger now, almost overwhelming, and you actually had to grip the back of the sofa for support, your hand right next to Dynamight’s leg. 

Because it was Dynamight half-strewn across your broken couch. Even when you first saw the leg, you hadn’t imagined it could be… 

But there he was. And he looked surprisingly… human. 

His face was lax with unconsciousness, lacking the perpetual scowl or snarl he wore in pictures or on TV. His hair, which looked paler and somehow softer in person, was tinged red along his brow line, where a cut was still trickling sluggishly. He wore a non-descript black hoodie over dark jeans and darker combat boots, but a glint of color and light around his midsection caught your eye. 

You frowned and leaned down without thinking, your fingers reaching out to brush… something wet. 

“Oh, shit,” you breathed when you lifted your hand to your face and saw, even in the darkness, that the pads of your fingers were red and glistening. 

He was bleeding. 

You moved a step closer, but then your foot lost purchase, sliding, and when you glanced down, you saw your once white slippers were dark, more wetness seeping in around your toes. 

Oh, god. He was bleeding a lot. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” You fumbled for the phone in your pants pocket as you scurried around the opposite end of the couch and dropped to the ground. Glass bit into your knees again, this time deeper, a sharp, brilliant pain, but you ignored it as you tried to turn your phone’s flashlight on. The touch-screen wouldn’t register your finger at first, your blood-slicked skin skimming across the glass, and you could feel a scream building in your throat just before the light flashed on. 

If you thought things were bad in the dark, being able to see made it a thousand times worse. 

Blood had already pooled around Dynamight, dark and glinting like an oil spill. The sleeve on his left arm had been burned off, and the skin below was pink and raw. It smelled like cooked meat, and the curry you ate what felt like a lifetime ago churned hotly in your gut. 

But the burn wasn’t even the worst of it. 

A wooden stake, about as wide as three of your fingers, protruded out of the pro hero’s gut by several inches. You thought part of it might have looked like your window frame, but the thought came and went when you noticed the tip of the wooden splinter was dyed red, which meant it must have come through his body. 

That had to be where all this blood came from. Was still coming from. God, there was so much of it. 

Your eyes shot to the gaping hole in your wall, your voice rising in your throat as you prepared to scream for help, but a sudden gasp nearly made you jump out of your skin. 

You whipped back around to find wide, hazy red eyes trained on your face, and the hero’s mouth gaped open as he dragged in a ragged breath. 

“Wh—hnng!” he groaned as his body seized, his right hand coming up to clutch at his stomach. 

“Don’t!” Your phone clattered to the floor, throwing light, as you lunged forward, and you caught his hand before he could jar the piece of wood lodged inside him. “D-Don’t move, a-and try not to speak.” 

The hero panted as he cracked open his eyes and looked at you. Or maybe through you. His gaze wasn’t very focused, and blood from the cut on his brow was still dripping into his right eye. 

But the scarlet color of his irises was still striking, even in the dimness of your apartment. 

“You’ve… been hurt,” you said as you met his eyes as best you could. You weren’t a doctor or an EMT, but you knew the best way to keep people calm in emergency situations was to let them know what’s happened and reassure them. “There’s a piece of wood inside you, so you can’t move or you might hurt yourself worse. But y-you’ll be okay. I’ll go get—” 

“Villain,” Dynamight suddenly spat out, cutting you off and spattering you with a fine mist of blood. 

“What?” His voice was rough and guttural, so it took your brain a moment to translate the slurred Japanese. Did he think you were another villain? 

The blond hero winced and groaned again, and it wasn’t until he squeezed down on your hand that you realized you were still holding his. His palm was rough and calloused against yours—and warm, so inexplicably warm—but then he dug his nails into your skin, and you gasped. 

“Vil… lain?” he rasped again, and you realized it was a question. 

“Oh! The villain’s been arrested. You… you beat him.” 

Dynamight scowled at you, brow knitting in confusion, and he grunted what sounded like a questioning noise at you. 

Then he shifted his head, and you saw the dark stain of blood coming out of his ear. 

He must have ruptured his eardrums in the explosion. 

You didn’t want to shout and damage his hearing even more, so you squeezed his hand back and smiled in what you hoped was reassurance. 

