#worse than the judgment day split

[kamisadopteddaughter]

CHASE U I LOVE YOU FOREVER

[vampiredaisiesss]

❝ all a ghost can do

is haunt ❞

— part one

★ dofp! logan howlett x younger reader

tags & warnings - mentions of domestic violence and daddy issues, age gap, (reader is in her early 20s), mentions of logan being referred to as an 'old man' and him calling the reader a 'kid', fluff, itsy bitsy angst, time has softened logan a bit.

word count - 1.7k

part two

★ ★ ★ ★

The whiskey burns, but not enough. Never enough to dull the edges of memories that cut deeper than any blade could. 

Logan sits at the kitchen counter of the mansion, darkness pressing in from all sides. His demons always seem to find him here, in these quiet hours when the world narrows down to silence.

Even the adamantium in his bones feels heavier tonight.

He catches your scent before he hears you—that vanilla body lotion you always use. Your bare feet pad against the hardwood floors, and he takes a long gulp of his Jack Daniels when he feels your eyes land on him.

Your eyes are full of worry, as they often are for him. You can’t help it. You both know he drinks too much, smokes too much, gets angry too fast and doesn’t sleep enough. You might be a lot younger than him, or seen half the world he has, but that doesn’t mean you are incapable of distinguishing his self-indulgent tendencies from self-destructive ones.

"You're brooding again," you murmur, voice soft in deference to the midnight hour. The gentle concern in your tone makes something in his chest twist uncomfortably.

"Ain't brooding, bub. Just thinking." The lie tastes bitter, worse than the whiskey.

"Same difference with you," There's no judgment in your voice as you pad closer. You slip onto the stool beside him, close enough that he can feel the heat of you against his arm. "Share your demons with me, old man."

Logan's grip tightens on the bottle, knuckles white. "They ain't your burden to bear, kid."

"Seems like they should neither be yours to carry alone anymore," Your hand finds his forearm, fingers gently coaxing his own to uncoil from the bottle. "They’re tearing you apart, Lo."

“I’ll heal,” his voice turns assertive.

For the first time since you walked in, Logan looks at you. There’s no real heat behind his hazel eyes, but the intensity of his gaze makes your mouth go dry. 

Logan's the kind of handsome that gets better with age, with grey starting to streak through his dark hair at the sides. You've spent more nights than you'd care to admit thinking about running your fingers through that hair, wondering if it's as soft as it looks. 

“There are some scars that can’t heal on their own.” Your voice catches, vision blurring as memories surface. His expression softens, recognizing your demons as they dance in front of your eyes.

You grew up in a small house on the outskirts of town, where the screams couldn't carry far enough for neighbors to hear. Your father worked construction, coming home with anger burning through his veins, fueled by whatever poison he'd picked up at the local store. The bruises started small—a grip too tight around your wrist, fingers digging into your shoulder. By thirteen, you'd mastered the art of layering clothes in summer without breaking a sweat.

Your mother watched it all happen through a veil of willful blindness. She'd whisper "I love you" while dabbing antiseptic on split lips, promising "things will get better" as she covered the marks with a drugstore concealer. But she never left, trapped in her own web of shame and financial dependence.

The day Charles Xavier found you was the day your powers manifested. 

Your father had been in one of his rages, when something inside you finally snapped. The resulting telekinetic burst had sent him flying across the room. You ran, terrified of what you'd done, of what he'd do in retaliation. That's when the professor's black car pulled up, offering sanctuary within the walls of his school.

Xavier's became more than just an escape—it became home. A home with an unlikely collection of mutants who’d soon turn into family. As far as you were concerned, Charles Xavier was your father and Storm had taken on a motherly inclination when it came to you.

And then there was Logan… gruff, protective Logan who understood you without you having to explain. You both sat in this very kitchen the night you finally told him everything.

You'd watched his knuckles whiten, saw the rage build in the set of his jaw—not at you. Never at you. You remember thinking that your father wouldn't survive the night if Logan decided to pay him a visit. But instead of violence, Logan had offered something far more precious than revenge.

Understanding. 

And that was the first time you fell a little for him. 

Logan lets out a breath that shakes more than he'd like to admit. "Been thinking about Stryker. The lab." His voice roughens as he admits. "Sometimes it all just... comes back. Can’t close my eyes, for the life of me."

You don't flinch from the roughness in his voice—you know too well how memories can become monsters in the night. Instead, your fingers slide down to cover his hand, "Would you like to spend the night with me?"

"That's how rumors start, you know." The corners of his eyes crinkle, and his hand turns beneath yours, rough fingers catching against your skin. He shouldn't enjoy your touch this much, shouldn't let himself notice how perfectly your small hand fits in his giant one.

"You worried about your reputation, Howlett?" You lean closer, unable to help yourself. Everyone else might see your relationship as purely paternal, but the thoughts that race through your mind when he looks at you are anything but daughterly.

"Hell nah, never been." His voice drops lower, rougher, allowing himself this small indulgence. "You sure you wanna be associated with a sleazy old bastard like me?"

"I'm afraid it's too late for that." The words come out playful, but your mind floods with memories. 

Ever since you joined the team, Logan's been your shadow, protecting you during every mission. You think of training sessions in the gym, how good his hands feel when they’re adjusting your stance. You think of the day he carried you through the mansion when your leg broke after a mission gone sideways. You'd been mortified at first, but when you felt him cradle you against his chest, you'd buried your face in his neck.

When it comes to Logan, it's more than just physical attraction. It’s the way he’ll jump in any fire to save you. It's the way he'll sense your fear and comfort you whenever you have nightmares. It’s the way he can make you laugh just by raising that eyebrow in exactly the right way at exactly the right moment.

You felt safe with him. You wanted him to know he could feel the same with you too.

Logan watches you lose yourself in thought, fighting the urge to brush back the strand of hair that's fallen across your face. 

He's spent too long trying to convince himself that his feelings are purely protective, that the way his chest tightens when you smile at him is just paternal instinct. But there's nothing fatherly about the way his body responds when you're close, about how often he finds himself thinking about the sound of your laugh.

"And call it daddy issues or whatever," you add with deliberate casualness, though your heart is hammering against your ribs, "but I like older men. So you're in luck, old man."

Logan knows he should say no. Should keep his darkness away from your light. But when you stand and offer your hand, he takes it, letting you lead him through the silent halls like a ship following a lighthouse home.

He has been in your room before, though never like this. Your room is almost the same as his. Almost, with bits and pieces of you sprinkled throughout. A huge antique bookshelf, courtesy of Charles, is one of them, covering an entire section of the four-walled space. 

You watch Logan from your perch on the bed, the way his hands are curled into loose fists at his sides. "It's okay," you let him know softly. "Let me help."

He draws a breath at your words. His hand falls from the doorframe, and the door closes behind him with a soft click, separating the two of you from the rest of the sleeping world.

The mattress dips beneath his weight when he finally sits. You resist the urge to immediately touch him, letting him arrange himself comfortably, until he's lying down with his head in your lap. 

His breathing is too measured, too even to be natural. You watch his hands, curled still into loose fists against his chest, and wait.

Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the rigid line of his spine begins to soften. He drapes his left arm over your legs, and your fingers find their way into his hair. And fuck, if it isn’t as soft as you imagined. 

"Is this okay?" you ask softly, working your fingernails through his scalp; The first stroke sends a shiver down his spine.

He responds with a barely perceptible nod.

"You're safe here," you murmur, tracing patterns against his scalp. "No labs, no Stryker. No pain. Just you and me."

His eyes flutter close, though he fights it at first but all protests die in his throat. Your fingers continue their gentle journey through his hair, across his scalp, and you feel him surrendering inch by inch to the comfort he's denied himself for so long.

"Those memories? They're just ghosts now. They can haunt you, but they cannot touch you. They can't hurt you anymore, because you survived. You got out, Logan. You're here. You're loved. You're safe."

A soft whimper escapes him. Slowly, so slowly he almost doesn't notice, the tension begins to leak from his muscles. The metal in his bones feels lighter now, smoothing the worried crease between his brows.

"That's it," you whisper, and he feels the smile in your voice. "I've got you, Wolfie. Rest now."

Wolfie, he smiles sleepily. The nickname is the last thing he registers before sleep claims him whole.

★ ★ ★ ★

a/n: Do we want a part two???

[002yb]

Suspension with no pay is a generous punishment, given how severely Dick knocks another officer's lights out. He's lucky no charges will be pressed. His 'colleague' probably isn't keen to air the dirty details of his provocations to the police commissioner; to have them put on paper.

Dick isn't too eager to discuss it, either. Just thinking of it tests his temper and his resolve not to tear through the precinct to the infirmary the bastard hides away in; to grab him by the collar of his uniform again and wail on him for being a sick fuck.

Gordon wants an explanation. Because he knows Dick. Because he knows Dick doesn't do shit like this without reason.

Dick keeps his mouth shut. He sets his jaw, clenches his teeth. He wants to scream, but he swallows it down. Looks just over Gordon's head instead, and waits to be dismissed.

He takes his punishment. He slams the door on his way out.

The only thing he wants is to go home, but he doesn't want to bring his bad mood past the threshold. So Dick sits outside, back to the wall, and makes himself breathe.

His knuckles are still red and swollen, but they'll bruise in the coming hours. He picks at split skin, smudging away blood that beads up.

There’s no cleaning up the mess he is, so Dick settles in. Dropping his head back against the wall beside the door. Breathing. Meditating. Glaring off at nothing as he sits, stews, and broods. Hands clenching periodically because he still wants to hit something.

Someone, specifically. Because Dick wasn’t done fucking them up before other officers stormed in to intervene. Alerted by shouts and familiar sounds of a scuffle. Baffled, probably, that good boy Dick Grayson can lose it worse than any of them ever could.

So Dick sits there. For a long time, until he feels numb. Until he can compartmentalize and put all his anger and irritation and hurt behind him. Because he’s not bringing it home.

Not this.

Not with Jason there.

Jason who, after some hours, comes up the stairs and startles at the sight of Dick sitting just outside their flat, quiet and unnaturally still.

Jason who sees the damage to Dick’s hands and the storminess to his expression with just a quick glance, and who takes that ugliness in stride and sits beside it anyway. Because it’s Dick.

Somehow it’s both easier and harder to breathe with Jason there beside him.

Mercifully, Jason doesn't pry. Not yet. He just sits there with Dick, quietly shuffling through the mail he must have grabbed on his way up. Ads, bills, notices.

It's so normal, so mundane that Dick feels winded by it. The easy slope of Jason's shoulders, the quiet contentment in his expression. They're outside their flat, sorting through mail; when they go inside, they'll debate on eating in, going out. They'll talk casework, get distracted by their own banter. They'll go on patrol, come home and tend each other's hurts. And they'll go to sleep together, same as any other day. One of many.

Fuck. Dick looks skyward. Blinks. Breathes.

Then he turns to look down at that pile of mail. Distracts himself with the cluttered ad that shows deals at a nearby grocery that Jason scans and scoffs at or stops to consider.

'Are you happy?'

'Depends who won the fight.' Is the cheeky reply.

Dick snorts, but doesn't comment. Doesn't trust his voice, or what words might pour out of him. Despite the lack of bruises anywhere but along his knuckles, Dick doesn't doubt it looks like he's the one that got fucked up.

Apt. Because to Jason, Dick doesn't look upset - he seems hurt.

And Jason isn't going to badger Dick. Or chide him. He trusts Dick's judgment, his reasoning, even if Jason likes to be contrary and challenge Dick at every turn.

But he's a Robin at heart, always curious. And he's also a street kid in soul, nosy because intel is an invaluable resource. He's also Jason, who worries even if he's prickly about it.

'Must've been fucked to get under your skin so bad.'

The words are there, but they're ugly. Dick swallows them down and deflects:

'Got suspended.'

'With pay?'

'Without.'

'How long?'

'A week.'

Jason clicking his tongue and scoffing about it, but he doesn't care about the lost income. It's a line of questioning to gauge the severity of the fight.

When Jason asks about on a scale of Damian to Jason, how mad will B be about it, Dick can't help the quiet laugh that bubbles up in him. He considers, then shrugs, 'Tim levels, maybe?'

Jason sitting with that, puzzling it over until something seems to click and he grimaces. Because, 'what the fuck would you be fighting over me for?'

Dick can't talk about it: about how an officer implicated themselves in the solicitation of a 'back alley whore,' a child, at the time. Provoked by the picture Dick keeps of Jason as his lock screen. Unable to resist the temptation of mocking, ridiculing Dick 'perfect golden boy' Grayson by going after his boyfriend, 'How much is that running you? Used to be dirt cheap, back in the day.' , 'Gotham's sloppiest seconds, or mine at least. Does he still cry pretty when you--?' Etc. Etc.

So maybe Jason figures it out for himself and makes an accurate guess. Because since Jason came back, he hasn't dealt with the police in any notable way. Not as a civilian, at least.

Jason would know that if someone saw Dick's lock screen and talked shit about Jason's appearance or other superficial bullshit, Dick wouldn't be so quiet about it. He'd be ranting and raving, incensed because he insists Jason is handsome, gorgeous (and it's sweet, because Jason isn't anything to write home about; a fun fight to provoke, some days, if only because Dick gets so up in arms over it).

And if it's not anything to do with present!Jason, that only leaves all the shit of his past, which is...

They haven't talked about it. Jason doesn't doubt that Dick knows, it's just - Jason doesn't want to talk about it.

Just Jason recognizing Dick's kindnesses for what they are. How Dick defended him. How he hurt enough for him that Dick risks it all. And then he comes home and waits outside because he won't bring that anger home like Jason's dad would. And he goes so far as to bite his tongue because he won't corner Jason into talking about shit he doesn't want to.

