#freak flags chapter 3

[inkameswetrust]

ᰔ || 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐆𝐒 [Chapter 3: I Owe You Big Time!]

Pairing(s): Beau Santiago x Jordan Porter-Morales, Beau Santiago x James Diamond

Characters: Beau Antonio Santiago, Andy Williams, Jordan Porter-Morales, George Hawk, Rebecca

Content Warnings: Pre-Established Relationship, Toxic Relationship, BL, Teen Angst, Verbal Abuse, Emotional/Physical Manipulation

Word Count: 5,510

If you are not comfortable reading about any of the themes listed in the Content Warnings, do not interact. Otherwise, please enjoy! Be sure to check out my Character Introduction Blog if you haven't yet. It'll give you some insight on the original characters that play big roles in this story. You can also read Freak Flags on AO3!

**divider by @saradika-graphics**

Hempstead High School, 4:12pm

Beau’s back hit the backstage wall from the force of Jordan’s thrust. The impact recoiled from the bottom of his spine to the top of his head, causing him to groan in pain and snap his eyes shut. Before he could even get a second to react, Jordan caged him in between his arms, his hands planting firmly at either side of the songwriter’s head and bracing against the wall like muscle and skin atop bone.

Their lips crashed together, folding and puckering with a distinct lack of harmony or order. Beau cringed from the sensation of trying to fit Jordan’s mold like a pair of mismatched puzzle pieces. He kept his eyes shut with a forceful pinch, not to ease himself into the feel of the bassist’s fierce kiss, but to avoid seeing the look on his face as he swallowed the breath straight out of his lungs. The songwriter clung to Jordan’s denim jacket to anchor him, tugging and white-knuckling the fabric to navigate the stormy seas rocking his bodyweight.

Jordan braced one hand and Beau’s hip, pulling him in close and keeping him right where he wanted him. He refused to let go or allow any room for separation. Something about his grip felt oddly possessive. The way he hooked his fingers onto one of the belt hoops of Beau’s corduroy cargo pants felt frighteningly like a trap of which the songwriter had no chance of escaping.

The look in Jordan’s eyes as he briefly pulled away for air was villainous, predatory, and eerily reminiscent of the paralyzing stare of a jungle cat. Beau was a wounded gazelle lying on its back as it stared straight into the cold, icy, unforgiving eyes of death. Atop him was a lion of immeasurable strength and courage that was seconds away from baring its teeth and tearing his feeble body to shreds, though not for the sake of survival. But, rather, for the thrill of the kill.

“Hey, could you maybe not be so rough…?” Beau squeaked uncomfortably.

“Aww, but I thought you liked this,” Jordan smirked, leaning in closer.

“Well… not exactly?” Beau turned his face to the side and shielded the lower half with the raise of his hand.

“Beau, c’mon, don’t be lame,” Jordan groaned, pulling away slowly and dropping his predatory demeanor like a metal pipe falling to a linoleum floor with a thunderous klang. “You never want to do anything fun. I thought you were gonna be cool about this.”

“I am, I’m just not a huge fan of being shoved against a wall while we’re making out,” Beau refuted.

“Okay, so you just don’t want to make out with me then,” Jordan hissed in exaggerated offense.

“I never said that—” Beau trailed off.

“Then what gives? I don’t get it!” Jordan grunted with the wave of his hands.

Exhaustion and silence overcame Beau and left him in a standstill. He was sick of walking on eggshells around Jordan and tending to his ‘needs’ like a mother to her clingy, whiny, needy baby. It was a thankless, around-the-clock job of stroking his ego and taking endless idle threats, unwarranted insults, and immeasurable selfishness. He was a prisoner to Jordan’s insolence with a life sentence and no chance of parole.

“Just…” Beau sighed, dragging his palm down his face like the trickling of rain down a gutter. “Forget it. Can we just keep going?”

“I don’t know, can we?” Jordan grumbled. “You don’t seem like you’re that into it.”

“Ugh, I do not have time for this right now…” Beau groaned behind the walls of his palms.

“What was that?” Jordan snapped.

“N-Nothing!” Beau peeped instinctively. “It was nothing.”

“That’s what I thought,” Jordan stuffed his hands into his denim jacket pockets.

Beau fished for his phone in his back pocket and flipped it open the second it reached his face level. The digital clock left him speechless and still. His heart dropped, his voice whisked away like a leaf in the breeze, and his skin went pale. The time read 4:15pm.

“Oh no…” Beau breathed, wide-eyed and violently afraid.

“What?” Jordan cocked his brow.

“I… I gotta go!” Beau cried in a panic as he sprinted for the stage to gather his belongings. He knelt down on both knees and zipped up his guitar case with such speed and frenzy that the zipper nearly flew offstage.

“Already?” Jordan whined.

“Jordan, I’ve been in this auditorium for nearly two hours! I cannot stay here any longer!” Beau hoisted his leather rucksack bag onto one shoulder and his guitar case onto the other. “I promise I’ll text you later,” he declared in a hurry as he raced past the audience seating on his toes to the double doors, his feet barely grazing the floor with each step. The boy sprinted like a hiker running uphill; his combined inventory weighing him down like stones at his feet.

“Wait a sec—!” Beau yelped as he reached for one of the door handles and stopped himself in his tracks. He hurried back down the path in a hysteria and peeked his head past the door leading backstage. “Can I borrow your amp?”

“Seriously?” Jordan scoffed. “Fine, whatever.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Beau rejoiced, planting a quick kiss of gratitude on Jordan’s cheek. He clunked his belongings around the bassist’s torso to embrace him for the heaviest and least coordinated hug of either of their lives. “I owe you big time for this!” The songwriter declared before hooking his fingers onto the handle of the guitar amplifier and wobbling his way back up to the double doors with more to carry.

He shoved his way past the double doors and inadvertently leaned forward on one foot, rocking the boat of his balance and using the combined weight of his bags and the guitar amplifier to ground himself. Beau planted both feet firmly atop the linoleum floor like the strike of an earthquake and took off in the direction of the nearest staircase. He began lugging Jordan’s amplifier around with both hands as if to carry a boulder.

The wobbly songwriter came face-to-face with a seemingly insurmountable flight of stairs. He was almost certain that climbing to the third floor was an impossible task in his current state, but he had to try. He was in no position to give up yet. The moderately determined boy put one foot in front of the other and stomped his way up the stairs in a way that mirrored the fee-fi-fo-fum of a hefty, poorly articulated giant.

“Okay, this is a lot harder than I thought it’d be,” Beau huffed.

His progression was slow and on the cusp of nonexistence. Each step left him more and more breathless, but be pushed ahead in spite of the difficulty and managed to reach the peak of the first staircase. “Ho-kay… I made it…” Beau panted, his grip on the amplifier gradually loosening. “Halfway, at least.”

Defeat and exhaustion overcame the boy. He lowered the amplifier to the floor and slumped on the highest stair to take a seat. He leaned forward, his forearms resting atop his thighs with his knees facing opposite directions. Hope and determination had run their course, and suddenly Beau was no longer certain in himself.

“Ugh, what am I going to do?” Beau groaned as his face met his palms. “Andy’s going to kill me.”

Beau sulked into his hands without an ounce of hope to his name. What was the point? He let another golden opportunity slip through his fingers like sand all because he didn’t have the guts to stand up to Jordan. Andy had always made it sound so easy in the many warnings and scoldings he received from her, but Beau liked to believe she’d have done the same thing if she was in his shoes.

His head perked up at the familiar sound of combat boots squeaking and thudding down the stairs adjacent to him. Andy sauntered down the staircase holding a hefty stack of papers with both hands flat underneath. A glimmer of hope twinkled in Beau’s eyes as he bore witness to his savior in the flesh.

“Andy!” The relieved songwriter cried as he sprung to his feet.

“Beau?!” Andy shrieked, curling her arms to her chest and dropping every last paper she held to the floor. “Ugh, great.”

Beau scrambled to scoop up the miscellaneous papers from the floor, frantically pinching them one by one. Andy stood idly by as he cleaned up her mess more efficiently than she could in a state of growing disappointment and perplexity. There were so many things she wanted to say but not enough self control and compassion to say them calmly.

“Here,” Beau breathed, handing the stack of papers back to his novelist companion.

“Beau, what on Earth are you still doing here?” Andy inquired worriedly. “Do you have any idea what time it is??”

“Yes, and let me start by saying I messed up big time,” Beau sighed defeatedly. “I know you probably want to scream your head off at me and you can totally do that later, but right now I really need your he—”

“Are you kidding me right now? No!” Andy snapped, nearly dropping her papers again. “This is just a repeat of last year. You knew you had somewhere important to be and yet you still chose to stay here and hang out with Jordan, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes, but—” Beau admitted.

“Unbelievable! And after I specifically told you not to? You just don’t listen!” Andy groaned in frustration, stifling the urge to burn her stack of papers with the incandescent rumbling in her voice alone. “I mean, how hard could it possibly be to tell that guy no? He makes you feel like total garbage all the time but you’re just as tightly wrapped around his finger as you were when you first met him!”

“It’s not that simple,” Beau winced.

“Why not?” Andy hissed.

“Because it just isn’t,” Beau cracked. “I don’t want to be like this, but things are a lot more complicated than just telling him no.”

“But something’s gotta give, Beau. I can’t keep cleaning up your messes and picking up the pieces when you come crumbling down,” Andy confessed exasperatedly. “I’m always the one putting you back together when Jordan breaks you down, it’s exhausting.”

“I know that,” Beau obliged weakly.

“It took months to get you out of your slump last time because you threw your chance away for a boy who never even supported your dream in the first place. In fact, he was blatantly against it!” Andy barked. “But who was with you every step of the way? Who helped get you out of your funk when Jordan couldn’t have cared less?”

“You…” Beau muttered.

“Exactly!” Andy cried. “Are you asking me to go through that again?”

Andy’s words cut deep, puncturing holes in Beau’s heart like a thumbtack to a balloon. It stung to have her lay out his shortcomings so bluntly, but Beau recognized his friend was rightfully infuriated and fed up. Andy has been his around-the-clock shoulder to cry on through every misfortune that has shoved his life off-track. He felt selfish and ashamed for constantly going to her for emotional support despite never heeding her advice. But the possibly soon-to-be defeated songwriter had no one else to turn to and would sooner beg for Andy’s help on hand and knee than give up.

“No, of course not. But I am asking you to help me make sure that doesn’t happen again,” Beau replied earnestly. “Andy, you’re my only hope of getting there on time. I know this is a huge ask, but I wouldn’t come to you if I didn’t need your help.”

“So what do you want me to do?” Andy inquired impartially.

“I want you to take me to the Paramount,” Beau answered candidly. “I cannot do this without your help, so I’m begging you. Please help me.”

“You want me to drive you… to Huntington?” Andy trembled.

“Ideally, yes,” Beau blinked.

“Oh my god, I’m gonna have to drive on the highway?” Andy whined. “If anything happens to my dad’s car, he’ll never let me drive again!”

Andy mulled over the situation, weighing its severity in her mind and thinking harder than she’s ever thought before. A huge responsibility weighed on her shoulders. She was presented with scary and stressful circumstances that made her want to squirm and cower into a corner. But this conflicted novelist was Beau’s last remaining shot at achieving his dream, and as angry as she was, she couldn’t in her right mind deny him his last chance at seizing a once in a lifetime opportunity.

“What time is it?” Andy groaned.

“Right now it’s four-nineteen,” Beau replied after swiping his phone out of his pocket and flipping it open.

“Okay, if we hurry we might be able to beat traffic and make it there just in time,” Andy proposed. “Take your stuff and go wait outside while I drop these papers off with someone else.”

“Yes, thank you!” Beau rejoiced as he scooped up his belongings and sprinted for the nearest exit with renewed vigor and more hope than he knew what to do with. “You’re seriously the greatest friend ever! I owe you big time!”

“Don’t thank me just yet! Ace that audition and then we’ll talk!” Andy called out as Beau fled the building faster than she could speak. She’d massage the bridge of her nose or even bury her face in her palms with a guttural groan if her hands were free to do so. All she could do was let a sigh pass through her lips like the breeze slipping through the crack of an open window and hang her head low as she mentally braced herself for what’s to come. “The things I do for that boy…”

Long Island Expressway, 4:47pm

“Oh my god, this is ridiculous!” Beau whined in the passenger seat. “We’ve been stuck in this jam for nearly twenty minutes!”

“Whining and yelling at traffic isn’t going to make us go any faster,” Andy grumbled, fighting back the rough waters of frustration with the dam of self control.

“But we’ve barely moved an inch since the last exit,” Beau continued. “A friggin’ mobility scooter would be faster than this.”

“Well, maybe we could’ve taken a quicker route if you printed out directions beforehand,” Andy hissed.

“Why would I have done that if I wasn’t originally planning to get to the Paramount by car?” Beau griped.

“It’s called being prepared, Beau,” Andy scolded, tightening her grip on the steering wheel. “You need to learn to make backup plans in case things go awry—”

“Go!” Beau yipped with the point of his finger. “Andy, go! There’s an opening!”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“The lane! Get into the fast lane!”

“Absolutely not! Do you know how dangerous that is?” Andy squawked in terror. “Long Island drivers have no regard for other people’s safety and they never give you a chance to merge! The brightest turn signals in the world wouldn’t make them move for you.”

“Who said anything about using your turn signals?” Beau quirked a brow.

“This is exactly why you don’t have your driver’s license yet,” Andy lowered her head and buried her face into the steering wheel.

“Hey, there are grown adults who are way worse drivers than me!” Beau countered.

“And you’re right on track to end up just like them,” Andy raised her head slowly and shot daggers at Beau through her incandescently furious glare.

“Ugh, what does it matter? This is hopeless,” Beau slumped, cupping his face in his hands. “We’ll never make it to the Paramount at this rate.” 

“Yes we will! But if you really want to me to get into the fast lane, I’ll merge when it is safe to do so,” Andy declared.

“That’ll take ages! At least let me help you keep a lookout,” Beau insisted as he leaned over the gear shift lever to peek past Andy’s head.

“The fast lane is on the left and you’re sitting on the right. What sense does that make?” Andy swatted the antsy songwriter away like a fly buzzing through a kitchen on a sweltering summer afternoon.

“C’mon, I can’t just sit here and do nothing!”

“There’s a first time for everything, Beau, so you might as well try.”

“Fine…”

“Thank you.”

Andy sunk into her seat, the back of her head hitting the head rest with a cushioned thump as she dragged her open palms down her face and briefly pulled her skin down with their weight. She could feel the premature grey hairs sprouting like weeds. Time was running out and it felt as though these lanes were getting narrower by the second. The worried novelist wanted to believe there was hope for Beau’s sake, but truthfully she wasn’t too sure.

The discord of miscellaneous car horn honking filled the air at annoyingly deafening frequencies. Drivers and passengers alike shouted at those who were farther up the line than them, but the vehicles in the fast lane seemed to pass them by in insanely fast blurs. The cadencing whooshes of speed fading out of existence scared Andy and almost caused her to perspire from the anxiety. Her fingers wrapped around the leather of the steering wheel like a garrote around one’s neck at the cusp of strangulation when the sudden strike of Beau’s voice pulled her out of her head and called her to action.

“Now, Andy!” Beau cried frantically.

“What?” Andy murmured.

“Now! Go, now!” Beau warned.

“O-Okay!” Andy trembled, flooring the gas pedal out of instinct and failing to use her left signal. A rushing car behind her stopped in its tracks and exuded a fiercely deafening honk before grazing her bumper. “Oh my god, I didn’t use my turn signal!”

“Alright, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Beau cheered with the pump of his fist from the comfort of the passenger seat.

“Do not cheer for that!” Andy squeaked in distress, “You distracted me from using my turn signal!”

“But we’re moving, that’s a good thing!” Beau retorted, gesturing with his arms outstretched and his palms facing the open road.

“You cannot distract me while I’m driving! Do you have any idea how unsafe that is?”

“You made it, though. We’re fine!”

“That’s not the point!” Andy barked as she slammed her palm against the horn to punctuate her words. “Distracting a person while driving is still highly dangerous and can lead to accidents no matter how careful you think you are.”

“Relax, we’re not gonna get into an accident and your dad is not gonna kill you,” Beau assured nonchalantly.

“No, but I might kill you if you keep running your mouth,” Andy snapped, momentarily taking her focus off the road to look Beau square in the face.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” Beau quivered as he shrunk his posture.

“You’d better hope and pray our exit is coming up soon because I’m about to—” Andy trailed off.

“There it is!” Beau cried as he pointed at an exit sign like a dog with its head out the window.

“W-What?” Andy trembled.

“Exit 49, it’s right there! Go!” Beau exclaimed frantically.

“Right now? There’s no room for me to merge!” Andy panicked.

“They’re not gonna move until you do!” Beau warned. “Hurry up, we’re about to miss it!”

“There’s no space, Beau, and I can’t stop with other cars behind me!” Andy refuted.

“Well, do something ‘cause we’re missing it!” Beau wailed.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Andy twisted the steering wheel to the right with every ounce of strength she possessed, cutting the vehicles off in the exit lane with a sharp turn. She shouted through the disharmonious honking and swearing from idle drivers behind her while Beau clung to his seatbelt with both hands and dug his back into his seat.

The car traveled over the patch of grass separating the exit lane from the rest of the expressway and the tires screeched as they left a trail of black on the road behind them. They kept their speed and momentum from the sharp right turn through the cloverleaf interchange until they reached Route 110. From there, Andy decelerated onto a two-lane street entering South Huntington. She was eerily quiet and wide-eyed from the stress of nearly causing an accident from taking an exit at the last possible second. Her arms quivered and the sweat from her palms coated the leather atop the steering wheel.

Beau struggled to look Andy in the eye or even glance in her direction for fear that her pent up fury may slice him in half with one wrong look. He relaxed into his seat and kept his eyes forward despite the burning urge to break the silence and say anything at all. The worried songwriter fiddled with his fingers atop his lap and picked at his bottom lip with his teeth before swallowing his pride and summoning the courage to speak.

“So… that was, uh—” Beau peeped.

“Terrifying!” Andy squeaked on the brink of tears. “That was so terrifying!”

“Yeah, that was not good,” Beau nervously picked at the folds in his pants with his thumb and index finger.

“Why in the world would you make me do that, Beau? That was the scariest and most reckless thing I’ve ever done!” Andy kept her grip on the steering wheel tight and sturdy despite everything in her starting to fall apart. “Are you okay, though? Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m okay,” Beau replied lowly. “Are you?”

“N-No,” Andy breathed shakily.

“Okay,” Beau uttered.

Silence swallowed the vehicle like the flood of a hurricane seeping through the floors of a suburban home. Neither teen looked each other in the eye or spoke a word until Andy pulled over near Huntington Station. The car squeaked as the wheels ground to a halt and their bodies jostled ever so slightly before they came to a complete stop.

“Why have we stopped?” Beau inquired.

“Go ask for directions,” Andy replied bluntly.

“Why?” Beau mumbled.

“I don’t know how to get to the Paramount from here,” Andy explained monotonously. “So get out and go ask someone for directions.”

“R-Right, okay” Beau obliged, stepping out of the car and gently shutting the door as to not upset Andy any further.

Before trudging toward the station, Beau spent one last glance to gaze upon his shattered friend. He watched as she struggled to hold back tears of frustration and fear, and a pang of guilt sliced his heart like a slab of meat. The songwriter wanted nothing more than to console her the way she’d done for him countless times in the distant and not-so-distant past, but time was of the essence and he had mere minutes to reach his destination. He marched onward with a heavy heart and an uneasy brew of conflicting feelings in the pit of his stomach as he reached the nearest help desk.

“Excuse me, miss?” Beau began, waving his hand to catch the attention of a station attendant behind the shield of glass that separated her office from the outside world. “Hi, do you know how to get to the Paramount from here?”

“Yeah, it’s only a few minutes from here,” The station attendant replied. “What you wanna do is keep going down Main Street until you see a throwback diner called Munday’s. From there, take a right on New York Avenue and it should be on your left.”

“Okay, thank you!” Beau grinned. “Oh! Also, do you have the time?”

“Four-fifty three,” The the station attendant said point-blankly as she checked her watch.

“Oh man, I gotta hurry…” Beau breathed as he rushed away from the ticket booth and sprinted back to Andy’s car so quickly he nearly threw himself at the door. He swung the door open as if to tear it off its hinges and leapt inside head-first. The songwriter slammed the door shut and leaned toward Andy with his mouth open wide. “Okay, so—”

Andy dragged the ends of her cardigan sleeves across her face and quickly dried her tears so that her full undivided attention would go directly to Beau. However, guilt consumed him and swallowed his voice whole. He looked at her with a gaze softening in sympathy and regret. There’d be no point in driving on if he couldn’t make things right between them.

“What?” Andy peeped.

“You’re… crying,” Beau choked.

“So what, Beau? It’s not a big deal, a lot of people cry.”

“But Andy—”

“Just tell me where to go, alright? We’re running out of—”

Beau cut Andy off with his abrupt embrace, leaning over the gear shift lever and wrapping his arms around her in a much-needed, well-deserved hug. He squeezed her tightly and tilted his head into her curls. “I’m sorry,” The songwriter uttered in a voice just above a whisper.

“W-What?”

“I’m sorry.”

“C’mon, we don’t have time for this.”

“I don’t care, it needs to be said,” Beau declared sternly. “I put you in a dangerous position all because I was too impatient. You must’ve been so scared.” “I mean… yeah,” Andy whispered.

“You’re always sticking your neck out for me even when I’m an ungrateful jerk and don’t listen to you,” Beau continued. “I totally get if you want to turn around and go back home. I’m not so sure I deserve to get to that audition.”

“Beau…” Andy sighed, slowly following suit and curling her arms around the songwriter’s torso. “What you did sucked, but as upsetting as this whole thing has been, we’ve made it too far to turn back now.”

“I know, but we’ve been fighting all day and I hate that I’ve put you under so much stress,” Beau confessed. “Are you sure you want to keep going?”

“Do you… want me to turn around?” Andy inquired in mild bewilderment.

“N-Nope, I’m good!” Beau yipped as he snapped back into his seat and loosened his grip on Andy in the blink of an eye.

“Alright,” Andy chuckled.

“But I promise when this is all over, I won’t ask you for anymore crazy favors,” Beau proclaimed proudly. “I won’t take you for granted again.”

“You better mean that,” Andy quirked a brow as she clenched the knob of the gear shift lever and put the car in drive. “Now will you please tell me where to go?”

“You got it,” Beau beamed as they took off down Main Street. “Paramount, here we come!”

The Paramount, 4:59pm

A silver-suited music producer burst through the theater’s double doors with his head in his hands and his designer sunglasses slinking down the bridge of his nose. At his side was his assistant with gorgeously sun-kissed skin and silky blonde waves of hair that draped the sleeves of her jade-black blouse. All hope was lost, and together they faced defeat yet again with vocal dissatisfaction and dismay.

“This is hopeless!” The music producer cried. “All day we’ve been here and not a single person has shown up. You’d think New York would be bursting at the seams with raw talent and desperate wannabes.”

“Which is why I suggested we take this endeavor to New York City instead,” The blonde assistant remarked.

“You know very well I can’t show my face in New York City!” The producer squawked. “Too many… wandering eyes. It’s not safe.”

“So you say,” His assistant sighed. “But perhaps the lack of turnout has something to do with the fact that you hadn’t disclosed your name in the neither the commercial nor the flyers.”

“I couldn’t risk it with the police still sniffing around for me.”

“And yet you still chose to show your face?”

“It’s called an outreach, Rebecca.”

“Still, that seems counterintuitive at best.”

“What are you saying?” The defeated producer narrowed his eyes to slits. “That I can’t find talent on the other side of the country while remaining partially anonymous?”

“I’m saying that no one here is dumb or gullible enough to audition for a nameless music producer with questionable credentials and zero accolades,” Rebecca asserted. “A young, impressionable aspiring star isn’t just going to come running through that—”

“Wait!” Beau shouted as he bolted through the entrance with Andy at his side, his belongings clunking in his hands as they ran as fast as their legs could carry them. “Hold on!”

“—door…” Rebecca trailed off.

“You were saying?” The newly invigorated producer teased.

The two tweens scurried ahead with everything they had and only stopped to catch their breaths once they reached the silver-suited music producer and his disgruntled assistant. Beau lowered his hands to his knees, the top of his guitar case towering over his head like a lurking shadow. Andy followed slowly behind and lowered the guitar amplifier to the floor the second she caught up to Beau.

“This thing weighs a ton!” Andy huffed. “Where’d you get this?”

“If I tell you, you’ll just get mad at me,” Beau panted in reply.

“Wonderful,” Andy remarked sarcastically.

“And who might you be?” Rebecca inquired with a quirked brow.

“My name is Beau Santiago!” Beau beamed, immediately catching his breath and straightening his posture at a moment’s notice. “I’m here about the audition, I wanna be famous!”

“Ha! Blunt and straight to the point,” The producer chuckled. “I like your attitude, kid.”

“Th-Thank you!” Beau rejoiced nervously.

“Are you here about the audition as well?” Rebecca queried, locking eyes with Andy.

“Me? Oh no, I couldn’t,” Andy trembled. “I’m just here for moral support.”

“How sweet,” Rebecca remarked monotonously with a feigned smile. She unsheathed a slip of paper from her clipboard and handed it to Beau. “Fill this out and see us in the theater once you’re done.”