“You won,” you mouthed as clearly as you could. “You won, Dynamight.” 

His narrowed eyes widened a little bit with recognition, and you could have sworn the beginnings of a smirk twitched across his lips before his eyes suddenly rolled up into his head. The tension fled his body as he went limp, like a marionette with its strings cut, and your heart lurched up into your throat. 

“Dynamight?” you asked, even though you knew he couldn’t hear you with his ears the way they were. “Dynamight?” 

You squeezed his fingers, shaking him a little, but his face remained slack. 

Dropping his hand, you reached up to flatten one of yours across his chest, the other going up to feel at the underside of his neck. A moment ticked by, two, but you found his pulse, weak and thready beneath your fingertips. His breathing was shallow beneath your other hand, and the knees of your pants were warm and soaked with his blood. 

“F-Fuck,” you breathed shakily as you sat back for a moment, your hands limp in your lap. 

He was dying. Dynamight… was dying. This was too much blood, and even if you called out to the heroes right now, and they got here in seconds, it was still ten minutes to the nearest hospital. 

He didn’t have ten minutes. You didn’t think he had five. 

You stared down at the pro hero’s blood-streaked face for half a beat before you made a decision. 

Then you were moving. Consequences be damned. 

Your hands went to the hem of his hoodie, and you flinched as you pulled it away from his belly with a wet sound. You didn’t want to hurt him, but you also didn’t think he was feeling much of anything now, so you worked the hoodie up and over the stake as best you could before you shoved the fabric the rest of the way up his chest. 

The flashing lights from outside played across the dips and valleys of Dynamight’s abs, but your eyes were immediately drawn to the wooden stake. It jutted out between the hero’s belly button and his right hip bone, and every splinter was coated in tacky, crimson blood. More of the viscous liquid bubbled up around the torn skin at the stake’s base, and it trickled across his pale, alabaster abdomen like spilled paint. 

You bit your lip as you considered your next move, but then Dynamight’s breath hitched with a wet sound, and you knew you didn’t have time for doubts. 

“Okay, steady,” you muttered to yourself as you knelt over the hero’s prone body. Your knees burned, glass digging deeper into the skin by the second, but you shoved away your own pain as you reached out and wrapped both hands around the stake. Splinters tore into your palms, and your heart hammered out a staccato rhythm beneath your sternum. 

Then panic started to creep up your spine like a million little spider legs. What if removing the stake only made him worse, killed him faster? What if you killed Japan’s Number Two Hero? 

Just as you were about to let go of the stake, Dynamight hacked out a gurgling cough, blood bubbling out of his dry, cracked lips, and you felt the warm spray of it against your collarbone and arms. 

The sound rattled something deep inside you, and before you could second guess yourself again, you tightened your grip on the stake and tugged it up and out in one single motion. 

Dynamight wheezed once more, but you were already dropping the stake, hands slapping down against his abdomen. Warm blood pulsed through your fingers like pliable clay, and bile rose in the back of your throat before you took a deep breath, closed your eyes, and called upon your quirk. 

An instant later, agony like you’ve never experienced slammed into you, ripping a gasp from your lungs. It felt like someone had stuck a white-hot poker through your gut, ignited your insides, and twisted. The pain was so intense, your ears started ringing again, and when you cracked open your eyes, your vision quickly began to tunnel until the only thing you could see was the bare outline of your hands, lined with green, against the hero’s stomach. You gritted your teeth as unconsciousness threatened to pull you under, and you groaned as you shoved as much energy as you could spare into the dying hero. 

As your quirk flooded into the blond’s body, you received vague impressions of his injuries healing. It was hard to describe, but it was kind of like you could see flashes of the tissue in your mind as it was stitched back together. First, the jagged hole on his back sealed over, and then your power wormed its way through the hero’s insides, patching up nicked arteries and punctured organs. The pain was still intense, so intense that your already limited vision was blurred by tears, but once you reached the top layers of his abs, you ripped your hands away with a gasp. 

You fell back on your ass, more glass and debris digging into your cheeks and the palms of your hands, and you sucked in ragged breaths as you tried to keep from passing out. The hero swam unsteadily before you, both from the tears in your eyes and because the entire apartment was swaying. Saliva pooled in your mouth as nausea clamped down on your stomach, but you focused on the burning in your palms to center yourself. Then you started counting deep breaths, and when you got to thirty, the darkness had receded from the corners of your vision, and the apartment more or less steadied out around you. 