Just Jason, breathing steady and changing the topic entirely: 'I'm happy.' So happy. Happier than he's ever been. It's jarring, sometimes, how happy he is. Because there was a time when he didn't think he'd be allowed it. But here he is. With Dick. At their flat; a shoddy home, but theirs. Where they'll make dinner together and complain about romance not existing in the kitchen, get outta my way )< ; and where they'll talk circles around case work before they start bantering, gossiping, laughing. And where they'll leave for patrol but still flirt over comms and come back and hide their hurts only for the other to poke at them because they know. And they'll sleep. And it's warm. And of course Jason is happy.

It's a simple life, but it's theirs.

Oh, Jason looking at Dick's bruised hands and feeling overwhelmed at just how happy he is - to be loved and cared for so much. ;////////;

Getting all bashful as he tells Dick again, 'I'm really...really happy.'

And because it feels a little too heavy, a little too raw, Jason would cough and deflect in his own way. Grumbling because, 'Would've been happier with an expulsion, but...' Shrug.

Dick laughing under his breath. Taking the out. 'On my way. It was a 'formal reprimand'.'

Then Jason snickers because, 'Could I give you more names? Speed up the process.'

Which oops. Too dark, too soon. But after the initial grimace is a brittle laugh because wow.

Then something something Jason standing up and offering Dick a hand to pull him up, too. And they go about their routine. When Dick settles down, Jason starts prompting for details on the fight. How fucked was the officer's face? How many men did it take to tear Dick away from him? (♡ˊ͈ ꒳ ˋ͈)

Dick teasing him about it sounding like Jason likes that Dick lost his shit. And Jason owns up to it fully. Of course he likes it; it was for him. (ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ.ﾟ

Jason makes it easier for Dick by teasing him about it. Taking some of the weight away from it. Because this is how they look after each other. ♡

[whoopsyeahokay]

October Sun

summary: you'd gone to the school, hoping to find Wally or Shy Boy or Bitnik Girl. hell, you'd settle for Mina Volkov and her volatility, adamant that you'd had to have practiced the right procedures to join her in the rafters. At that point, you'd been willing to do just about anything (exposing your abilities included) to help course-correct after Simon had been hauled away by the cops.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER SUN pt.21

You'd almost been willing to do as Xavier had asked. To stay home and rest—not that you'd have been able to do so successfully, earlier events churning together in a wild storm of tragic memory, frayed thought, and sick emotion. You'd been curled up on Aidan's bed, holding Limon like a lifeline, Xavier long gone after promising to pick you up in the morning.

Then Simon had texted; had told you about Mrs. Grace striding into the interrogation room and disarming the deputies' aggressive questioning with a single look before they'd had a chance to dig in. Apparently, Simon was due back at the station the next day, informed he was to give a formal statement that would be recorded and observed by the right parties.

In the aftermath, his parents had been frantic to the point of guarding the exits and refused to let him out of his room. He'd been allowed access to his phone for ten minutes until he'd had to hand it back to his mother.

Things had gone from abstract to real too quickly for you to fathom, everything utterly and completely fucked, and you were scared. Scared for Simon, for yourself. For Maddie. It'd been Simon's texts that had spurred you into action. They think I had something to do with it, Simon had relayed, they aren't even looking at Anderson. After that, there'd been no chance you'd sit idle, twiddling your thumbs through the night until Xavier returned before school.

You'd snuck out without trouble, quick-marched the path to Split River High, keeping to the shadows to avoid late-night weirdos, and possible Neighborhood Watchers who would tattle on you. You didn't have a plan, knew the school was locked and a night guard was on duty. Either Al or Barry, the two rotating shifts between day and night week by week.

Al was old, watermelon-round, and slow; wouldn't give you more than a lazy warning if he caught you trying to break into the building. Barry, on the other hand, was young, loud; had some kind of point to prove, and acted like his uniform made him the voice of authority. He wouldn't hesitate to tell Principal Hartman who he'd caught in the halls after dark, jaundiced teeth on display as he sneered through a heavily embellished version of the truth just to make things worse for you.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you hurried across the parking lot, practically jogging to the back of the school where you stopped a few feet short of the door. You were relying—perhaps too much—on the connection between you and Wally, blind hope warring with better judgment as you chanted his name in your mind. Over and over, infused with pleas to come find you. It was stupid, you thought, the dumbest idea anyone had ever had, begging a ghost to ride in like a white knight on the back of the telepathy neither of you had. What was worse was that, even upon entering the school grounds, the connection had only murmured to life, a barely-there purr reaching outward like a cat stretching after a nap. It was unbothered, the way you'd noticed it was when you and Wally weren't within a specific radius of one another.

While it made it easy to concentrate in class, that little mechanism made you want to punch a hole through the fabric of the universe and throttle whatever divine entity had thought it up. Motherfucker. Still, you prayed it would be enough to get Wally's attention.

Minutes passed and you paced a groove into the grass, hands shoved into the kangaroo pocket of Andrew's hoodie when you weren't combing your fingers through your hair or flapping them along with the angry conversation you were having in your head about weaponized bias. Because who the hell were those deputies to suspect Simon of anything? Of course, you didn't know the whole story. Simon had only had ten minutes to talk and he'd also been texting Nicole. Probably Mathilda, too, since she'd been on the verge of rabid by the time he was released into his parent's custody.

Fuck this. The connection wasn't working, or maybe Wally was preoccupied, or, who knew, he could be in that strange state of suspension that you'd read about; a whole chapter dedicated to the way in which ghosts linger between the hours, as if not existing at all, until something roused them. You didn't know enough about the connection between you and Wally to question whether or not it would be cause enough for him to come to.

Out of patience, you decided it was time to do something. You stomped around the side of the building, trying to guess where Wally would be at that time, and, god dammit, you both really needed to have more conversations about things outside of Maddie and mad teachers. Finally, you halted in front of the gym's exterior. You checked the ground for something to throw at the grated window, a stone or stick big enough to rattle the metal and make noise.

Stone in hand, you positioned yourself to hurl it at the school. Arm raised, body angled back, hyping yourself up in your head as you counted down from 3. Best case scenario: Wally came to get you. Worst case: Barry got to you first.

With a shuddery breath, you swung your arm and—

"Don't." An unfamiliar voice said from behind you as your wrist was grabbed in a hard, though not painful, grip.

You dropped the stone, "What the shit!?" and swirled around, irrationally terrified that it was Mr. Anderson come to do to you what he'd done to Maddie.

It took a moment for the fear to recoil, for your heart to slink down from your mouth to your chest. You took in the person who'd stopped you. A tall boy with South Asian features wearing autoshop coveralls, the top rolled and bunched around his waist. He studied his hand, as if touching you had caused some kind of reaction, before he looked back up and regarded you in awe.

"Uhm...hi?" You said for lack of anything better. The longer he stared without saying anything, the more time you had to process. With a thick swallow, cold dread crept over you as it slowly clicked who was standing in front of you. Arjun "Ajay" Khatwani. Died in 1992. Crushed under a car in autoshop. "Oh, fuck me," You bemoaned, scrubbing your hands over your face.

Great. That was great. Another nail in the coffin of keeping a secret you'd been sworn to by ancestral blood. He seemed to notice your despair, his posture changing from loose shock to rigidly unimpressed, arms folding and one brow arching.

"You can't be here." He said, "Especially not now." And what the hell did that mean?

"Look, buddy, I don't mean to be rude, but I really need to get into that school," You hooked your thumb over your shoulder, "and I am going to find a way to do it."

His shoulders squared, a determined expression hardening on his face, "And, trust me, I want to help. But you can't just fly in there and expect Wally not to get found out."

That was...what just happened? Wires sparked and the control board short-circuited as you tried and failed to respond. Mouth gupping as a rush-hour-of-traffic's worth of words clogged your throat. Had Wally told Ajay about you? No. He wouldn't. Logically, it was impossible to know, but something deep within you rejected the idea as soon as it manifested.

"Come again?"

"Everyone just got over Charley keeping Simon a secret. How do you think they'll feel when they find out Wally—our dopey, naive, puppy-dog mascot—betrayed everyone as well, hm?" He took a step toward you, a deep V between his brows that looked foreign on his face. "I know you have a lot to lose, too, but you have family who will support you no matter what. Here," He said, indicating more than the school, you recognized, "We only have each other."

"You just said everyone got over Charley—" Was he the kid with the glasses and the Timberlake frosted tips? "—why wouldn't they do the same for Wally?"

"It's different. Listen to me—" And then he said something that startled you back a step, your eyes bulging. Your name tumbled from his lips like he'd known you his whole life. Not your full name, no. It was the nickname Aurora had used when you were a baby. Ajay raised his hands in a placating gesture, "Please, just listen. I'll go get him, but understand," There Ajay paused, reluctant and no less determined to get his point across, "He's with the others right now and I can't think of a reason to get him alone at midnight on a Thursday. Not after everything that happened today."

"So bring them." You challenged, eyes narrowed, standing taller, because, honestly? If Ajay knew about you then what the fuck was the point anymore?

He might not have openly confessed that your sister had interacted with him of her own volition, but he didn't need to. You could sense his sincerity; his willingness not to disrupt the status quo. He wouldn't have sought Aurora out, and you hadn't seen anything from him in your years at the school to indicate he was the type of ghost to stalk the living. Not like Dreamy Dawn who insinuated herself into students' spaces to rifle through their things.

So, Aurora had dallied with a ghost, too, and no unearthly horrors had been unleashed upon her, why not say fuck you to a lifetime of indoctrinating magical gospel and do the same?

Ajay seemed uncertain, momentarily quiet as he thought about what to do. Clearly, he'd assumed you'd back down. Run home to bed, hide under the covers, and wait until tomorrow to find Wally. Yeah. Not happening. Not while Simon was on the cusp of expulsion. If you didn't find something to incriminate Anderson, something that would get Simon off the hook, you'd never forgive yourself.

"Do it, Ajay," You said, just a tiny bit smug when his head snapped up at your use of his name. "Bring. Everyone."

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Wally had felt your presence as soon as you'd stepped through the barrier. A sweet honey tug in his gut that made his gums itch and his scalp tingle. He wanted to get up, go find you, hold you, kiss you, tell you how much he'd missed you since you'd left in a state that had broken his heart.

But he couldn't. Rhonda's change of heart toward Maddie and Charley had been hard-earned and Wally was far too nervous to do anything to rock the boat. Rhonda sat at the coffee table, an old yearbook open in front of her as she explained to Maddie what had happened to cause the Devils to become the Bandits.

Charley was curled up near Wally, back rested against the couch, at peace now that his place amongst their group had been reinstated. To Wally, it'd never been in question, and he doubted Rhonda would've let Charley's exile last more than a week, but still, it was nice to see Charley comfortable and content. Right where he belonged. With them.

The question of telling Mr. Martin about Maddie and Simon came up, Maddie making a promise that Wally and Rhonda had discussed at length after Simon was dragged away by police. Wally and Rhonda had just suggested they follow Charley's lead instead, Charley then wondering where to go from there, when Ajay poked his head into the library.

He must've heard what Charley had asked because he stuttered, "Um...guys...there's someone here who I think can help you," gaze darting around the room before resting on Wally.

In that second, Wally knew exactly what was about to happen.

He leapt to his feet, ready to dash circuits around the school to find you, when Ajay halted him with an intentional, hard stare. Something akin to how his mama had looked at him when he'd been about to blurt information she hadn't wanted her Book Club to know.

The others stood, circling Ajay with a dozen questions, Maddie's voice above the rest as she pecked for answers about Simon. "Is he here? Is he okay?"

Ajay quieted them with a wave of his hand, "All I can say is I'm sorry for not telling you about her sooner." He leveled Wally with a look. It spoke volumes, told Wally to keep his mouth shut and follow Ajay's lead or Ajay would do unspeakable things to him for the remainder of their shared afterlife. Wally gave a minute jerk of his chin that Ajay received with an almost imperceptible quirk of his lips.

"She can see ghosts," He explained to the others, "And she wants to help."

"Who are you talking about?" Maddie questioned while Rhonda and Charley stood behind her in varying degrees of shock. "Who is it?"

Ajay swept an arm, a gesture for everyone to follow him to where he'd tucked you away. "Just. Come with me."

He set a quick pace and, as Wally caught up to walk beside Ajay, he understood why. The others had shorter strides and, although keeping up pretty well, lagged behind a small distance. It was still wide enough that Wally could whisper without being overheard.

"What's going on?" He had to know. "Is she okay?"

"I swear to every god in the Hindu pantheon, Clark, if you two get caught, I am not holding your hand through whatever Charley and Rhonda do to you," Ajay warned under his breath, speaking out of the side of his mouth.

Ouch. Violent, but okay. Wally got the message, loud and clear. Despite Ajay's stiff manner, Wally deeply appreciated his friend helping him avoid disaster. He realized it wasn't just for his sake, but for yours as well. If not handled delicately, shit could hit the fan. He didn't think those in the Afterlife Support Group were too big a risk, but he couldn't be sure how knowledge of your abilities would affect the Loopers. Mina notwithstanding, obviously.

Ajay led them up the flights of stairs to the roof exit—a hatch ladder that scaled up to the already open portal above. "You come up last." He said, hushed, before the others joined them in the cramped space, "And for the love of God, Wally, do not get too close to her. "

"Got it," Wally replied, shuffling back to allow Rhonda, and then Maddie and Charley, to climb up after Ajay. There was no way to know how the connection between you and him would react once he laid eyes on you, but he'd do his best to honor Ajay's wishes...there'd be some kind of effort made, at least.