“Sweet!” Beau exclaimed as his eyes loosely skimmed over the contents of the paper.

“And Beau,” The producer added, taking Beau by the hand and caging it in both of his with a firm shake. “Take all the time you need.”

“Thank you, Mr. uh…” Beau stammered.

“Hawk. George Hawk,” Hawk replied, a suspiciously mischievous grin forming on his face with the rise of an eerily villainous laugh to follow. “Caw!”

Beau and Andy recoiled in unison from the surprise of Hawk’s sudden avian shriek. It was odd and startling. They shared an awkward glance as Hawk and Rebecca turned on their heels and vanished behind the double doors to the theater. They couldn’t have looked more intimidating than in that moment. The doors swayed in slow motion, repeating their back and forth motions until gradually stopping at their post and shielding the theater from the rest of the world.

Beau was at a standstill. He was seconds away from seizing a once in a lifetime opportunity, and the reality of it was setting in all at once. The songwriter was paralyzed with disbelief and an overwhelming feeling of surreality. It felt as though his feet bound to the floor like wet cement had hardened and dried around the edges and made him statuesque.

“Beau?” Andy peeped. “Are you okay?”

Beau swallowed thickly and gazed at the double doors to the theater with a blank, wide-eyed stare. He stammered and let the consent form tremble and quiver in his clammy, tremoring hands. “I don’t know if I can do this…” he admitted weakly.

“What?!” Andy barked. “After everything we’ve gone through to get here, you’re getting cold feet now?”

“Andy, please!” Beau cried in distress. “Sorry, sorry,” Andy backpedaled. “What’s going on? Are you nervous?”

“No, it’s more than that,” Beau sighed, crinkling the paper as he tightened his grip. “It just feels… different now that I’m here—scary actually.”

“What do you mean?” Andy queried.

“The reality of all this finally set in and now I can’t believe I’m actually here,” Beau confessed wistfully. “I feel like there’s so much pressure on me to give this everything I’ve got and more. I don’t want to mess it up and I don’t think I’ll be able to forgive myself if I do.”

“Oh, Beau…”

“You probably think that’s dumb.”

“What? Of course not! You’re the most talented guy I know and if anyone deserves a shot at the big time, it’s you,” Andy assured, clinging to Beau’s right arm and ensnaring it in her embrace. “But no matter what happens, you’re always going to have me in your corner. After all, I am your number one fan.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right about that,” Beau chuckled quietly.

“Heck yeah I am,” Andy giggled, slinking her hand down to Beau’s and giving it a reassuring squeeze to help him muster up the courage she was certain he’d tucked away. “But let’s start filling out this consent form, okay?”

“Okay,” Beau smiled softly as he leaned his head against Andy’s and locked his fingers in her grasp to keep her at his side for a few moments more.

[mandalhoerian]

(6) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

When a last-minute opportunity presents itself to become a distraction from the shame of not attending the reunion of your university friend group, you take it. One thing, though, yes, you might have been wrong for chickening out. But falling overboard in a storm, almost drowning, and getting saved by the biggest oddball of a skinny dipper out in the wild is a bit too much for instant karma, you think.

genre: fluff, comedy | word count: 13k | read on ao3

< previous | next >

note: apologizing for late chapters is getting old now i know, but i swear it would have come out earlier if it hadnt been for tumblr's ridiculous mature content label flagging issue . i've been wrestling with that bicth now ever since that update dropped on the 11h. all seal raf chapters are FLAGGED and i cant get them out of superhell. and apparently its their image recognition bot, i had to change the banner image. god if i have to deal with this bs AGAIN im crashing out i hope you enjoy the chapter

The wetsuit is half-zipped, clinging damp against your hips, something that doesn’t quite want to let go. You’re sitting on the flattest rock you can find near the lip of the cove, knees drawn up, elbows balanced on them, phone balanced precariously between your fingers. The mist is still stitched thick between the cliffs, and the morning sun hasn’t quite managed to cut through it yet. Cold air brushes against your bare arms, lifting the baby hairs, biting gently. Your knees are cold. Your mind is worse.

The group chat lights up again.

You scroll without reading at first, just watching the little cascade of names and icons — familiar and sharp-edged in ways you can't explain. It’s watching someone else’s memories keep moving while yours have stalled out in the same old frame. Same island. Same ferry. Same breath caught in your throat.

Yesterday’s conversation still occupies your mind, and you read through it once more.

"F4NT4STIC 4 REUNION ERA" (Yesterday, 13.37) [ tara ♡ ]: LADIES . YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT ISSSSSSS [ simone (👹🤙) ]: girl i already took the days off. if yall flake i’m showing up to macie’s with a suitcase anyway [ fleetwood mac ]: LMAOO i mean my living room is still 80% cardboard boxes but sure, suffer [ simone (👹🤙) ]: if there’s karaoke i’m unplugging the speaker with my teeth [ tara ♡ ]: also HELLO??? miss ferrymaster of heartbreak bay??? [ tara ♡ ]: we see you reading and not respondingggg [ tara ♡ ]: THE WAY SHE’S STILL NOT ANSWERING [ fleetwood mac ]: come online and disappear if you're alive. don't write anything if you’re still in love with your ex [ fleetwood mac ]: you’re still in love with him???? [ fleetwood mac ]: damn it didnt work [ simone (👹🤙) ]: she’s gonna come back in like six hours and act like nothing happened [ simone (👹🤙) ]: literally text back. we're not mad you couldn't come. stop acting like this is a break-up !!!

(Yesterday, 23.35) [ you ]: sorry. alive. extremely salty. [ you ]: had to scrub barnacle residue off my soul before texting back. [ fleetwood mac ]: SYBAU girl you disappeared like a victorian child into the mist 😭 [ simone (👹🤙) ]: anyway. macie's wine count is at 3. tara made a playlist. theo hasn’t cried yet [ you ]: bold of you to assume he won’t [ fleetwood mac ]: we placed bets. i give him until desert [ tara ♡ ]: also you were right, he brought the seal mug he made in his pottery course. Unironically. [ you ]: I feel the emotional blackmail all the way from over here … [ fleetwood mac) ]: i had to leave the room. i was spiritually unprepared [ you ]: move it like half an inch every time he looks away and pretend like nothing happened to freak him out that paranormal shit is going on. for my sake. please [ tara ♡ ]: That's horrible. How do you come up with stuff like this? Do you want us to get kicked out if he makes a scene? [ tara ♡ ]: I'll send you pictures 😘 [ simone (👹🤙) ]: we set a place for you vtw. it’s got a rock on it. and a fork. [ you ]: that’s exactly how i would’ve wanted it <3

Your thumb pauses above a message. Just names. Names that once belonged to cramped dorm rooms, midnight indomie, and mutual breakdowns in libraries that smelled of old glue. The kind of friendships that were lifelines — loud and chaotic and necessary. And they still are. But you’re quieter now. Less sure what part you should play in their world.

Tara’s already published several scientific papers, both on her own and with her teacher — ResearchGate profile overflowing with content. Simone’s backpacked solo through South America and made it look unreal the entire time, every photo gold-dusted and cinematic and you’re sure she lives in an indie travel documentary. Macie just got picked up for a docuseries pilot. The one who shall not be named passed his bar exam and launched a website in his name that has to be surely coded by a tech god and branded by a Parisian design firm.

And you?

You still have this wetsuit from sophomore year. A freezer full of discount frozen meals. A collection of ferry schedules memorized down to the second.

You still work shifts that stretch into your bones. Still sleep in the room with the glow-in-the-dark stars you stuck to the ceiling at fourteen. Still get asked by tourists if you ever get tired of paradise. As if it’s not the same damn shoreline every day. They don’t know paradise comes with guilt-paid free health insurance and the inability to look into your parents' eyes without sweating through your shirt.

The museum front desk application sits untouched on your desktop. The deadline came and went while you were distracted by nothing in particular. There’s a half-written email to the local heritage center still sitting in your drafts. Volunteering was mentioned once, briefly, in passing, and never again.

You told your advisor you were taking a year. Time to figure things out. To recalibrate. To breathe.

But the year kept slipping. One month into the next. One season curling into the other. You started taking the same walk every morning. Then you stopped bothering with a route. Some days, even brushing your teeth was something that had to be earned.

You tried to make plans. Tried to start a spreadsheet. Color-coded your week and pretended it meant something. It lasted three days. Then the shame of seeing your own optimism undone by inertia sent you spiraling into the sea with your phone on do-not-disturb.

Sometimes you wake up already disappointed in yourself. Sometimes you manage to coast until lunch. The rest of the time, it sneaks up in strange places: folding laundry, stirring pasta, passing your own reflection and not recognizing anything urgent in your own eyes.

You keep saying you’ll get out. That it’s temporary. That you’re not stuck. You tell yourself that so often it’s started taking the shape of a prayer. Or a dare.

But every time you scroll, you feel it. That sharp, quiet pinch in your ribs. You're watching a starting line recede in the distance while your legs stay tangled in the sand.

A sharp twist of your mouth curls before you can stop it, too bitter to be a smile, too wry to be pain. You toss your phone a few inches further across the towel, willing the distance keep the elephant in the room away for a while longer.

And Theo. Of course he’s there.

Ha.

You sit still. A breath leaves your nose. The rock beneath you is cold, uneven, your palms flat against it. Wet grit clings to your fingers. You focus on that. The gulls loop overhead, shrieking into the pale air. Below, the tide moves against the rocks in shallow bursts, licking foam into the cracks and pulling it back again with a hiss. The world hasn't stopped, but it’s ignoring you on purpose.

No, you're ignoring it on purpose. 

A sleek head breaches the surface a few yards out, rising between two fingers of rock where kelp sways below in long green ribbons. A huff leaves him in a pfbbbth sound — short, damp, unimpressed — and he glides forward in a meandering path, stirring flecks of foam in his wake. The water around him flattens, then rolls behind his body in lazy spirals. Even the cove is used to making space for him.

You don’t smile. It almost happens, your face twitches because it wants to. But it doesn’t make it all the way. He’s watching you, waiting, head tilted just slightly.

"Someone’s a little restless today," you mutter.

He barks again. Short. With an imaginary question mark at the end of it. Surely it’s because he hasn’t received his usual cooing greetings and your, “Hi, hi, hi, my cutie pie,” — but your spirits are as gray as the weather. You can’t summon the cheerfulness.

"Yeah, yeah, I’m coming."

You slide into the water slower than usual, the cold biting at your ankles and climbing. Raf circles once, then again, but doesn’t dart off the way he normally does. He floats closer instead, trailing you as you wade out to the deeper part. When your feet finally lift from the sand, you turn toward him.

"I should’ve just gone," you say. "I don’t know why I’m so scared of a little get-together. Who cares if I’m not working yet? I should just say I’m taking a gap year… Like for uni graduates. Or say like I’m looking into Work and Travel but haven’t really liked any of the choices or something."

He tilts his head. How clueless and cute. Smooth brain. No ridges or lumps, no valleys or bumps; all ideas slide right off.

"You don’t even know what LinkedIn is," you mumble. “You’ll never have to. I’m so jealous, you don’t even know.”

Raf makes a bubbling snort.

You hate how bitter it makes you, sometimes. Hearing them talk about opportunities and networking and beautiful apartments with friends who leave them soup in the fridge. And you smile, as you’re supposed to. It’s good news. You’re proud. You are.

But it still seeps into the spaces between each of your vertebra, shapes you into a shrimp before the stateliness of ambition and purpose, making you feel small for not having more to offer, and worse for resenting even a flicker of it. There’s something sour in you that can’t be sweetened into a lemonade.

And you don’t want to be that person. You don’t. But you are. Quietly. Privately. The kind of ugly that you don't admit aloud unless you’re alone. Or talking to a seal.

"I hate that I get annoyed," you say under your breath. "Every time one of them says they’re doing great, I get that twist in my stomach like I swallowed a rock. Even when I’m proud of them. Even when I love them. What does that make me, huh?"

Raf offers no reply. Just a slow blink and inquisitive, a train’s choo-choo sounding breathing from his flaring nostrils.

"It makes me pathetic. That’s what."

Your throat tightens. You wipe your nose with the back of your glove and look up toward the cliffs, eyes still hot.

"There’s something you’re unlucky with. You know what?" you say, voice hoarse. "Of all the fish in the sea, you ended up with me. Should’ve gone for a marine biologist. Or a rich heiress with a yacht."

Raf surfaces again, blinking at you with deliberate slowness that mirrors a cat’s. Then, with a low chuff, he glides closer and presses the side of his head against your shoulder. You’re still floating when he wriggles around, flippers flopping clumsily, and half-latches onto your side, a wet, overgrown toddler trying to hug a pool noodle. His whiskers tickle through the neoprene.

You flip onto your back and float, arms out, hair fanning around your head with a seal glued to you. The sky above is pale and empty, the kind of soft gray that feels too big when you're already too full. You drift for a moment with your ears half-submerged, the world muffled except for the splash of Raf's flippers somewhere nearby. Clouds move. You don't.

"Watch. You’ll get discovered by some cute environmental documentary crew next and leave me behind. Get famous. Start an OnlyFans for your flippers."

Pause.

“OnlyFins,” you snort to yourself.

Raf lets out a long, wet blort, and disappears underwater with a cute bloop. 

You barely have time to curse before something nudges your ribs — hard. Then again. And then you’re yanked downward, the flipper hooked around your waist is basically an overly confident tugboat.

You surface with a gasp and a splash, hair in your eyes, sputtering.

Raf bobs a few feet away, grinning in the smug way only a seal can, going "AUUUUU," over and over again, following that up with a performative spin and a slap on the water.

"No more jokes, fine," you cough.

He dives again, leaving a trail of bubbles — pops up, and pauses, twisting back to look for you. His head bobs once. Twice. Then he disappears again, darting just beneath the surface, drawing a path for you to follow. A loop, a spiral, a flourish. He resurfaces ahead with a sharp snort and flicks water in your direction.

You blink water from your lashes. "Okay, okay, I get it. Impatient little show-off. Seashells aren’t going anywhere, let me go get my gear, damn."

He dunks under again, tail flippers wagging just enough to be smug about it.

And after your preparations, you follow.

Because if anything makes sense — if anything ever feels whole — it’s this. Salt in your mouth. Raf’s stupid flipper smacking water like an impatient bunny stomping his foot. A sky so wide you can’t get your arms around it.

You may not know how to move forward. But here, right now, you don’t need to.

Here, you can just be.

By the time the end of the day rolls around, the dive with Raf has dried to salt on your collar, and your limbs are already back in work-mode — anchored, alert, one hand on the wheel, the other near the comms, watching the weather shift with a sailor’s instinct and a whole life of knowing exactly when things stop making sense at sea.

The last round trip of the day is quiet in a different way today, though. No commuters or tourists, and no one but you on board.

A rare fluke of timing: your dad tied up with engine trouble on the backup skiff; the senior deckhand down for the count after slipping on ice during today's last unloading shift and sent home limping; the second deckhand called out with food poisoning from bad market shrimp; the engineer out for two weeks recovering from wrist surgery after trying to fix a rusted coupling by himself; the backup engineer already covering freight route duties on the north side; and the high schooler who usually mans the snack kiosk bailed last-minute for a school recital he 'forgot' to mention until this morning. Even the part-time lookout who mostly just watches Raf from the upper deck found a way to slip away.

You’d said yes before your dad even finished the ask instead of just cancelling the entirety of the day off — if a perfectly fine excuse for why you didn’t show up at the reunion made itself available to you, you would take it without question. It was serendipity, why let it go to waste?

And it was only one run, the weather wasn’t supposed to break yet. You knew the route. You could handle it.

Though, frankly, it felt good to be trusted with something this real and just empty your head for the rest of the day.

So it's just you, the hum of the engine, and a stretch of sea that's growing moodier by the minute.

You clock it before it starts showing.

The pitch is wrong.

Movement is expected, up-down, up-down, sometimes with more vigor and distance. No, it’s not that. It’s the angle, the timing, the tension underfoot that rolls in just a half-second too late. The swell pattern doesn’t match the forecast, the wind has teeth it wasn’t supposed to, and the gulls have gone silent over the water.

You glance up from the console, watching the sky fold itself into layers. That soft lilac haze from earlier has gone bruised at the edges. There’s a kind of waiting baked into the air now, the hush before the sky opens its mouth and howls.

You should’ve already turned back. You know the signs. You’ve trusted them before.

But the timing’s tight, and you know the shape of this route better than the lines in your palms. If you hold speed and cut between the outer channel markers, you might beat the worst of it. The system’s moving in fast — but not fast enough to make you fold early. Not if you don’t have to.

Besides, there’s only one round trip left back home. The radar isn’t red yet. The pressure’s dropping, but the water’s still got give in it. Dad made worse calls in tighter windows.

So you stay the course.

Pushing until everything starts pushing back.

The ferry bounces over a swell so hard you almost lose your grip on the wheel, rattling the life preservers along the wall with a thwack loud enough to echo inside your skull. Water sprays white across the decks, and something about the sound makes your bones ache. For a moment, you swear you can taste seaweed. Feel the drag of sea lines on your wrists, rough as rope burn.

But you catch yourself. Stabilize your footing, hands steady on the wheel, leaning into the rise and fall as they taught you in driving school all those years ago. The first day your father stood beside you and showed you how to balance the revs and the brakes on this machine, how to feel each part working together to drive, how it wasn't about forcing the craft, but guiding it with trust — it’s all muscle memory.

Trust the machine. Trust your gut. Trust your judgment.

So you do. And you guide. Until the storm arrives. Until the weather begins to roll in dark as tar — resentful black clouds, brindled with light, coiling together as if building, brewing, churning in unison above. Eerything then becomes curtained with rain and water, a shower splintering against the ferry roof. Sheets of water cut across the deck is a fog obscuring everything further than a foot away. Wind batters against the sides of the hull, shrieking louder and louder every minute, whistling shrill through every seam and corner and vent, and by now the ocean is actively trying to shove this boat off the face of the earth.

Everything turns sideways for one split second, and your heartbeat almost rips out of your throat, and when the ship steadies itself it takes several painful heartbeats of thinking I fucked up, I fucked up before you regain equilibrium and resume steering.

Everything starts to make sense. 

Raf had been strange from the moment you showed up this morning — clingy, louder than usual, almost pacing the cove. He kept making pup noises at the tide, splashed too close to shore while you suited up, and refused to go too far in the open water — his favorite thing was to drag you out further before. When you finally entered the water, he didn’t dart ahead the way he usually does. He hovered, brushed against you, circled you so tightly you had to push him off just to move forward.

You didn’t think much of it. You were too busy rereading texts, too busy spiraling over group photos and inside jokes and what-the-hell-was-he-thinking-by-showing-up.

Raf’s insistence was a complication you didn’t have room for when you’d been already feeling stifled enough. Even underwater, he kept doubling back to check on you, tapping your hip with his nose, making strange high-pitched whines that only made you more irritated.

When you got out, he followed you up the hill, paralleling you from the sea. Right up the ramp. Flopped against the loading zone and refused to budge, and not in the usual cute way. He clung to your boot when you tried to walk. Grabbed the hem of your jacket and yanked. Made noises so loud and pitiful that a couple tourists pulled out their phones to call wildlife protection. They thought he was hurt.

You shoved him back toward the cove and joked that he was a diva — a barnacle, a stage-five clinger.

He bit Elias when the poor old guy tried to help nudge him off the deck.

You didn’t look him in the eye when you closed the gate. Didn’t even wave, muttering something about spoiled animals and going inside. Because you had a job. Because you were on the schedule. Figuring out how to phrase it, how to make ferry work sound intentional, how to talk about staying without admitting you failed to leave. You practiced the words, hoping the right ones would dull the sting.

You didn’t notice how restless he went in the way he took the lead once the engine started.

You didn’t want to.

You'd practically ignored him the entire day for being annoying. To entertain the idea he was like that because he sensed the incoming weather... but you were too wrapped up in the reunion and your own spiraling thoughts to notice what he was trying to tell you. He knew something was coming — you’re sure of it now — and you hadn’t listened.

Too busy nursing your own useless grief.

And now you’re the only one out on the water when the storm decides to bite, regret and fear coiling around each other snakes in the pit of your stomach. The poor little man must be terrified wherever he's hiding. You hope he's tucked away safely somewhere sheltered and cozy, not roaming around trying to find you and ending up hurt or lost or trapped. If something horrible happened to him during this storm, it would be all your fault.

And now, as the radio crackles to life, a sharp burst splinters through the chaos, and all those words ash-scatter.

"—ayday—day—fishing boat—toward—Devil’s Teeth—repeat, Dev—no powe—can’t steer—"

It cuts out, sharp as a snapped line.

Your hand’s already moving. Mic in hand before the words even sink in. "Copy, how many aboard?"

Nothing. Just static, thin and needling, buzzing against your skin.

Your heart doesn’t lurch. It drops clean and heavy, straight into the pit of your stomach.

You flick your eyes to the GPS. The rocks are close — less than a kilometer to starboard. But you don’t need the chart to tell you that. You can already see them, those serrated black silhouettes clawing up from the water ribs punched through the ocean’s skin.

The Devil’s Teeth. The name alone carries some horror. They don’t forgive. Sharp enough to sheer a hull clean if you come at them wrong, but deceptive enough to trick even seasoned sailors into thinking they’re safe.

Above the water, they jut out like gap-toothed palisades — almost orderly, almost safe. From a distance, they seem to mark a clear path, multiple narrow channels that promise passage. But beneath the surface, the truth spreads wide and uneven, masked by the shifting tide, what looks navigable from above is a maze fanning out is a hidden reef below, disguised by the illusion of space, a trap waiting to splinter anything that trusts too easily.

Now, you watch from the waterboarded windshield as the ocean breaks against them sideways, spray exploding into the air in fractured bursts, mist swirling breath from something alive and restless. You’ve seen them before. Too close once, from a rescue boat.

You know the pattern they form, the way they beckon, offering what looks to be safe passage only to tear apart anything foolish enough to trust it. And you know the names of the people they’ve taken.

You flick the comms again, voice tighter now, a thread of instinct winding tight in your chest, tugging you toward the danger. "Any vessel transmitting, identify yourself.”

The wind shrieks through the cracks, high and thin, something caught between teeth. Water lashes the glass, streaking down in frantic rivulets as the ferry pitches harder, the deck groaning with the weight of the sea.

Your breath catches as you scan the horizon, nothing but the vertical outlines of the Devil’s Teeth. Black knives from the churn. For one terrible moment, everything slows. The sea draws back, coiling, holding its power just a beat too long. Waiting.

And then it breaks.

You move, but it’s not a choice. It’s reflex tangled with terror, the wheel wrenching in your hands as the ferry shudders beneath you. The shift is too sharp, the hull protesting with a low, gut-deep moan as it fights the turn. Your muscles burn, braced against the pull as the deck tilts hard, balance slipping for half a heartbeat. The bow dips — just a fraction — before you correct, knuckles losing color where they grip the wheel.

The spray blinds you for a moment, mist shearing across the windshield. But you blink, steady, locked on the path that doesn’t exist but has to be there. The space between those treacherous spires where, if you’re off by even a meter, the sea will swallow everything.

Raf knew. He tried to tell you. Fuck, you hope he’s not out here. He’s too much of a smart cookie for that, but still, you hope to god he’s safe.

The comms hiss softly, a broken thread of sound lost in the roar that fills the wheelhouse.

"—adrift—can’t—hold—taking on water—drifting t—engines are—"

Static. Again.

But you don’t need to hear it. The truth is already laid bare on the horizon.

Your eyes are locked on the shape just beyond, the battered fishing boat barely holding its own against the waves. A thing too small for this weather, its hull pitching wildly, the wind tossing it like it’s a toyboat in a child’s pool.

You flick the comms again, voice tight. "Vessel approaching Devil’s Teeth, do you copy? Repeat, do you copy? I need the status of anyone aboard!"

The answer is silence, thick and pressing.

But the sea answers instead.

Each wave shoves the boat closer to the rocks, their sharp edges barely visible between the peaks of the swells. You can make out three figures, barely, blurred shapes clinging to the railing, fighting against the chaos, one at the bow, steady but strained, another near the stern, slower, unsteady.

And the third—

A hollow space where someone should be.

"Shit," you breathe, throat tight.

You throttle down, the ferry groaning as the engine strains against the push of the current. The bow swings wide, cutting across the waves, too close but angled just right to shield the smaller boat from the worst of the wind. The wheel vibrates in your grip, the metal cold and damp, the pulse in your fingertips matching the beat of the sea.

The deck is bobbing harsher under your boots as you cut the engine to idle. A deep, unsettling quiet follows, the kind that means the sea is holding its breath.

You shove the throttle down, setting the engine to idle, the ferry rocking in protest as it fights against the churning sea. You can’t leave it drifting for long, but there’s no choice now.

The door to the deck slams open under your hand, wind tearing through as if the sea itself is trying to conquer its way inside. Salt spray slices across your face, cold and biting, nails and claws of an animal trying to get you. You barely register the sting. Your focus is on the deck below, where the equipment locker sits by the stairs. The rope should be there.

You swing down the short, steep steps, boots skidding slightly as the ferry shifts beneath you. The locker groans as you yank it open, cold metal biting into your fingertips. The rope’s there, coiled tight, damp and heavy.