You still felt like shit warmed over, like you’d been run over by a car and then dragged for several miles, but the bone-deep exhaustion could be cured with a good night’s sleep. The rest of the nicks and cuts on your body still burned like a million paper cuts, too, but your quirk was down to embers and was of no more use to you. 

But was it worth it? 

The two feet of distance between you and Dynamight felt like a canyon that stretched for miles, but somehow you found one last burst of strength to drag yourself forward a few inches. Then you held your breath and leaned over the hero’s abdomen, wiping away most of the pooling blood with the hem of his hoodie. 

There was still a significant gash carved into his skin, but when you shakily picked up your discarded phone from the floor and directed the light at him, you saw the wound was much shallower, maybe a few centimeters deep. The first few layers of skin were flayed back, but the muscles beneath were intact and healthy looking. A small trickle of blood continued to drip into the valley of the hero’s abs, but instead of a broken fire hydrant, it was just a leaky faucet. 

You dragged your tired eyes up Dynamight’s body, and you very quickly realized his breathing was deeper and not as wet sounding. Just to be doubly sure, you reached out and tentatively wrapped your fingers around his left wrist, only absently noticing that the once raw, flayed skin had been partially healed from third degree burns to first. 

You had poured more energy into him than you meant to, but it was hard to regret anything when you felt his pulse against your fingertips, strong, steady, and sure. 

“Oh, thank you,” you choked out as you closed your eyes, tears stinging in the corners. You didn’t know who you were thanking. You didn’t know if you believed in a “god” in the colloquial sense, but you felt as if the universe had given you a gift just now, and you could be nothing but grateful for it. 

You sighed as you slumped a little, and it was like weights were strapped to your eyelids as you struggled to open them and keep them open. You might have actually gone under, succumb to the exhaustion… 

If you didn’t catch sight of two crimson eyes staring back at you. 

“Fuck,” you gasped as a zap of adrenaline shocked you upright, and your phone clattered to the ground once again. 

Dynamight squinted, irises still a little glassy, but unlike last time, his gaze was very much focused on you. 

And the weight of it, the intensity, pinned you to the floor. 

“Y-You’re awake.” The words tripped off your tongue, chased out by the panic running circles in your brain. Damn it, you hadn’t even had time to come up with a plausible backstory for the pool of blood he was lying in. 

The blond hero’s eyes widened a fraction as he stared at you for an immeasurably long moment, and then you remembered with a start that he hadn’t been able to hear you before. This could work in your favor, though. You opened your mouth, ready to pantomime an elaborate story, but his voice—deep and rough, like crunching gravel or an expensive engine turning over—cut you off at the knees. 

“And you have eyes,” he said in clipped Japanese, a note of snide derision in his tone. 

You blinked in shock—at his attitude, the steadiness of his voice, and the fact he could hear you just fine all the sudden—but he just barreled onward like he had barreled through your window. 

“What happened?” he asked. No, demanded. “Who are you?” 

“I—” 

“And where’s that fuckin’ villain?” he cut you off as his split upper lip curled into a snarl, and his red eyes jumped to the gaping window over your shoulder. 

You frowned at him, pursing your lips into a thin line. “Are you going to let me answer?” 

A part of your brain was screaming at you, distantly: Are you giving Japan’s Number Two Hero attitude after he saved your life?!  You normally weren’t like this. Every inch the people pleaser, you were usually deferential to the point of your own detriment. 

But you were still so tired, every inch of you aching, blood still dripping and slick along your exposed skin, and he was the one who decided to be rude first. 

Plus, you saved his life, too, thankyouverymuch. 

Dynamight actually seemed surprised by your response because his gaze stopped its frantic search of your darkened apartment and settled on you. Those scarlet eyes raked over you quickly, a flick from head to toe, before they met your own. 

A beat of silence passed between you, and then his face pulled into a sharp frown. 

“Well?” he grunted. “Are you actually going to answer me?” 

The nerve of this man. Maybe the media had been right. 