Already he felt the connection stirring to life, his blood pumping faster, pulse humming in his ears, breath quickening. Fuck, he was sure his pupils were completely blown, the smell of vanilla on the breeze reminding him of how your skin had tasted as he'd nipped and licked your neck in the theater last night, the tight little keens you'd made driving him crazy—

Ajay's head appeared through the portal, a look of total disappointment on his face, "For fuck's sake, bro, pull yourself together," he growled and reached a hand in to help Wally over the metal lip and onto the gravel rooftop.

Chagrined, Wally took a few deep breaths through his nose—which helped about as much as you being pressed flush against him would have—and he shook his head, his hands, one foot after the other, in an attempt to work out some of the electricity that sparked under his skin.

When Wally finally glanced up, the others had you surrounded, Ajay sticking close to your side and putting everyone in their place with a matronly stare.

You were so damn close and all Wally could think of in the moment was sweeping you into his arms and holding you forever. You were adorable in the same oversized sweater you'd worn yesterday, looking particularly tiny under the bulky fabric. Your hair was mussed as if you'd just climbed out of bed and...oh shit god damn. He blazed a hot trail down your body with his eyes and had to bite back a groan when he saw that your thighs were bare, your cutesy sleep shorts doing nothing to help Wally's steadily worsening predicament.

Ajay flashed him another look of disdain which served to reel Wally's desire back in. Alright. He could do this. He could be normal about you. For sure.

The others seemed to part like the fucking Red Sea as Wally stepped toward you. In his periphery, he could just make out Rhonda's deeply suspicious expression, Charley's narrowed eyes, and Maddie's woe. Shit, that's right, you probably had no idea Maddie was there. Had he mentioned that to Ajay? Crap, why couldn't he remember?! Should he say something?

He had to keep his eyes on everything except you—the ground, Rhonda's Oxfords, Charley's shoulder—as the connection crackled and licked like fire inside him. Wally tensed every muscle in his body, stiff as a board and probably emanating the most awkward vibes the others had ever seen from him, but he managed to maintain control.

Of course, keeping a level head and maintaining control wasn't really in Wally's wheelhouse. Not off the field, anyway. And especially not around you.

Like chimes in the wind, your voice clinked through the silence, a simple "Hi," forcing Wally's head up and his gaze to lock on yours, beautiful, marbling swirls the color of galaxies.

His breath caught and it was at that moment that he knew he was fucked.

💀___________________________

PART TWENTY - PART TWENTY-TWO

also available on AO3!

MASTERLIST

[captain-hawks]

ADVERSARIAL APPETITES

♡ — aki hayakawa x f!reader

The only thing worse than accidentally running into the Lust Devil is having to call Aki fucking Hayakawa for help.

18+ ONLY

wc — 1.9k

prompt — coming in pants, praise kink (requested by @antique-remains)

additional content — enemies to lovers, edging, masturbation, phone sex, light brat taming, light dom!Aki vibes, voice kink, mentions of anal sex, coming untouched, dirty talk, anal fingering

╰┈➤ kinktober masterlist

“Hayakawa.”

“Yeah?”

His voice is slightly muffled, and you know there’s a cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth, burning orange embers dangling precariously as the white stick shakes with the slight movement of his lips.

Pinching the bridge of your nose, the back of your head thuds against the creaky motel headboard as you close your eyes and exhale noisily before muttering, “I need your help.”

Later, you’ll look at your call log and be horrified to find that you called Aki fucking Hayakawa to grovel for assistance. Like this is your first goddamn day as a Devil Hunter. Like he’s not the most insufferably broodish bane of your existence. 

You may never forgive yourself for this temporary lapse in judgment, though that will ultimately be a problem for Later You.

Later—when you’re not stripped down to your bra and panties in a dingy motel room with a questionable smell lingering in the faded brown carpet, your blood-stained button-down shirt and pants carelessly tossed over the back of a half-busted chair, filthy knives left discarded on the nightstand where they’re sitting precariously close to a well-worn copy of the Bible. 

When the metallic taste of blood isn’t still lingering in your mouth from your split bottom lip.

When you’re not about to crawl out of your skin with arousal because your simple in-and-out solo assignment was interrupted by an accidental run-in with the fucking Lust Devil. 

The Lust Devil, who had laughed with an irritatingly melodic voice as you tried and failed to decapitate her. Your knives sang through empty air with each swipe as she repeatedly disappeared into a cloud of hazy, pink vapor, the sickeningly sweet smell of which left you doubled over gagging and gasping for breath. 

She’d kissed you on the cheek and tapped your nose with a deceivingly girlish little giggle before taking her leave, ominously lilting, “Good luck with that, love.” 

You’d hardly made it to this shitty, back road motel with the dredges of your self-control intact, almost orgasming from the mere feeling of your car bouncing with the bumps in the road, scraping your thighs together as you floored it. Abdomen pressed desperately against the edges of the dubiously stained sink, you’d scrubbed your hands raw with scalding hot water thrice in the cramped bathroom before unceremoniously stripping down and flopping onto the bed. 

After an hour of trying and failing to bring yourself over the edge, your sticky, arousal-soaked fingers are now cramped and sore from repeatedly plunging them in and out of your aching cunt. Try as you might, every time you reach the precipice of release, your pleasure evaporates in an instant, leaving every nerve ending in your body painfully ignited with need. Pathetic tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you desperately hump your hand, powerless to expel the insurmountable lust burning inside of you. 

Clearly, masturbating isn’t the solution to the Lust Devil’s little game. 

And Aki says as much after you finish explaining yourself through gritted teeth, fighting for your life to stave off the embarrassing urge to dip your fingers between your thighs again while the call is still active. 

“Then what the hell am I supposed to do?!” you cry out in frustration. 

“Her power is fuelled by the fear of something, remember. But it’s not the concept of lust.” He pauses for a moment. “It’s the fear of lusting after someone that you shouldn’t. She feeds on the shameful feelings of acting on inappropriate sexual desires.”

You raise an eyebrow, even though he can’t see you. “So you’re saying I should come back and seduce Kishibe sensei.”

“You’re fucking shameless.”

“I like a quick solution.”

You can hear his exasperated sigh on the other end of the line. “From what I’ve been told, it’s not about physical consummation. It’s a mental thing.”

“So I just need to think about a dirty little secret while I’m touching myself, and then I’ll finally be able to orgasm?”

“Essentially.”

Twenty minutes later, half of the pillows and bed covers have been angrily tossed to the floor in your attempts to touch yourself in every position you could possibly think of—sadly to no avail. 

“Yes?” Aki sounds bored when he answers your next call, and you make a rude gesture in the direction of your phone. 

“It’s not working.”

“And?”

“And I’m two seconds from losing my mind. Can you put that stupidly smart brain of yours to use and actually help me?”

The other end of the line is quiet, so you add with an annoyed huff, “Please.”

You can hear the slight amusement in Aki’s tone as he asks, “What, do you need me to tell you how to masturbate?”

You pointedly ignore the odd feeling that zips up your spine at his words. “Wow, you sure know how to talk dirty to a girl, Hayakawa.”

He scoffs. 

He fucking scoffs. 

There’s a shuffling sound before he responds in a low, clipped tone, “Stop being a fucking brat.”

Everything is silent save for the ticking of the clock on the wall. 

“I…” you trail off, not sure what kind of response you can formulate with the way your heart’s suddenly pounding in your chest. 

“Tell me what you’re doing,” he intones smoothly, your toes involuntarily curling at the cadence of his deep voice. 

“Laying in bed,” you reply, far shorter of breath than you were moments ago. 

“And what are you wearing?”

“My bra and underwear.”

“That’s too much. Take them off.”

Your sharp inhale is your only response, and though Aki’s normally hard-pressed to even suggest you do something on a regular day without getting a snarky response in return, your hands are like phantom limbs as you comply with his request. 

“Are you naked now?”

You nod, only to belatedly realize he can’t see it, so you reply, “Yes.”

“Good girl.”

Your back arches upward from where you’re lying face up on the mattress, those two words catching you entirely off guard. 

Aki’s the bane of your existence most days, for reasons your foggy brain can’t quite remember now that you’re naked and dripping wet to the husky sound of his unfairly attractive voice in a shitty hotel room in the middle of nowhere. You’ll certainly hate yourself for this later, for shamelessly imagining the slightly bored look on his stupidly handsome face as you spread your legs wide, exhaling shakily while running your fingers over your sensitive, peaked nipples. 

But oh, if it’s an inappropriate orgasm the Lust Devil wants?

It’s what she’s going to get. 

(And if you’re silently moaning now in anticipation at the thought of Aki fucking Hayakawa murmuring dirty things to you over the phone to get you off, nobody else needs to know that.)

“I like you like this,” he murmurs.

“Like what?” you ask, as if you don’t already know. 

He chuckles.

—

You’re insufferable. 

Absolutely, positively insufferable. 

You live and breathe to make Aki’s job far more difficult than it needs to be, with your snappy, headstrong attitude and your penchant for nearly getting yourself killed on a regular basis. 

But right now?

Right now, that’s the last thing on Aki’s mind. Because all of your bristled, sharp edges have gone pliant on the other end of the phone, your scathing, impatient remarks replaced by the sound of your heavily aroused, labored breathing. 

“I bet you’re already soaked,” he says, shifting slightly from where he’s seated on his couch as he feels himself harden in his slacks at the thought.

“I'm dripping all over the sheets,” you admit. 

He bites his fist. 

“Touch yourself for me then.”

You don’t hesitate—he knows that because he can immediately hear the lewd, squelching sound of you starting to pump your fingers in and out of your wet hole. 

“Slow down,” he chides, just to be a dick. He can’t let you off that easy, after all. 

“Fuck you,” you pant out with a whine. 

“Maybe if you behave,” he drawls, clicking his tongue. “How many fingers are you using?”

“Two.”

“Put in another.”

He hears a strangled moan fall from your lips. 

“S’tight,” you whimper. 

“How do you expect to take my dick then?” he asks, the words past his lips before he can stop himself. 

There’s a slight choking sound from your end. “How would you fuck me, Hayakawa?”

“Aki,” he corrects you with a slight edge to his voice, not sure why he suddenly feels compelled to do so. 

“How would you fuck me, Aki?”

His dick is straining painfully against his zipper now, a dark spot of precum staining the black fabric of his pants. He presses the heel of his palm against his throbbing shaft to relieve some of the pressure as he hears the damp slide of three of your fingers plunging in and out of your cunt. 

“Till you’re begging me to come.”

You moan for him. 

For him. 

He’s fucked. 

“Would you fuck my mouth to shut me up?” you breathe out, words hoarse. 

“I bet you’d look so pretty choking on my dick.” More precum leaks through, and Aki’s muscles tense. 

“Would I look pretty with your cum all over my face?”

His dick is so painfully hard it feels like it’s going to fall off. 

Aki’s going to kill the fucking Lust Devil with his bare hands. 

“You’re filthy,” he comments, hips rocking upward to no avail.

“Rude,” you exhale between a moan and a whimper, and he imagines the way you’re probably teasing your supple breasts while fucking yourself on your fingers right now. 

“That was a compliment.”

“I haven’t even told you what I’m doing now,” you tease. 

He raises an eyebrow, letting himself run his hand over his throbbing shaft briefly one more time. “What’s that?”

A loud, broken moan follows. “Using what’s dripping out of me to finger my ass.”

Oh. 

He’s really fucked. 

Aki bites his lower lip so hard he tastes blood as he resists the urge to furiously fist his cock. 

“How many?” he croaks. 

“One.”

“Give me two,” he nearly growls. 

“I can’t—“

“Prep yourself for me. Two fingers.”

Aki’s fairly certain he’s never been so desperate to fuck anyone in his life as he is in this moment. 

He hears you gasp and whimper as you slowly ease a second lubricated finger up your ass, knows it’s shoved all the way in by the sobbing moan that follows. 

“Okay,” you whisper shakily. 

“Good girl,” he says again, because he could tell what it did to you the first time. 

You keen at the praise, and he hears as you resume playing with your pussy while plunging in and out of the tight ring of muscle between your cheeks at the same time. 

“I’m close,” you sob. 

“Come for me,” he tells you, like he’s not on the verge of an untouched orgasm himself. 

“Wanna feel you come in my ass,” you whimper. 

Aki’s helpless to hide his answering moan, the mental image sending him reeling. But it’s the sound of you crying out his name as you come that’s his undoing—

“AKI!”

The coil in Aki’s gut unfurls like a whip, white-hot pleasure washing over his body as he trembles with the force of his orgasm. Cum floods his boxers, his hot, sticky seed leaking all over his balls and soaking through the front of his slacks. He gives in and roughly grasps his cock through the damp material, riding out the aftershocks as cum drips along his inner thighs, belatedly realizing just how loudly he’s moaning right along with you. 

Then it’s quiet for a moment, save for the sound of both of you breathing hard. 

“Did you—“

“Text me the address of that motel. Now.”

— likes, comments, &/or reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[sehtoast]

Rebirth (Homelander x OC)

18+ | heavy descriptions of gore, s4 e4 spoilers, the bad room, mentions of sexual abuse/trauma, torture, they're making each other worse in this one actually and homie deserves that kind of ride or die vibe | Fic Directory

“So, how do you feel?”  

Such a simple question for such a… gruesome task.  Benjamin had gone with Homelander to his moment of reconciliation.  Even helped him pipe sloppy icing writing onto that ugly little Carvel cake.

He knew everything.  Long ago, after busting into Stan Edgar’s personal terminal, Ben found the tapes and files on Homelander’s childhood.  Watching them had been sickening at best, but hearing the personal account as described to him by his lover over the years?

Even the do-no-harm bug himself couldn’t find a reason to prevent Homelander from following through.  He’d found John crying in front of that shattered mirror and pulled him out of his stupor once the banter ended.  Benjamin held him on the couch as he sobbed as he often did after run ins with the different facets of his psyche.  Used to be that there was no one to hold him at all, but the bug changed that.