You haul it out, the weight dragging at your arms as you push back up to the deck, boots pounding on slick metal, breath burning in your throat. The rope is rough and solid in your hands, the damp fibers biting into your palms as you step toward the railing, eyes locked on the men still fighting the sea.

"Line! Now!" Your voice barely carries, but the men on deck move. One of them, older, face lined with years of fighting the ocean, catches your eye, and you know you can trust him with this. He knows. He moves fast and nimble as you toss the line, and he hauls hard, pulling the boat closer inch by inch.

The younger man beside him fumbles, hands trembling as he secures the line, but his eyes are wide and fearful, darting between the shifting boats, the storm reflected in them. You can't have him slipping.

"Hold!" you shout, stepping to the edge.

The fishing boat rocks violently, a wild thing barely clinging to the world. But it holds. For now.

"Get them across!" You wave the first man forward, stretching your hand. His grip is iron, calloused and cold, and he hauls himself over with a grunt. The second follows, shaky but determined. His boots slip, but you grab his arm, steadying him as he clambers onto the ferry.

"One more!" The older man’s voice is barely audible over the wind. He points—

And you see him.

Near the stern. Slumped, half-draped over the edge. Too still.

"I’m going." Your words are lost in the chaos, but you’re already moving.

The wind slams into you the moment you step across, boots slipping on slick metal. You grab the railing, knuckles white, muscles straining as you pull yourself onto the listing deck. The world tilts beneath your feet, the boat rocking harder as if it knows it’s losing.

"Come on," you mutter, heart pounding.

He’s heavier than he looks. Deadweight. His clothes soaked through, dragging with seawater. Your fingers slip against the slick fabric as you grip his arm, muscles screaming as you try to pull him up.

"Help!" You barely need to say it. The older man is there, hands grabbing the man’s other arm. Together, you drag him inch by inch toward safety. The wind howls, the sea pushing harder, trying to reclaim him.

You’re so close.

"Almost there," you breathe, arms burning with the weight.

The man’s head lolls, his breath warm against your neck, but it’s faint. You brace, dragging harder, the metal beneath your boots slick and treacherous. Every muscle in your body screams for relief, but you hold on.

"You hang on, girl!" The older man shouts, his voice raw, but the younger one is there now too, reaching to grab the man’s collar and help.

"I’ve got him—" You don’t finish. The deck tilts—

The ferry shifts—

And the wave hits.

It’s not a push. It’s a blow. A force that tears you off balance, rips your grip from the man, and sends you weightless for a heartbeat before the world crashes back in. Or, you crash into the world. It resembles falling on solid ground from considerable height, except that it swallows you right up.

Cold.

Needles slip beneath your skin, knifing past layers of wool and overalls until nothing is left but frost-bright pain. Nothing blazes brighter, burns colder; the sea owns it all, every sensation, every heartbeat, every flicker of memory, snuffing them out one by one until all that remains is fear. Cold, bone-deep, blinding fear that has you kicking and flailing.

The water wants you. It pulls without pity, claws without remorse, wrenches without warning. Everything happens at once: pressure and chaos, liquid ice tearing at your lips and choking down your throat. The current twists around you, a tangle of unrelenting hands dragging you deeper even as you fight.

Down. And down. Until light bleeds away, dissolving like ink in water.

Something flashes just outside your blurring vision—

Then something else—

And another—

Infinitesimal silver glints cut through the dark. Shifting shadows dart between the pinpricks of pale light as shapes coalesce above. Thin silhouettes slice through the dark, through the gloom as you fall farther from safety. The pressure builds, crushing against your skull, a terrible humming filling your ears as if the entire ocean is singing an ode to your demise. Your chest begins convulsing fiercely, throat contracting in response as you begin thrashing around, lungs on fire and desperate for oxygen. Drowning in the sea, alone, terrified and hopeless, primal instincts demanding you do everything you can to stay alive, struggling uselessly to kick upwards towards the surface.

Wherever that is.

You reach upward desperately with a lone hand, vision having tunneled from lack of oxygen and panic combined. In that brief moment, something soft brushes the tips of your fingers. Like... fur...?

There's no way to know. Darkness has already consumed your consciousness, the struggle to survive giving away to oblivion and acceptance the moment your lungs breathe in water.

                    Singing.

Somebody has been singing to you.

Nearby. Simple, wordless, a melody winding slowly through the haze. Notes rise and fall around you — lavender smoke, crocheting your consciousness together bit by bit. You think maybe the song sounds familiar, that you could remember how it goes if only you could focus enough. As it is, your pulse stirs in time with the tune, waking limbs that were limp and numb as they thaw, muscles flexing as if remembering the shape of themselves.

Warmth comes first. Gentle heat kissing along the edges of your senses before bleeding inward in honeyed tendrils. Softness next: fur beneath your chin, blankets pulled tight across your chest.

The quiet of snowfall settles around you after that, muffling, easing, cushioning every inch of you as reality drifts into your awareness.

Everything returns in increments: salt crusted to your lips, drenched clothes wrapped around your frame, a layer of sodden clay. Beneath you: sand. Matted to the backs of your arms, your calves, the hollow of your throat. Behind your shuttered eyelids, sunlight filters softly. Red glow, distant orange. Sunglow, the color of melting copper. There is sky above you and beach below, but most importantly — there is breathing inside you again, each exhale shuddering as your pulse struggles toward normalcy, softly but surely.

Slowly, ever so gradually, you pry your eyelids open.

A canopy of branches, feather-soft green interspersed with golden brown, stretch overhead in a gentle dome. The bark glistens in the morning light, sticky still from the previous storm. Below the shelter, sand stretches outward in a sweep of endless shoreline, punctuated only by tufts of grass and gnarled driftwood that form a natural barricade from any casual passerby. The tide ebbs gently just past that barricade, washing fizzy seafoam high up the shoals before sliding back out lazily in a smooth curl, and further still, the horizon stretches — spun cotton candy, pink on blue, melted into haze at the edges, mingling seamlessly with the sky. And you're tucked carefully among the roots of one of those great trees, cradled and swaddled by the same fur-coated bundle your cheek is pillowed on, wrapped protectively in its embrace and held secure.

It takes your brain a full minute of groggily attempting to piece together these strange details before you realize there's a figure in the water, maybe twenty feet out, half-shrouded by the hush of early light.

Your brain coming back to you is akin to hitting the floor after falling for some time. You flinch. Sit up too fast.

A tangle of dark gray, thick hide spills from your shoulder, pooling in the crooks of your elbows. You shove it off with a gasp, limbs sluggish but panicked, fingers catching in the strange texture. It hits the ground with a muted thump, heavy as wet rope but somehow dry and fluffy at the same time. The cold hits you immediately then, skin pebbling beneath the cling of soaked denim and wool and the frigid touch of salt wind. A full body shudder grips you, hard, teeth rattling in your skull, blood singing through your veins faster.

But not even that kind of cold is enough to distract you from the sight before you.

There’s a person waist-deep in the shallows, facing the sun.

Long hair drips like spun violet ink down a narrow back, plastered in curling sheets to sharp, bare shoulders. You've never seen natural hair that long in your life, it trails all the way down her body to fan out against the waves, streaming in shimmering bands over the crests of each swell, lit gold in the early sun. She tilts her head back to face the dawn fully, and you can only see the barest hint of her profile from the angle, the delicate slope of nose, the lushness of parted lips. There’s something arresting about the stillness of her, the way the sea seems to hush around her body. A statue the tide forgot to reclaim.

For a breathless, silent moment, she simply stands there, perfectly balanced, completely undisturbed, arms spread at her sides as if greeting the daybreak directly, skin glittering in the light, slick with seawater and—

A scar. A slash across one side of her shoulder, pale even against her skin tone, stretched tight as though dug deep enough to make bone.

Huh, you absentmindedly think. I think it's the same side as Raf's?

You break out of your trance with a loud gasp with the thought of your seal friend, which causes her to whirl around to face you, startled and wide-eyed.

Which brings another revelation. The person in question is a man, not a woman.

Skinny dipping, at that.

Your brain catches up to your eyes in a rush of static and shock. This is a Family Feud moment.

Name something a burglar would not wanna see when he breaks into a house.

The contestant yelling it with his whole chest. Naked grandma!

Naked HUH?

The buzzer in your head goes off.

Question: What’s the last thing a girl wants to see when waking up alone on an unfamiliar beach after falling unconscious?

Answer: Naked man.

You make a strangled noise and scramble back so fast the pelt half-slides off you, and at the same time, sharp pain lances through your right side, turning the motion into more of a hunch than a duck and roll. The sudden flare knocks what little breath is left out of your lungs, knocking sense back into you in the process.

Wait, what happened? Why does it hurt?

"Easy! Easy." The naked dude darts forward through the surf without missing a beat, water splashing everywhere with his hurried strides. The sound of his approaching footsteps makes you instinctively curl inward, arms hugging tight around your midsection while wincing. You don't look up, mostly out of embarrassment, and your thoughts immediately go brrrr when you become hyper aware of the fact you're definitely going to see things you won't be able to unsee. "You'll bleed again if you keep squirming like that! All my hardwork's gonna go to waste!"

You flail one arm between the two of you in a futile barrier while the other cradles where the injury is, still keeping your face down and staring down furiously at the ground to avoid looking anywhere higher than knee level. "Ah-ah-ah! Stop, stop!”

The sloshing of jogging doesn’t stop.

“Just — man, don't charge at me, I don't know you!"

He stops short as though you've thrown a rock at him, legs cutting off mid-stride with a chaotic splash. For one blessed second, all is still again — except for the water lapping at his shins and your pulse banging against your teeth.

Then, a noise.

A half-choked sound that might be a laugh. Or a cough. He doesn’t come any closer. Just stands there, suspended mid-motion, your words having pinned him in place. The water stills around his legs. The surf hesitates, then draws back with a hush. You're still locked on a particularly blurry patch of sand wet with the red of your congealed blood like your life depends on it, but you hear the the tiny inhale that catches weird in his throat, and the breeze picks up with a stutter again.

He erupts worse than a volcano all of a sudden. “You’re joking! What? You don’t know me? You don’t know me? After everything — you just made me go through, that’s—”

“—a very reasonable response!” you shoot back, your voice high in octave, blood rushing so rapidly to your head that you’re not even comprehending properly.

“Wow,” he says, all affronted drama and wounded pride in one breath. “It's not like I'm gonna eat you. Humans aren't even safe for consumption anyway!"

"Whoa-hoh—" you start, but he steamrolls over you before you can properly get a word in.

There’s the wet slap of a foot shifting in the surf, heralding that he’s gearing up for a rant. “Most people say thank you, you know. Or ‘hey, cool of you to make sure I didn’t die horribly’—"

"You're naked, random guy!" you shout hoarsely, throwing out a pathetic arm to shield you from any and all compromising views. This is the politest way you could have put it. The next best thing was to shout, 'Don't come near me with your dick out.' Which. Yeah.

An awkward pause follows the admission, thick enough to make you glance up before thinking twice about it. You get a flash of purple before you look away once more, clutching the strange gray fur to yourself as some sort of feeble shield.

"—der why," he mumbles, more to himself than anything else.

"Excuse me?"

He deadpans, stopping just short. “I said, so now you’re body-shaming the guy who literally rescued you from certain death?”

“I’m shame-shaming the fact that you’re approaching me with your — your — entire situation out in the open!”

"You have my pelt," he says, with almost childlike seriousness, expecting you to be able to read his mind from the tone of his statement alone.

"Uh, okay?" you respond articulately, weirded out by how the conversation was lacking common sense. "What does that have to do with your clothes?"

This time, the quiet stretches out like taffy.

“I want you on the other side of this damn island if you’re an exhibitionist, I swear to god don’t think for a second I’m not capable of—”

“I am not!” The way his voice changes pitches has to be studied. “Have you lost your mind in the ocean? I can’t believe you’d suggest such a thing after everything I’ve done for you—”

You tune out his yapping. Yeah, this isn't getting anywhere. You're stranded on an island with a man you don't know, politely asking him to put his penis away, which, he won't get the hint for some reason and making it a 'I am who I am,' moment. Do you have to yell "Pervert!" at this guy for him to get a move on? Things couldn't get more absurd.

You rub your forehead wearily and groan in defeat. Is there something ironic about this exchange? Because you sure feel there should be something ironic here. There is probably supposed to be a joke somewhere here. The universe loves to deliver them in bundles.

An idea strikes you.

"Here, hold on," you say, shakily standing up while keeping your face diverted elsewhere. Your side does hurt, but the burn doesn't stretch as bad as when you felt it at first. "Just... turn around, please. No sudden moves."

"No sudden moves?" He answers with audible skepticism, the shuffling on the sand giving away his complying after a moment. The nervous waver in his words does manage to placate you somewhat. An exhibitionist wouldn't act this way. “I’m turning my back to you. How am I gonna know what you’re doing? For all I know, you could be ogling me with your squidlike human eyes, which, mind you, I wouldn’t blame you for—”

God, he loves the sound of his own voice, doesn’t he?

Muting him out once more, you pick up the fur coat blanket thing from its dropped position with an audible, "Hup!" It's bulky in your grip, almost too thick to lift, yet remarkably light at the same time — trying to pick up water without getting wet.

“—I’ve been told I’m distractingly shapely in the flesh, but I didn’t exactly wake up today planning to be admired in the wild. And it’s not even my best side, you know? My shoulders are uneven. I think. They used to be non-existent—”

You're in no position to be in awe right now though, so you brush off all possible questions concerning the bizarre phenomenon until later. With as much caution as you can muster, you raise it up like a curtain until the only part you can see of the man is his luscious hair, and start walking up to him.

“—Not that I’m implying anything. You are not the ogling type. Then again, I once trusted a cormorant and it stole my entire lunch while I was mid-swim, so what do I know? I’m just out here, my back wide open, accosted, and trying very hard not to hold a grudge—”

Then, you drape the cloak of fluffiness onto his shoulders in the gentlest manner you could possibly afford, avoiding touching his skin. The pelt closes around his back, reminiscent of the wings of a giant bird closing protectively, encasing him from neck down to calves. A gasp slips out of him. So small you might've missed it if you hadn't been holding your breath, waiting for any negative reaction.

His own hands come up to pull the flaps snugly closed, then he slowly looks over one shoulder at you with such stunned wide-eyed silence you almost want to crack a smile at him, but promptly freeze in place as soon as you lock gazes.

Not only does he have the most enticing eyes you've ever seen with vertical heterochromia transitioning from blue to pink like a bi-color tourmaline, but he has such an attractive facial structure that is both masculine and delicate all in the same breath it punches all of your buttons in one go and oh god — it is so not helping this entire situation. This stranger is the epitome of beauty. Handsome face and lovely features and soft bone structures and everything you didn't expect from a random naked dude on a beach you couldn't recognize as a local.

And the hair. You'd seen it from afar already but... it reminds you of strands of ashen lavender blossoms dripping with morning dew, wet waviness disappearing underneath the collar of the pelt. You'd kill to have this Rapunzel hair. It's unfair how a man—

You snap back to attention with a hard blink as the initial shock wears off.

"There you go, now I won’t get flashed," you exhale with obvious relief, trying to will yourself to act casually so you don't seem weird to the stranger who probably saved your life.

His head tilts, just barely. Long strands of wet hair slip over his shoulder as he stares down at the pelt wrapped around him — your handiwork. The fur shifts slightly under his touch, and he goes very still, watching it settle again. You wonder what he’s waiting for.

“You gave it back to me,” he says.

The words come out soft, a little too careful for something so simple. He looks at you, expecting the world to shift around what he just said. He’s silently saying this should mean something to you, too — but it doesn’t. And that mismatch only deepens the quiet between you.

You blink.

He lifts the edge of the fur in his hands, shaking it, then looks at you like the answer should be obvious.

A pause. “Right,” you say slowly. “And… that’s important to note because?”

He shifts his weight, brows drawing together in a look that’s too serious for the situation. “You could’ve kept it.”

"Wet as my clothes are, you need it more than I do.”

He is surprisingly docile and red in the face now that he has something on for modesty and can’t quite look you in the eye. The tips of his fingers peeking from all the fur in his grip are fidgety.

You give a wry grimace before remembering the manners Dad always told you to have around new acquaintances. "Yeah, um — uh, thanks. For saving my life.”

You tell him your name, and bow your head a bit in acknowledgment. His shoulders pull in tight at the sudden gesture of goodwill — though you aren't quite sure why — but relax after a breath as he meets your stare squarely, searching for something. The intensity throws you off balance; those odd and piercing mismatched shades fixed solely on you make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end in both curious and fearful wonderment.

"And you are...?"

"Oh," he says, as if the question took him off guard, too. One hand comes up to brush through damp locks. Almost self-conscious, if the look on his face is anything to go by. There’s some sort of a faraway look in his eyes. "Raf — Rafayel."

"Were you the third guy on the fishing boat, Rafayel?" You recall that last crew member was slumped half overboard and passed out, prompting the rescue attempt that sent you both to sea in the first place. If Rafayel was wearing his pelt when you attempted to pull him up, the added weight could have been a factor in tipping both of you over. You find it's all a blur in your memory, though, and suppress a shudder. "Did you fall with me or—"

A shadow passes over his features as quickly as the changing tides. When he speaks, though, it's measured, almost cautious. "Yeah, I—" He pauses, shakes his head. Locks those impossibly colored eyes on you again, bright in the early morning light. "How are you feeling, though? Still hurts?"

"My side feels bruised like I was elbowed in the ribs but besides being chilled to the bone from falling into the ocean, I'm alright," you supply honestly. "I saw the blood on the sand, though. It feels unreal that I'm up and about right now. How can a scrape bleed that much?"

Rafayel's mouth goes flat as a line, looking you up and down with a concerning intensity deepening his tone. "You're lucky I was able to pull you back from the worst of it."

Shallow as it is, your wound isn't even dressed, but you decide not to engage in a conversation about the technicalities, patting him on the arm once in thanks and walking around him to get out of the forest line's shadow.

The beach stretching wide and strange before you is a postcard you don’t remember collecting. The sand is darker than you're used to, siltier, almost gray, and littered with glinting shells you don’t recognize, long and spiraled in augers, brittle as glass. Pale reeds jut from the shore at uneven angles, hissing faintly in the breeze, and the driftwood here is stripped bare, almost white, tangled in patterns that look too intentional for nature.

The water itself is clear, almost iridescent, casting strange reflections across the shallows, warped ripples that shimmer pink and green, an oil slick pretending to be pretty. And further out, offshore, strange half-drowned statue-shaped stones loom out of the surf.

You know this archipelago better than most, its coastlines and hidden inlets, the soft-bellied coves that tourists miss, having traced its map with your own hands, ferry lines, rock clusters, the way sandbanks shift after storms. Usually, it takes you seconds to place yourself. A curve in the shoreline, a type of dune grass, the slope of a treeline, something always gives it away.

But this place doesn’t register. No matter how long you stare, it refuses to sort itself into something known. The landscape’s been scrubbed clean of every tell you’re trained to read.

The most logical possibility is Seolhwine’s Hook — the island nearest to the Devil’s Teeth. That makes the most sense, right? You were heading back when the squall hit, and it’s the only one close enough for a current to drag you to overnight, and for Rafayel to be able to swim with you. But even then… even that doesn’t feel right. You’ve docked at Seolhwine’s before. This doesn’t match.

“I hate to say it but... Do you know where we are?” you ask finally, turning to him.

"My aunt's," he answers with a straight face.

You pause mid-shiver, your brain tripping over the simplicity of the statement.

You give him the flattest look you can afford, eyebrows lifting slowly. The pelt is clutched too high at his chest, his fingers wound tight in the fabric, you think he might be afraid of dropping it, though it doesn’t seem he notices he’s doing it. You can’t tell if he’s being deliberately evasive or if he genuinely thinks this is the helpful version of an answer.

"What?"

"Look, I’m all for jokes usually, but right now I need an actual place name — not just that your aunt lives here. I’m cold, I’m tired, and I just want to figure out how to get home—"

"It's my aunt's island."

You blink. Once. Twice. The explanation hangs in the air, weirdly self-satisfied. And it’s not satisfactory at all. Not even close.

What’s with the serene confidence of someone stating the color of the sky, as if “my aunt’s” is a perfectly normal answer to what island are we on? As if those two words magically orient you on a map?

You wait for more. Anything. The punchline. The name. Even a smirk. But there’s nothing.

Is he joking? Is this some elaborate bit? Or does he genuinely think that’s helpful?

The frustration in you sharpens. You’ve had to deal with flaky locals and clueless tourists and broken ferries before, but your patience is thinning by the second. You’re exhausted, still damp, still bleeding a little, and now stuck playing twenty questions with the world’s most uncooperative pretty boy.

"My aunt’s island."

He says it again, but there’s a slight shift in tone — firmer. He's correcting you. Thinks you’re the one being slow. And somehow, that makes it worse.

You stare at him. This time longer. He looks so damn earnest about it, truly believes he’s given you a helpful answer. It’s not smug. It’s not sarcastic. It’s not even deliberately vague to give away he’s fucking with you just to be a tease. It’s literal. Painfully, infuriatingly literal.

You’re trying to get directions from a very impatient child who only answers exactly what you ask and nothing else. Nuance is definitely a foreign language he never got taught.

But something tugs at the edge of your thoughts.

Because as stupid as it sounds — and it does sound stupid — it’s not impossible.

You look around again, really look this time, and you realize something’s been bothering you since you first stood up. It’s too pristine. Too quiet. There’s no old trailhead, no ferry dock, no graffiti-scuffed boulder where kids have carved hearts. No signs. No fishhooks, no cigarette butts. Just wind, tide, trees.

It clicks.

They’re marked on the maps you’ve seen, but only just. Annotated with little circles and names like SH-07 or East Ellinor. Places people like you aren’t supposed to go. Places the ferry routes steer around.

You’ve never been to one. You’ve never had a reason to. The people who owned them had their own transport, their own staff, their own little worlds with locked docks and private everything.

That’s why you didn’t recognize it. It’s not not on the map. It’s just never been part of your map.

You exhale, slow. Let the realization settle.

"So you're saying this is one of the private islands."

Rafayel’s brows lift in vague approval and he nods fervently. "Yes! That. Exactly. It's very private."

You rub your forehead, as if that’ll push the absurdity back into place.

Of course it is. Of course you almost drowned and then washed up on a privately owned island like some shipwrecked stray. Of course the first person you meet is a socially weird, mostly-naked man claiming ownership through familial inheritance like it’s a perfectly casual thing to drop.

You stare up at the sky for a moment, trying to piece together how the hell you even got here.

None of the private islands are anywhere near the Devil’s Teeth — most of them are tucked deep in the inner chain, clustered where the water’s calmer and the currents don’t rip you sideways. But this? This place isn’t close to any of that. You were unconscious, but you remember the storm. You remember going overboard, water in your lungs, panic in your throat, and then nothing. Blackout.

But you weren’t alone.

Rafayel said he pulled you out. Which means he swam you here.

You glance at him again, still draped in that ridiculous pelt and giving you weird pointed looks conveying that he wants to tell you something so bad. He doesn’t look winded enough for someone who hauled another body through open water during a storm. But if he did — if that’s how you got here — then he swam farther than you can make sense of. And maybe lost his clothes in the process. Somehow the latter makes more sense compared to the hypothetical that precedes it.

You were near open sea. This doesn’t add up. Even if he unexpectedly took you somewhere else than Seolhwine's, it just happening to be his aunt's private island is no coincidence.

You look back at him, more confused than before.

"Come," he says softly, extending his hand toward you with palm upward. "I'll take you to her. We'll help you get home. I promise."

A dozen different responses crowd your tongue as you stare down at his offered hand. All the questions rattling between your ears, each booking it for your lips faster than the next. None make it far. Suspicion should be there, but your instincts are unresponsive. They don’t find anything worth questioning about the situation despite the red flags.

Sure, maybe a weird randomly naked guy saved your life, brought you to a secret beach that doesn’t look on any travel maps, and claims to have ties with some rich aunt that owns the whole damn thing...

But he isn't dangerous.

You know that fact unequivocally. Call it a hunch, maybe? Gut intuition. It makes no sense considering your rational side has zero interest in jumping through hoops to trust the random person that literally dragged you out of the ocean to the least convenient place he ever could — but then again, life tends to toss the strangest circumstances and situations your way whenever you least expect it.

What matters most is getting back home, your parents have to be dying of worry — a search party must be out there wasting resources. Having someone who seems oddly comfortable on the island lead you directly to shelter would certainly speed things along.

"Hey," he gently adds when you're quiet for too long, breaking the train of thought running rampant inside your mind. The softness in his tone brings your attention back to him entirely, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He offers his hand a little higher, which draws your focus back on it with curious clarity. How smooth it lookd, even from this distance, perfect nails without a single scratch or imperfection, fingers delicate, elegant bones visible under the pale skin. "I just want to help. You're safe with me. I won’t hurt you."

You stare at his hand, then at his face, then back again. The tone is soft, the words gentle, but something about it scratches at the back of your brain. The kind of voice usually reserved for nervous animals crouched under porches. Any second now, he might start whistling and offer a treat.

Though the weird phrasing shouldn't work its weird magic on you, it does. Maybe because it sounds so nostalgic and familiar in a way that it invokes a sense of safety in you? Or maybe because you're tired, soaked to the bone, bleeding lightly still, and sore all over and this guy seems too nice to be anything less than honest?