“What happened was you decided to practically drop a bomb outside on the street, and then you crashed straight through my window and destroyed my apartment,” you said in a short, clipped tone. “But don’t worry. My couch managed to break your fall, so you’re mostly in one piece. Oh, and you beat the villain, the other heroes are outside handing him off to authorities. Satisfied with my answers?” 

You sucked in a deep breath after your little tirade, the blood roaring in your ears. Absently, you patted yourself on the back for the impromptu white lie you’d fed him. The couch did in fact break his fall… and shoved a stake through his gut, but he didn’t need to know that. Fortunately, you had dropped said impaling object behind you in your haste to keep some blood in his body, and you shifted a little now to insure it was blocked from his view. You had healed his life-threatening injury—and his hearing, apparently, though you hadn’t intended that—but he was still covered in scrapes, cuts, and minor burns along his left arm. It was a… plausible amount of wounds, so hopefully your little quirk indiscretion would go unnoticed. 

Dynamight was still staring at you in silence, and you began to fidget, on the edge of saying you were going to go flag down another hero, when he finally spoke up again. 

“No, I’m not satisfied. You didn’t answer all my damn questions. Who the hell are you?” 

A flush of heat infused your cheeks—part anger, part embarrassment for being put on the spot again and being the subject of his intense glare—and you averted your eyes as you mumbled out your name. 

“Hah?” he practically shouted as he leaned forward, bringing with him that bewildering scent of burned sugar, but he suddenly stopped with a wince that he quickly turned into a scowl. “Speak up, I hate when people mutter. Just like goddamn Deku.” 

The last sentence wasn’t directed at you, but you found his mention of Japan’s Number One Hero intriguing. 

You sighed and repeated your name for him, a little louder this time, and he grunted in what seemed like acknowledgment before he started to struggle upright again in the ruins of your couch. 

“Don’t move too fast, you’ll start bleeding again,” you chided and scooted closer to stop him from aggravating the injury on his abdomen. You’d healed the worst of it, but it was still an open wound, and he was bound to be sore as hell after smashing through a window/wall. 

“M’ fine,” he grumbled as he settled into a slightly more seated position. Then he looked down and noticed his hoodie was still partially rucked up around his arm pits, and his red eyes shot back to you. He studied you for a long moment, but his face was unreadable. “Undressing me while I was unconscious? You’re not one of those damn obsessed fangirls, are ya?” 

Your cheeks flared red-hot, but you scowled at the ash-blond hero. “N-No! I—You were bleeding, so I wanted to make sure it wasn’t too b-bad. But, uh, the gash isn’t that deep.” 

It was a little harder to make more articulate, detailed lies, especially when his blood was still drying on your hands and you could remember the exact feel of his pulse slowing beneath your fingertips. 

Dynamight narrowed his scarlet eyes at you, and you knew you weren’t being convincing. Panic started to claw up the back of your throat again. His burning gaze was charring away at your weaknesses, your resolve. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, confessing. You’d saved his life after all. That wasn’t a bad thing. 

Then you remembered all the articles you’d looked up one anxiety-filled night, soon after moving here. All the stories about people using their quirks and causing damage. Of people with healing quirks trying to help and only doing more harm. The fines, the charges, and in rare cases, imprisonment. 

You didn’t think you’d be locked up, but you couldn’t afford any fines now, and as an immigrant, any mark on your record could get you immediately deported. 

Your mouth dried up. You couldn’t be deported, sent back to your parents as a failure again. What’s more, you had people who relied on you here, like Mrs. Kojima. You weren’t a hero, not important by any means, but… you had just found something to give your life a little purpose. A little stability. 

No, you couldn’t be discovered. You just couldn’t. 

Your newfound resolve stiffened your spine a little, but when you lifted your chin and met those piercing crimson eyes again, your courage—along with your tongue—shriveled inside you. 

Fuck, how were you going to lie your way out of this? 

Unfortunately, Dynamight didn’t give you any more time to get your story straight. 

“Your hands are all fucked up.” 

You startled at his rough voice, instinctively flipping your hands palm-side down and tucking them between your legs. Then, when your brain caught up to your body, you cursed yourself. 

Could you be any more obvious, any more guilty? 