Homelander would crash, but he would have somewhere safe to burn.

He thought about John’s various accounts of his childhood on the flight to the compound.  The incinerator, the bad room, how on edge he always was under the all seeing eye of big brother.

Usually the violent details emerged after nightmares.  Babbled words and cries for mercy as he tossed and turned until he’d shoot up in bed with his eyes primed to protect himself from his own memories.  Benjamin always held him afterward and listened.

“Sometimes I can still feel it,”  John would say, eyes glassy as he’d fight to keep those little shakes from turning into sobs.  No signs of weakness, no reaction.  Part of his conditioning– he cannot let the world know it hurts.  He cannot be a disappointment.

Ben would all but beg him to let it free anyway.  “You don’t have to be strong with me, pumpkin,”  he would always whisper.  “I love you even when you’re not.  Promise.” 

“But I– I have to be,”  Homelander would reply.

Benjamin always asked why.

John could never give an answer.

The worst were the more… intimate details.  Benjamin knew less about these, but there’d always been a sneaking suspicion that things along the lines of that happened.

Homelander spilled the beans after a panic attack during foreplay.  Stuttered out the details of masturbating during the security guard’s breaks. Doing what young boys do, he’d said.  Failing to finish in time and finding himself subject to mockery day in and out.

The resulting body image and self confidence issues, and the occasional difficulty with performance were all the consequence of some jackass further torturing the boy who never had a safe moment to feel what he described as the only good he could find in that awful room.  

Each time, Ben held him.  Promised him he was safe.  There’s no judgment, no mockery, no humiliation, and certainly no name-calling.  With kisses pressed to John’s knuckles, the two would talk it out until the world became steady again.

It’s why Benjamin doesn’t mind watching John laser that piece of shit’s dick clean off.  He doesn’t bat an eye to any of it.  The torture they face is but a fraction of what they’d done to that little boy– a drop in the lake of the things they swear up and down they don’t recall.

The axe forgets, but the tree remembers.

After listening in on Barbara’s account of Homelander’s conditioned obedience and the nature of his birth, he finds he has no problem holding her steady as his love slaughters the rest of them before her eyes.  

Bit by bit, he dismembers them.  Split them in two and paints the room with their remains.  He laughs and laughs, grinning wide and proud as he pries a man’s jaw open until his neck splits just to rip the tongue from his gullet and chuck it at her face.  He doesn’t stop until they’re no more than unrecognizable piles of flesh and viscera. 

True to their perfected teamwork, Ben webs Barbara to the wall to feast her eyes upon Homelander’s good work, and John?

Well, lasering the door and melting it forever shut was ingenious.

She will die in there, nice and slow. It’s no less than she deserves.

It’s heartbreaking to see how little it did to soothe Homelander’s pain.  Revenge, as Benjamin had told him many times, never quite worked out the way people wanted it to.  It’s potent for as long as it takes for the elevator to reach the surface.  It simmers during the flight.  Fades by the time they touch down at the tower.

And then turns to deep, lurching sobs as they shower it all away.

Release, yes… but not enough.  

It could never be enough.

“Johnny–”

“Homelander,” he chokes through tears. He’d been correcting people all day about his name.  “I’m– I just–”

Ben shushes him softly, thumbs swiping away the odd gooeyness of blood and tears.

“H-Homelander… just–” he tries again.  “Just for now… please…” 

Because Homelander was safe.  Homelander had the strength to overcome.  Homelander was the ideal and the power to protect himself.

The arms around Ben’s abdomen pull him impossibly closer.

“Homelander,” Benjamin murmurs, still stroking softly at his love’s face.  “I love you.”

Maybe not the best thing to say to the man claiming to be casting off the shackles of love, but certainly something always worth reminding him of while he crumbles.  There’s a million promises behind those three little words.

I love you when it hurts.  I love you when it doesn’t.

When it is ugly.

When it is beautiful.

As long as it is you.

His love succumbs to more cries, but Homelander knows, deep down, that it’s okay.

He is safe.

He is loved.

There will be no mockery. No humiliation.

Here, in the arms of his little spider, he need not be strong.  Here, he may simply be.

[madhatterbri]

It All Fell Down | D.P. Part 2

Summary: The fallout costs Damian and Y/N their relationship.

Author's Note: Saw him last night after Smackdown in the last dark match. He went against Jey Uso. 😮‍💨 so fine.

It All Fell Down Part 1 | Damian Priest List | Main List

"Are you ready for our match tomorrow?" Rhea asked happily. She sat next to you at the hotel bar. The two of you decided to go late that night to avoid people calling her Mami that night.

You sat on the stool fixated on the bartender as he counted money from the register. Your mind so far in space, it was like you were visiting ET in his home land. All you could think about was Damian and the look on his face when you broke up with him. A nudge to your arm brought you back down to Earth.

"You okay? Is it a full moon? I swear between Damian ignoring my texts about us being here and you being a bloody space cadet tonight, it's like I'm stuck in the twilight zone," Rhea complained and took another drink.

"Damian isn't going to come," you whispered. Guilt ate at you, and you bit your lip.

"Why? Is he feeling sick?" Rhea pressed.

You were unsure if you should tell her and leave it up to Damian, but she was your friend too. "We broke up,"

"What? When?" She asked and scrolled through her messages. Rhea wondered if she missed anything in her chats with Damian. Tonight was the only night that something was off.

"About three hours ago," you answered. You frowned and started to cry. The pain was worse than you could have ever thought possible with dating someone for a few weeks. He was with you for everything. It felt like a dream, but now you were living a nightmare.

"What happened?" She asked and rubbed your back. You cleared your throat and told your side of the story.

💜🖤

You first thought about breaking up with Damian the night Finn found out. Continuing the relationship felt like a dig at Finn. The way he looked at the two of you lived in your mind rent-free. Every time you closed your eyes, you can see his hurt face. Damian convinced you that things would get better and decided not to split.

The relationship was going strong until you finally cornered Finn to talk to you. It was in an elevator, and it was a happy chance. He tried to ignore you, but you cornered him. Finally, he let you have all of it.

He didn't appreciate your broken promise to him or Damian for almost letting Finn ask you for another chance. The betrayal of you two sneaking around instead of telling him was brought up. Now, he was upset because you messed with his career. That conversation made you feel worse. You knew what you had to do.

"Break up? Take it easy. Finn will eventually come around to us," the archer of infamy shrugged. His arms crossed over his chest as you sat at the foot of the bed. Your hands rubbed together nervously.

"No, he won't," your voice cracked. "This was all a mistake. I cost us our friendship to Finn,"

"Our relationship is many things, but it is not a mistake," he defended. "Why are you so willing to throw us away for a man having a temper tantrum?"

"I'm not throwing us away, Dam. We are just going back to being friends," you tried to explain. You knew it would be hard to break up with him, but you never expected such a fight. He told you he didn't know if he could just be friends with you.

The argument didn't get much better from there. There was no yelling, but there was a lot of hurt. Finally, he threw his hands in the air and took a few steps back. There was no changing your mind about all of this.

Before he left your hotel room, he turned to look at you. "I love you, Y/N. I just wish that would have been enough for us,"

💜🖤

The air in the bar was thick. Rhea bit her lip and contemplated on what to say next. All this drama had gone on long enough. For the most part, everyone kept it professional, and it was contained between you and Judgment Day.

"It's late. Why don't you get some sleep? I want you to be good for tomorrow. Here, I will help walk you to your room," Rhea offered. You gladly took her up on her offer. She helped get you settled back in and left.

She stood outside your door and grabbed her phone. Finn's name lit up her phone screen. She hit the message button.

"You and I need to talk," the message simply stated. She hit send and waited for his response.

[lukedanger]

Day 10: Second Chances

For @owlcatober - a former companion gets a second chance, and Arueshalae talks to her.

[Ao3 Link]

====

Of all the horrors that Arueshalae had anticipated in her return to the Abyss, there was one reunion she had not expected. Perhaps if given time she might have considered the encounter with an abyssal larva bearing a former comrade’s face, or perhaps demons born from that larva. Yet in the whirlwind of preparations, the thought of meeting a former companion was far from everyone’s mind.

In hindsight, though, Arueshalae should have known better than to assume that Pharasma’s judgment erased everything. After all, Arueshalae herself had her realization by way of Desna awakening the memories of the damned souls that eventually became her. And that was without the consideration of what this mythic power would do to the process.

Arueshalae watched the subject of her thoughts: at first glance, another succubus with black bat wings and similarly colored tail, pointed ears, piercing brown eyes, and horns that had been filed down to be barely noticeable in the bangs of her long black hair that hung behind her past her shoulders. She wore a light blue half-dress over white, much as she had in life, even as the mortally feminine attire gave way to practical brown pants and boots below the hips.

Then she transformed. Not the transformation that Arueshalae knew all too well to match her victim’s desires, but shifted into an entirely new demon. An incorporeal black mass with wings black as midnight, long claws for hands, and a black fog for legs. The dress she wore also turned translucent with the transformation, staying with it. An invidiak, more commonly known as shadow demons. A demon of envy, masterful possessors, and also often servants of their Lady in Shadows.

Then the demon transformed again. The bloody red form of a babau, all traces of beauty lost as it was replaced with a horned skull-like face, a long tail, clawed feet, and slimy red skin. The dress shifted to match, and so far seemed to be holding despite the red acid. The demon’s true form, or at least the one that was victorious in a contest of consumption. Demons of murder, the sin that had defined this soul the most in life, followed shortly after by the other two.

In a way, Camellia Gwerm had not avoided the fate of abyssal larvae after all.

Camellia had her back turned to Arueshalae, the former half-elf looking in a mirror she had brought from the city below as she explored her new self. It did not take long for Camellia to return to the form of a succubus, even as she pouted at her wings and ran a hand along her forehead to make sure the horns had been filed down.

“Fascinating, is it not?”

Arueshalae looked to her right. She had stepped up to where Nenio and Woljif were keeping an eye on Camellia - or at least, Woljif had his eyes on the task. Nenio had been studying Camellia’s transformation since their first encounter, finally interested in the noble bastard after having previously shown little interest in her.

“I dunno,” Woljif admitted, “seems like a gimmick to me. I mean, don’t succubi transform already?”

“Yes, but they cannot truly impersonate other beings of the outer planes! Not without powerful magic, even in comparison to the most accomplished mortal spellcasters.”

“If you say so.”

Arueshalae folded her arms together, frowning. “Camellia has become something strange. Three demons fused together.”

“Or one being split into three - see the fey at the Battlebliss Arena as an example of the phenomenon.” Nenio put a hand to her chin. “Truly, we have stumbled upon a remarkable discovery. I am quite glad that she was not smote on the spot and that we assisted in completing Lady Areelu’s experiment!”

“Yay, we helped a shadow-babau hybrid add a succubus to the tryst,” Woljif deadpanned with an eye roll. “Honestly, as far as the chief’s ‘dumb idea but she wants to see what happens’ moments go, this is worse than studying Vang’s notes.”

“I would note that my assistant adamantly refused to recreate swarm boy’s experiments, not even seeking volunteers ready to sacrifice in the name of science!” Nenio insisted with just a bit too much regret in her voice for anyone to be comfortable. “Nonetheless, assisting rich girl has provided us with invaluable insight into Areelu Vorlesh’s research! She studied this phenomenon for its own value, but more importantly to understand the survival of the mortal ego through Pharasma’s judgment. She must be working on truly revolutionary work for rich girl’s transfiguration to be a mere stepping stone!”

“Whoo, big deal. Doesn’t tell us how they’re makin’ the mythic monsters.”

“No,” Arueshalae admitted, “but perhaps it is something we should all think about if this was not an accident.”

“Gee, thanks, like I haven’t considered what demon blood does.”

“Regardless of tiefling boy’s sour disposition, you wanted to speak to her demon girl? We were not asked to bar verbal inquiry, so by all means!”

Arueshalae nodded, inhaling. Yes, she needed to. Camellia had tried to reach out to her in life. In hindsight it was probably for horror stories to get off on, but perhaps something remained of that bond? Perhaps truly seeing life in the Abyss had convinced Camellia she had deserved her fate but now could change her ways?

Arueshalae stepped forward, flicking her tail to hit the rocky surface so it was clear she was not trying to sneak up on the new demoness. Camellia heard, turning her head partway, and then she affected a smile. The same false smile, as Daeran had put it, of a woman pretending to be enjoying herself in society. Yet within there was something genuine - Camellia was not as discrete as she had believed she was at the sight of horrors.

“So,” Camellia started, “Arueshalae. How do I look?”

“Much as you used to,” Arueshalae admitted honestly. “The tailors of Alushinyrra are as precise as I remember.”

“It helps when one remembers not only wearing the clothes, but the commissioning itself.” Camellia ran a hand around the front of her collarbone, then down her chest to admire the deft replication, then scowled. “If only the price was something other than her pleasure. But I suppose you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

There were quite a few things such a jab could allude to, and Arueshalae was not interested in revisiting any of them. “This is the way of the Abyss. Everything can be currency, whether you wish to spend it or not.”

“Hmmm,” Camellia noted as she glanced towards her nominal guards, just a bit too far away to hear if they lowered their voices. “Yes, it is true. Even in Charnelhome, fools wanted what satisfaction they could get. At least I was able to escape swiftly enough after my shadowy self found me.”

Camellia tried to hide it, and the Abyss had clearly been a harsh but effective teacher in such a short time, but Arueshalae could still perceive how much the experience had horrified Camellia. How must it have felt for one to technically succeed, especially for someone who was used to being on top in such an encounter? Arueshalae had her own run-ins with invidiaks, including an inexperienced one trying to take over her body, so it was not an academic question for her. 

“Still, this has been an,” a pause, “educational experience. One I am eager to move past. I suspect you feel the same.”