Perhaps both. Probably both. You really have no business trusting strangers who wear big pelt blankets instead of actual clothing and give basic information away akin to some kind of social anxiety sufferer with performance issues, yet here you are, contemplating on the idea of taking his hand.

What the hell, you think eventually. Sure. What alternative is there? If the worst comes to pass, you intend to make him have one less limb to his name — it would be his own fault for walking around like a Resident Evil nude mod. How did that one text post go? Boy put that boaner away lest a sloppy little critter grabs hold of it.

But you’re not that sure what kind of answer you expected when you ask him where you’re headed, but he doesn’t so much point as let his hand drift outward, loose and imprecise — more communion than instruction, as though the land might whisper the route if you stand still long enough. He plants himself in the emptiness with the ease of someone who’s never needed a map, naming vague landmarks with the casual grace of someone expecting the road to rise just because he’s ready to walk it.

As someone who has mastered the art of minding your own business, you don’t call out this behavior. As long as he gets you someplace you can call help from, Rafayel is free to be a weirdo.

But you do press him for information.

“She has lavender near the steps, and her door is the color of the sea,” he offers, like that narrows it down. “The path smells of sage sometimes, if the wind’s right. And there’s a stone shaped like a sleeping dog near the turn — you have to squint a little. The house groans when it’s too warm. There’s a wind chime that only rings when someone she doesn’t like shows up. And the garden gate bites if you don’t know how to open it.”

Not helpful. But then he refuses to add anything else more along the lines of fucking common sense and normal people direction-giving. What does he expect, the scent alone pulling you in the right direction if you just walk long enough?

And maybe he's right. Maybe you're the weird one for expecting something as formal as an address out here. If this really is a private island, there might only be one house. Maybe 'lavender and a blue door' is all anyone needs. Maybe people out here remember things by the curve of the land and the way the air smells after rain.

It isn’t a real plan. It’s the shape of a promise, just strange enough to follow, just vivid enough to believe in for a little while. The way he speaks about it, there’s no room for doubt, and you’ve learned to believe in the word of a local in all your years of living around the archipelago.

So you follow.

The pelt shifts when he moves, catching bits of drift and sand, trailing slightly as he walks beside you through the underbrush. He doesn’t shiver, unlike you. And that makes sense, considering how warm and cozy you were when that thing was your blanket when you first woke up.

The morning light hasn’t yet burned the fog from the trees, and the forest path ahead is dappled in grey. Your boots sink into the softened moss with a squelch. His bare feet barely make a sound, but your skin does hear something because of your wet socks.

You glance sideways at him. No wince, no flinch, not even when he steps straight on a gnarled root that would have you cursing in three languages.

“Seriously?” you mutter. “You don’t even feel that?”

“I’ve walked stranger paths,” he says. Great.

You stop walking with a groan. The wind catches your soaked clothes, cutting straight through to the bone. Your arms are already shaking.

“Okay. New plan.”

He watches as you crouch in front of him, back turned.

You look over your shoulder with an encouraging gesture for him, “Climb on.”

He tilts his head. “Huh?”

“Piggyback. You're barefoot, this path is hell, and I'm freezing. Carrying weight warms you up.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You're not that heavy, and I’ve hauled crates bigger than you off ferries for years. So. Just. Climb on.”

He makes a strangled noise. “I didn’t learn bipedalism just to be carried like a pup by you!”

Such drama. There really is no time for this and you’re not in the mood for negotiations.

You grab one of his wrists and tug it over your shoulder. His entire hand twitches in response. “If it makes you feel better, this is entirely me being selfish. I want to get warm.”

He hesitates, and it’s not pride, he keeps glancing at your side, where the torn side of your turtleneck still clings damp and darkened. His hands hover like he might stop you.

“You’re not healed,” he mutters. “Not properly.”

You hitch his arm higher on your shoulder. “It’s fine.”

“That wound’s still raw.”

“So are my fingers. Cold does that.”

He makes a frustrated noise.

“Listen, enough with courtesy stuff, okay? I don’t care, I’m freezing,” you cut in. “And you don’t have shoes. We’re both going to be miserable either way, so pick your poison.”

He sighs, dragging it out. Eventually, he caves, muttering something under his breath that could be an insult but could also be a compliment. He hoists himself up, arms settling uncertainly around your shoulders, pelt-covered legs bracketing your hips, and you make sure he won’t slip away from your grip because of the material. You’re trekking along the forest in no time, feeling pleasantly distracted from the cold.

“This is deeply undignified,” he mutters.

“And being inexplicably naked in front of a stranger isn’t? Where and why did you lose your clothes anyway? You still haven’t told.”

There’s no response, except from a huff he lets out from his nose, which fondly reminds you of Raf. It must be a tale particularly embarrassing for him to tell, and he did have the fur to make it up for, so you once again don’t pry. Master of minding your own business.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Get comfortable.”

He doesn’t. He sits stiffly at first, as though unsure how much weight he’s allowed to give you. Then he starts shifting. Sighing. Squirming. Grumbling under his breath about the jostling, the pace, the way your shoulder bone is probably bruising his ribs.

"You walk uneven," he complains after the first bend. "See, it hurts after all, yeah? Put me down."

"It's a forest," you grit out. "The ground walks uneven."

"I wish you would listen for once."

"That's a wasted wish on a star. You've known me for like what, fifteen minutes?"

He exhales through his nose again, slow and beleaguered. No witty answer to that one, it seems.

The longer you walk, the more he settles. His complaining slows into occasional muttering, then thoughtful silence. The forest begins to close in around you. Damp leaves brush your arms. The world smells of pine sap, wet bark, and something almost metallic beneath the rot. The silence here is dense, broken only by the soft rhythm of your boots against the ground and the occasional rustle of something unseen in the undergrowth.

Then his voice, soft and close beside your ear: “Do you name the trails you take at sea? Or are they just known to you?”

“What?”

“The water routes. The ones you steer the ferry along. Do they have names?”

He’s talking about sea lanes. You’re about to question how he doesn’t know these things, considering he’s a fisherman, but remember he might not be one. His aunt owns an island. This is a rich kid who probably wanted to fish and got the locals involved in his request.

“They’ve got designations. Letters, numbers. Eights and alphas and things like that. But most of us just… call ’em what we call ’em.”

“Like?”

You think a moment, breath fogging in the damp air. “There’s Shiverstretch. That’s the fast cold current between Dolos and Ternhook. Everyone calls it that ’cause it’s a backslap to the face, especially on the morning runs. And there’s Dead Hour Channel — no wind, no sound, just this long, empty drift. Makes you paranoid that something’s watching. I don’t like that one.”

You feel him shift slightly on your back, listening.

“There’s Longshout,” you add. “Named after a guy who tried to boat through in a storm and ended up yelling for help the whole way ‘til he ran aground on Fallow Reef.”

Rafayel snorts quietly. “That one sounds personal.”

“It is. He still works the east docks. Won’t shut up about it.”

“How do you find your way around, then? I always wondered. Do you read the water like seals do?”

“Reading the water is one way to put it, I guess. They’re charted. We use navigation systems. Landmarks. Depth markers.”

A pause. The trees rumble, disturbed by a sudden gust of wind, brittle leaves dropping pebbles onto the path in front of you. Rafayel shifts awkwardly behind you, almost toppling off to the left before righting himself with a steadying grip.

"Question," you say. "What indicators do you use? Chip on a tree or something?"

He whispers eventually, cheek lightly pressed against yours. You feel his eyes on you. "Smells."

You blink, twisting around to glance at him. He seems surprisingly somber all of a sudden. "Uhhh...."

"Just focus on the road, we're almost there. You'll see."

The path winds past the last of the scrub grass, and then it opens.

The trees fall away in a hush of damp leaves and saltlight, and there, cradled in the middle of the forest-clad small valley, is a sprawling, mansion of a house that doesn’t quite belongs to any century in particular. Can't be called old or modern. The word you’re looking for is neo-classical architecture made to be a beach house. Pale limestone, veined and sun-bitten, gleams beneath the overcast sky. Its walls are streaked with wind-carried brine, but the stone holds strong, weathered soft rather than worn down. And there is the giveaway Rafayel was talking about: blue door.

Lavender spills along the pathway in loose drifts, unruly and fragrant, tangling with sea-thrift and clover like the garden grew itself wild. Carved wooden shutters hang half-closed against the morning chill, and a curved archway frames the entry looks the part of a half-remembered temple. There’s something mythic about it, a story you were almost told once. A place that holds onto memory whether you want it to or not.

And then there’s the scent, ocean first, bright and sharp, but something warmer curling beneath it. Resin, maybe. Incense burned into the beams. Citrus oil in the wood grain.

You adjust your grip beneath Rafayel’s knees as you approach the door. Acting as a barrier between your bodies, his pelt is still slung down your back , trailing behind like a second spine, damp at the edges. He hasn’t said much since the last hill. Just rested his chin between your shoulder blades and hummed, quiet as tidewash.

You reach the first step. Hesitate. The house isn’t grand in the usual way, no columns, no gates, but there’s a heaviness to it. Not unfriendly, but expectant.

You knock.

Silence falls. The melted caramel of sunlight scatters through the dark glass in the windows. Rafayel shifts on your back, going rigid so suddenly it almost jolts you. His breath stills sharply against your spine, and in that single suspended moment, you can feel the piano wire of tension strung through his bones.

You don’t get the chance to ask why. Wood cracks loudly within the doorframe, and there's a pop, a groan, and then a soft, sweet creak as the lock disengages, allowing the door to slowly swing inward with an audible squeak.

The scent hits first, warm and strange. Spiced velvet, a whisper of cloves, dried orange peel, and something more ancient baked into the lintel wood. Then the figure behind it, unexpected.

For an ���aunt,” she looks barely older than him. Mid-thirties, maybe, though it’s hard to tell. Her features are sharp, dignified, and her presence is a light cloud, wrapped in layered satin and lace shawl, white and lilac, all shot through with shimmer where the light catches on glinting jewelry. Her hair is swept back, rich violet and pinned with silver shells, and her eyes—

Dusty purple brightening with shock.

“Rafayel?” she breathes, her grip whitening on the frame. Her gaze darts down, takes in the sealskin clinging to your back, the way his taut arms still drape over your shoulders like iron bars. “Gods, is it really you? Look, look at you! Oh... oh!"

Rafayel slides off you, and she practically throws herself out the door as soon as the initial shock wears off, taking two long steps across the threshold until she's directly in front of you, cupping his cheeks with hands that only tremble the smallest bit. He meets her halfway, tilting his forehead to rest against hers as his own hands come up to gently caress her elbows, cradling them lightly. His motions are hesitant at first — touching with clear clumsiness, as if handling glass. But the moment she exhales an astonished little laugh, something changes, he pulls her close, tightening his grasp not to let her blow away on the wind. The woman leans fully against him then, looping her arms around his neck with a relieved shudder that shakes both their frames.

And you're there, a comical stick figure at the background of a well-drawn manga panel with a big arrow pointing at you.

You hope they won't hunt you for sport. Private island. Two eerily good looking family members. Girl who got deliberately delivered there when a closer island was the most blatant option. This has the potential to be a horror movie premise.

But no. Nope. Too late. She glances past his shoulder as soon as her embrace is complete and the silent reunion done with, locking eyes with you, and your soul flees your body, trying to squeeze itself back through your pores like some furtive worm to avoid the full brunt of her curious scrutiny.

She raises one perfectly shaped brow, but before either of you can exchange any words or reactions, Rafayel says something.

You say something, because it's in a language you don't know, one that doesn't bother to make itself easy, sharp at the edges, rounded at the core. It rolls out of his mouth, mist over moorland — thick, tangled, hard to follow. The stone-teeth syllables grind against each other, but every so often, they break open into something strange and sweet, the howl of a reed pipe carried on sea wind.

It just plays into the horror movie vibe because why would he blatantly switch language to probably speak about you, judging from the glance thrown your way, as if you aren't there? Probably conspiring how to eat you! You do feel like tenderized meat.

The woman hums again, a thoughtful note this time, and the conversation carries on in murmured exchanges of tone and gesture — softness here, a flicker of frustration there. And yet you can pinpoint the exact moment everything changes. Rafayel says something. But she draws back, cups his cheeks in her hands, and stares at him hard, searching. Whatever she finds isn’t enough, because she shakes her head once, firm, decisive. He asks again. Another shake, stronger this time, more insistent. Her fingers flex tight against his skin as if she means to hold him there, but he speaks again, something softer, fainter, and her hand relaxes, trembling on the edge of defeat. A faint frown crosses her face, a small downward curl that somehow turns the lines at the corner of her lips into parenthesis, closing off the shape of whatever she might have said next.

"Hey, uh," you finally intervene when their staring contest becomes too intense. They both startle, seeming to remember your existence at once. You smile nervously, holding one raised palm up in defense and nonthreatening greeting. "Sorry to interrupt, ma'am, but could I, um..." Your free hand gestures vaguely to indicate the general situation you find yourself in. "Use your phone? I don't mean to intrude or anything, I just. I got thrown over board during the storm, I don't even know if my ferry was capsized and I really, really need to get back—"

Rafayel says something else under his breath, hasty now, almost tripping over his words.

Her brows furrow in mild concern at his rambling. "Oh dear, I apologize, yes! Do forgive me for being impolite, I forgot myself for a moment there."

You nod politely in acknowledgment of her apology, lowering your arm hesitantly. "Not a problem, it happens."

"It's been so long since our house had guests," she admits candidly, placing an elegant hand over her heart in embarrassment. "Come, come in, please, you need a hot shower and change of clothes." She takes you by the arm and guides you inside. "You're drenched! Look at those goosebumps. Oh, you poor thing."

She leads you into a grand hallway filled with golden hour sunlight spilling through windows framed by sheer white curtains billowing lazily in the breeze, and it is not unlike stepping straight into the interior design section of an expensive department store. You could smell the money dripping off every nook, cranny, wall, and corner. If your wet socks were making muddy imprints on the flooring you knew you'd pass out from mortification on the spot. The floors here look pristine and polished enough for you to see your reflection clearly on its surface. Even the vase tucked neatly into the center of a glossy dark wood console table is worth more than your boat. Everything about this mansion is clean and orderly, it must be heaven on earth for a neat freak like your dad.

"He needs clothes the most, I think," you try to joke, letting her steer you through the main hall with wide curious steps and an awestruck stare. Rafayel, wherever he is behind you two, remains silent. You think he might have disappeared somewhere.

Her grip tightens around your arm like a mother hen dragging her chick into a coop to shelter from winter, her nails lightly digging into the sleeves of your sweater with a pleasant firmness that feels strangely grounding. "Don't worry about him, you focus on getting warmed up now."

"Thanks, ummm..." you begin, hoping it's polite to ask for her name while inside her home. But before you could continue, she turns to regard you with a serene smile — so gentle and graceful she could've been sculpted from marble if it weren't for her very lively personality. She smells nice, too. Floral. Very floral. The same kind of perfume bottle your aunt kept on display near her sewing machine that you stole a few sniffs of when Grandma wasn't looking.

Her attention is summer afternoon sunbeams on your chilled skin. "You can call me Talia.”

[13tinysocks]

My Dead Girlfriend

With water, your powers return. Only to be used in a betrayal that ends up feeding everybody.     

[Part one]  [Ao3] [8] [10] [Chapter Index]

TW: Major Character Death, Cannibalism, Nyaaa :3 Did I tell you guys nobody is safe :33

9 * Eat It [7.5k]

"So let your real flag fly, you fuckin' freak."

To Cleveland (And Beyond) - Go Hang

        Day seven.

        You can drink by your lonesome. Move and walk, but not very fast or far without feeling woozy. Use of your powers made your vision black out for seconds at a time. Gray advised against it until they could find food. They still hadn't found anything.         

        The cave extended beyond the chasm you'd landed in. Walls of stalagmites had to be carefully demolished to reveal off-chutes. Most of the Marks had gone into the dark to explore. You stayed in the main room, feeling like shit, hungry enough to think about eating sand but alive.

        The cavern was shaped like a loaf of sourdough, that's all you could think of. Bread. Half of it was flat enough ground, slightly slippery with the humidity. Stalagmites coming up from the ground had been sliced in half, made into low stools. The other dropped down deep into a seemingly endless source of water.

        Sheets of metal were brought down from above, laid on the ground. Topped with sand then the trash fabric. Best joint bedding the desert could buy. Gray and Baldie were still working on more trash fabric bedding for more beds, but the work was slow. For now, the first bed was yours, Gray who'd made the thing, insisted. It was tucked into a corner, the fire pit close enough to warm you, with more stools and makeshift benches wrapping around it. There was room for more on the mattress, but you invited nobody, letting them rest their heads on rocks or bundled-up cloth. Though Mohawk, Lensless and Scars tried to invite themselves to your side often. They were pulled away or told outright by you and your power, to buzz off. They just liked the fight, to see how far they could push until you couldn't shove back anymore. You were thankful to be alone on the bed now, watching the wind blow sand around hundreds of feet above the caves entrance. 

        Maskless was sleeping even though he was supposed to be watching you. You were glad to have someone on the same page. This whole babysitting thing was stupid. Okay, sure, you'd almost died from dehydration, but you weren't going to die now. Probably. 

        The others were above or below, searching. You were alone and safer than you had been in days. You sat up, blinking away the dizziness and doing your best to ignore the gnawing at the inner lining of your stomach.

        The boots Baldie found yesterday come to the ground, the black GDA soldier pants swished around your legs. Baldie was out there somewhere wearing only his prison pants, you had kept the shirt.

        No helmet or armor, but you were covered up enough to feel a little more comfortable. Warmer in the cool cave. There were complaints when your clothing returned, they just wanted something to look at. Some desert entertainment.

        It was disgusting, and you couldn't tell the teasing from the actual threats, so treated all mentions of your body the same. 

        You crawled to the pool, a sunbeam from above guided you. You drank out your hands despite what Gray had said. All water needed to be boiled before consumption for safety. He'd taken a chunk of limestone, punched out its center (which took multiple attempts) and deemed it a pot. It was more of a shallow basin than anything, but you weren't going to argue. He wasn't around now and you didn't want to wake Maskless by starting a fire. He was part of the reason you were still alive, and you weren't going to say thank you, so being civil was the best you could do. 

       What had started as drinking from your hands, turned into scrubbing blood and soot from your face, turned into half pulling yourself into the water to take a fully clothed bath.

        "Hey." Maskless didn't open his eyes. "Don't contaminate the water."

        "Boiling it gets rid of germs." You don't go further in than you already had. Rational thought caught up with your body, you were definitely too weak to tread water at this point. Let go of the ledge and you'd slip under. Unsure if Maskless would save your ass and not waiting to find out, you slid back. "You not sleeping?"

        "Can't. Listening for something."

        You roll back onto your haunches. "For what?"

        His eyes open with a scowl, "I can't hear if you're talking."

        You decided you dislike him more than you already did. The others had something off about them, un-Mark-ish and bordering on inhuman. But Maskless was a dead ringer, same face, same inflection, same bitch attitude. You couldn't be in the same room as him.

        You got up. 

        "You can't see in the dark." He says like you'd forgotten. 

        You pulled your phone out of your pocket and flicked on the flashlight. If you could leave a review on your phone case it'd be a glowing five stars. Thing was still working even after being thrown a few hundred miles into sand. 

        He sighed and floated off his ass to your side, "Let's go then." 

        "I'm going alone." You pick a direction arbitrarily, and move toward the opening. 

        "I'm not going to tie you down or anything, but if I let you leave and you die, they'll kill me." He says with very little enthusiasm.

        "Poor you." You swallowed, gathering power, "Why don't you go sit back down?"

        You sway, stumbling forward a step, and catching yourself on a wet rock. Maskless is halfway across the cavern to his stool when he stops and turns.

        "They told me you'd do that." He stayed in place, waiting. "Why don't you go sit back down?"

        "Fuck you." Breathe, regather, and, "Sit down."

        You tip forward before you can see if it works. On the ground, you lie in a groaning heap. Hunger ebbing away at your very soul. 

        Maskless sighs, long and loud. He grabs the back of the jail shirt and half-carries, half-slides you back to the makeshift bed. "You can try that again when you didn't almost die two days ago." He drops face-first onto the garbage despite your protests.

        Maskless floated back to his stool, crossed his legs, and tried to listen. The sound had gone. A faint, so very faint, skittering he could only hear if everything was still and he paid no mind to his own beating heart.

        "You ruined it." It's more a fact than a biting insult. He is too tired to be as nasty as Emperor. Honestly, where the hell did the guy get the energy to be so annoying?

        You didn't reply. Fighting unconsciousness before your brain kickstarted and you peeled yourself up. "You could've stayed where you were but you had to follow me."

        You were so tired of the tails. You just needed to be alone or with someone who doesn't scare the shit out of you. But you can't. Groups are good for survival and the longer this goes on the more you realize. You couldn't kill them without food. The murders were postponed even further than they already had been. 

        "I already told you, they'll kill me." The sentence ends with a laugh, though nothing about it is funny. "I don't even know you." The intonation made you remember Mark in the GDA hospital wing. You're angry all over again at someone that is and isn't him.  

        You'd heard it before, but the words are an honest to God relief. He was a blank slate. Hated you right back. Now, this was a normal relationship to have while stranded in the desert.

        Despite his assurance, you're suspicious. "Not even a little?"        

        "I mean I met you but I don't want to fuck you." He says it plainly. "I have a boyfriend."

        Your ears perked up at that. "What?" 

        "William Clockwell." He throws the name at you like a knife.

        A knife you pick up and examine. "Mark's best friend, who's dating that guy D.A. Sinclair maimed?" Thrown right back.

        It hits him square in the chest, bullseye. His turn to say, "What?"

        Invincible had long since turned tail and left Machine Head's business alone, which meant Machine Head would forevermore have his nose in Invincible's business. He had plenty of enemies and plenty of money to hire people to watch the family of his enemies. Nothing better than kidnapping and ransom to get people to do what you wanted. It was funny that the GDA did the same thing, just higher tech with more red tape. Maybe you wouldn't have minded a job there, you liked intel being thrown around like gossip. 

       "Rick something or other." The words are a one-two punch to his gut.

        His brows knit, he leans forward a fraction, unable to hide his interest.

        "That guy from high school?" Jealousy and bitterness soak through his tongue. You knew the tone and feeling all too well. Seeing the misery swimming in his eyes was like a baby's laughter and butterflies.

        "They just graduated college together." You boasted like you were proud of them. Like you and William were still friends. "Going steady a few years now." You had him on the ropes now. Finish him! "Probably getting married soon." Honeyed eyes go black, and you knew you'd gone too far. You couldn't help push further, a thrill at getting a reaction. Hunger had made you worse than a cunt, you'd started acting like a man. "Unless they died when you guys ran through the planet."

        The hand has closed on your throat before you could even think up the next insult. "Shut up. Shut up, you're lying." Yet his hand loosens enough for you to answer. 

        "The Mark Grayson in my timeline was only friends with William Clockwell." Fingers don't press in hard enough to bruise; he's careful. Knows if the others see he's fucked.

        That wasn't the answer he wanted. "Where did they live?"

        "Some college in Chicago."  

        His eyes go bug-fuck wide. "Chicago?" One of the cities they hit. His grip loosens, hands shaking. You'd said the truth, which was apparently the wrong thing. He floated back to his seat, head in hands, muttering, "Chicago, Chicago..."

        You don't say anything and neither does he until the others return, when the sunbeam goes orange and soft and the cold starts to creep in.

        Marks returned for the evening usual, a bonfire debrief where the only thing cooking was water. 

        Baldie built the fire. Orange light reflecting off his thick muscles. Nothing to report from his end. Lensless took the floor first, pacing as he talked about the winding caves he'd walked. It was hard to follow, but there were more caves than what he'd explored. Mohawk said he'd found another pool of water. Scars had no luck in the desert besides some more trash to weave. Tracksuit had nothing. Gray reported the cave system was bigger than thought. Warned it'd be easy to get lost like Lensless, but never find their way back. A map would need to be made. Warned that breaking through the roof of the cave system to the surface could collapse the tunnels. He said this with eyes on you. 

        "You've been awfully quiet." Mohawk flicked his fingers toward Phantom, who sat still on a stalagmite stump directly across from you. "Got anything?"

        ***

        According to the numbers in his lenses, the nest was four hundred miles below the surface. He hadn't seen the narrow entrance at first, and when he did, didn't consider squeezing through it. Until a tiny spec of green lit the screen on his lens. A moving spec. Something living. He crept closer to the wall, the tiny holes coming into focus. More silhouettes outlined in green, limbs too fast and small, they looked like a blur. 

        He tore out a chunk of wall, set it aside and stepped into a new cavern. Bigger than the rest. Roof so high it could've been a cathedral. He'd come in by its apex, looking down at the comings and goings of the creature mass. Paths well worn deep into the earth where they moved, wide as pipes. Winding, twisting, into a wider network of dugout tunnels. But here, in this space, all roads led to one place. 

        Her subjects crawled up her body, holding morsels so small he couldn't see or detect it with his lenses. Fungus perhaps. They made their way under her twitching pedipalps. Drop the mold or sand morsels or whatever into her mouth, and make their way back down the body. Tiny, useless wings on her back flutter in buggish satisfaction. 

        She lay on limestone, a pool of water around her like a moat.