“I, uh, i-it’s nothing,” you stammered, clearing your throat before you continued. “I cut myself on the broken glass from the window, but it’s not serious. Nothing a few bandaids won’t fix, anyway. Maybe some gauze and antiseptic, but definitely not a hospital visit or anything.” 

You knew you were babbling but somehow couldn’t stop it, your anxiety just seizing control of your tongue, and you clenched your torn-up hands into fists until the stinging pain centered you a little bit. 

Once again, Dynamight studied you in silence, like he was choosing his words carefully. 

“Did you nick your damn wrist, too?” he finally asked as his neutral mask twisted into his signature scowl. “Looks like a lot of blood. Don’t be an idiot and bleed out on me. I don’t wanna deal with the fuckin’ paperwork.” 

Well, maybe not that carefully. 

“I-I’m not bleeding out,” you protested with a frown. “I’m fine.” 

“Let me see.” 

You blinked. “Excuse me? 

The hero stuck out his right hand, palm up, his scowl only deepening. “Let me see your hands.” 

Fuck. A drop of icy cold fear slid down your spine. Your hands were indeed “fucked up” like the blond said, but the cuts were all shallow and minor. They would in no way explain how you were coated in blood up past your wrists. None of your injuries would account for that. 

And none of his current ones would, either. 

“I—” You opened and closed your mouth several times like a gasping fish, and Dynamight’s eyes narrowed on you with what you were sure was suspicion. 

And then, like a gift from the heavens, a small but bright beam of light suddenly flooded your apartment from over your shoulder. 

“Dynamight?” a male voice shouted. 

The blond hero clenched his eyes shut and turned away from the light, and you. “I’m here! Turn that damn light out.” 

Said light cut out an instant later, and you seized the opportunity that had just been presented to you. 

Quick as a whip, you leaned over and snatched a large swath of dark fabric that you’d seen in the brief moment of illumination, and you reeled it into your lap quickly. The fabric had been a personal project of yours, a gown you’d started on a whim, but that didn’t matter now. Dynamight was still rubbing at his eyes, grumbling about being blinded, so you kicked half of the unfinished garment under and around the base of the ruined couch, effectively covering up the large pool of blood that had congealed under the splintered furniture. Then you reached behind you, grabbed the bloody stake, and shoved it between the folds of fabric. 

There. Now, most of the evidence was hidden. 

And not a moment too soon, because in the next breath you heard the crunch of glass as the unnamed hero stepped into the apartment behind you. 

“Hello?” 

“We’re over here,” you called back, struggling to your feet so the hero could see you over the back of the couch. 

The hero was silhouetted against your ruined window and the flashing police lights outside, so you couldn’t see much of his face, but you could tell he was tall and broad-shouldered, wrapped in a red and purple suit you didn’t recognize. 

“Are you alright, ma’am?” the hero asked in very formal Japanese. 

You opened your mouth to reply, but Dynamight cut you off. It seemed to be a habit of his. 

“We’re fine,” he grunted, and you turned to see the blond shoving himself to his feet. A gasp caught in your throat, and you made a half-aborted motion to stop him, but his red eyes snapped up and glared at you, freezing you in your tracks. “Aren’t we?” 

It took a moment for you to realize the last question was directed at you, and when Dynamight’s lip curled up into a sneer as he accusingly dropped his gaze to your hands, you realized none of your lies had convinced him after all. 

“Y-Yes.” The word stumbled out of your mouth without your permission, but you couldn’t seem to tear your eyes off the blond as you felt your world falling in around you for the second time tonight. “We’re fine.” 

The hero behind you said something, but it was lost in the static suddenly filling your head. 

He knows. He knows. Dynamight knows. 

The words cycled through your brain again and again, a broken record. What would he do? Would he tell the other hero? Or take you down to the authorities himself? And what then? Would they arrest you? Give you a few days to pack up and say your goodbyes before your deportation? 

Just as you were beginning to spiral, movement caught your attention, and you watched as if from a distance as Dynamight suddenly stepped past you, the scent of burnt sugar stinging your nose as he went. He was talking, and the low rumble of his voice vibrated through your body since he was so close, barely a hair’s breadth away, but he seemed to be talking to the other hero. 

Was he confessing your secret already? 