Arueshalae blinked. Was she right? Focus! She told herself. Don’t play her hand too early. “This is not the homecoming I would have wanted, no, but we have to find the source of the mythic demons. Even all of us together could not stop an army of them.”

“I suppose not. But at least here, you are most helpful, are you not?” Camellia smirked. “Elaina must hang onto your every word and story now. More than she had, that is.”

“She needs all the information she can get. You remember what she said about knowledge.”

“Knowledge is power, a road to using it better, and so on.” Camellia sighed. “I suppose knowledge of Mireya was not enough…”

“Don’t lie. Not about this.”

“Oh please, I know full well that my secret is out. Can a girl not use sarcasm?”

“Sorry,” Arueshalae apologized as she felt her cheeks flush. “But, I know how hard it is to earn their trust.”

“Evidently not as hard as I imagined. So, where is your mark?”

“Mark?” Arueshalae asked.

“Don’t play dumb,” Camellia reached a hand to her dress, opening the top until her heart was visible. A brand had been burned there between her breasts, shaped as a sword before a sun. “A Mark of Justice. Divine retribution for misbehaving. Elaina and her holy warden friends were eager enough to brand me in private. What are a few shared secrets between demon girls marked by a paladin?”

“She never- Elaina never put any sort of mark on me.”

“Well, I suppose she must not have been powerful enough back then. Who then? Sosiel, because you want love instead of lust? Or maybe Lady Sigrun - Desna’s protege marked by Desna’s high priestess in Drezen? Arsinoe, with how you hung out by the cathedral?” Camellia ran out of alternatives as Arueshalae remained silent, still staring at the brand.

“Are- are you kidding me?!” Camellia finally snarled as she let go of her dress. “She branded me, but not you?! Why? You did far worse than I ever did!”

She was right. Of course she was: Camellia’s deeds were horrible, but her praying mantis ways (as Daeran put it) were a drop in the bucket in a place like the Abyss. Arueshalae had done far worse than Camellia ever had, and far more brazenly at that. Or was it just volume overwhelming severity?

So why does she trust me? Arueshalae wracked her thoughts as Camellia fumed, unwittingly shifting into her Invidiak form as her envy took hold. When did Elaina start trusting her? It had to be early. Was it hearing her voice in Kenabres? Maybe, or was it-

“I don’t think she trusted me,” Arueshalae finally said, “Not at first. But I think she trusted Desna. Do you remember the Song of Elysium?”

“I was there when she disappeared,” Camellia snapped back. “And when she sang it to you in that cell. Fine, so a goddess vouched for you. But then you lied about Greengates! If she brands people to keep them in line, surely that was the time to do it!”

Again, not wrong. “Then you know what I told her - that I was still thinking as a demon. Not my very being calling to lust and pleasure, seeking sex, good food, and praise, but the way we live. Perhaps she genuinely believed me then, in the honest admission of regret.”

“So what, I should have told her that I like to kill? That it is not a want, but a need. That my desire for blood was like an annoying fly that cannot be seen or swatted away?” Camellia’s form began to shift again - and again she did not seem to realize it as her skin turned red and started to secrete acidic red slime. “That I received no relief from the death of enemies in battle, but from those who believed me a friend? That to truly silence the fly for a time, I must see the disbelief and dread in their eyes as they perish? From my first puppy to men thinking with their swords?”

“Like a demon,” Arueshalae said, not catching what she had said until it was already out.

Camellia was about to snarl, fully in her babau form, but stopped herself, then took a half step back and nodded. “I suppose it was demon-like. It is something I always had - even as a little girl, even before spirits began to whisper to me. You know all too well what it means to be compelled to do something.”

“Do you still feel it?”

“Of course. I am a demon, yet the urge to kill feels no different than when I was alive.” Camellia tilted her head. “It is simply who I am, it seems. Who I was born to be.”

“You can still change, though. You have the bodies of three demons, yet you are not ruled by any of their sins. Like a mortal, you are free to choose a path.” Arueshalae took a deep breath. “I do not pretend to understand how this works, but you have a second chance, Camellia. Surely it is too valuable to waste.”

“Of course: I fully intend to prove myself,” Camellia consciously shifted back to her succubus form. “I will slay the Crusade’s enemies here in the Abyss and back on Golarion. I will prove my worth, even if I must leave when the Worldwound is closed.”

It was a repentant sounding sentiment. One that Arueshalae wanted to believe, if only because it meant that she too could find her redemption. Yet, Arueshalae knew demons all too well, and had been closer to Camellia than most of their party. The Abyss had taught Camellia lessons in how to lie, yet they were lessons Arueshalae had mastered centuries ago.

Still, there was one last piece before she was certain.

“Do you not regret the murders you committed?”

“Of course I hold regret, given the fate it delivered me to,” Camellia traced her finger along the front half of her neck, seemingly unaware of the red secretion following her finger. “But having suffered my just punishment, surely I can use this second chance to better myself?”

Arueshalae felt her black heart sink.

“You only regret being caught,” she sighed as she shook her head. “All those senseless deaths still don’t mean anything to you, do they? The hopes and dreams of the men and women you murdered, they mean nothing to you. And now you ask why you are not trusted.”

“If you get a second chance, why shouldn’t I?”

“Is that mark not your second chance? If you truly want to change, Camellia, should you not wear that mark as proof of penitence?” Arueshalae did not relent as Camellia’s scowl grew. “You knew that what you did was wrong, but you kept doing it. Will keep doing it if you are allowed back onto Golarion. If you truly wish to change, Camellia, if you truly want a second chance? You have to be willing to change yourself.”

Arueshalae took a step away, then turned away as Camellia snarled in fury but knew better than to try anything. Small wafts of smoke arose from her dress as the babau acid tested its wards.

“Funnily enough,” Nenio was saying to Woljif as Arueshalae passed, “babaus usually excrete their acid after the kill, rather than in anticipation.”

“Oh I could have gone without that thought, thank you very much!”

Arueshalae wished she could have chuckled at his harmless misfortune the way friends would, but Arueshalae was weighed down by her thoughts.

It was unlikely that Camellia would truly change. Even Sosiel and Ember felt that Camellia was not interested in redeeming herself, even as Ember noted how miserable the Abyss made her. And none of them were willing to let Camellia back onto Golarion. Even if they were willing to, though, they could not help her.

Something she had overheard the Hand say to Elaina suddenly made so much more sense to Arueshalae: that ultimate victory over the evils of the Abyss would only occur when no mortal soul willingly turned to evil, but those who tried to create such by force only became tyrants. If they wanted to drag Camellia to the light, they would have to do far more than place a conditional curse on her. They would have to take away her freedom to choose.

Camellia had her second chance. All that remained was to see whether she would truly take it to be a better person, or try to exploit it.

Much as Arueshalae hoped otherwise, she knew it would be the latter.

===

Some notes as this is a bit of a complicated idea: I have nursed the idea of Camellia showing up in Act IV as a babau if you killed her in Act III for a while. This was finally a chance to explore that, even if the full story might wait.

The basic idea is that Camellia's share of the mythic power allowed her to survive the ego death of Pharasma's judgment, so when she arrives in the Abyss she would be a fully formed demon with her personality intact. I played with the rules a bit (mythic power is absolutely doing a ton of heavy lifting here) as when discussing this with a friend who is very familiar with a canon example (Mangvhune from the Hell's Rebels AP) the idea of the sins splitting came up. One-of-Many in Mask of the Betrayer was a fun concept I never got to use as I never did an evil playthrough, so it felt like a good fit here even if it isn't technically how it usually would go.

Well, between that and the ego death averted, it seems like the thing that Areelu would look into, wouldn't it? I do want to do more with this idea eventually, but for now... here's my shot at it.

[inkluvs]

Sorry about that! would a sunshine x grumpy trope be okay...?

Alstroemeria - going to an event that the other person in interested in just to see them happy - with Steve Harrington or Sirius Black?

could be worse

hi omg i'm so sorry i think i took this the wrong way? i made steve sunshine instead of r LMAO i hope u like this anyways <3 tw: uhh r is kinda anxious? this is really just me projecting <3 (0.5k)

steve harrington x fem! reader

masterlist // taglist

Steve is smiling, pretty rose-colored lips twisted at the corners as he spotted you from across the room. You were tired, and you bet you looked it, too, from the way he frowned as he got closer to you. He’d been invited to a charity event, one of which you couldn’t particularly remember the name of, and you’d offered to join him against your better judgment.

You’d reasoned with yourself that seeing Steve happy, in the end, would be more important than any amount of dread you racked up from past experiences at similar events. He, however, disagreed, triple checking on whether you were sure you wanted to come, then reminding you that the two of you could leave whenever, whenever being now.

His hand brushed against yours, and warmth blossomed in the center of your chest as he pulled you to a corner. “You alright?”

“Could be worse,” you smiled, “you?”

He mirrored your expression, tilting his head like a curious cat before replying, “‘M not joking, honey. You look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

“I’m here for you, Steve,” his cheeks flushed a rosy pink at that, “don’t wanna be anywhere else.” You leaned back onto the wall, one foot against it with your back pressed flush against the brick, and he did the same, one leg in front of the other as he pressed the side of his torso into the rough material. The top button of his dress shirt was undone, and a bit of his hair peeked through, decorating the freckled planes of his chest.

“Like what you see?” he murmured, cheeks splitting in a grin. You slapped his bicep, and he pouted promptly, pulling a fit of giggles from the base of your throat.

“Was gonna offer to fix that, but if you don’t want me to,” you trailed off. There was nothing that needed fixing, really, but you’d take any excuse to touch him. Any reason to ground yourself, and he knew that. So, he let you.

It was all warm brushes of your skin against his and heated breath as you took much too long to take hold of both sides of the fabric. He didn’t mention it, of course, instead admiring the way you focused on him, admiring the way you were enamored with him, even. Once you’d finally slipped the button in place, you smoothed the fabric off.

Any excuse to touch him, you repeated to yourself. And he leaned into you, stubbled chin poking the crown of your head as it rested on top of you, like a reminder that he's always there, that you're never too much. He was hugging you, and for a few seconds, you stood there like you always did, unsure of what to do with your arms, but then you melted into it.

He'd decided a while ago that if he accomplished one thing, it'd be getting you used to his affections. It'd be convincing you you were worth it, and every day he got closer, and every day Steve pulled away after any form of physical contact with a dopey grin adorning his mouth, and you could never quite figure out why.

"We'll leave in 10, 'kay? Want some time with my girl."

[mallows-marsh]

Madison Leanne Duncan | 24 | 5’7 | February 1st

Personality: Madison has always been open about herself and things she enjoys. She found an interest in psychedelics as a teenager, taking them semi frequently to enjoy some escapism in her life. She’s decided to surround a good portion of her life around her interests in these drugs, the aesthetics of decades past, and horticulture. Despite her extracurricular activities, Maddie is quite smart. Though she tends to fall into believing in pseudosciences like astrology and the like, proving that she’s kind of gullible. 

She isn’t afraid to be loud about her interests, hoping it’ll attract her to the right woman/women one day. In the meantime, she’s happy to make all the friends and stoner buddies in the world. She is a free spirit with a zest for life, hoping to inspire those around her. She has an intense carefree and vibrant energy, always eager to explore new experiences and meet new people. Resilient beyond words, Madison has learned to navigate life’s challenges independently, having always been able to maintain her authenticity despite the lack of support from her family. She often wears her heart on her sleeve, valuing honesty and openness and encourages others to embrace their own sensitivity. Backstory: Not exactly raised in a very welcoming environment, Maddie has learned to be herself by herself. Her father was stern and controlling, often arguing with Madison about her choices. Her mother was kind but too scared to stand up for herself or Madison, leaving Madison to figure things out on her own. From an early age, Madison felt like she didn’t belong at home. Her father's harshness and her mother's silence made her seek comfort and understanding elsewhere. She was very close to her older brother, Blane, and they were best friends. But as Blane grew older, he got involved in toxic online communities and adopted harmful beliefs, causing a painful split between them and leaving Madison feeling betrayed and alone.

As a teenager, Madison found an escape through psychedelics introduced by her friends. These experiences opened up a new world for her, helping her break free from her oppressive home life. She also fell in love with the styles and culture of the 60s, 70s, and 80s, finding inspiration in the past. Her interest in plants started as a hobby and soon became a passion, giving her a sense of purpose and a way to care for living things. Realizing she was gay was a turning point for Madison. It helped her understand herself better but made things worse with her father. When she came out, her father immediately rejected her, and they barely spoke for almost a year, even though they lived together. This rejection was very painful, but it also made Madison more determined to live her truth and find relationships based on love and acceptance.

Motivations and Goals: Madison is motivated by a desire to escape the negative influences of her past, particularly her father and brother. She wants to distance herself from their judgment and toxicity, aiming to create a life where she is surrounded by positivity and acceptance. Something she wants most in her life free of all things negative is a partner, one who appreciates her for who she is. Until then, she’s happy to make friends and build a network of buddies and fellow enthusiasts. 

Ultimately, Maddie’s goal is to live a life true to herself, free from societal expectations and familial pressures. She strives to live independently while building some sort of community that supports and celebrates individuality.

Likes:

Psychedelics

Roller-skating

Gardening

Music festivals

Tarot reading

Dislikes:

Harshing the vibe

Her brother and father

Societal norms

Anti-drug rhetoric

Appearance: Madison stands slightly taller than the average woman, is fair-skinned and covered in freckles. Her hair is blonde and constantly frizzy from an unkempt perm. She has blue eyes which are usually bloodshot nine times out of ten. Her wardrobe spans decades, ranging from the more flashy 60s outfits to groovy 70s wear and eventually landing somewhere in the 80s to match her hairstyle.