        He leaves after a shallow investigation of the closest caves. Finding eggsacks buried in the walls in one cavern. Spore-filled air in another. He slid the removed rock back in place, careful to push it flush to the wall. The others were unlikely to find the secret hideaway. Unlikely to find you both if you left together in secret. Living off bug meat and cave water, forever. Disgusting, yes, but you'd have each other.

        If only he could get you to come with him, unnoticed and without a fight.

        ***

        Phantom shook his head. 

        "Of course, you have nothing." Emperor spat like he didn't also have anything to report. "We won't have anything unless everybody is pitching in." The white of his lenses flash firelight, set on you.

        "Am I supposed to magically recover from almost dying?" You shoot back. "You think I like hanging around while you do shit?"

        "What shit has he done since we've got here?" You almost don't hear his voice.

        You have to look around to see who spoke and find Emperor glaring at Maskless. "Got something to say?"

        "I found water." He says, hand coming up to gesture to Phantom, "we found water. All you've done is sit and complain."

        Emperor scoffs. "Like you've been around to monitor my progress."

        "I didn't have to be. People talk." He says as if you didn't catch him leave with Phantom a half hour ago into one of the caves. Since digging out your new home, they were definitely closer than the rest of you.

         Tension starts to tighten in the air. Baldie and Mohawk shift on their asses, bring themselves closer to you to block any incoming strays from hitting you. 

        Emperor is off his seat, standing while everyone remained seated. "If any of you have anything to say to me now- say it!"

        "Your voice makes my ears ring." Said Scars, who loved hearing himself talk.

        "You do jackshit, dude." Lensless adds.

        Emperor turns on them, waving a fist. "I've got a lot more on my mind than you idiots! My empire has to be falling apart without me, and I'm stuck with you useless, brain-dead, backwater versions of me! You can't even survive on a desert planet, how could so many of you not rule Viltrum- you are the bloodline of Argall! Are you too stupid to know that or just too weak to ascend!?" His words echoed around the cave. Lingering.

        The detail hung over the Marks who did not rule Viltrum. Thragg did just fine ruling, so why should they? They saw no need, some never knew they were descendants of Argall, or anything about the lost royal bloodline. There were questions to ask but none of them spoke up, a show that what he said didn't matter. That his insults were unsubstantiated and weak, like him. 

        "On the second day of the attack, were you in Chicago?" Maskless says.

        "Why does that matter?" Spit flew off Emperor's lip. Cheeks red under his mask when no one seemed to be bothered by his fury- widely feared in his universe.

         Maskless was all even calm. Muscles relaxed, whereas Emperor was tensed up. "Yes or no." 

        "I don't answer to the likes of you." It was said in a snarl, "To any of you!"

        Maskless blinked slow, cat like. Head turned slowly to you, "Make him answer."

        The unexpected attention made you stiffen. You sat up a little straighter. Weighing the options. Don't, and be resistant. Do and cooperate. Either way you were picking a side you didn't fully understand. You didn't know which would provide the bigger bane or boon. So you went with what your heart wanted, to see Emperor get his teeth knocked in.

        Emperor spun on you, finger up and wagging at you in warning, "Don't you da-"

        "Answer the question." Your head falls, chin smacking against your chest before coming back up. Vision bobbing in and out. Baldie had scooted closer, hands poised to support you, but backs off against your wakeful sneer. 

        The power was watered down, though it should've been back full force by now. Starvation made you weak and the weakness made you edgy.  

        Emperor answered all the same. "Chicago was mine to destroy, so I did."

        A muscle in Maskless's jaw ticked. You cough out the hammer so he could nail down his own coffin, "What about Upstate University?"  You slump onto your thighs, a streak of blood dripped down your nose. Vision swimming and body uncooperative for a few seconds. Coming back to Baldie holding you upright by the shoulders, clear worry across his hairless brow. 

        "Burnt it to the ground," Emperor said even, uncaring. 

        You cared little about the answer. You tried to pat Baldie's chest, get him away but no words come out. Your head lolls forward, unable to hold it up and sneer at him. 

        He turned to Mohawk who'd apparently seen you use the powers before, "What do we do?"

        "I dunno," He crawled forward, considers reaching for the codeine in your pockets before remembering how you'd almost vomited on him. "Just wait it out?" His palm goes to your cheek, lifting your head to look at your face, skin clammy, eyes glassy and unfocused. After a few days you seemed okay enough, but he wasn't familiar enough to know if this was normal. God damn it, why couldn't you just trust them with the details of your powers- of your past?

        His machinations are cut short by a blur of movement. You catch it too, thanks to your head being held up. 

        Emperor is still stunned. Fingers twitched as your control slipped away, but Maskless was too fast. The side of his palm and wrist cut through the air. Slapped your face with wind and a splatter of blood. You could barely register what you're seeing.

        One second Emperor was standing and Maskless was sitting. The next, Maskless was behind him, arm bloodied, body all tense rage. Emperor still stood proudly, sans an important addition. Too stubborn to acknowledge the blood rhythmically spurting out of his stump of a neck. His head toppled to the ground, rolling over once before Maskless's foot came down. Sinking into the skull and meat with a sickening crunch.

        Then and only then does Emperor's twitching body fall to its knees. Arms jittering as his nerves try too late to fight for his life, before his torso finally drops, fwump, against the cave floor. Blood pooled quick, the smell already permeating in the air. 

        Gray is up with his fists but does not lunge. Mohawk and Baldie are a wall of muscle blocking Maskless's eyes from sliding on you. You watch from between their legs. Phantom is still, calculating what's to come. Tracksuit's hands go to the back of his head. Lensless is laughing. Scars looked down at the body, fallen directly at his feet, blood staining the yellow of his boots. 

        Maskless looks at none of them, turning back to his seat before settling back down. Seemingly oblivious to the fresh blood that soaked into his uniform. 

        Gray's muscles relax, deeming the threat neutralized.

        "He was weak and uncooperative." He says, "But you couldn't have killed him any cleaner?"

        "He killed my boyfriend." Is all Maskless can say.

        Gray's nod is terse. Annoyance hid well. "The blood can not stay on the campsite." He'd already moved past the murder, like it was nothing. Onto nagging Maskless. "It is unsanitary."

        "Unsanitary?" Tracksuit flipped out his hand, splaying his fingers, that quintessential New Englander gesture for 'what the fuck'. "He jus' killed that guy!"

        "Yes, we all saw," Gray replied.

        "He was a douche bag anyway." Mohawk said.

        The wall of Baldie and Mohawk undid itself. Mohawk first beside you, hand on your back to support you. Baldie too slow, settled on his knees on the edge of your mattress, he didn't want to crowd you if it wasn't necessary. Despite how deeply in his bones he wanted to melt into your skin, to wipe the blood off of your face. 

        Phantom ignored the body. Watched Baldie's lingering look. Saw how you shifted away from Mohawk, toward Baldie. Your hand briefly landing on Baldie's as you tried to sit up. You didn't know it, but you'd chosen a favorite that was not him, Phantom. Something had to be done about that.

        "Couldn't have left some action for the rest of us?" Lensless prodded the corpse with the toe of his boot. Smiling when it twitched, frowning when the movement stopped. 

        You supported your own weight, but just barely, pushing off of your arms to sit back upright. Used to death and not too deeply surprised Emperor was first voted off the island. You swat away Mohawk's supportive hand from your back. Hissing out a, "I'm fine."

         He opens his mouth to fight, but Scars voice takes up all the air in the cavern. "We should eat him."

        Tracksuit is the only one to voice, "Dude, what the fuck?" 

        "Think about it." Scars grabbed Emperor's limp arm. Warm, fresh, red meat. "We've searched this entire fucking planet for days and found nothing. This," he jostles the arm, making Emperor's wrist flap and violently snap, "is how we survive. How she," he pointed the limp hand toward you, "survives."

        "No." The thought made you sick. Empty stomach churning around nothing, your hands going to cradle yourself. Insides growl in protest, wanting the meat but you wouldn't indulge. "I'm not a fucking cannibal."

        Scars grabbed Emperor's hand, twisted it off at his forearm with a wet snap. "Do you want to die here?" The hand is discarded, Scars pulling to break the joint at his elbow like a crab leg.

        You don't answer. Watch as Scars tears the fabric off the bloodied limb. Yellow-coated digits digging harshly under the skin. Pushing. The flesh bulges with the intrusion. Scars slowly peeled up the skin with a grunt, removing the humanity from the lean meat that would melt in your mouth if cooked. You felt sicker. He can see the urge to puke in your bobbing throat. "You'll come around."

        "We could find food any day now and you're just gonna-" Tracksuit stopped himself when Scars bit into the broken end of the arm. Pulling out a slip of pinkish tendon with his teeth. "Alright, dude."

        The meat slipped between his lips. Swallowed without a single chew. He moaned. Met the stump halfway with his lips and began to shred with teeth. Piece after piece torn off the bone. Blood stained his chin so completely it seemed like he'd never be clean again. You would've been able to hear a pindrop if he wasn't chewing so loud, so wetly.

        You all watched. Rapt attention gone from Maskless to Scars in a matter of moments. Murder was one thing but this? No one knew what to say as he continued to eat, but you felt each swallow in the pit of your stomach, a creeping suspicion that he had done this before. You don't realize how hard you're gripping Baldie's hand.

        Across the room, Phantom wants to throw up, though he cares little about the gore.

        "We should preserve the rest." Scars set the remaining meat atop Emperor's unmoving back. "He won't last long." Before rot sets in. Or before he is eaten entirely. Which would come first?

        No one spoke. Scars continued. "You," he flicked fresh bloodied fingers at Gray. "You took over a bunch'a planets, right?" Gray's nod is stiff. "So you know how all this survivalist bullshit works?" Another nod. He's comply but he would not trust, not after that show of loyalty to Emperor's body.

        Scars lifted Emperor's still leaking corpse by the back of his suit, "You know how to make jerky?"

        "Holy shit, dude." Tracksuit answered for Gray. "You can't be serious."

        "I am." Scars says, "This is the only food on this entire fucking planet. Be a pussy if you want but I'm not dying like this. Now, do you know how to do this or not?" Scars jostled the body for Gray's attention. A thick splatter of blood hit the fire, sizzled, and released a scent that made your nose curdle, your nails digging into your stomach. 

        Gray floated from the ground, up and out the hole in the ceiling. Scars followed, Emperor's limbs swaying as they both rose. Blood rained in thick, lazy drops until they both were gone. A single rivulet landed under your nose, rolled down your cupid's bow and slipped between your lips. Your tongue darted out automatically. The taste lingered in your mouth as your stomach ate itself.

        Lensless was first to move after a long, thick silence. He crouched by the smashed head, poking idly at the eye that blasted out it's socket, the other smashed in with Emperor's brains. "We should clean this thing up. Put it on the wall. Decoration." 

        Nobody in the room hadn't not killed somebody, but the suggestion felt wrong. Like a bad omen. 

        "Dude, no." Tracksuit said.

        Lensless rolled the head, a gooey slab of brain matter stuck to the floor. Your throat twitched, a gag rocked your body. He grinned at you, fingers pulling out Emperor's front teeth. "Don't worry, if you clean it right it won't smell."

        "I don't think..." You can't finish the thought before another gag rips up your throat. Nothing comes out. 

        Maskless rose from his seat and grabbed the basin. "I'll clean up, it's my mess."

        He got to work, dousing the floor with water, guiding the dirty sludge to a slope leading to another cave as to not contaminate the drinking water. By the time he was done, Lensless had removed all the teeth from Emperor's mouth. He shoved the bloody things into his pockets, adding to his collection. 

        Maskless scooped up the remnants of Emperor's head best he could. Lensless pouted but didn't fight as Maskless floated to the surface to deliver the meat to the butchers. You stared at the red spot on the floor where it'd been, a single chunk of brain sitting in a dim sunbeam.

        ***

        He touched down to the empty sand field. Directionally challenged, he was not, this was where he'd taken off a month ago. Yet the dunes were drastically different, shifted. There was no beginning of a tent or improvement or ruins. There was no evidence of anybody else. The chasm that had begun to yawn open in the depths of space, deepens.

        He removed the oxygen mask. Newfound beard heating his face. He rose to the sky. Floated miles above the planet, pace meandering when he should've been frantic. He'd lost all hope for you to still be alive. You. Not the person he'd thought you'd be. The person he threw everything away for just to see one last time. He'd never know if it could have been worth it, if under the hurt and the fear you were still his. What a waste, for both of you. 

        He wondered if the others were still alive. If he left and they all killed each other. He wondered if he was alone, destined to go mad between the desert dunes.

        A hairdryer breeze assaulted his face, a welcome change from the frigidness of space. On the wind he smells it, cooking meat. He is gone before he can think. 

        ***

       He was undressed like a pig skinned. Slices of thigh removed with a quick chop of the side of a hand. Holes poked through the cuts at their tops for a metal rod to be fished through before the slices were hung above the fire from a rickety rack. The setup wasn't ideal or very good at all, but it was the best they could do.  It'd be days before the whole body was processed. 

        It'd be hours before the blood-sopped meat would dehydrate into jerky. Viltrumite bodies were resistant to lava in life, but upon death and the release of stress hormones and loosening of muscle- could be cooked. According to Gray at least.

        "You done this before?" Scars had asked only because of how little time it had taken the man to set it up, almost suspiciously so. Like Gray planned on being the first to turn to cannibalism, already planning a jerky recipe.

        "No." Gray said, "But my mentor has."

        Scars does not ask who. He doesn't care about Gray's life. He only cares about you. "This'll make it safe for her to eat, right?"

        Gray's jaw ticks. "It should, but you should know how weak human stomachs can be. Consuming the body in front of her was a poor choice. She will not wish to eat it, no matter the preparation method."

        Scars snapped the other arm off Emperor's body. Unrolled the muscle from the bone, which he set aside on a rock. The marrow could be eaten. The bones could be boiled in water for soup. He began to sheer off arm meat, saying, "Don't be a pussy."

        "Cannibalism is not common on Viltrum but we do what we must to complete our missions. You know this."

        Scars knew some things about Viltrum. He had never gone, never absorbed the culture. What he knew had come from his Dad at an early age. He thought he knew it all, but upon meeting Gray, he realized he knew little. He should've let Dad live longer, if only to teach him more- but the idea was so absurd it almost makes him laugh. 

        "Sure." He says instead. 

        "But I will not eat until she does." Gray finished. He would not try to assuage you. He would wait patiently. You would crack and cave, you were not made for a hunger strike. Your human morals would fold like wet towels under the slightest pressure. To a Viltrumite enforcer like himself, a week of starvation was nothing. 

        Scars secured the meat slices onto a pole and set them aside. "Okay, pussy."

        Unsatisfyingly, Gray does not react to his jabs. At least not visually, he just speaks evenly, "Father taught me humans are brought comfort by eating side by side with their mates. It makes the most sense to wait for her."

        He remembers his Father and Mother together on Viltrum, so strangely in love. Him foolishly thinking he could have the same, taking you, becoming so unexpectedly infatuated. It softened him. Such a waste what had happened but then again, that chain of events brought him to you. The stronger, better version of you that would fit so well into Viltrum society. He feels soft all over again at the idea of your strange human courting rituals. So silly and unnecessary, but so tempting, so easy to indulge in. He nearly forgets to whom he is speaking. 

        Scars didn't know what to laugh at first. The reverence in his tone at Father or the word, "Mates?"

        "Yes," Gray retrieved the latest wrack Scars finished and hung the swaying meats over the fire. His stomach clenched at the smell. 

        Conquering was the most Dad taught Scars of Viltrum culture, and conquer he did. "Why not just call it what it really is? She's a pet to people like us."

        Gray considers kicking him in the stomach. Making him vomit up the meat and an apology on your behalf. He withholds, thinking it'd be a better idea to have Scars on his side. Scars was as strong as he was unpredictable. Scars under his thumb meant you being much, much safer.

        "It is simply the word we use." He says, "Though Father said he called Mother his girlfriend, then wife back on Earth." The word girlfriend felt clunky in his mouth. Too many syllables, too simple, yet complicated, whereas mate just felt right. 

        Scars laugh is a whip. "You really care about those assholes, huh?"

        Gray does not answer, for it is not Scars' business and also- it was rather obvious how he felt. Though Viltrumites shouldn't feel. He was considered a strange boy on his home planet, but he wouldn't trade his childhood and lineage for a thing. He felt justified in this just speaking to Scars. Looking at how a different, loveless life on Earth made him into a rude and impulsive man. Ugh, those garish colors and that cape. So ugly.

        Gray senses the atmospheric shift and moves out of the way long before Scars thinks to. 

        Sand is kicked from the ground in a wave, dousing the afternoon fire, coating the still-wet meat. The man who fell from the sky did not care. He grabbed two slices at a time and shoved them into his chapped mouth. An uncharacteristic groan rumbling out of his chest. 

        Gray and Scars watch, poised from their vantage spot hovering over the ground, as Omni feasts. 

        "I thought you were dead." Scars is first to touch down, moving closer to the smoking sand and meats. 

        Omni chewed and swallowed, throat bulging like a snake. He grabbed two more slices of meat. "Hungry." Is all he says before biting down.

        "Not even gonna ask what you're eating?" His gaze slid significantly to the mound of sand. Emperor hidden under the kicked-up sand. 

        Omni's mouth does not slow as Scars kicks the sand off Emperor's bare back. "Things went batshit after you left." 

        Omni does not process as he swallows. Realization hits when the meat reaches his stomach and his eyes focus unsteadily on the corpse. Oh God. He lunges, grabs Scars bruisingly hard by the shoulders. He was weak, exhausted, but now, pumping with adrenaline and desperation he didn't know he still had. "Where is (Y/n)?"

        Gray does not want this haggard madman near you, but Scars does not give a shit about what Gray wants. Gray opens his mouth, "Don't-"

        Scars pointed to the massive cone in the ground leading down to the caves, they were only a few feet away. "Down there, dumbass."

        Omni is a red-white bolt streaking down the hole. Gray is at his heels but faster, reaching the cavern first and stopping in front of you before Omni can reach you. 

        The air splits at their sudden pause. You are sent backward, careening for the wall but Mohawk is there to catch you. The rest of the Marks are on their feet, bristling at this new threat, tense until they realize who they're looking at.

        "You're back early," Gray says, standing tall, trying to block his view of you. He does not like how glazed Omni's eyes are behind the lenses. Does not like how they won't focus on him, the immediate threat, but over his shoulder, at you. 

        "It's been a month." His voice is brittle. 

        "It's been a week." Gray bites back. 

        "Time isn't right out there." Omni's voice doesn't feel a part of him. Nothing feels right in his body, because nothing is right about any of this.

        "What'd you find?" Baldie asked.

        Phantom crept up behind him, ready to strike Omni if Gray needed the backup.        

        "Nothing." Omni moved a degree and Gray moved with him. "Let me see her."

        "Yeah, dude, just let the crazy guy touch your girlfriend," Tracksuit spoke when Gray wouldn't.

        Mohawk sets you down but does not let go of your shoulders. Omni is looking at you like his dead puppy. You ache with hunger. Know you are weak.

        Yet you say, "Don't touch me." Before passing out.

        ***

        The explanation is winding. Nonsensical at best, but the other Marks turn it over in their heads, reexplaining it to each other while Omni fitfully rests in your bed. He did not get to hold you like he wanted, but seeing you alive, sharing a bed with you, no matter how unconventional, was enough for now. In moments when he awoke, sparse because of exhaustion in his body, he only looks for you. Mulling over in his mind how he could prove to himself, to you, that you were the woman he married.

        You sit on the edge of the sandy garbage mattress as they tell you the bad news. Woozy. Aching with hunger that even excess boiled water could not quench. Twelve days you'd been stuck in the desert now. Twelve days of heat and near death and starvation. A week sat doing nothing in this suffocating cave. They refuse to let you move beyond the littlest things. Gray says you must conserve energy so long as your hunger strike lasts. But you had an eternity of suffering left. There was no other planets to go to, no one who could come save you. Just the slow creeping annihilation of the universe, and you, starving to death.  

        Mohawk was the first to cave when the first batch of jerky was done cooking two days ago. He ate across the fire, relishing the dehydrated thigh meat with a moan. Lensless rose to the surface for his own slice not long after. Tracksuit and Prisoner held out, but their morals were starting to get shaky by day ten. They could survive long periods without eating, but they were unused to the hunger pains, it was starting to get to them. Scars had not eaten since the first day. Claiming it'd be good to ration. Gray and Phantom held out, seemingly unaffected by the hunger.

        Gray was steadfast. Phantom was not. He snunk away to the bug cave under the guise of exploration. Ate the fingerpad sized insects by the handful to satiate himself. Plans tumbling around in his head. He couldn't make the moves he wanted until you were strong enough to eat, until there weren't eight pairs of eyes watching you at all times. So he waited for you to give into the long pig jerky.

        Baldie, Tracksuit, and you kept each other in check like a hunger pact. 

        "Just hold on, we'll find something else." Baldie would say, hand supporting your back as you swayed while simply sitting. You never swatted him away. Trust a slow, creeping thing growing between you like mold.

        "No way I'm leaving a cannibal," Tracksuit says, fingers flexing on his knees. "I can't be the only one not leaving a cannibal."

        Day Fourteen. 

        You wouldn't do it. 

        You pass out on the bed, wrapping yourself in Omni's cape to try and escape the cold of your body eating itself. Feeling the pain even in sleep. 

        Day Fifteen.

        They search hard, find nothing. You are looking worse and worse. Snappish and downtrodden when awake, a rock when asleep. Phantom thinks of telling the others but sees how Baldie frets over you, how you don't swat him away, and doesn't. A plan, a real plan, started to form in Phantoms head. 

        Day Sixteen. 

        Scars hovers over you. Thin sticks of dried meat in his fist. You refused to eat, choose to die with the universe. He would not allow it. 

        You do not stir as he sits on your hips. Nobody stops him. Though Baldie says, "She doesn't want it."

        He breaks a piece off one of the already slight pieces. "She's dying."

        He goes to stuff the piece between your lips when his wrist is grabbed by Baldie. "I said-"

        "Do you think letting her starve to death will get you pussy?" Scars spat. "She hates us regardless. Making her eat won't change anything, but she won't die." Baldie's hold falls reluctantly away. 

        "People have survived much longer than this without food." Omni says, watching your sleeping face and despite his proximity, doesn't stop it. None of them want to see you continue to suffer. With you out of commission, they were starting to creep more toward edginess. Snapping at each other, fighting over nothing. Only Maskless and Tracksuit immune to the status of your state but not of the men around them.

        Piece after piece was slipped between your lips. You dreamt of the grocery store. Of being in the snack aisle and grabbing the closest thing to you, a Slim Jim. You tear open the wrapper, greedily swallow it down, taste it.

        You wake, chunks of meat, slimy with spit, crammed into your mouth. You cough, gagging, and nearly choking. Brownish meat splatters onto Scars face but he doesn't seem to care.

        "Eat it." He held the meat to your lips but you sealed them closed, sucking them in. He pinches your nose shut. You can't breathe. Head already starting to feel like a balloon, you thrash, trying to sit up despite his weight on your body, reaching to push his hand away. Omni moves, you think to save you, but he just holds your right shoulder down, his other hand holding yours as it spasms in panic. Baldie watches horrified. Mohawk moves around him and holds down your left, unable to look at you. Not for Scars safety, you couldn't hope to hurt him with human fists but to prevent you from hurting yourself. The ease with which he holds you down makes him sick, easier than it should be. 

        Screams are trapped inside of your throat, shrill, but they do not listen. Your vision darkens, darkens, darkens until your brain forces your lips apart to take a heaving breath. The meat is forced inside your mouth. Scars slams your jaw shut, sealing your lips with the warmth of his palm, his one eye watches you coldly. 

        The meat is freshly cured, almost melting on your tongue. Telling you to just give in. To enjoy the smoked pork taste but you can't, you won't. 

        You shake your head in their grip. Tears forcing themselves past your eyelids. You look from Omni to Mohawk, pleading with your eyes for them to help. They don't. You look to Scars, willing him to move his hand so you could give the order for him to die.

        He sees it in your eyes and grins, leaning closer. "You wanna kill me, don't you? If you wanna kill me, you have to eat."

        You do. You want to kill him so bad. For everything he'd done. For everything he's doing. For the fact that if it weren't for him forcing you to eat, you'd starve to death. You hate him so much. You cry looking into his one exposed eye. You willfully swallow.

        "Good girl."