You couldn’t seem to turn around, your slippered feet rooted to your debris strewn floor. Even in the dark, you could see the black stain of Dynamight’s blood on your ruined couch cushions, and without thinking, you leaned down, picked up another torn and dirty piece of fabric, and threw it over the stain, blocking it from view. 

You didn’t know why you did that. It didn’t matter now. Dynamight knew, and— 

“Ma’am?” A hand touched your elbow, and you jumped, whirling around. “Whoa, careful there.” 

It was the tall hero in the red and purple suit. He was wearing a partial mask over his eyes, so only the lower half of his face was visible, framed by two pieces of dark hair. He smiled at you, a pleasant, reassuring gesture, but you could only gape at him. 

“Are you alright?” he asked you again, a frown replacing his smile. His eyes started to look you over, but you shoved your hands into the pockets of your sweats before he could see them. 

It doesn’t matter, you idiot, your brain screamed, but your body was still going through the motions of keeping your secret, twisting your hands in your pockets, trying to rub out the blood. 

“I’m fine,” you said again and then realized repeating the same trite phrase probably wasn’t convincing. So, you smiled at the hero, or at least you thought you did. Your face felt strangely stiff and numb, but you flashed your teeth and crinkled your eyes just the same. “Really. I’m just a little… shaken up is all. I have a few cuts and bruises, but nothing serious. The apartment took the worst of the damage, obviously.” 

You laughed, a hint of hysteria in your voice, as you gestured to the gaping hole in your wall behind the hero, hoping to get him away from your blood-soaked couch. And, blessedly, he did turn, so you took a few steps past him until you were both facing the broken window. 

Then you noticed Dynamight was standing near the hole, very cautiously leaning against the last remaining, exposed stud in the wall, with his hands shoved in the pocket of his hoodie. His body was facing out into the street, but his eyes were still locked on you, the red of them only intensified by the police lights still flashing on the street. 

His eyes seemed to say, I know what you did, and all the saliva dried up in your mouth. 

“Well, as bad as the damage is to your home, I’m glad you weren’t seriously injured, ma’am,” the hero at your side suddenly said, and you jolted when you realized he was responding to your inane babble from what already felt like hours ago. 

“O-Oh, yes.” You smiled again, just as forced and twice as shaky. “I was… very lucky. A-And thank you! For doing your part to s-stop that villain before he hurt anyone or caused even more damage.” 

“Yes, well, there was still more damage than I would have preferred,” the hero replied, and you didn’t miss the dirty look he shot Dynamight, who just deepened his scowl because he was still looking at you. “But let’s get you down to the street. The paramedics will look you over, and the authorities will want to take a statement. But don’t worry, they’ll also put you up in a hotel for the night since you obviously can’t stay here.” 

He threw the last part of the sentence at Dynamight like a dagger, and the blond finally tore his eyes off you to glare at the other hero. 

You waited for the explosive hero to… well, explode, but he only stared down the tall man beside you before he rolled his eyes, glanced at you one last time, and then jumped out the hole in your wall. 

“No—” you gasped, stumbling forward like you could stop him, but an instant later, you heard a mini-boom out on the street, followed by Dynamight barking orders at someone. 

Oh, yeah. You remembered how the blond had burst through the air while fighting the villain and realized he didn’t just ruin all your hard, illegal healing work by face-planting onto the concrete. 

You sighed and suddenly swayed, like the blond leaving had finally cut all of your tense strings. The adrenaline was fading at last, exhaustion leeching through your veins in its place, and you listed into the hero beside you. 

“Ma’am?” he asked, a note of concern in his voice. 

“Sorry,” you mumbled sleepily, trying and failing to find your balance. “I think… the shock is wearing off. Just… tired.” 

“Would it be alright if I carried you down to the street?” 

You wanted to protest, say you could take the stairs down to your shop, but your tongue felt sluggish in your mouth, and all you managed was a vaguely affirmative sounding hum. 

“Okay, hold on.” 

You felt one hand wrap around your shoulders while the other scooped you up around the knees, and usually, you would protest, insecure about your weight, but the hero settled you against his chest with ease. The instant you were off your feet, every muscle in your body went limp, and you were too tired to even be embarrassed when your head flopped against the hero’s collarbone. 