[kelyon]

Hot Cocoa and Stolen Kisses 5: Peppermint

After the Thanksgiving "date," Gold comes over to Lacey's apartment

Read on AO3

They did not have sex on Thanksgiving. 

This was unexpected. It wasn’t like Lacey to wait for things. She’d been lucky enough to have a life where impulses and whims rarely had lasting consequences. Go to university on a different continent! Party on and hook up with whoever! Change your major! Change your schools! Give up on college to start a small business! Give up your business to live like a recluse in Bumfuck, Maine! Seduce your landlord by plying him with cocoa! Who cared about any of it? 

What could possibly go wrong?

Being with Roald was the first time she had ever really worried about things going wrong. If something bad happened between the two of them, no amount of money or charm or cutesy arrogance would make it better. She couldn’t handle that. She couldn’t handle being so close to this man and then never being near him again. She couldn’t fuck this up.

So, against her worse judgment, she’d asked if they could hold off on sex for a while. Until they figured things out a little better. Until they got more used to all these beautiful, powerful, sanity-crushing feelings. Basically, until they couldn’t handle not having sex for another minute. God bless Roald, he seemed to think that was reasonable.  

After a courtship that had existed mostly in private, they were happy to start “officially” dating while in the public eye. They had dinner at Granny’s on the Friday after Thanksgiving. The next day they split a giant muffin at Storybrooke Coffee, where Roald did not even glance at the hot chocolate menu. Then they walked along the docks, for the few minutes it wasn’t raining or sleeting. The closest they came to being alone together was on Sunday when Roald invited her to look at some antiques in his pawn shop. This was technically during business hours, so the store was open to anyone who might wander in and interrupt them. Lacey stayed on one side of the counter and Roald stayed on the other. 

It was all painfully chaste, which was good. If nothing else, it eased Lacey’s fears that their physical compatibility would outpace every other connection they had. This way, they were actually getting to know each other. They were enjoying each other’s company. Since both of them had confessed to their bone-deep loneliness, it was nice to know that wasn’t the only thing that brought them together. Neither Lacey nor Roald was with the other just because it was better than being alone. They really, actually, liked each other.     

When December first rolled around and Roald came by the apartment to collect rent, it would be the first time they had been alone together since Thanksgiving. Lacey wasn’t sure what to expect, but she did shave her legs and clean up her bedroom, just in case. 

She also made a new flavor of hot chocolate.

At 4:08, she got a call.

“I should have told you this earlier,” Roald said. “I’ve rearranged the collection schedule a bit, to make it so that you’re my last stop of the day. We--” he hesitated. She imagined him licking his lips. “We can have as much time together as you’d like.”

Lacey grinned and shook her head. “Mr. Gold changing up his routine? You might as well put up a billboard that says ‘I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND!’ in giant letters.”

He sounded as amused as she felt. “As if half the town already wasn’t gossiping about us at the diner together. The looks I’ve gotten today…”

“They just don’t know what I know.” She stirred the pot of hot chocolate on her stove. “Since you’re coming by later, do you want me to order something for dinner?”

“I was planning on cooking for you again, at your place. I stopped by the market this afternoon. Picked up a few essentials.”

“You didn’t need to do that. I really don’t run out of food all that often.”

“I know, sweetheart.” God, the warmth in his voice when he called her that! “Just let me take care of you, hmm?” 

“Yeah, fine.” She tried to keep the smile out of her voice on the phone. “Just get over here so you can take care of me in person, how about that?”

“Oh, I intend to.”

They said their good-byes and Lacey hung up the phone. Then she let out a long, low whistle and decided to give her bedroom another once-over. It seemed very possible this could be the night they decided they couldn’t not have sex for another minute. 

****

She was shivering outside the library when his car pulled up to the side door that led to the stairs to her apartment. She had thought her stylish camel-colored wool coat would be enough protection against the cold while she waited. Apparently a parka would have been a better choice. 

“What are you doing out here?” Roald asked when he saw her. He wasn’t angry. There was a light in his eyes that was more than just the street lamps. “You must be freezing! Go inside.”

“I thought you might need help carrying the groceries.” Taking a wide step over a puddle of slush,  Lacey made for the trunk.

Sure enough, when Roald opened the lid, there were three paper bags from the grocery store and a small white box with a bakery logo on the top. Lacey smirked. She was right. There was no way he could have carried it all in one trip! 

“All this for one night?” she asked as she picked up two of the fuller-looking bags.

“No.” 

Holding his cane in the crook of his arm, Roald shut the trunk with a definitive thud. The other bag and the bakery box were in his free hand. Carefully, he picked a clear path to the sidewalk. When he looked at Lacey again, he must have seen how confused she was. His lips quirked up. He leaned toward her and placed a hot kiss on her cheek.

“None of this is for only one night, sweetheart. Now let’s get you in the warm.”

****

She set her bags on the kitchen table, then took Roald’s. He took off his coat and gloves and looked around for a place to put them. Lacey hung his things up in the coat closet next to hers. When she turned around, he had taken off his suit coat and hung it over the back of her kitchen chair. 

Lacey grinned at that. He certainly was making himself at home. He wasn’t wearing a vest today either, just a forest green shirt and a tie in dark burgundy. 

“Why, Mr. Gold!” she played at being shocked. “Do I spy a hint of Christmas spirit in your wardrobe?” 

He looked up from putting a carton of eggs in the refrigerator and smiled at her. “Well, it is December, isn’t it?”

“Sure is.” She put a deliberate sway in her step as she sauntered past him to give the hot cocoa a stir. “Care to guess how I’m celebrating?”

He stood behind her, his hands on her hips. Burying his face in her hair, he murmured into her ear: “You know I could smell that peppermint from outside.”

There was something in his voice that made the observation sound absolutely filthy. Like he was telling her he could smell how wet she was. The hunger in him, the growling demand for what he wanted, it absolutely melted her.

“Do you want it now?” she asked in a breathy voice. 

He chuckled darkly, pulled her even more tightly against him. “Whichever it you mean, my dear, I assure you the answer is yes.”

She turned around, snaked her arms around his neck and brought him down for a kiss. He followed her easily, returning the kiss and wrapping his arms around her waist. He bent himself to her desires as completely as she did to his.

After a moment, she stepped away, softly breaking their embrace. 

“Let’s be adults and put the groceries away before we do anything fun.”

Roald swooped down for a quick peck, then went back to the bags. Lacey stayed by the stove for a minute. She was close enough to the low heat that she knew the shiver that went down her spine had nothing to do with the cold. 

He’d laid out dry goods on the counter instead of going through her cupboards. She put them away haphazardly, surprised how much room she had in this kitchen. Room she’d never bothered to use until now. When was the last time she had bought anything that wasn’t booze or hot cocoa supplies?

From the bottom of the last bag, Lacey pulled out a box of condoms. Chuckling, she held them up for Roald to see. 

“Hopeful, were we?”

He glanced at the box, then looked away. “Prepared.” He cleared his throat. “Hopefully not presumptuous?”

“No,” Lacey said. “I’m actually glad you brought your own. I wasn’t sure if any of what I had here would be the right fit.”

Now he let a little light come into his eyes. “You were prepared too?”

“Safety first,” she shrugged. “I’ve done some reckless shit in my time, but I take STIs and pregnancy very seriously. And some guys ‘forget’ to have any on them, so it’s easier to keep my own supply. ”

Roald nodded, and put the last of the fresh vegetables in the fridge. Lacey held the box of condoms in two hands in front of her. Her fingers tapped against the plastic wrapping. 

“So what do you want?” she asked abruptly. “I mean--what do you want to do first? Looks like we can choose between eat, drink, or, uh, be merry.”

He crossed the distance between them, staring at her with that hunger again. Lacey’s breath caught and didn’t release until he had enveloped her in his arms and covered her mouth with his own. Only when he released her did she start to breathe again. 

“Eat,” he whispered. His lips brushed against her forehead. “And drink.” He kissed her again. “And please you until you can’t move, my sweet Lacey.”

She shuddered. She buried her face in the crook of his neck. He held her. 

“I don’t think I can wait.” Lacey breathed. “I want you so much.”

“Good.” 

He took the box of condoms from her unresisting hands and made his way to her bedroom door.

“Wait a sec,” she blinked out of her haze of horniness. “You just said you wanted to eat first.”

“Yes I do.” He kissed her deeply. “More than anything else in the world.”

“So--”

“Dinner will take less than twenty minutes. I trust the cocoa won’t be ruined by an extra hour or two on low heat. We can enjoy all that later, when we’re ready for a break.”

“But you said--”

“Lacey.” He turned her to face him, held her shoulders in both hands. He smiled at her. His voice was so warm, so gentle. “I want you, sweetheart. I want to eat you out, and drink you down, and bring you so much pleasure you don’t believe it’s real. Does that sound good to you?”

Her mouth had fallen open at some point. She shut it. 

“I’m sorry, my brain stopped working somewhere around the phrase ‘eat you out.’ I’m not used to hearing that from a guy on a first time.” 

Grinning, Roald opened the door for her. “Not to question your past choices, my dear, but it’s possible that you’ve been going to bed with the wrong men.”

“Let’s fix that.”

****

Before he’d arrived, Lacey had gathered up every candle in her apartment and strategically placed them around her bedroom. They’d been burning for about an hour now, so the room was warm and heady with contrasting fragrances: Sandalwood and cinnamon, fresh linen and eucalyptus, white sage and smoked cedar. Every scent played in interesting ways with the peppermint cocoa wafting in from the kitchen. 

In the candlelit warmth, it was easy to take off her clothes. She’d intentionally worn an oversized sweater with a button-down underneath. She undid the buttons as suavely as she could while Roald lavished kisses on every new inch of exposed skin. When she was down to her pink lace bralette, his breath moved hot and wet over her breasts. Lacey shivered, and held him closer. 

“I would have worn a skirt.” She almost laughed when he started fumbling with the button and fly of her corduroys. “If I had known you’d be giving me oral, I would have worn a skirt and thigh highs and no panties.”

Roald made a noise in the back of his throat. “You would have frozen,” he chuckled. “That’s the sort of stunt you should save for springtime.” Another noise, this one thoughtful. “When it’s warmer, perhaps the two of us can go on a picnic. I have a cabin out by the lake, very private. That’s when you can wear a skirt with no panties. I’ll lay you out on a blanket and make you scream for all the forest to hear.”

She heard the promises in that fantasy. When it’s warmer, in the springtime, at his cabin. None of this was for one night. Lacey had never had a boyfriend last longer than six months. If Roald stuck with her until spring, that would put him in the top two for putting up with her. 

A sliver of panic sliced through her at the thought of fucking this up. She couldn’t keep away the thought that he might get sick of her once he really knew her, once the high had worn off, once it was too warm for hot cocoa. But Roald already knew her as well as anybody ever had, and he’d kept coming back. Lacey didn’t want to fuck this up. Lacey cared about not fucking this up. She cared about him.

Maybe that would be enough.

While she was working through her issues, Roald was kissing her. He held her jaw with one hand and had gotten the other down her pants to cup her ass. It occurred to Lacey that there was a real disparity of clothing going on so she began to pull at his belt buckle.

“No, no,” he whispered, catching her wrist. “Not yet, sweetheart. Let me focus on you for now.”

“At least take your shirt off,” she murmured. 

He backed away to obey her, sitting up on his knees on her bed. There was a silken swish as he took off his tie. Lacey was sure that would become one of her favorite sounds in the world. He undid his buttons while she watched, propped up on her elbows. Sneaky bastard tried to leave his undershirt on, but Lacey pulled it off once he was close enough to grab. The candlelight caught the image of a tattoo on his bicep. 

“Is that a lizard?”

He made a face, half-grin, half-wince. “When I was younger, I had a girlfriend who always called me cold-blooded.” He kissed her. “I got the tattoo after some risky investments fell through and I lost a lot of money very quickly. That was when she left me.”

“Yikes.”

He kissed her softly. “I dodged a bullet. I would have married that woman, if she had waited for things to improve again. At least she showed her true nature before we’d done anything permanent.”

Lacey pressed her lips against the ink. “Have you been married, ever?”

He shook his head. “I always idealized it. Having a wife, children, the kind of home I never got growing up. None of it ever happened for me. I never… lived a life that allowed for anyone to come close. Not anyone worthwhile.”

She pulled him down to her for a kiss. His lips were so soft, so full of yearning.

“I never want to hurt you, Roald,” she whispered. “If I fuck this up, it’s my fault. Not yours. You’re so good, you really are. You’re so much better than people around here think you are.”

“Sweetheart…”

The word hung in the air between their lips, hot and full of meaning. Too much meaning for either of them to say more. Roald kissed his way down Lacey’s neck again, pausing only to push up her bralette. She pulled it up over her head then lay back down. He stared at her naked breasts with a need that seemed to verge on obsession. 

“You are so beautiful.” He rasped out the words just before falling onto her flesh. Frenzied, he kissed her and sucked at her, flicked his tongue over her nipples, grazed his stubble against her tender skin. 

Lacey cried out, both at the physical sensation and the deeper meaning behind it. For the first time in her life, Lacey French was making love to someone. Roald loved her, even if he hadn’t said it yet. Had he even thought it yet? Was he aware of what he was doing? Did the closed-off, buttoned-up Mr. Gold understand how he was revealing himself by ravishing her? 

His kisses trailed down her stomach, down to the line of her underwear and her open corduroys. His hands gripped at the fabric, but he stopped himself just long enough to ask:

“Off?”

Lacey nodded. “Off.”

Now her skin was naked and exposed. Her pale knees bent up, framing Roald’s tan face and his smooth, dark hair. The only things whiter than her legs were his eyes. He pressed his mouth against the side of her knee, but kept his gaze focused on her face. He was watching her. Reading her. Just like she was reading him.

“Please,” she whispered.