[strangererotica]

MASTERLIST 1

Masterlist 2

art the clown x reader

art was here ✨devil in the details✨the art of fucking ✨miles county haunt✨blood lust ✨santa’s little helper ✨santa’s little helper part 2✨art the clown x reader x hitachi ✨afterkill✨this santa’s kinda weird…

father paul hill / monsignor john pruitt x reader

(i want to be) righteous ✨nsfw ramblings✨god’s hand✨a new eden: chapter one✨ lead us not into temptation ✨body of christ✨a new eden: chapter two

cooper adams x reader

headcanons (nsfw) ✨red flags ✨ your attention ✨my other cooper fics are posted on my exclusively cooper/trap blog @thebutchersbitch

steve harrington x reader

lesson learned ✨april showers ✨ delirium ✨ need ✨ dinner for one ✨ drain the snake ✨ baby-making weather ✨ honey ✨ afternoon delight ✨ brunch ✨ after party ✨campsite conception ✨ whiskey with a stranger ✨in the shower with steve ✨kitchen floor ✨toxic ex ✨head✨help with dessert✨nsfw thoughts✨good boy✨sore loser���it’s in his kiss✨special✨domestic bliss✨sweet little lies✨road rage✨blood in the water✨businessman!steve thoughts

josef (creep, the creep tapes)

episode one: billie ✨episode two: breakfast✨episode three: the game✨the josef tapes

james logan howlett (wolverine) x reader

primal fuck love ✨ swallow

joel miller x reader

definitely good ✨hands on✨five more minutes ✨fuckin’ lucky✨licked

jim hopper x reader

hopper’s sin part 1 ✨ hopper’s sin part 2 ✨ hopper’s sin part 3 ✨ under cover ✨ love spell part 1 ✨ love spell part 2 ✨ nsfw alphabet (hopper) ✨ dolled up part 1 ✨ enemies to lovers (hopper) ✨ hot lunch ✨dolled up part 2 ✨golden and alive ✨wrong✨backseat, backdoor

william afton / springtrap x reader

sick fuck ✨freak on purpose✨sins of the father

steddie x reader

two holes, one dom ✨ wet as sin ✨the devil in hawkins ✨ two towels ✨love and treason (gladiator au)✨standing room only

eddie munson x reader

get off ✨bark ✨ devil eyes ✨ it’s wetter inside ✨motel sex

steve, eddie, hopper x reader

dealer part 1 ✨ dealer part 2

anthony bridgerton x reader

intensity ✨ soaked ✨ soaked part 2 ✨soaked part 3✨soaked part 4 can be found in my second masterlist!

mike schmidt x reader

just tell me when you’ve had enough ✨visiting mike late-night at freddy’s ✨i fucked all night at freddy’s

gator tillman x reader

tight fit

john tyler x reader

run, rabbit, run

[ashleyh713fanfics]

"Timeless"

(Dazai x Odasaku's Little Sister) Masterlist

Summary: A week after Odasaku's death, Dazai Osamu is left with his friend's last wish in the back of his mind and no way to start. Oda told him to be a "good person" but how does someone become one when they don't even know what the mere concept is? With no clue and no direction, the boy couldn't find an answer. If only his best friend was there to guide him, if only he didn't disappear completely.

That is until he realizes that he was wrong... that not every piece of Odasaku is gone from this world.

(Disclaimer: This story is set in a slight AU where Odasaku's death and other points in Dazai's childhood are moved up to when he is fifteen for plot purposes)

A03 Version

Wattpad Version

Tumblr Chapter List:

Chapter 1: “Just As Long As You Pull The Trigger”

Chapter 2: "I Could Go For Some Curry"

Chapter 3: "Looks Like You Can Make Those Expressions"

Chapter 4: "Makes Me Wanna Play Around With You"

Chapter 5: "Suddenly Dying Didn't Seem So Easy"

Chapter 6: "Why Don't We Go On A Date?"

Chapter 7: "As Long As I Have You In My Life"

Chapter 8: "I'll Be Here To Welcome You"

Chapter 9: "You Are Not A Good Man"

Chapter 10: "Maybe With You This Could Be Home."

Chapter 11: "Quit Trying To Be Odasaku"

Chapter 12: "The Scariest Thing Is To Be Perceived"

Chapter 13: "Celebrating Life Is Stupid"

Chapter 14: "He Doesn't Want To Be Saved"

Chapter 15: "She's Not Like You"

Chapter 16: "The Misfortune Of Being Dazai's Girlfriend."

Chapter 17: "Here To Save The Princess

Chapter 18: "Friends With A Freak Like You"

Chapter 19: "I Want To Be Your Entire World"

Chapter 20: "Let's Kiss And Find Out"

Chapter 21: "Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures"

Chapter 22: "Tonight You're An Honorary Flags"

Chapter 23: “Vulnerability Is A Death Sentence”

Chapter 24: "I'll Fight For You, Every Time"

Chapter 25: As Asa faces past trauma while being in the hospital, Dazai is there to make everything better. (Major fluff chapter cause I missed writing my depressed boy)

(I do upload here but I upload on A03 first so if you want to be the first people to read the newest updates following me on there is the best option)

[lostfirefly]

Please don't say you're gone forever, 'cause I can't hurt no more (Ch.2)

This idea came from the dream. Again :)) Sorry not sorry :)

Buggy and F!Reader.

Description: You haven't seen Buggy since your fight.

Warnings: Fluff (pink ponies say hi!)

Words: 1552

The title is taken from "Gone Forever" by Wearing Scars.

English is not my native language, errors may occur. As always, feel free to share your thoughts :) Masterlist

Taglist: @gingernut1314, @fanshavegottensotoxic, @a--1--1--3, @operationroots

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

Chapter 1

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

It's been a few days since your last fight. 

You tried to spend as much time as possible at the flower store. Thoughts that you might have overreacted never left your mind. Why did you say all that? Why did you mention Shanks when you knew it was a sore subject for him? Every time the door to your store opened, you hoped to hear his footsteps, to see his face. But every time, you saw either your regular customers or travelers who happened to be stranded on your island. 

A week went by. Another week went by. A month. Nothing. 

One day one of your regulars came into the store with a friend. 

"Another pirate ship has docked off our town." In a creaky old voice, the customer mumbled. 

"A pirate ship?" It popped into your head. "Pardon me. And the ship you're talking about. What kind is it?" You inquired, stepping behind the counter.

"Oh, just a regular big one. You know, a pirate ship. Give me three carnations, honey. Today is the fiftieth anniversary of my wife and I's first kiss. I brought her carnations that day." The man tapped his fingers on the counter. 

"That sounds very cute! Wait a minute, please!" You started picking out the prettiest flowers. "Excuse me. You've mentioned the ship. Have you seen the flag? What's it like?" 

"Oh, just a regular one. Black with a white skull on it. I don't know much about them." The man said back.

"Did you notice any distinguishing features on the flag?" You tried your best to stay calm.

"Honey, I'm barely looking at the newspaper under my nose and you're asking about the flag. Why are you inquiring?" 

"No reason. I'm just curious!" You shrugged your shoulders.

As soon as you closed the store, you walked towards the pier. 

"Please let it be his flag!" The same thought was spinning in your head. You reached the pier and looked around at all the moored ships. 

"Not that one.. Not that one.. Not that one.. Damn it!" You sighed heavily and went home.

Another day in the store passed quietly. All the regular customers noted your sad look and haggard face. You tried to concentrate on work. 

"Pirates have been frequenting us for some reason!" The blond man spoke as he brought you a new batch of flowers.  "And new posters were hung up. I even took one down to show you. There’s some kind of crazy person on it.." He put the poster on the table. You glanced at the piece of paper and your eyes widened. 

"Where did you get that?" You asked loudly to reach the delivery man who was in the pantry.

"As I said, it was hanged today. Why are you asking?"

"Just a question.." You muttered under your breath. 

"Some kind of freak, huh?" The man came back to you and pointed at the poster. 

He was on the poster. Your Buggy. You smiled when you saw that his reward had been increased. 

"I don't know, he’s quite cute." You shrugged. 

"Oh, our lovely Y/N loves pirates!!" The guy started mocking you.

"Shut up! By the way, what did you mean when you said 'ships have been frequenting'?" 

"Oh, two more moored." He pointed at the documents. "Ok, sign here and here."

You could hardly wait for the evening to walk to the pier again. You scanned the ships with your eyes.

"Not that one, Not that one... Fuck!" You sat down on the bench and felt tears running down your cheeks. 

"First of all, a girl shouldn't walk alone in the evening near pirate ships. And secondly, tears can ruin your beautiful face." Suddenly a voice came from behind you.

You froze and extended your hand towards the voice. You felt a glove on your hand and fingers that slid across your palm. 

"Hey, my cookie!"

You heard his voice and slowly turned around, afraid that these are hallucinations.

"Hey!" Your eyes were wet from tears, you could hardly see his face, but you definitely couldn’t confuse his red nose with anything.

Buggy sat down next to you on the bench and put his arm around your shoulders. "God, what kind of grand line is flowing from your eyes?" 

"Are you kidding?" You sobbed and wiped your nose.

"Not at all!" 

"Where have you been for a month? Why didn’t you come back immediately after our quarrel? Idiot!" You leaned into his shoulder. 

"Don't know." Buggy sighed heavily. "How are you?" 

"Not good. It’s bad without you. I felt bad before our fight but at least I knew that we were together. And after we had a fight, you slammed the door and I didn’t know if we were still together or not."

"Cookie, what are you talking about? We will always be together." He kissed your cheek.

You took his hand and said quietly. "I'm sorry for that fight and my words."

"Sorry too." He said barely audibly.

"I missed you, Buggy. And I saw your new poster. I'm so proud of you. Now they put a lot of money on your head."

"My lucky cookie! You are in a relationship with a flashy pirate for whom they give a lot of money."

"Idiot." You smiled. "Then where have you been for a month?" 

"Oh! I was looking for a gift for you!" Buggy reached his hand somewhere behind his back.

"What kind of gift can you look for in a month?!" 

"This one." He handed you the box. 

"What's there?" You looked at him with surprised eyes.

"You don't know how to open gifts?" He laughed and reached his hand towards the box. "Let me show you."

"No, idiot! I'll open it." You opened the lid of the box and was shocked. "Den Den Mushi?? But… You're not using that thing on your ship." 

"Well.. Not before, but now I have to. I thought you should know that everything is fine with me. And I should know that my future wife is also fine." 

"Future... who?" You looked at him with round eyes, constantly blinking.

"Oh, crap. The surprise is ruined! Ok! This is gift number two!" Buggy handed the second box and placed it in your hands. 

You carefully opened the box and saw a silver ring with a round green stone. You looked at the ring and then glanced at Buggy. 

"What?" He laughed. 

"Nothing. It’s beautiful!" You twirled the box in your hands.

"A beautiful ring for a beautiful girl, right?" He cleared his throat. Buggy stood up from the bench and knelt down in front of you. "You know that words are hard for me. I... I don’t want to share you with anyone. Not with this fucking Tom, not with anyone else. And I also know that I want to come to this island to visit my beloved wife, not just a girlfriend. And I also know that I will patiently wait until you can join me on the ship. It will be hard, but I will wait."

You looked at Buggy, tears streaming down your cheeks again. You stroked his chin. "You know.. When I leave with you, my friends will not be happy."

"So this is a yes?" He breathed a sigh of relief.

"Of course, my fool!" You took his face in your hands and kissed him on the lips. 

"Damn! I should have grabbed flowers!" He looked around. "I’ll be back, don't go anywhere!" He got up from his knees and quickly ran away into the darkness. 

"Where are you going, Buggy? Where are you?" You held the ring in your hands and couldn’t stop laughing. 

Buggy came back holding a branch of a blossoming apple tree in his hands. 

"I didn’t find any flowers, but I found this!" He got down on one knee again, took the ring from your hands and handed you the apple tree branch. "Still haven't changed your mind?" 

"No!" You sniffed the apple tree branch and extended your hand towards him. 

Smiling widely, Buggy placed the ring on your finger. 

You kissed him on the lips. "I love you. I don't need any Tom, any potential Ben or anyone else. I want to be with you."

"I want to make you happy!" He held your hand and returned the kiss.

You kissed him back. "I promise not to ask you to be more than you are, and to love you for being you."

"I promise to take care of your kind heart and to always love you with all of mine." Kiss.

"I promise to listen for as long as it takes for you to feel heard." You kissed him back.

"I promise to grow old with you." Kiss.

"I promise to celebrate your triumphs, and love you all the more for your failures." You kissed him back.

"This ring is a promise that you will never have to face the world alone." Kiss.

You looked at the ring again, looked at Buggy. You breathed out a sigh of relief. Yes, there will be many more arguments, partings and meetings on your way. But you never would have imagined that out of all the people in this world, you would find someone as special as you. The clown pirate. Your Buggy.

[mako-neexu]

keypoints about Fes (Aug 3-4, 2024) in relation to Dantes/Edguda (aka notes for me after reading a hundred or so Fes tweets)

Fes Day 1

The reveal that Salieri was among the Fes costume line up was hilarious so many people were saying "Okay Jalter!! Du Haine these traitors!!" and also "Come back and enjoy the fes with us Jalter! Bill all your expenses to that stargazing yukata ojisan over there!"

This was truly Avenger class summer (marie alter was also included)

Light reading was absolutely phenomenal - the lines delivered by sakamoto maaya and nobunaga shimazaki in Expo Live were amazing in Id chapter portion!!!!!!

[link of me crying about it] [second link] [third link] [fourth about his tears]

Official ID chapter MAD was insane it 1000% showed that the song was truly the feelings of the Avenger class from the bottom of their heart especially with dantes at the last few lines / the "noise" part too was freaking Salieri's i knew it!!!!!!

Paradis Chateau d'If was said to be insanely sweetly flavor that was strong. The grape is seems to be more jam than jelly. The bottom part was said to be peach syrup itself (but also mixed with some grape). The silver pearls sprinkles are called silver dragees that make it really fancy! It was also really thick that even when the ice melts, it won't thin out or get diluted at all.

Merch of Dantes is always sold out within the hour of both days

Oyo has a new wet monte cristo art

Chaldea (sweet papa) Kitchen Voice - "Owner...? Manager...? No! No, I am neither! I am but the patron. I am the ruler of shadows with an oriental-taste who have contributed in creating this tavern with ample (financial) resources. So enjoy yourself to the fullest! I am sure there is something here that will suit your tastes... No, there certainly is. Ahh, and one more thing, be careful of the heat. Even if you are not hungry, don't be afraid to rest and cool off."

Eye mirror quetionnaire top 3 - tenochtitlan, tonelico, and Monte Cristo

Side note: binaural Live2D Goredolf was cute!! Voiced goff!!!

Royst on day 1 flag with a new work

Tsuzumuda sensei with their message flag released!! thank you for the weapon design!

Fes Day 2

9th Anniversary live with Punchline Cosplay Ojisan!

He has the omamoris, maneki neko design!!! his notebook and feather pen prop!!!!! the cross designs on the glasses, the corset!!!! the gloves!!! the 14 stones!!!!! his cape also has the sea bream pattern!!!!!! the ponytail for Monte Cristo having also purple ends of his wig!!!... his stylists and makeup artists are so cool!!! the bestt aaa

Nobu complimenting Toyonaga Oberon!!!! i love it!!!!!!!!

He also complains being picked by his team mates for who looks like they're a good teacher he's embarassed wwww

"Who is the Servant who is most likely to have the most fun at FGO Fes?" Answer: Castoria Ishtar Mash

When revealing the answer he confidently explains that edmond is having the most fun considering his chaldea kitchen voice!!

After revealing the true answer, he RIGHTFULLY!!! complains to the audience that he's the type to go all out for Master!!!! It was amazing!!!

はしゃいでるマスターを見て一番はしゃいでるのはアイツ😭

I'll make a more detailed post about this... no let's turn it into a fic

Introduction of favorability gauge from space ere-chan brought out tweets of "monte cristo's favorability is MAX from the start so let's keep stacking~" from a lot of jp users www

Usagi Routo new illustrations are about PapaFesmon about guda's future and trying and failing to deny guda's offer of food as well as nobu's day 1 performance and day2 cosplay.. the best.

Flames of Applause Ce [cries and dies]

[nestaismommy]

CRESCENT 3 BONUS CHAPTER SPOILERS (Ember and Randall’s I think)

Since some people are freaking out about Cassian’s behavior in the bonus chapter of HOFAS (I did not read it but my friends told me about it) and are now saying “what if the cauldron was wrong” (yall are too late, Cassian was a walking red flag since the novella. You didn’t see that when he crossed her boundaries constantly, agreed to lock her up, told her he doesn’t know how she could be loved, made her climb mountains for his master’s mistake and had a temper tantrum because she couldn’t accept the fact that they are mates- but you JUST saw how disgusting he is because of a scene in a bonus chapter of a crescent city book?? Please)

But back to what I wanted to say:

Mates ≠ healthy relationship. The proof is that most mated couples in ACOTAR are toxic as hell. Tamlin’s parents, Rhysand’s parents, feysand, Nessian etc. the cauldron is wrong each time??? Or do we just not understand what the word “mates” mean?? Clearly the cauldron doesn’t choose based on which two would have a healthy relationship. Maybe it’s not wrong, maybe we just don’t get that mating literally just means breeding which explains why the dude goes crazy and wants to screw her after she accepts the mating bond.

Nesta and Azriel would make a good couple and they aren’t mates.

[inkameswetrust]

ofc when i wanna write i can't sit down and focus but when i don't wanna write i get sm ideas that i just HAVE to put on paper. how tf do i get anything done??

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

Does gojo just fight for the thrill of it?…

Idkk I’m really confused tbf the manga really puzzled me 😭😭 (IM GONNA GO ON A RANT BEAR WITH ME PLSS 🙏 LOLL)

The afterlife chapter and how it’s shown, that he just fought sukuna for the thrill of it and not to protect others (students). I think that was implied by nanami when he called gojo a freak for enjoying and getting a thrill out of fighting them, while most sorcerers take it more seriously in a sense where they’re fighting for their lives and to survive/not get killed.. also what even is gojos motivation to keep going? This is a question I ask myself alot!! Is it his entire upbringing and how it was drilled into his head that he’s a weapon meant to be used or is it that he sincerely enjoys exorcising curses and it makes him feel superior (I find the latter more uncharacteristic of him tbh since why would he just do it for the sake of it?? It’s definitely draining to go on missions constantly and shoulder the responsibility of saving the world.. so does he view himself as some sort of a curse exorcising machine?…

Also many ppl on twitter call him selfish and uncaring towards others (his students,colleagues..) since he didn’t kill sukuna right after he got unsealed and waited for a month when sukuna got much stronger? Where he could’ve just finished sukuna off instead of dragging it into the shinjuku arc…

Also I really hate how in general gojo our smoll pookie baby gets soooo mischaracterized and gets called selfish, a philanderer, red flag, uncaring towards EVERYONE?? Some ppl even go as far as to say that he has a chronic god complex. <———— THIS ALL DRIVES ME INSANEEE

however, I kinda do think he has a superiority complex going on… Since he was put on a pedestal since birth and everyone praises him and considered him as the strongest and some kind of hero who’s only job/purpose is to constantly keep saving the weak… This may have gotten into his head a lil too much which shaped his perspective into him believing he’s superior than the other people who he must save from curses etc..

I WOULD LOVEEE LOVEEE YOUR TAKE ON THIS MY DEAREST ARI PLSS SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS (even if it’s multiple paragraphs 😋) ❤️❤️❗️

P.S I’m a new anon so call me bunny anon for any future asks 🥺

hiiiiii there my dearest little bunny anon!!!!! is this emoji okay? 🐰 or would you prefer this? 🐇 i’ll go with the former for now but please tell me if you’d like the other one instead <33333

NOWWW . okay okay okay. this was super interesting to answer, thank you sm for sharing your thoughts and letting me do the same!!!! and please keep in mind that this is all really just my own take :3 but i do have a loooot of thoughts abt this + the sukugo fight in general, so!!! buckle up.

long discussion + spoilers for chap. 236 under the cut!!

ALRIGHT . SO . i’m gonna try to adress everything in this ask but i am in fact scatterbrained so please bear with me 😭😭😭

well, first of all — yes, gojo absolutely fights for the thrill of it. the sukugo fight is a great example of this because it’s the only fight we see gojo let completely loose, but it’s an even better example because it also proves that gojo fights for a lot more than that. he obviously enjoys fighting, but i think you’d be missing a lot of key points of his character if you tried to say that’s all he fights for, you know? we know that gojo is fighting and training for the sake of making a change, of nurturing others, but more than anything else — gojo fights because that’s all he knows how to do. he was raised as a weapon. of course he’d grow to love fighting!! he literally has no choice but to live the life he was born into, and that’s the life of a weapon. weapons exist to kill.

i think his love for fighting is sincere, but it’s also a direct effect of being born as the strongest — do you see what i’m saying? gojo enjoys the thrill of a good fight, but there’s a lot more to it than that. and i personally think that he views fighting as a way to connect with others, not just an adrenaline rush. that’s kind of the whole point of the sukugo fight — they’re reaching out for each other.

aaaand that brings me to my second point!! i think the sukugo fight is like…. the most important fight to examine when discussing gojo’s character, because it tells us so much about him and why he fights in the first place. in this case — the manga almost outright states that he was fighting to teach sukuna about love. and this following part is just my own take!!!! but i think gojo cared about that on a personal level, that went beyond his duty to exorcise sukuna as a curse. gojo cared about sukuna. i think this is undeniable and that alone proves that he was fighting for something other than the thrill of it. he was having fun, but it wasn’t just because of the violence — it was because of sukuna himself.

(stan sukugo btw)

and!!! it was also because of his students!!! i think this point is also undeniable. i reaaaalllyyy disagree with anyone who thinks gojo doesn’t care about them because it’s so …. obvious??? that he does???? he may not be the perfect father figure that the fandom often depicts him as (<- not complaining btw i eat that shit up), but he’s a good teacher. and he cares for them. he’s fighting sukuna for a lot of reasons, one of them being his love for megumi, who i’d argue is like a younger brother to him / the most important person to him since suguru died. <- that’s just my own hc really, but either way gojo cares for him!!! it’s obvious that he’s fighting with his students in mind, because he mentions them so many times. he is fighting to protect them. his character is built on a desire to nurture the youth, even at his own expense.

(he loves them!!!!!!)

so, with that out of the way — let’s talk about nanami’s comment in 236. because i think a LOT of people misinterpreted it completely 😭😭 nanami mentions a scene back in premature death, where he exhaustedly asks geto why they can’t just leave everything to gojo. he then proceeds to say that gojo never cared about keeping sorcery going, or protecting people, and that his strength was all built on self satisfaction.

panels for reference:

…. but notice that nanami is speaking in past tense. he mentions a moment in his youth, and follows it up with what his thought process was during that moment — to put things really simply, nanami isn’t talking about our gojo in this scene, he’s talking about gojo during his teenage years. the reason why the cast appears as teenagers in this scene isn’t just because that’s when gojo was happiest, but also to highlight how far he’s come as a person. how much suguru’s defection changed him and his values. teen!gojo wasn’t a bad person by any means, but he was definitely more selfish than gojo is now. teen!gojo cared about the people around him, but he did fight for self-satisfaction above all else.

our gojo doesn’t. our gojo fights to protect people, to make sure no one is lonely — not even sukuna — and because he has to. because he enjoys it, but also because it’s his duty to do so. there is absolutely a purpose behind gojo’s fighting. he’s matured a lot. he cares about a lot.

so, to answer your question properly: yes, gojo fights for the thrill of it. he also fights for a lot of other things.

[banana-cheese-cake]

Freak Show - Chapter 5

Ch. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, ... AO3

October 1, 2294

Goodneighbor was significantly smaller than Diamond City, but you still found yourself staring up at the buildings around you in awe. Diamond City was composed of dozens of short buildings spread out for miles, while Goodneighbor was made up of less than ten multistory structures. There was an old state house directly in front of you, a couple stories tall with torn and weathered old flags decorating its balconies, and a five-story hotel right behind it. From here, you could see the Memory Den was directly to the right of the hotel, you made to walk towards it when a tall man in raggedy raider gear steps in front of you. 

“Welcome to Goodneighbor,” the man said as he blocked your path, “you look like you're new to these parts, so I'll go ahead and explain how things work around here. This is a dangerous place and protection ain't easy to come by, so I'll make you an offer: pay me a three-hundred cap insurance fee and I'll keep you safe.”

You scowled at him, “And if I don’t pay?” 

“Well, terrible ‘accidents’ might befall you while you're here, and we wouldn't want that.”

“I don't have any caps,” you said, voice laced with annoyance.

“That's no problem, I'm sure we can work out another method of payment,” the man said as he reached out to touch your face. 

Your lip curled with disgust, rage blinding you as you considered your options. You definitely weren't going to pay this man, you knew that much, but what other options did you have? Lottie would say he's a man going through hard times, that he deserves forgiveness despite his attempts at extortion. But as you felt the familiar weight of your knife at your side, you remembered with sobering clarity that Lottie wasn't here. She didn't get to persuade you to do the right thing, this new world didn't work that way. Humoring a disgusting man like the one before you wasn't necessary anymore; there were no cops to punish you, no rules to follow. You were free to do to this man what you'd wished you could do to every man that had let his hands wander at company parties or at crowded clubs. 

A feral smile tugged at your lips as you looked up at the man, his hand finally making contact with your skin, before you snapped his arm downward as you raised your knee to meet it. His bones snapped with a satisfying crack, the splintered edges peaking through his torn skin. The man's wails of anguish were short lived as you used your free hand to plunge your knife into his throat, his cries turning to gurgles as you ripped the knife out. You watched him fall to his knees and topple onto his side as he bled out at your feet. Using his corpse to wipe his blood off your knife before holstering it at your side, you heard a voice on your left, causing you to look up. 

A man a head taller than you wearing what looked to be colonial clothes (a long red coat, with a loose button-up shirt underneath, and a tricorn hat) was walking toward you. As he stepped closer though, you realized he was what Nick had called a ‘normal' ghoul. His eyes were pure black, but his skin wasn't nearly as pale and gaunt as the ferals you'd killed, besides the obvious weathered skin and dark eyes, he looked healthy. You couldn't help but think he looked attractive as you took him in, staring at him as he continued to speak, his words finally registering. 