You had the vague thought that he didn’t smell like warm sugar, followed by a flash of disappointment, but then the hero was moving, jumping, and you were falling through the air. 

Unfortunately, you didn’t get the luxury of passing out. 

Once you hit the street, it was all sirens and shouting, flashing lights and flashes of people, so many people. 

True to his word, the hero in the red and purple suit carried you over to an ambulance and two waiting paramedics. The American in you panicked, instinctively trying to refuse care because your shop and home were just destroyed, you didn’t have money for an ambulance ride, too. 

But as the medics peppered you with rapid fire Japanese questions, you were reminded of where you were, and the bright flashlight shining into your eyes sure woke you up a little. 

The next half an hour was a blur. The paramedics tended to the wounds on your palms, knees, and, embarrassingly, ass, but all of the cuts were shallow, and none of them even required stitches. You knew they wouldn’t require stitches anyway, because once you rested up, your quirk would heal you, but you kept your mouth shut and let the medics wrap you in gauze and bandages. You seemed to have rubbed away enough of the blood on your hands that they weren’t suspicious, but it brought you no relief. 

While they worked, you watched the heroes and police out of your peripherals. They were still working to seal off the scene and tend to your neighbors, who were gathered further down the block behind some yellow tape. It didn’t look like anyone else had been injured beside you, and for that you were grateful. 

But your stomach was still in knots. 

More than once, you heard Dynamight’s brash voice bark over the sirens and other voices, and as the paramedics were finishing up the bandages on your hands, a head of ash-blond hair jutted out over the police car closest to you. Unable to stop yourself, your eyes zeroed in on that distinctive hair color, and you saw the explosive hero was speaking—well, yelling—at two police officers. 

Your mouth felt suddenly dry despite the multiple cups of water the medics had fed to you. What was Dynamight saying? 

As if he could hear your thoughts, red eyes snapped to the side and locked onto yours, and the breath hitched in your chest. That crimson gaze held you trapped, unable to look away, so when the two officers he’d been speaking to suddenly stepped into your field of vision, you gasped. 

“Apologies, didn’t mean to startle you, ma’am,” one of the officers said. He was a middle-aged man, balding, with a serious face and a no-nonsense expression. “We just wanted to ask you a few questions, if you feel up to it.” 

You swallowed, your throat clicking, and your heart stuttered into a breakneck pace beneath your sternum. 

“O-Of course,” you replied, only stumbling a little over your Japanese. You smiled at the officers, but the expression felt stilted, and fear seized you by the throat and squeezed until your breaths were shallow and grating in your ears. 

“Thank you.” The balding officer nodded. “My name is Detective Nakahara. I’ve been told you witnessed and were injured in tonight’s attack.” 

You thought the injury part was obvious, given your myriad of bandages and the fact you were sitting in the back of an ambulance, but you nodded to confirm anyway since your voice had abandoned you. 

This was it. He was going to ask you the damning question, and you were going to tell the truth. Lying to a hero in the heat of the moment had been one thing, but lying to a police officer during an official statement was another thing entirely. It would take one database search for them to confirm your quirk and Dynamight’s story, and then you really would be in trouble. Maybe imprisoned instead of deported. You cursed yourself for not knowing more about the laws that were going to quickly ruin your life. 

But… then Nakahara started asking you about the villain and what you saw, and you stuttered out an answer to the best of your ability. You thought this might have been a disarming tactic, to lull you into a false sense of security, but when you got to the part of the story where Dynamight burst through your window, the officer sighed. 

“I take it that’s your apartment there?” Detective Nakahara asked as he gestured to the gaping hole. 

“Y-Yes.” You nodded. “And I own the shop below.” 

Which you now realized looked no better than your apartment. The windows were all blown out, black scorch marks along the door frame, and you didn’t want to even think about the shape of the interior. 

“What kind of shop is it?” he followed up, but he sounded more curious than interrogatory. 

“Clothing alterations,” you said. “M-My grandparents were a tailor and seamstress. I inherited the shop about a year ago, after they passed.” 

“My condolences,” Nakahara murmured with a small dip of his head, and he seemed genuine. “For your grandparents, and your home and business.” 

You blinked in surprise at the turn in conversation. “O-Oh, thank you, that’s very kind.” 