She raised her hips off the bed so he could pull off her panties. He knelt between her legs while she opened herself up for him. His nostrils flared and his beautiful eyes slowly closed as he prepared to take the plunge.

Propped up so she could see him, Lacey let out a single burst of laughter. The sharp noise was harsh in this room of breaths and whispers. She put her hand over her mouth, as though that could erase the disruption.

Roald’s eyes opened, but otherwise he didn’t move. At least he knew her well enough not to get mad about her making an idiot of herself.

“Yes?” he asked dryly. 

“I didn’t mean to kill the mood,” Lacey half-apologized. “But I was totally fucking right about you.”

He pushed himself up onto his arms, so he was at her eye level. “Concerning what?”

Pulling her legs back, Lacey moved forward. Now they were face to face. 

“The first time I gave you hot cocoa,” she said in a low and husky voice. “I knew that was the same face you’d make when you were about to go down on someone. I knew it!”

Lunging forward, Roald kissed her back down onto the pillows. She was on her back, her legs spread, her whole body laid out for him like a feast.

“What can I say?” he murmured as he kissed his way back down her body. “I like to indulge in delicious things.”  

She had a quip ready, but then his mouth was on her mound and every thought flew out of her head. He kissed her, slowly and thoroughly. His tongue glided over her clit, then dove down between her folds. 

“Fuck!” Lacey gasped. “Oh, fuck, Roald!”

His eyes looked up at her from between her legs. His eyes, black and white in the flickering candles, locked onto hers. His tongue stilled. He waited. Waited for her.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, keep going!”

That was all he needed to attack. To pull her up into his mouth and consume her.  His large hands gripped her hips, squeezing her skin so hard she thought she’d bruise. His nose pushed against her clit with relentless pressure. His mouth…

His mouth!

His mouth never stopped moving. He sucked and kissed and licked and probed every part of her that he could find. God, how was this man breathing? His quick gasps seemed almost panicked, like he was afraid she’d disappear if he ever came up for air. 

Lacey moved her legs from at his sides to over his shoulders. She dug her heels into his bare back and threaded her fingers into his long hair. The better he ate her, the tighter her grip got on him. By the time she started coming, she was squeezing him so tight between her thighs she was half-afraid she’d pop his head off. 

It only seemed to encourage him. Roald pushed himself deeper and deeper into her cunt, rocked his head against her to match her frantic thrusting. He stayed between her legs as her first orgasm crested. The wave crashed over his body, and he drank down every drop of her. 

Panting, loosely collapsed on her bed, Lacey placed a limp hand on the back of Roald’s head. His hair was damp with sweat and other fluids. He rested against one of her thighs. Pillowed on her soft flesh, he caught his breath.

“I haven’t done that in ages,” he sighed.

It took Lacey a moment to string some words together. “I… could not tell,” she managed. “You seem very well practiced.” 

He chuckled at that, rubbed her calf up and down. “I’ve never believed that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Perhaps it’s more true for actions than it is for people.”

“I dunno.” Slowly, Lacey’s heart rate returned to normal. “Not to be too whatever about it, but I’ve received my share of oral sex, and that was… yeah, that was better than anything… ever? Yeah, I’m gonna commit to it: That was the best cunnilingus I’ve ever had in my life.”

Lifting his head, Roald placed a lascivious kiss on the swell of her inner thigh. 

“So far.”  

Before Lacey could say another word, he was licking her again. Gently this time. He seemed to be aware of how tender she’d be. Her flesh was so hot it verged on pain, but his touch was soothing. He lapped up the juices he’d wrung out of her. The sound of his tongue was punctuated with murmurs and half-stifled moans. 

After a few minutes, Lacey was able to prop herself up again. She looked down at him, her lover, her boyfriend, her Roald. For once, he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were closed, he was just enjoying himself. He was just enjoying her. 

He liked to indulge in delicious things.

Gradually, he added fingers into his tool kit of pleasure. He opened up her folds, traced the outline of her outer lips. His hands exposed the core of her, so his tongue could explore with quick, delicate licks.

Still sitting up, Lacey brushed his long hair away from his face. God, he was so beautiful. His dark eyes flicked up at her. He smiled, even as most of his face was buried in her cunt.

“Fill me,” she murmured. “I want to feel you inside of me, Roald. Please.”

He raised his head. For a moment, the skin of his lips clung to her sticky, swollen pussy. Like their bodies wanted to be together on a molecular level. Threads of clear fluid ran from his mouth to her cunt, connecting them. 

A jolt of white-hot desire went through her. Fuck wanting--she needed him inside her.

“Please,” she repeated.

“Patience.” He kissed her leg, which left a stamp of wetness on her skin. “I want to make you come again first, just one more time.”

“Oh is that all?” She lay back again. “Just two mind-blowing orgasms before you’ve even got your pants off, is that it?”

“I could do more,” Roald smirked. “But since you’re in such a hurry to be full--”

 His words cut out when his hand covered her cunt and he slid a finger deep inside her. 

“Fuck!” he hissed. 

Quickly, the subtle niceness of one finger inside her was overtaken by the welcome stretch of another. Maybe three, it was hard to tell. Roald’s hands were so big, he filled her up to the brim. For a second, he didn’t move. Lacey clenched around him, moaning weakly. She’d never come from just being penetrated, but this… This might change things.

Maybe later. For now, Roald was not about to let her quietly savor the feeling of him inside her. He sat her up, holding up her back with his free arm. She leaned against him, nuzzling in the crook of his neck. Whenever she had a moment of stillness, she ran her lips along his collarbone, his jaw, his pulse point. 

He didn’t give her many moments of stillness. Every movement of his fingers in her cunt was repeated and exaggerated in the rest of her. Every jerk, every twitch, sent her reeling. He had to hold her down, hold her against his chest to keep her from flailing. She wrapped her arms around his neck, dug her fingernails into his back. His thumb began to play with her clit and that was when Lacey started to scream.

“Oh, fuck!” she cried. “Fuck, that’s so good! Fuck me, Roald. Fuck me hard.”

“Not yet!” He groaned through gritted teeth. 

His hands worked, faster and faster. Slipping over her clit, crooking up to push her g-spot, ramming into her cunt over and over. Lacey shook and shook and it felt like she’d been coming for so long there would never be an end to it.

When he was done--when he determined she’d had enough--he laid her down gently on her bed. She was too blissed out to do anything but lie there, boneless and spent. 

“You’re incredible,” Roald told her. “I’ve never met a woman who comes like you do.”

Eyes closed, she shook her head. “I’ve never come like that before in my life.”

He bent down and kissed her. His face was drenched in the smell of her pussy. It lingered on his hands as he touched her. 

Normally, Lacey didn’t really feel one way or another about that smell. It was tangy-sour, a little ripe sometimes, but nothing to be ashamed of. Now, smelling herself on Roald was almost enough to make her start coming again. She wanted her sheets to reek after tonight. She wanted to touch herself and know that her hands smelled like his hands. She wanted him to catch a whiff of her somewhere and get hard in the middle of the day. She wanted to linger on his clothes, on his skin, in his hair.

She wanted to be a part of him forever.

He had gotten off the bed. Distantly, Lacey registered the sound of a belt unbuckling, of clothing dropping to the floor and being hastily picked up and folded. She heard the sound of plastic wrap being torn off a box of condoms.

Then he was back, naked at last. Lacey rolled onto her side to get a better look at him.

“Wow,” she whispered. “So it’s not just Big Dick Energy, huh?”

“What?” He sat down next to her. He put his hand on her ass, then stroked down to the curve of her waist.

“I mean you walk around Storybrooke like you’ve got the biggest cock in town, and yeah… I guess that’s not just attitude.”

He shook his head, chuckling. He didn’t believe her. Well, that was alright. She’d tell him again. Over and over, for as long as he’d let her. 

“You know, I can give oral too, not just receive.”

“I’m sure you can,” he said as he rolled the condom on. “And I absolutely do want to see your pretty mouth stuffed with my cock. But right now, I need to fuck you properly.”

He crawled on top of her. Lacey opened her legs wide for him. 

“Hard,” he whispered. He was still outside her body. “Isn’t that what you said earlier? That you wanted me to fuck you hard?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “Yes, please.”

“So formal, Miss French.” 

His breath ghosted against her ear at the exact same moment he sank into her. Lacey arched her back and took him in. A soft, satisfied, “Oh,” escaped her lips. 

Roald grinned at her. “Are you alright, sweetheart?”

“I love you.”

She hadn’t meant to say it. The thought had hardly been in her mind at all. He seemed to draw the reaction straight from her body. 

Straight from her heart.

It didn’t matter that she hadn’t known it before she said it. She had said it and it was true. She wouldn’t take it back. She loved him. Lacey French loved Roald Gold. 

She looked up at him. For a second, his face was stone, stunned. She had a terrible flashback to their first cup of cocoa. The stupid impulse that had made her kiss him. The stupid kiss that had made him run away. Would he run away now? Did he think she was trying to trap him? Had she fucked up everything again?

But then his eyes went warm and misty. His whole face broke into a smile. He leaned down to kiss her, which pressed the whole of his body against the whole of hers. Their hearts really were as united as their bodies. He kissed her, long and deep, slowly thrusting as he did. 

He broke away only long enough to say, “I love you too.”

****

They didn’t have supper that night. They didn’t leave the bedroom, except for a hurried minute when Lacey rushed the pot of peppermint cocoa into the fridge. 

The next morning, Roald didn’t open his shop. Lacey didn’t buy a newspaper and do the crossword puzzle at Storybrooke Coffee. They stayed together, in her little apartment over the library. Roald made omelets and opened the bakery box full of pastries. Lacey made a fresh batch of cocoa. 

It took them all day to drink it down--drop by delicious drop. 

[cybernecromancer365]

Aloy/Tilda Mini Fic Pt-1

Note: I hate the Clamberjaw...

“One day it’ll catch up to you.”

Her moccasins slid on arid red rock, her heels stopping right at the edge of the cliffside.

‘Shitshitshitshitshit.’

Lingering momentum tilted her, lifting the balls of her feet from the Earth, and Aloy stabbed the end of her lance to the ground as her heartbeat pounded in her ears; her wide gaze eyeing the long drop over her shoulder.

She had a split second to make a move or fall to her death.

She grabbed the lance with her other hand and launched herself forward, ducking in time to avoid the fatal swipe of the Clamberjaw’s tail.

“Tilda’s gonna kill me.”

The Clamberjaw sprang into the air headed right for her. She rolled out of the way, opposite the cliff, eyeing the machine with re-engaged focus. Dust plumed from the machine’s landing at the cliff's edge.

If she hurried she could strike and send it over the cliff—

Too late.

The Clamberjaw bounced and spun towards her, its spiked tail whizzing through the air with every slicing strike she dodged. It leapt onto the side of a nearby plateau, using its powerful legs to springboard itself directly at her with unparalleled speed. She dodged but the machine spun mid-air—

“Ah,” Aloy growled, the impact to her side throwing her to the ground with a slam.

Her heart thumped in her ears again, but this time it felt like more than a warning.

When had she ever been stupid enough to mess up a dodge like that? She saw the machine, predicted its move. She had plenty of time to dodge, but when the time came her judgment was a second too late.

She groaned and rolled onto her back, trying to keep Tilda’s worried lecture from clouding her thoughts.

‘Still breathing…that's good.’

Aloy sat up and froze halfway with clenched teeth. Shattering agony ripped through her and she grabbed her side. Warmth moistened her hand and she smelled the iron in the air but hesitated to take her hand away. The Clamberjaw scanned in her direction but she was hidden, at least for a moment. 

She took her hand away, eyeing the blood on her palm. ‘Fuck’.

An ear splitting screech pierced the air and she grabbed her lance, launching to her feet with a grimace. Pain could wait.

The Clamberjaw rushed out of a cloud of its noxious green spores and Aloy pulled back her lance.

‘One shot, one kill. Make it count.’

She eyed the split between the machine’s chest plates and met it head on, driving her lance through the weak point.

The air crackled as sparks flew and the red light in the Clamberjaw’s eyes died. It fell to the ground, its dead weight taking her lance with it. She bent over to reach for it, stopped by an agonizing strike through her side. Her jaw clenched and she fell to a knee, holding the wound.

*beep beep, beep beep*

Her focus alerted a call.

Aloy sighed at the name displayed on her HUD. If she didn’t answer she wouldn’t hear the end of it when she returned. But the pain…

A rib had to be broken, maybe something worse.

‘Showtime.’ She huffed out a last growl and sucked in a breath to ready herself before accepting the call. “Hey, how’s it going?” Her voice came without a strain, as confident as ever.

“I was calling to ask you that. Will you be back tonight?”

“…yeah…why? You need something else? I found that Tritinium core you were looking for.”

“You did?”

Aloy smiled at Tilda’s bright tone. “…I did.” A wave of agony sparked from her side and she dug her grip into the wound, gritting her teeth to keep from making a sound.

“I have good news for you too. I managed to isolate the source of Gaia’s malfunction. When you return we'll talk about it.”

Aloy sighed the ragged breath locked in her chest as she hunched, feeling lightheaded. “…that’s great…” She looked at her bloodied hand again, her entire palm dripping red.

“Are…Are you okay?”

Aloy cursed herself for the sigh that gave it away. “Yeah, fine, why?” She said quickly, trying to feign confidence.

“Aloy, what happ—”

Aloy disconnected the call and hung her head. “I hate lying.” Tilda would hate her for ending the call, but she couldn’t let Tilda hear her struggle. She yanked the lance from the Clamberjaw and stabbed it in the ground to help hoist herself up. Her legs trembled slightly. That wasn’t good, she didn’t have much time before she passed out.

She whistled, relieved to see the Sunwing swooping down.

‘This is a bad idea.’