“Woah, I like you already,” he said with a beaming smile you couldn’t help but reciprocate, “walk into a place and make a show of dominance, nice.” He extended a hand to you, his voice a raspy gravel, “I'm the mayor around here, name's John Hancock,“ you shook his hand before introducing yourself. 

The confusion you felt must have been evident on your face as he laughed before explaining, “I was gonna kill him myself if you didn't, I promise you got nothin’ to worry about. What brings you two to Goodneighbor? It's not often Nick Valentine pays us a visit.” 

Nick stepped over the fresh corpse as he spoke, “We're here to see Doctor Amari, is she available?” 

The ghoul tore his eyes away from you and turned toward Nick as he answered, “Yeah, she's in the sublevel of the Memory Den, just make sure you knock before going in. She hasn't had visitors in awhile, I don't want you to startle her.” 

His obsidian eyes came back to you, drinking in the sight of you, you felt your face heat under his scrutiny. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking, so you turned to Valentine, trying your best to ignore the mayor and instead focus on finding Doctor Amari. “Let's go see her, Nick,” you said as you walked past the two men and toward the Memory Den. 

“Yes, ma'am,” the detective murmured as he followed, waving goodbye to the mayor. 

Looking around, you noticed there were quite a few ghouls present in this town, most of which wore what looked to be mobster suits, each carrying a gun. So Goodnieghbor did have security guards, just not on the outside. This information made you feel safer, knowing there was someone to protect you in the event that invaders tried to storm the town. Pulling open the door to the Memory Den, you were met with the sight of strange pods lining the walls, filled with people reclined and staring up at screens inside them. This must be how people were reliving their memories, reclined in a pod and watching on screens above. As you studied the oblivious people around you, Nick approached a beautiful woman lounging in a chaise at the back of the room. You couldn't hear much, but you were able to gather that they knew each other based on how they spoke. 

Valentine called you over to a door in the far back corner of the building, he opened it to reveal a staircase. Descending the steps, you were filled with anxiety as you grew nearer to the doctor. This was a necessary process in order to find who took your sister, but you were not looking forward to reliving the worst moments of your life. 

“Doctor Amari?” Nick called out after knocking on a wooden door frame, just as you reached the base of the stairs. 

“In here!” A voice replied from an open doorway on your right. 

Upon entering the room, you noticed there were two large pods, similar to ones up stairs, facing each other in the center of the room and connected to a large monitor. Unlike the pods upstairs, these ones looked more high-tech, like they were used for research rather than leisure. Doctor Amari turned to face the two of you, a polite smile forming across her face. She was a short woman with short black hair that barely reached the tips of her ears. Her dark complexion was a stark contrast to the pure white lab coat and clothes she wore, her dark eyes bore into yours before flicking to Valentine. 

“How can I help you today, Detective?”

“Well, we’re looking for a missing person. My friend here,” he gestured to you, “witnessed the kidnapping and we were hoping you'd be able to replay that memory for us so we can gather more information.”

“Goodness,” she turned to you as she said, “I'm so sorry you had to witness such a terrible thing. I can replay that memory for you, but I must warn you that, due to the subject matter, it will not be pleasant.”

You took a deep breath to steady yourself before you spoke, “I expected as much, but I need to do this. It's the best chance we have at finding information that could lead to her.” 

“Very well, go ahead and sit down in here,” Doctor Amari ushered you into one of the pods, “now just think of that day, start from the beginning. We'll be able to see it all on the screen out here, if it ever becomes too much there's a release button on your left, just press that and the memory replay will end.” 

Nodding at her as the pod closed, you took a moment to collect yourself as you listened to the machine power on, nodding once more after Doctor Amari signaled that it was time to start. You closed your eyes and remembered: the funeral, the strange invitation, mushroom clouds in the distance, shockwaves knocking you to the ground, entering Vault 111, biting a chunk out of the guard's throat, being frozen. Then you were finally there, the moment Lottie was taken and the only family you had left was ripped away from you. Kellogg's face filled the screen outside your pod, confirming Nick's theory. The memory ended after you were frozen once more, filling the screen with static as you pressed the release button and climbed out. 

“That was Kellogg alright,” he turned to you, “how are you holding up? That can't have been easy to relive.”

“I’m alright, did you get what you need?” You avoided his eyes, not wanting to see the pity present in their yellow glow. 

“I did, I'll have to head back to Diamond City and reach out to a few contacts of mine, see if anyone's heard or seen Kellogg or anyone matching your sister's description recently.” He looked back at the monitor and read the time, “It’s too late to head back now though, I think we should stay in town for tonight.”

You began to protest, you didn’t have any caps and couldn't afford a room, but Nick stopped you before the words could escape. “I'll pay for both our rooms and give you some caps to pay for dinner, it's the least I can do since I dragged you all the way out here.” 

“Thank you,” you said, finally looking up at him, “for everything, I wouldn't have made it this far without you.”

“Don't mention it, now let's get to the hotel. I don't know about you, but I could use a rest after the day we've had.” 

The two of you thanked Doctor Amari before leaving the Memory Den, heading to Hotel Rexford next door. Its exterior had held up well over the centuries, but inside you could see the extent of the damage time and war had wrought on it. Dangling above the lobby's center was a rusted chandelier, surrounded by concrete support beams whose paint had long since chipped away. The wooden floors were worn and coated in dirt, old paintings too faded to make out decorated the walls, but the relatively new furniture around the lobby showed that new life was being brought into this building. 

Valentine walked up to the counter and spoke to the man running it, returning to you with two keys in hand. Nick handed you your room key as he spoke, “Your room is number 33 on the third floor, I'll be in 25 on the second floor if you need anything. Here, take these,” he handed you a small pouch full of caps, “you should head to the Third Rail and get yourself something to eat once you're situated, it's been a hell of a day for you.”

You accepted the key and pouch gratefully, "Thank you again, Nick. You're heading back to Diamond City in the morning, right?”

“That's right, will you be joining me?”

Shaking your head, you answered, “No, I don't think I will, I'd like to explore this place a bit more. Maybe clear my head.”

“No worries, I'll send a message here over the radio when I've got something for you. Those caps should last you a couple days, but I'd recommend finding work if you plan on sticking around here any longer. Ask around when you're out, there's work everywhere if you ask the right people. Now come on, I'll walk with you to the second floor. Do you think you can manage to find your room on your own?” 

With a laugh you said, “Yeah, I think I can manage.”

He led the way, you followed him up two flights of stairs before you parted ways, walking up the remaining flight alone. As you crested the top of the stairs you looked around at the peeling wallpaper and worn flooring, almost able to imagine what the hotel had looked like in its prime. Halfway down the hall on your left was room 33, using your key and unlocking the door revealed a cozy bedroom. The furniture was new, well, newer than the hotel at least. A queen size bed dressed in deep maroon sheets was against the wall on your right, next to it was a small wooden dresser adorned with a lamp. A clothes drying rack was in front of the window directly across from the door, curtains matching the bed's sheets blocking the few of the setting sun outside. Locking the door behind you before dropping your bag onto the foot of the bed, you looked to your left to see a washroom. It had a decent sized shower, a small sink and a toilet; in the corner was a bucket used for hand-washing clothes. You reached for the sink's faucet, letting out a sigh of relief when clean water began to pour out as you turned the knob. 

Stripping off your vault suit and accompanying white undershirt and black undergarments, you dropped them unceremoniously into the bucket before filling it with water from the tub and some provided soap you'd found under the sink. You scrubbed your clothes until your arms were aching from the effort, hanging them up to dry on the rack in front of the window before stepping into the tub. The water was room temperature, but it was better than nothing. You were long overdue for a shower, dirt and dried blood that had stained the bucket's water and was now dripping off of you and down the drain. The jagged scrapes on your hands and knees had mostly healed, the cut across your face had begun to heal as well but was definitely going to scar, burning with every pass under the water. Your right arm’s injury was fresh, leaking blood as you scrubbed away as much grime as you could. Once you felt you were finally clean enough, you turned off the water and stepped out into the main room, you couldn’t find a towel but your clothes were dry enough to wear, you must've spent much longer than you’d anticipated in the shower. 

Redressing yourself and grabbing the pouch of caps Nick had given you, you made your way back down to the lobby and out the front door. Toward the center of the town was a concrete staircase heading down to the subways, above it was a lit sign that read ‘The Third Rail’. Halfway down the steps and through a metal door you noticed two ghoul guards outside another staircase that led deeper underground. They looked at you suspiciously but let you pass, muttering something about not bothering the other patrons. You hadn't planned on talking to anyone except to order food so you doubted that would be a problem. At the bottom of the stairs you paused to look around, admiring the hanging chains of lights that lit up the room. A bar was at the other end of the room, run by a Mr. Handy that had been reprogrammed to bartend rather than housekeep. To the left of the bar was a small stage, illuminated by the spotlight was a beautiful woman with short black hair, wearing a red dress covered in sequins. She seemed to be in her own world as she sang to no one in particular, sequins glittering as she swayed to the music. 

Crossing the room and standing at the bar, you ordered a simple bowl of noodles, taking it gratefully before turning and finding a booth in the back. You didn't want to cause any trouble, or even be noticed down here; you were content just listening to a few songs as you ate before turning in for the night. You ate quickly, now staring into your empty bowl, you twirled your spoon around as you half-listened to the song echoing through The Third Rail. Thoughts you'd tried for days to push down were now consuming you, free to take reign in the absence of distractions. Images of the Deathclaw, raiders, giant cockroaches, and countless other horrors flashed through your mind as you wondered where Lottie was now. She was always a constant in your life, there to guide you when you felt lost and cheer you up when life's pressures began to weigh on you. Now, though, you were lost and alone in a new world, desperately searching for your sister and struggling through your grief. You grieved the death of your mother, yes, and the loss of your sister, but you also grieved the loss of all of your friends and relatives, and the loss of the world you'd known your whole life. No matter how hard you tried, you would never be able to go back to that world, and that was something that you may never get used to. 

“Mind if I join you?” A familiar raspy voice brought you out of your thoughts. 

Looking up, you were met with the midnight eyes of Mayor Hancock, you nodded and gestured for him to sit, heart racing as he sat down beside you, you felt the warmth radiating off of him from mere inches away. 

“Nick said I might find you down here, I heard you're planning on staying awhile.” He said, resting an arm on the booth's cushion behind your head, tilting his head to look down at you. 

“Yeah, I am, if that's alright,” you said sheepishly, nerves filled you until he let out a soft laugh and you felt your muscles relax at the sound. 

“It's fine with me, sweetheart. I figured you might be looking for work, I have a job for you if you're interested.” 

“I am, what's the job?” You were eager to have something to do besides wallow in self pity. 

“I need someone to check out a place called the Pickman Gallery, I've been hearing a lot of weird talk about it. It's raider territory but it's been too quiet, snoop it out and let me know what you find.” 

“Pickman Gallery, huh? Okay, I'll go take a look first thing tomorrow.” This sounded easy enough, and you needed the caps if you were going to keep staying here. 

“Perfect,” he said as he pulled out a chem, Jet if you were remembering correctly, and took a long hit before blowing smoke into the air above him. 

You couldn't keep your eyes off of him, admiring the expanse of his throat as he tilted his head back, following the curve of his jaw with your eyes. Your gaze lowered, lingering where his shirt was unbuttoned at the top, showing the slightest bit of skin. He rolled his head back toward you before asking, “So what brings you and Nick to Goodneighbor?”

Images of your sister's kidnapping popped back into your head, a flash of cold fear going through you. “It's kind of a long story,” you answered, wanting to avoid this topic of conversation. 

“I got nothin’ but time,” Hancock replied, eyes boring into yours. 

“I'm actually about to turn in for the night, but,” you said as you turned to face him fully, face inches away from his, “I'll tell you the whole story when I get back from Pickman Gallery.”

“I'm gonna hold you to that, Vaultie,” his tone light as he smiled at you, “you're staying at Hotel Rexford, right?” You nodded before he continued, “I'll walk you back, c'mon.” 

He stood from the booth, his warmth leaving with him, before he reached out a hand to help you up and out of your seat. His hand was warm in yours, firm as he helped you out of the booth, his touch lingering for a beat too long. He turned and led you up the stairs and out of the Third Rail, walking you back to the hotel. It was a short walk but you were glad to have the company, hugging your arms around yourself to fight the autumn chill as you admired the strings of lights above you that lit up the town. He opened the hotel's door for you and ushered you in, “Sleep well, and be careful at Pickman's tomorrow, I'm looking forward to hearing your story.” 

“I'll try my best,” you said with a mock salute, “goodnight, Mayor Hancock.”

“Just call me Hancock, no need for the formalities,” he said with a wink, “goodnight to you too.” 

The door to the lobby closed behind you as you climbed back up the stairs and down the hallway that led to your room. Plopping down on the bed and kicking off your shoes, you stared down at the hand that had held his for a brief moment, smiling to yourself before guilt ripped the joy from you. Lottie was missing and you were wasting time, you needed to focus on the task at hand, there was no time for distractions. As you undressed for bed, you remembered the final unplayed message your mother had left you. There was no telling what you'd find at the gallery tomorrow, if you'd even return, so you decided to listen to her message before going to sleep. 

You carefully peeled off the paper your mother had written on, tucking it away in your pack with the photo you'd taken from her home. The small tape fit perfectly into your pip-boy and you felt tears well up in your eyes as your mother's face filled the grainy black screen. She looked so thin, her face sunken and hollow; she must've filmed this not too long before she'd passed. Her voice filled the room, you hadn't realized how much you'd missed her until now, her voice bringing a fresh wave of grief with it. 

“Hi, honey,” her voice was so soft, she sounded so tired, “if you're watching this, then I'm dead, which means nearly everyone on earth is dead as well, if Vault-Tec followed my last wishes.” 

What the hell was she talking about, how could she have possibly known the bombs would be dropped after she passed? And what did Vault-Tec have to do with this? 

“I'm sure you have all kinds of questions, and I promise I'm going to answer them, but I need you to try and keep an open mind. I need you to know that I did this, all of this, for you and Lottie. Everything I've ever done has been to protect you two and ensure you had the best chance at survival. You girls are my world, and I'd do it all again in a heartbeat.” She paused in the video as coughs shook her body before she regained her composure and continued, “Sweetie, the company we work for isn't what you think it is; when I secured your positions in the company, I made sure you two would be kept in the dark on what we really worked on here. Yes, we sell spots in vaults for people in the event of a nuclear apocalypse, that much is true, but there's a bit more to it.

“Barb Howard, George Yaffe, a few others, and myself all determined that the best way to get our sponsors to invest more into the company would be to allow them a sort of ‘creative freedom’ over the vaults they sponsored. We allowed them to plan and implement experiments of their own making in the vaults they paid for, on the people inside, experiments that I hope you never find out about.” Your mother paused, a soft laugh leaving her, “They were definitely more willing to pay after that, but they weren't convinced to go all in, not yet. They wanted more; a guarantee that people would pay for their spots in the vaults. The only way to do that was to ensure a nuclear apocalypse.

“Honey, I know how this all sounds, which is why I didn't tell you or Lottie about it. You never would've let this happen and I couldn't risk you two leaving Vault-Tec and losing your spots in the vault, I couldn't let my children die at my hands. We did the unthinkable; we made our sponsors a guarantee of nuclear fallout, because we were going to be the ones to drop the first bombs.” 

Horror filled you, the words your mother was saying didn't make sense to you. You couldn't fathom that your own mother would kill billions of people, the woman you knew would never be capable of such a thing. But maybe you didn't really know her at all. 

“I knew I was dying at this point, and I had some sway with the others due to my tenure and position, so I was able to convince them to wait six months, all the time I'd been given left to live, just six more months before dropping the bombs. We convinced the sponsors that it was to have more time to increase advertisements for the vaults, and to send people door-to-door asking potential customers to sign up. They bought it, likely wanting more time to get their affairs in order as well and secure their own spots in vaults less despicable than others. During this time, I made plans; you and your sister were still in California, but I knew you'd be back in Massachusetts after my passing. I let you two think we were all going to be in Vault 4, but I reserved you both spots in Vault 111 instead. I know this may not make sense, especially given the cryogenic experimentation in this vault, but it was the closest vault to our home. I needed you two out of California when the bombs dropped, if you were in a highly populated area like that then there was little chance of you two making it to a vault in time.” A sob shook her, “I needed to make sure my little girls would be safe, and I couldn't guarantee that if you were on the other side of the country.

“I convinced Barb to help me set it all up, she was instructed to drop the first bomb after my funeral, far away from Sanctuary Hills, but close enough to urge you two to head to Vault 111 if you weren't there yet. I made her arrange for two men to deliver these messages to you two along with the invitation. I wasn't sure you two would go visit after such an event, but at least the idea would be in your heads when the end came.” 

Your mother paused for a long time, staring down at her withered hands. You felt tears streaming down your face, her words ringing in your ears as you tried to process what she was saying to you. 

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you girls about my illness, I needed to make sure everything was in place when the time to drop the bombs came. I couldn't risk you two being here and getting in the way.” Her head turned to her left, a muffled male voice was heard before a door shut. “I have to go now, there’s still much to be done and I don’t have a lot of time left. I love you, take care of Lottie, she's going to need you to hold her together through all of this. I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me one day.”

The video ended, leaving you staring at your reflection in the black of the screen. You replayed the video at least a dozen times, making sure you didn't misunderstand anything, before you collapsed on your bed and cried. Hands pulling at your hair, eyes clenched shut as you tried to grapple with the information you'd been given. She knew the bombs were going to be dropped by your employers. She was a part of the committee that decided it should happen, and she encouraged people to experiment on innocent civilians in the name of profit. Your own mother had sacrificed the lives of so many, just to increase Vault-Tec’s profit margin. She'd hidden so much from you and your sister, you couldn't figure out where the truth of her ended and the lies began. Memories of her were tainted with this revelation as you drifted into a fitful sleep, tossing and turning as nightmares tormented you.

[maccreadysbaby]

A Hundred Ways to Become a Wayne

batfamily + oc insert

tw: horror? and vomit

wanna read more? here’s the table of contents!

want to read the first fic in the hundred days series so you understand what’s going on here? here it is!

i’m not sure my tags are actually working but here’s the next part! if you haven’t read about the secret keeper yet you need to jump back a chapter

part eight

❝ SAFE WITH ME ❞

WEDNESDAY — AUGUST 5 — 3:12AM

“DON’T WORRY. I won’t tell your secrets,”

Bentley sat straight up in his bed at the Manor. He very vaguely remembered being carried upstairs from the cave (apparently he fell asleep in the medbay?) He tried to argue with his carrier but it all came out as unintelligible hums, and he was apparently satisfied with their warmth, because he remembered snuggling into them and going back to sleep before they were even in the elevator.

Now, however, it was strange to be upstairs without actually remembering coming upstairs, and he could’ve swore he’d heard a real voice just then.

He flicked on his lamp, glancing around his room warily. He was alone, apart from his furniture, and the outside windows were pitch black. His clock said something but he couldn’t read it through the sleep in his eyes.

“Your secrets safe with me,”

He blinked a few times. He wasn’t crazy, he really was hearing someone. A girl, from off to the left. Or the right. Or… behind him?

Red flags and alarm bells started sounding in his head. “Steph?”

No response.

Bentley rubbed his eyes and sat up straighter, pushing his hair out of his face. He was alone. His bathroom was empty, he could see in from the bed, and his whole room was void of life apart from him.

He reached for his phone, but it wasn’t on his nightstand where he always left it. His pockets were empty, too. Had he left it in the cave?

“I know all your secrets, Bentley. You know who I am.”

Who knew all of his secrets? Did he even have secrets?

Realization hit him all at once like a sucker punch, the voice and what it was saying clicking like puzzle pieces.

He was going to freaking die.

He searched his whole bedside table and opened the drawer, growing more frantic by the minute.

“What’re you looking for?”

The voice seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. Bentley drew his covers up over his head and settled as a lump against the headboard, his heart starting to pound.

This could not be happening. She couldn’t be here.

“Go away,” He murmured at the nobody in his room. “Please.”

“Who are you talking to?”

Wait, that wasn’t a girl’s voice, that was Damian’s voice.

He unwrapped the covers from around himself and glanced up at his doorway. His lamp was off (but didn’t he just turn it on?) and all he could see was a small silhouette.

What in the world was going on? Was she in the Manor somewhere? Or was he actually losing his mind?

“Damian? I thought I heard…” He trailed off, turning to his lamp and flicking it on again.

“You did,” The silhouette said, a strange mix of Damian’s voice and the girl’s. Bentley glanced up at him and-

He shouted in terror, a wave of fear so prominent shooting through his entire body that he scrambled backwards and fell off the bed with a wham. His eyes were immediately burning with tears and his heart was beating so fast he felt like he was going to have a heart attack.

“What is it? You don’t want to tell me your secrets?” The Secret Keeper called from her spot in his doorway. He could still see her face from where he was on the floor, twisted and bloody and worse than he could’ve imagined, glowing amber eyes glued to him, unblinking. “No worries — I already know them.”

Bentley curled into a ball on the floor and covered his ears, squeezing his eyes shut as hard as he possibly could. He was going to die.

“Bruce!” He called out, his voice sounding muffled under his hands. He didn’t think it was loud enough, so the second time he shouted so loud it hurt his throat. “Bruce!”

Please come save me. Please don’t like me die. Please don’t let her kill me.

“Why are you so afraid?” Her voice wasn’t muffled by his hands, it was in his head, clear as day. “Open your eyes, Bentley.”

“No!” He choked on a sob, squeezing his eyes shut so tight nothing could possibly force them open. Not even his tears were getting through and it burned like his eyes were on fire. He’d never felt his heart crawling up his throat before, but it was, and he thought he might throw it up.

Instead of bile, something else ripped up his throat without his consent. It was a scream, shrill and desperate and so loud Bentley wasn’t sure if it actually came out of him. 

“Bruce!”

“Your daddy isn’t coming, baby bird. Open your eyes,” The Secret Keeper’s smooth falsetto cooed. He felt hands on his face, a finger, a knuckle stroking his cheek that wasn’t pressed against the floor. 

He turned his forehead into the hardwood. “Tim! Dick! Jason!” Anybody?

“No one’s home,” She said again, her finger tracing up the side of Bentley’s head until she pushed some of his hair back. “You’re all alone, baby bird.”

“Please,” He choked, falling into a violent coughing fit that nearly made him puke his guts out on the floor. He couldn’t finish his sentence.

“I haven’t hurt you. Why are you so scared?”

He curled up tighter and sobbed again when she ran a hand through his hair the same way Dick always did.

“You want to run for help so bad, baby bird? Then run,”

Her voice faded until it was gone. He wasn’t sure how long it took for him to work up the courage to open his eyes, but when he did, it was just him trembling and crying on the floor.

He pulled himself off the hardwood and stumbled across the bedroom, jerked the door open, and shot straight across the dark hallway into Tim’s room without looking left or right.

As soon as he threw Tim’s door open, she was standing there.

He screamed in terror, trying to move backwards so quickly his foot caught on the carpet in the hallway and he fell again. It was getting so hard to breathe.

“I told you you were all alone, baby bird,” She crooned.

Bentley pushed himself off the floor and ran. Straight down the stairs, straight through the foyer, straight through the front door.

But instead of padding into the yard, when he went through the threshold, he was in Whittaker Estate.

He blinked rapidly. Tears were streaming down his face and making dots all over his shirt, and he kept feeling more and more like he was going to throw up. His heart was pounding and pounding and his lungs didn’t seem to be working because he couldn’t breathe and everything hurt and he was going to die.

Frantically, he pushed himself forward into the Estate. Everything was just how it was the day he left. “Father!”

His feet pounded on the hardwood as he ran through the Estate. He was going to die. He was going to die. “Father!”

He shouted in fear again when someone rounded the corner.

It was his father. Not Bruce, his father, with the red hair and brown eyes that matched his exactly.

Bentley didn’t stop running until he collided with him, nearly toppling the man over, tightening his arms around him so tight he thought he might die if he let go. “Father, she’s gonna… she’s gonna kill me.”

He felt his father’s arms come up and around him, one hand resting on the back of his head. “I’ve got you, son. There’s no one there.”

“Father…”

“I’ve got you.”

Bentley peeked backwards, and the Estate was empty. The hallways were long and pristine and perfect.

He looked up at his father.

He wasn’t in his father’s arms. They were her arms. She was smiling down at him with her stitched grin, and sickening laughter bubbled up and out of her as soon as they made eye contact.

Bentley shoved himself away from her so hard he hit the floor for a third time, his head thudding against the hardwood with a familiar sharp, resonating pain.

“Don’t forget, baby bird. I know your secrets,”

And everything went black.

And then he woke up in his bedroom at the Manor, crying his eyes out and shaking so terribly he thought he was going to vibrate the bed apart. He was sweaty and he couldn’t breathe and his heart was pounding in his ears and something was in his throat. He thought it was his heart, at first, but then his stomach lurched and he threw up all over himself and the sheets before he could even sit up all the way.

Oh God. Oh my God.

He was sucking in air rapidly, wheezing it in and out, but it wasn’t doing anything. Everything hurt and he couldn’t stop crying, and he started coughing violently, nearly choking because he couldn’t breathe and it didn’t stop until he threw up again.