“Do you have anywhere to go for the night, or were you on the way to the hospital?” he asked as he looked you over. 

“No,” you said quickly and then blushed. “I-I mean, my injuries aren’t serious enough for a hospital visit. Just some cuts and scrapes.” 

“Alright.” Nakahara nodded. “Is there any family we can call for you? Or take you to?” 

“N-No,” you repeated, a little more timidly this time. “My parents… don’t live around here, and I don’t really have any other family.” 

“Any friends?” he asked with a furrowed brow. 

Your face was red-hot now, and you dropped your eyes to your lap, fiddling with your bandaged fingers. What were you going to say? That you were an introvert, and the only “friends” you had were the old ladies who frequented your shop? 

“None that I would want to bother in the middle of the night,” you muttered before you suddenly remembered something. “But, um, one of the heroes said you could maybe take me to a hotel?” 

“Of course, we can take you right now, and we’ll also pay for the night,” the detective said. 

“Oh, you don’t have to—” you started to protest as you snapped your head up, but the officer held up a hand. 

“The city has funds to aid those displaced by villain attacks,” he explained. “The next forty-eight hours are guaranteed, so if I were you, I would use the opportunity to rest.” 

Detective Nakahara glanced down at your bandages, and you bit your lips as you nodded. 

“Okay, thank you for your help then, sir.” It was all you could think to say. 

“You’re welcome.” Nakahara nodded back at you and then reached out to help you out of the ambulance. “If you’ll come this way, we can have an officer collect some things from your apartment, and then we’ll head to the hotel and get you settled.” 

The finality in his tone and the idea of a hotel drew you up short. What… was happening? You had thought the detective was going to interrogate you about your quirk, not… chauffeur you to a nice hotel. 

The practical part of your brain was screaming for you to let it go, but the words were high-diving off your tongue before you could stop them. 

“I-Is that all?” 

Detective Nakahara paused and looked at you with a raised eyebrow. “Is what all?” 

“I—” Shut up, shut up, shut up! “You didn’t have any more questions for me?” 

“No,” the detective said simply. “We have your statement, and it matches the others we’ve obtained.” Here, he frowned and seemed to study you for a moment. “Did you have any other questions for me?” 

“I… was just wondering what the next steps are for my apartment and shop,” you blurted out the first thing you could think of. “Will the… city pay for repairs? Do I have to fill out some forms?” 

It was an honest question, a real one you had, but your mind was still reeling. He wasn’t going to ask about your quirk? Had… Had Dynamight not said anything? 

Nakahara sighed but held a hand out for you to take, and you absently let him help you down from the ambulance. Then he slowly began walking toward one of the police cars, and you had no choice but to follow since you were still holding onto his arm for balance. 

“Unfortunately,” the detective started, “the city will not be able to repair your home or business.” 

“Why?” you asked with a frown. “I thought you said there were funds.” 

“There are,” he said, and when you looked up at him, you noticed his lips were pursed into a thin line. “And, if the villain himself had thrown debris through your window, then the city would compensate you. But, in this situation, Dynamight caused the damaged.” 

The detective practically spat the blond hero’s name, and your surprise must have shown on your face because Nakahara quickly cleared his throat and schooled his expression. 

“Because of this, his agency will be responsible for repairs, so you will have to contact them,” the officer finished. 

Contact them? You had to contact Dynamight’s agency, which meant… fuck. You felt the blood drain from your face, and your expression must have shown your dismay because Nakahara patted your hand that was still looped through his arm 

“But you can worry about that tomorrow,” he said. “Let’s get your things and get you to the hotel so you can rest.” 

You nodded blankly and let the detective lead you to the open backseat of a police car. Nakahara called another officer over, and the woman asked you questions about where things were in your apartment. You answered numbly, listing out different clothing items and how to get to your bedroom. Then she was gone, and Nakahara stepped away to do something else, so you were suddenly left all alone. 

Unbidden, you looked up and searched for that pair of scarlet eyes, that head of ash-blond hair, but the explosive hero was suddenly nowhere to be found. 

The crime scene continued to bustle around you, but all the while, two thoughts circled each other in your head, like binary stars stuck in each other’s orbit: 

Dynamight didn’t reveal my secret. 

But I’m going to have to face him again.