Flying on a machine in the air while bleeding out was probably not her best idea, but it was the fastest way to get to the base. Even the nearest settlement was hours away. She might as well take a chance and push through to make it home. Just...hopefully she didn’t fall off.

‘Maybe it’ll catch me. If it likes me enough. Can a machine make that decision?’

The Sunwing landed and she climbed atop. On her cue it launched into the air.

Tilda called everyday for the last three days. She didn’t blame her for worrying. The trip was only supposed to be a quick errand to gather some supplies, but she got tied up along the way. A traveling Oseram family’s cart lost a wheel on the road to Barren Light. Helping them find parts and repair the broken wheel tacked an additional two days to her quick journey. Four days later, Tilda was worried, and rightfully so.

In their nine years, Tilda saw her limp home more than once but never like this.

[troublcmakcrs]

     closed starter for   ⟶   @angstbullshit

Tweek squeaks with surprise when Heidi drops her winning red piece into place, even though the last few rounds should have told him this outcome was completely predictable.  He laughs softly and nibbles on his bottom lip.  “Man, you’re good at this game,” he tells Heidi, even though she is probably being helped by the fact that Tweek is far from an expert strategist and has been placing his pieces much more haphazardly.

He spent his first day in the hospital in bed, feeling faint, recovering from blood loss.  He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to be out of bed, but the doctors haven’t stopped him except to ask if he needs help walking, and he is not going to spend his 48 remaining hours lying still in bed.  He needs a distraction, or he’ll start talking back to the Radio Man or that thing he hasn’t named yet, seeing as it defies all verbal explanation.  Then, he’ll really seem crazy, and they’ll never let him out.  Not that he’s ecstatic about going home, but he would much rather be in a hell that’s familiar to him than one that isn’t.

Speaking of familiar, he was relieved to see Heidi in the rec room, although he already suspected he would.  Her getting institutionalized was the talk of the town for a while.  It still is within the walls of Tweek’s home, his father thanking him for not turning out like ‘that crazy girl,’ for breaking down more quietly instead of screaming and running through the streets.  His most recent breakdown, the one that caused Craig to ship him off to this place, saw him missing too much blood to run and scream, but whatever.

He is smiling like someone who didn’t try to kill himself the day previous, and he has Heidi’s company and the distance from his parents and Craig, who are at work and school respectively, to thank for that.  Life will get worse when one or all come to visit him in a few hours, and he is trying to make the most of his time.

He pulls the bottom tab out of the Connect 4 stand, sending all the colored chips clattering against the table loudly enough to make him flinch slightly.  One of Heidi’s red ones slips off the table and lands near his feet, and he fumbles for it with shaky hands for a second before sliding it back across the table to Heidi.  His trembling is due to withdrawal—he shakes if he has meth, and he shakes if he doesn’t, damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t—and he expects to deteriorate further by the time his parents or Craig get here.  He knows the first thing his dad’s going to do when his 72-hour sentence is up is shove a coffee into his hands, and he can’t tell if he’s looking forward to it or not.

It seems like all his life is just picking between the lesser of two evils—staying in a relationship with a boy he has come to resent or dealing with backlash from his folks and the rest of the town, letting himself get drugged or feeling like his head’s splitting open and he’s going to drop dead, staying in this fluorescent-lighted prison or going home.  Is it really any wonder he wants out so badly?

With someone he knows around him, it’s easier to push those thoughts to the back of his mind and shake the paranoia about judgmental eyes burning into the back of his neck.  Heidi looks just as shitty as he does, just as exhausted, just as pained, just as mangy and corpse-like.  She has no room to talk, not that he thinks she would.

Tweek beams across the table at her while he draws all his yellows back toward him.  “You wanna go another round?”

[everexcitable]

So, around minute 10 the layer of sugar appeared on the top.

This did not deter us. We let it sit a bit longer. Soaked for about 30 minutes. We each tried one of the gummies per bag and I drank a couple of sips of all of the drinks. My partner had a sip of the drinks only if I made a face and said "I have no idea what this tastes like."

The subjects and our judgments:

Sprite:

We wanted one non-energy drink to test it with as well. This was a mistake and was one of the worst of the bunch.

Gummy: bad soggy cereal texture, no flavor whatsoever, this was a mistake.

Drink: Also bad, why did we do this.

Conclusion: Do Not Do This.

Sour Patch Kid Red:

Gummy: very soggy, surprisingly sweet (derogatory). Would not eat again.

Drink: this just tastes like a red sour patch kid. It's fine, I guess.

Conclusion: not worth the effort.

C4 Skittles flavor:

This one is my partner's favorite on the list pre-candy.

Gummy: One of the worse textures. Extremely soft. Partner says "I feel like I'm eating soggy fruit loops."

Drink: Tastes about the same. It's fine.

Conclusion: don't waste your gummies, it's not worth it.

Red Bull:

Red bull at baseline had one of the weaker flavors of the drinks.

Gummy: the texture was less soggy than some of the others which much improved the eating experience. The flavor just felt like slightly intensified gummy flavor. It wasn't bad.

Drink: flavor was hard to process. Partner said it tasted kind of like orange gatorade.

Conclusion: Sure, it's fine.

Rockstar:

We were not looking forward to this one. Neither of us likes Rockstars at baseline. Went surprisingly well.

Gummy: the texture was better than many of the others; it still had a little bit of gummy chewiness in it and a slightly sour flavor.

Drink: At baseline, we feel that the drink has a strong aftertaste. After letting the candy soak, it had a less strong aftertaste and overall was a better drink. I still would not drink this, but it is in fact an improvement on Rockstar. If I were working a nightshift and Rockstar were the only energy drink available to me, adding rainbow gummies would make it acceptable.

Conclusion: Get better energy drinks.

Blue Razz Bang

Gummy: this just tastes like blue raspberry flavored gummies.

Drink: I literally could not taste this. I had the sensation of drinking something sour with no flavor whatsoever. I am convinced that rainbow candy is the opposite of blue raspberry and they cancel each other out.

Conclusion: ???

Red Bull:

Red bull at baseline had one of the weaker flavors of the drinks.

Gummy: the texture was less soggy than some of the others which much improved the eating experience. The flavor just felt like slightly intensified gummy flavor. It wasn't bad.

Drink: flavor was hard to process. Partner said it tasted kind of like orange gatorade.

Conclusion: Sure, it's fine.

Alani Cherry:

At baseline this just tastes like a cherry slush.

Gummy: This was our only real split in opinion.

It tasted like rancid pixie sticks and was one of the worst texture-wise. It was the only one I spit out because my body wouldn't swallow it.

My partner said "I don't hate it."

The drink tastes basically the same as pre-candy, no real change. Maybe slightly sweeter.

Conclusion: My partner may be possessed, don't invite this evil into your life. You deserve better candy than this.

Monster Zero:

This is my favorite of the drinks at baseline and what I usually drink at work. I am willing to admit to bias on this one.

Gummy: Weird. My partner said it tasted like cherry limeaid flavored gum. I said it tasted like cherry flavored medicine. It is not something I would willingly eat again, but it wasn't the worst thing I've eaten. Texture wasn't good, but it wasn't one of the worst.

Drink: This is delicious. My partner compared it to Sunny D, very citrusy and kind of sweet.

Conclusion: Throw away the candy and I would drink this on a normal day. I am still drinking this as I write this post. 10/10, no notes. I might take some to work with me tomorrow.

Sour Patch Kid Red:

Gummy: very soggy, surprisingly sweet (derogatory). Would not eat again.

Drink: this just tastes like a red sour patch kid. It's fine, I guess.

Conclusion: not worth the effort.

Aftermath:

It's now been about 45 minutes since we did this; my partner is wandering around the house feeling buzzy and my teeth hurt. I'm still probably taking some of the Monster Zero to work with me tomorrow, no regrets.

peeling those sour rainbow gummy strips into long thin strings and putting them into cheap energy drink to create something im calling battery acid spaghetti will update once ive finished it

[i-hope-youre-hopeful]

Long time no see (March 25, 2024)

I guess. I don’t think I’ve journaled in a couple of months. Maybe I’ve just been too busy. Maybe I’ve been feeling better. Maybe I’m just tired. Don’t know! But I know I’ve been feeling worse for some time now, and yesterday my stomach kindly informed me that something has to change. So we shall start here.

I’ve been more irritable the last couple of months for some reason. Not all the time, just often. About stupid things. I’m not more angry or depressed or upset per se, I’m just more bothered by small things and more judgmental and less patient. I’ve been less inclined to be social. Less affectionate toward people. I don’t know why. Things are certainly not worse than usual for me interpersonally. I don’t know if something has shifted a bit in my hormones or if I’m getting even less sleep than usual or if I’m just more anxious or depressed or something. Feel free to let me know if you have any insights for me.

I always feel a little envious of others and I always miss the past at least a little, but sometimes I find myself with much more yearning than usual. The last few weeks have been one of those phases. Every time I see literally anyone doing anything that looks remotely pleasant a small part of me wishes I were them. I see someone in bed I wish I was in bed. I see someone making breakfast early in the morning on tv and I wish their kitchen were mine. I can’t even help it, it’s not even a conscious decision. I just have this out of control yearning for a non-specific different life. More than anything I’ve been missing the past lately, not that that’s out of the ordinary. Specifically I’ve been desperate for this weird nebulous feeling from when I was very, very young. It feels like laying down for a nap in the early afternoon on a sunny spring day. It feels like diffused yellow sunlight coming from a partially closed window. It feels like ivy creeping up the tree where we left all the quartz after we dug it out of the mulch beds. It feels like a rose pattern on a lacy ivory curtain and a tea party on those little white metal patio chairs that always have that tiny matching table. It feels like waking up in the early morning and feeling sleepy and knowing you can go back to sleep. It’s wind chimes and earl grey and my mother before the world hurt her. It’s denim and fresh air. It’s my family alive and together, and I’d give almost anything to feel it. But I know I never can feel it again. It hurts. Will it ever not hurt?

My parents divorce is final now. They are ex husband and wife. It is what it is. I need to help my mom get her things from the house. My house is split in half. My heart is in two places. My home and I are torn up. I know.

On Friday I presented at the PFW research symposium and then my mom tried to shower and puked several times in rapid succession and my stomach has been hurting since.

[gomagopowerrangers]

THIS WILL BE UPDATED AS I UPDATE IT shhhhh there r no errors here (slash sillay)

copy+pasting this from google docs bc i can :3

Labyrinth Archives (copied from discord): the Labyrinth Archives r were Zone lived before everything. w a crew, Zone's parents, and robots. it was a huge ship of various files and books sent WAY out into space to keep safe from the war (i know v little about Halo so forgive me if its Incorrect). it was made more for storage than actual fighting. he was able to get school/education n stuff thanks to recordings and crew/parent helping but he never officially graduated. 

problems occurred (still workin on that part. pest invasion possibly? maybe the Flood idk rn) and they eventually began to run out of food. Zone (13) was the youngest at the time and more food/rations were saved bc of that. eventually it was just him and the robots left before PFL found the ship after a few months

13

-everybody on the Archives fucking died except him. Stuck in deep space with corpses for months is not fun. abandonment issues start here. the robots in the archives quarantined the starved bodies without telling Zone who lived off of the food that was quickly going down

-found by PFL who gave him an ultimatum: join the program, or go back to the Archives. 

-regular meetings with the Counselor studying how a young teen would handle the training and missions. these meetings would later become less and less

-training with Maine/one of the freelancers that was bigger than him (obvs not Tex but hes affected by her later). testing resilience and agility while fighting a bigger and more powerful opponent

-anger issues stem from being held back for certain missions that he was fully capable of completing

-more tba

14

-does not show his face for fear of judgment then shunning. he was doubted in the Archives and prior, he doesnt want it to happen again. some kind of anxiety develops

-1.5 years in as a freelancer. gets burned on the right side and is forced to show that he is young for this job. everything ends up being alright tho

-is able to get the final pieces of figuring out how bad PFL is and goes to CT (see relationship doc)

-more tba

15

-Tex shows up. Zone looks up to her but is weary because of York’s injury. 

-Maine loses his voice. Zone gets somewhat clingy and is scared to lose Maine. he relaxes after Maine makes a full recovery and manages to develop a (somewhat) language through growls. he does NOT like Sigma that much, however

-spars with Tex and gets two broken arms

-a mission goes wrong and Zone almost drowns. thalassophobia starts to develop 

-more tba

16

-CT defects without him knowing. abandonment issues rise here. he was on a mission with another freelancer at the time and didnt know until a day after he got back

-put under surveillance and questioned about CT and her defection. is unable to go to the Shipyards (insurrectionist!Zone AU splits here. I!Zone goes to shipyards)

-CT dies. Zone essentially shuts down and stays near Maine (mainly. o lmao theres a pun there. woag), York, and South like hes afraid theyll die too, but doesnt speak to them. he avoids Tex at all cost and hates Carolina

-watched Maine throw Carolina off that cliff and begins to travel with the Meta to find Tex

-earns the name “the Wraith” (see info doc) during this

-stops aging due to him attacking Wyoming and the Temporal Distortion malfunctioning

-attacked a freelancer who knocked his helmet off and gave him that scar on his left cheek among others. was able to kill them (state name unknown for now)

-Maine dies and he jumps in after him. hypothermia gotten+thalassophobia gets worse (other details to be added)

Chorus. mainly Felix. fuckin rat

another category for Restoration because OH BOY! i havent seen it yet SOOOOOO

develops

-C-PTSD

-anxiety

-abandonment issues

-trust issues

-anger issues

-slight paranoia

-insanity

-fear of getting close to people again (dont know if there is/the name. shit it might just be trust issues)

-thalassophobia (fear of large bodies of water) 

this is ALL without rps btw. he gets more issues there :3