He sobbed pitifully, wrapping his arms around himself as the anxiety coiled knots up in his stomach.

“Bruce,” He half-whispered, fists curled tight around his vomit-soaked shirt. “Bruce!”

Please be awake. Please be home. Please don’t be a dream, another nightmare, please…

Bentley sobbed hard and coughed until he nearly threw up again. “Bruce!”

Not fifteen seconds later, his door was thrown open from the outside. Bruce, not the Secret Keeper, came rushing inside with Alfred and Duke and Damian all hovering somewhere behind him.

“Bentley,” He sighed when he realized the child wasn’t in mortal danger. “It’s okay. It’s okay, chum. I’ve got you,”

Bruce didn’t even hesitate before he picked Bentley up, puke-y pajamas and all, out from under his sheets and held him like he was about to carry him somewhere, but he didn’t. Bentley all but strangled him, synching his arms as tight as he could around his neck and burying his head as deep into his shoulder as he could to dampen his wheezy hiccups. He couldn’t breathe.

“That’s it, bud. You’re okay,”

“I-I threw up,” Was all the words Bentley could manage at the moment, as if Bruce wasn’t literally wearing some of that throw up now.

“I know, son. I’ve got you. Try and take some deep breaths,” Bruce was rubbing his back lightly, and Bentley just kept sobbing and sobbing (literally, like a four year old, almost obnoxiously.) and he couldn’t really make it stop. The fact that Bruce called him son didn’t even penetrate his mind. “Do you think you’re going to be sick again?”

Bentley shook his head and hoped Bruce could tell what he meant. He heard some little fabric sounds in the background, like Alfred was wasting no time changing his sheets, but he didn’t look up to see.

“I’m… not sick,” He barely managed to speak through gaspy sobs and tears. “The… Secret Keeper, she… I… saw… her.”

He heard Bruce curse under his breath.

Bruce never cursed.

“I’ve got you, Bentley. She’s not here. You’re awake now, and you’re with us,”

Bentley said nothing, clinging so tightly to the back of Bruce’s shirt that he was afraid his knuckles might literally crack in half. He was so terrified that he couldn’t even begin to be embarrassed that he was covered in vomit and trembling violently in Batman’s arms.

“I’ve got you. Try and breathe, Bentley. Deep breaths.”

There was no try, he just couldn’t. He cried himself into another coughing fit that only ended when he very nearly threw up down Bruce’s back. (Thank God he didn’t, that would’ve been absolutely humiliating.)

“Bruce…”

“Shh, shh… you’re okay. It’s over now,”

Bentley tightened his hold on Bruce even more (if it was even possible.) and choked on a few more sobs, wishing he’d never been in the cave or watched patrol in the first place. His mind was so full and spinning that he couldn’t even comprehend things that were going on around them. He heard voices and movement but never lifted his head from Bruce’s shoulder to look around.

“Let’s get you into some clean pajamas, alright?”

“No!” Bentley panicked, unable to find the words he was trying to use, so he clung ever tighter to Bruce like some kind of koala. He was just so freaking scared. “Don’t… don’t… don’t put me down… Please, Bruce-”

“Okay, okay. It’s alright. I’m right here,” He felt Bruce rubbing his back again, rhythmically moving his hand from top to bottom. “Just try and slow down your breathing, bud. Breathe with me.”

It was easy for Bentley to feel his purposefully over-exaggerated breaths because of the way he was holding him, and he tried his best to match them. (When did breathing get so hard?) He started coughing.

“There you go. Keep going, chum.”

Bentley pressed his head farther into Bruce’s shirt. “Bruce…”

“I’m here, Bentley. I’m right here,”

“Please don’t leave,”

“I won’t,”

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that, crying and shaking and clinging to Bruce like the world was ending. Bruce kept saying things about how he would be okay and he wasn’t going to leave and he was right there. But the fear embedded in Bentley’s chest made the right here feel so far away, like every second Bruce was drifting, and the only thing that made it go away was holding onto him tighter.

“I know, chum. I know. I’ve got you now,”

Bentley responded by hiding his face deeper in the crook of Bruce’s neck, trying to let the man’s warmth seep into him and drive away all the cold spears of fear that had penetrated him so violently.

He wasn’t sure how many minutes it took, but eventually, the trembling and crying got down to a… manageable level.

Bentley hesitantly lifted his head, glancing around the room. The door was standing open and the sheets had been changed, (Alfred seriously had some magical powers or something.) and Duke and Damian had long disappeared from the doorway. He glanced up at Bruce’s face, just to make sure it was his and not hers, and it was.

Bentley took a sharp breath and laid his head back down, small body still wracked with the sobs he couldn’t seem to stop. “Please don’t let her hurt me. I-I don’t want… I don’t want to see her in real life like everybody else does.”

He felt Bruce’s hand rest on the back of his head. “You’re safe here, Bentley. She’s not going to get anywhere near you.”

Bentley wiped at his eyes (though it was futile because he was still crying), and got overtaken by a sudden wave of trembles. “I’m so scared.” He whispered.

“I know. Just keep breathing — you’re safe,”

After a while, he relaxed a bit in Bruce’s hold, keeping his face securely in the area between his neck and shoulder.

“How are you feeling, bud?”

Bentley sniffled. His chest wasn’t so tight anymore, and breathing was easier than it had been. His head was starting to pound, though, from all the crying, and his stomach still felt rocky.

“M’head hurts,” He admitted quietly, voice half muffled by sniffs and the material of Bruce’s shirt. “And my stomach.”

“Nauseous?” Bruce inquired.

Bentley shook his head. “No.”

“I think it’s similar to what happened to you before your first day of school. Do you want the pink tablets?”

The thought of needing anything that would make Bruce have to put him down made him anxious. “No.”

Bruce hummed. “We should probably change your clothes now. And you can brush your teeth, if you want.”

When Bentley merely held onto him tighter, he added: “I’m not going to go anywhere.”

It was just short of a battle between two parts of Bentley’s brain, one that wanted Bruce to never let go of him ever, and another that knew they both had puke on them and it was disgusting, and that Bruce probably needed to change, too.

So, ignoring the fact that he’d pretty much rather crawl in a hole and die than let go, he muttered: “Okay.”

He felt Bruce take a few steps, and he ever-so-gently set him down in the center of the clean bed. His pants were still clean, having been shielded by the covers, so he’d just need a new t-shirt. He had to fight the urge to bring his knees up in lieu of contaminating his pajama pants.

The clock on the bedside table read about half past three. Bentley counted ten fingers on his hands.

Bruce moved swiftly, grabbing a new t-shirt and handing it to Bentley, who quickly changed. Bruce tossed the old one in the laundry hamper.

Bentley did bring his knees up then, curling until he was satisfied that not even Batman could pull him apart, still trembling and crying under the weight of his nightmare.

It was then that Alfred resurfaced, with a shirt for Bruce (without the puke) and a glass of water, as well as a mug of something steaming. He brought them into the bedroom, Bruce said his thanks, then the butler left and closed the door behind him.

Bruce changed quickly, then sat next to Bentley on the bed.

“If you want to talk about it, you can. Or if you’d rather not think about it, that’s okay, too. I’m here for whatever you need,” Bruce stated, rubbing Bentley’s back lightly.

The child sniffled, wiping his eyes on the sleeves of his shirt. “I…”

A moment of silence passed.

“I’m cold,”

It was a covert little way of asking to be held, but hopefully Bruce would recognize it. He had been a dad for many, many years now.

He didn’t disappoint. He extended his arms in a welcoming invitation, and Bentley crawled over into his lap, settling there with a slow exhale.

“She’d have to get through all of us before she could lay a hand on you,” Bruce reassured, rubbing Bentley’s back lightly. “You’re safe with me. With us.”

Bentley kept breathing, in and out and in and out until he believed him. He coiled his hands up in Bruce’s shirt and imagined that he was dressed as Batman, with his big cape wrapped around Bentley to hide him away from all the bad things in the world. He promptly stopped thinking about that when he started to get sleepy imagining being curled up under the warm cape, because one thing he would not be doing in the foreseeable future, or ever again, was sleeping.

What Batman neglected to mention was that, of the twenty-seven people who’d reported nightmares and sightings of the Secret Keeper, eighteen of them had gone missing.

The other nine had been found dead not an hour ago, by Tim, on patrol.

And now Bentley, of all the people in Gotham, would have to be added to Tim’s potential target list.

—

dedicated to @sassenashsworld 💚

—

tag list! (If you want me to remove or add you, ask in comments!)

@fleur-alise @sarcopterygiian @cademygod

[draculadailydrinks]

Days 11-18

Holy I forgot to get this out of the drafts aaAAAAH-

THIS WILL BE EVERYTHING PRIOR TO DROUGHTCULA I WILL MAKE ANOTHER POST FOR THE ONES AFTER

MAY UPDATE:

Another mass post due to end of the year events plus was out of state for a few days, so unfortunately no drink for the 25th.

JUNE UPDATE:

Oh man this post is going to be really long-Apologies for the silence as well, I am in fact alive and I will do my best to turn this into simultaneous updates with the chapters since this almost became a monthly drink blog. With the June chapter reactions (except for 6/17) they had a chance to process and marinate a bit (unfortunately some of the live reactions in June didn't save properly) so I would ramble about the chapters after presenting the drinks.

In all ways a lot happened and I've been enjoying this so much I actually love how I'm going in this blind and not knowing what happens does enhance the immersion and maximize the dread.

This weekend I'd be in a place with terrible internet access so if any chapters are posted, I'd get back when I'm home again with the dribks.

AND HERE WE GO HAS BEEN A WILD SERIES OF EVENTS

5/18

Blueberry lemonade

This may have taken longer than the strawberry one despite it taking less steps, mainly because the blueberries took so long to strain. I also realized that after I poured the rest of the water in some of the pulp kept floating up to the top so removing that took up time as well. To make a darker blue, I've added butterfly pea tea but it just made a dark purple due to the acidity in the lemon juice and blueberries.

The next few days are a break from the blood red theme since the way Dracula treats Johnathan and his whole situation lowkey reminds me of the Bluebeard fairytale, especially the thing about the doors. I really should look up if the fairy tale is older than the Bram Stoker (i've been spelling this name wrong as stokes the whole time-) because the idea of a host that's first welcoming but later is revealed to be manipulative and dangerous (Bluebeard with the whole hanging his past wives in a cellar, Dracula threathening John to not tell any signs of struggle and the whole thing of him presenting himself as a "better choice" than either 1. the wolves and 2. lady vampires and one of which was staged. the baby in the bag)

The way this journal entry is so short freaks me out. This is who notes details about the setting and the house and small things the best he can the fact he looked for the room first thing in the morning and knowing that he needs to do something before it's too late-

Yeah. The death flags are getting stronger and when before it was more like "I'm in danger I need to keep an eye on how things are going" but now it's more urgent and desperate with the way he's acting.

I actually don't know if he's making it out there alive now...

5/19

OH MAN WE'RE REALLY IN THIS NOW. AAAH. AAAAAAAAH WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE OY HAS 3 LETTERS TO SEND WHAT ARE THE DATES ARE WE ONLH GETTING THE NEXT 3 CHAOTERS THEN HOLY CRAP.

Tried again in making a blue drink with the butterfly pea tea and some juice. I've steeped the tea longer and the blue looks amazing just look at how deep and vibrant it turned out-

added the same grape juice in a can i've used last time

Also became more of a reddish purple thought it tasted pretty good, plus I like how the grape pieces in the drink look like floating eyeballs or glowing stuff under light.

Aah. So it's established Dracula does not want him dead because he needs John alive for intel on Britiain as he would need to blend in when he goes overseas to create the bloodshed. However the fact Dracula needs him for that long--or wants people to think he needs to stay for that long and is doing totally fine-- is very worrying. What else does he need will he actually use John as his personal blood supply especially after the nighttime encounters with his 3 lady vampire roommates in his walls?

OH NOT TO MENTION JOHN IS STILL BITTEN. HOW IS HIS VAMPIRE TRANSFORMATION GOING TO TAKE PLACE IS THAT WHY THE COUNT WANTS HIM TO STAY (not sure if being a vampire transmits by bite holds in the og novel but those sort of details always come back to bite you aaah....)

5/24

Jasmine Grapefruit Tea

I'd wanted to make this for a while because along with peach oolong, it's one of the teas I order the most when I go to get boba. The grapefruit being ripe helped with the taste as some of the fruit juices seeped into the tea while the tea seeped into the grapefruit.

For 1 glass, I used 1 teabag of jasmine tea (can subsitute with tea of choice) and half a grapefruit that I cut into small pieces then swirled around to make the pieces smaller.

5/26

Rose Hibiscus tea with grape juice

It turns out the rose tea I've been using also had hibiscus in it, maybe for color and/or taste?

The last can of grape juice goes in this one and while it had slightly less grapes than usual, there being three visible ones was fitting for this chapter.

Despite steeping the tea for longer, there was more juice in the can than I thought so it mostly tasted like grape juice with a hint a floral. (still relly nice though)

5/28

Cherry lemonade with rose syrup

(For the last photo I tried to freeze a cherry in rose syrup to make it like candy but the syrup did not freeze so I just ate it)

I made homemade rose syrup! There were only 1-2 of the rose hibiscus teabags, but I like the color so I wanted to make them last a bit longer.

After measuring equal volumes of tea and the sugar, I mixed them over a stovetop until the sugar completely dissolved and it becomes slightly less watery. According to what I found, it's recommended that you store homemade syrup in the fridge in an airtight container to prevent mold growth.

Now for the actual drink:

Fruit bits consist of 8 pitted black cherries cut into small pieces, then mixed with 2 tablespoons of rose syrup from above in a smaller container. A small whisk worked well, was easier than using a spoon to smash the cherries because I could both crush as I mix.

After putting the cherry mix into the glass, I added 2 tablespoons of lemon juice and filled it up with sparkling water.

5/31

Cherry punch

Hard to see in the photo but there are canned grapes inside. I have acquired more of the canned grape juice and poured the entire can into the glass, put 5-6 pitted black cherries along with 1 tablespoon of rose syrup.

I find it interesting that from the vivd coral color one wouldn't expect it to mostly taste like grape juice. The grape pieces were more visible irl but barely show up on the photos, and the way the cherries float makes you look at them first away from the grapes on the bottom.

Does remind me of a certain Count who is absolutely normal and not terrifying and does not crawl on the walls like a lizard.

6/5

Pink limeade

Aka my attempts to rim a glass but instead end up drinking sparkling water with 4 packets of lime powder (dehydrated and crystallized lime juice the one I used is called True Lime)

Ok so at first I tested how sticky the rose syrup will be by spreading it around the cup, then sprinkling 1 packet of lime powder inside. The powder stuck fine to the sides of the glass, but wasn't as syrupy and I didn't want to risk syrup running down my hands as I drank. Also, the lime powder was concentrated to 1 side so I opened up another packet to make it look even.

After that was alternating between sparkling water, rose syrup and the lime packets to prevent it from being too sweet/watery/or sour and all I tasted was the lime. Wasn't terrible but I think next time searching up how to rim a glass would be more efficient.

RAMBLES UNDER HERE:

And onto Lucy and her polycule:

Lucy is so interesting.

In her initial letter she gives off the impression of a typical Victorial lady first talking about her attraction to Arthur, but after that it becomes more personal and intimate. She cherishes Mina and her company and yearns for more time with her as she keeps mentioning how she can imagine a future alongside her, at the same while she insists the letters be secret.

Because while I do feel like her feelings towards Arthur are genuine, her attitude and yearning towards Mina is so strong despite telling her that she has a crush on Arthur. She yearns to feel Mina because what they had was that special, and I'm so glad Lucy can comfortably confide in Mina knowing how secretive she is. (They were roommates. They shared secrets to each other aaAAAAAAAA)

"My dear, it never runs but pours."

The fact Lucy does appreciate all the proposals though knowing that she'd have to reject the earnestness of 2 people. Her wanting to not dissappoint and also knowing it's not socially acceptable to accept all three proposals, yet also questioning why not? why can't a girl accept all three, or as many as she wants?

Considering the time period and her position...knowing the homophobia and expectations for women then, and her knowing how she "should" act yet can't stop her emotions bc she does care and are interested in John and Quincy. I think she'd also mentioned how she would have accepted any of their proposals if not for the fact she already likes Arthur too.

Oh and with this especially towards her convo with Quincy at the end, it also feels like she's not sure how him and Jack can be understanding and affectionate towards her when she's not sure of who she is. There's something about her looking into the mirror, and writing Mina:

"Do you ever try to read your own face? I do, and I can tell you it is not a bad study, and gives you more trouble than you can well fancy if you have never tried it."

Lots of thoughts about this as she's the second character to mention mirrors/looking at oneself in relation to vanity.

OH ALSO wanted to say it's so nice that Jack and Quincy were willing to offer their friendship after knowing Lucy isn't interested romantically I really love that.

Quincy being an American cowboy was not what I was expecting from a gothic novel set in Transylvania and Britain but I love him and his va for Re:Dracula. There's so much heart and warmth to hus voice and despite Quincy being rejected, he's genuinly happy for Art and wants to campfire with him and Jack. I need to know what happened they can't leave me hanging after mentioning how Quincy and Arthur "...dressed one another's wounds after trying a landing at the Marquesas; and drunk healths on the shore of Titicaca". Gives me the vibes of "they were roommates" there is something between them already i kNOW WHAT YOU ARE. Everyone in here is so bi and love that so much

AND JOHN GOING THROUGH THE GRINDER.

He goes from fearing the lady vampire and the Count Dracula apperance is no dream and then is "in the tolls" a day later. Then gets his letters found out and then have his clothing, papers, and stuff be gone then locked in a room. We're really in this now each time his isolation keeps escalating huh...

CRAP THE META I PUT UNDER HERE WAS NOT SAVED BC BAD DATA I'LL DO MY BEST

It's the fact that Dracula's treatment of Johnathan reminds me so much of domestic abuse. He first starts out as welcoming, but also presenting himself as Johnathan's only safe and reliable choice. It's either the wolves or the lady vampires and in both times, Dracula is the one who puts Johnathan out of the situation despite us later finding out the Count could control the wolves. In addition to that, the way Dracula speaks to Johnathan about him trying to get the Romani to send the letters during his solitary confinement--as if Johnathan has first broken hospitality--sounds like that if Johnathan hadn't "acted out" the situation won't even happen despite how Dracula has been lying to Jonathan and keeping him captive all this time. He also has Jonathan not to mention what happens to him in the castle by telling him to write to his loved ones how he's doing just fine, as he later takes away Johnathan's ways of recording proof and all his belongings which only increases his isolation. Also, the part about hospitality is first brought up by Dracula despite both of them knowing what this situation really is. Regardless, Dracula is the one who's in control of defining Johnathan's role in this place.

Totally see the metas and analysis of Johnathan being in the role of a gothic heroine in this as his agency gets further stripped away and I genuinly fear for his safety. Really impressed by how some of the most terrifying parts don't even involve Dracula being a vampire but the psychological toll it's taking on John.

On another note I do like the reading of Dracula forcing the Romani to give up the letters, rather than them doing the Count's evil bidding

(which considering the racist and stereotypical depiction of them was the intended reading. Also very glad I did research on the terminology used bc dang. on top of the negative portrayal of ethnic groups using a slur to refer to them...)

Because the Count has lied to Johnathan before, and also it does connect to how Dracula tries to make it that Johnathan cannot rely on anything else in this environment. He asserts his power over the area and the people who live in it by violence, and it further shows how far Dracula could go to cut off Johnathan's ways of help or communication and gives the actions of the Romani man other meanings than the one based on harmful stereotypes.

Doesn't seem like Johnathan's situation is going to get any better as he's completly stripped of most of the things from Britain. It's still chilling without any mention of the Count as he's the only suspect that could pull this off, and for what? The fact that he has no connection or way to recount this situation is harrowing.

(More thoughts on Jack coming up in the post-droughtcula post today, and thanks for waiting! This took way too long but yeet. it is done)

[internerdionality]

20 Questions with a Fanfic Author

I sincerely apologize, I was going to do this last night after I finished my chapter and then uhhhhhh my gay priests wouldn't stop talking. Thank you to @thetardigrape for tagging me!

1. How many works on AO3?

63!

2. Total AO3 Word Count?

1,076,236. Which cracks me up because I have approximately the same WC as Tardigrape with barely more than half the works, which just goes to show that I am SUCH A WORDY BITCH! lmao. I really, really struggle to write short fics. I also have a 200K+ epic that will be done this year (it's currently 200K and is only like 3/4ths done so. Who knows how long it's gonna be at the end). So that will be going up quite a bit soon.

3. Top 5 Fics by Kudos

To Err is Human, to Purr is Batman (Batman)

What Do You Do With a Drunken Sailor? (Our Flag Means Death (TV)

A Fucking Duel (Our Flag Means Death (TV)

Mutually Beneficial (DCU Comics)

Soaked to the Skin (Our Flag Means Death (TV)

(And just to illustrate the wordy bitchiness of it all, not one of those is under 40K)

4. What fandoms do you write for?

I tend to invest hard in a fandom for a while and then abandon it like a puppy on Christmas (I'm so sorry). It was DCU, then OFMD, and is currently Conclave, but I also have several Eureka fics on the boil. I do want to go back to my abandoned WIPs I swear but it's very hard for me to get the motivation to do so when I'm not in that fandom headspace anymore. 😭

5. Do you respond to comments?

All of them, yes!

6. Angstiest Ending?

Oooh, uh. Well, there's the one where I kill off Batman, or several of the others in that dark vampire series. Then there's the one I wrote this last week for Conclave that is pretty freaking sad (that's just a fandom with angst built in)! Or the vampire AU I wrote for Our Flag Means Death. Oh God, what if I wrote a vampire AU for Conclave... No! Bad writer! Finish your current WIPs before you start a new one!

7. Fic with the Happiest Ending?

Hmmmm. Happy is hard to define. I think the ending I wrote for @dragonmuse where Izzy adopts a bunch of kittens is the fluffiest. That said, I also wrote a short one-shot for the fourth Matrix movie that is just like. Really intensely happy in the sense that the protagonist is so filled with joy to be where he is and what he's doing after a really long time of being pretty clinically depressed. Other than that, Mutually Beneficial ends with two epilogues that contain a wedding proposal and a sex scene, so that might be the most, like, traditionally rom-comish happy ending. Oh! And Both of Us Beneath Your Love is really full of compersion. So those would be the big contenders. I think which of them is most happy is gonna vary by the reader.

8. Do you get hate?

Only very occasionally, so it's definitely noteworthy when it happens. I had this one guy attack me in the comments of one of my DC Comimcs fics for "hating Clark (Superman)" because I kept putting him in Situations. That was pretty surreal. And then I had one person get very upset about the darkness of the dark vampire series, although they also kept reading, so it ended up just being pretty funny. Probably the most common "hate" (and I wouldn't really call it that) that I get is comments on my most popular fic from readers who are upset that I don't update fast enough, lol.

9. Do you write smut?

Yep. I'm aegosexual so writing porn is my main sexual outlet.

10. Do you write crossovers?

Yes! The big one still hasn't been published, sadly—the dark vampire DC Comics series is going to crossover with the Slayerverse eventually—but I also pioneered the Elizabeth Swann/Jim Jimenez ship. (And by pioneered I mean I'm still the only one who has written that ship and one of only about twenty authors who has written PotC / OFMD crossover fic at all).

11. Ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of, but like Tardigrape said, probably.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Most of Mutually Beneficial was translated into Chinese and A Fucking Duel was translated into Russian!

13. Have you ever cowritten a fic?

I'm arguably doxxing myself to say this, but yes, I cowrote a fanfic in the world of the Emberverse (a post-apocalyptic fantasy series by Steve Stirling) with another fan, after Steve recruited us to do so. He basically gave us the bullet points of what he'd figured out for this particular aspect of his larger world-building and then turned us loose to write it. It's published on his private site of fanfic that he's declared to be canon in his world, which I'm pretty proud of! Then Rimbaud and I cowrote the Never Given in Vain series, although it was me writing one whole fic and him writing the other. Still, it had a lot of collaboration. Dragonmuse and I planned out this whole Pern/Our Flag Means Death crossover but sadly I think at this point we're unlikely to write it.

14. All time favorite ship?

SuperBat's always going to have a special place in my heart, but I really tend to be a ship of the moment person. Monogamy and I just don't click.

15. WIPs you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I really want to finish all my WIPs. I really do. Any WIP that I could put here just makes me sad to think about never coming back to it, but... Okay, realistically, I'm never going to finish the unfinished sequel to Soaked to the Skin. My love for Our Flag Means Death has waned too much at this point, and since I never started publishing it and I'm actually pretty okay with where Soaked to the Skin left off, I don't feel as bad about not finishing it, so. Whatever writing spoons I have for finishing the pirate fics are going to go to the ones that are currently half-posted on AO3, especially Dining is Pageantry and Fuck it Through as a Crew, which are almost done, and I'm Not Ready for Whatever This Is and Burning Like Embers Falling Tender, where I'm still invested in the story.

16. Writing strengths?

Angst, smut, and metaphors for real-life issues. My bestie HopelessScribe once described my writing style as "emotionally cathartic porn" and I think that put it really well.

17. Writing Weaknesses?

I tend to be too wordy, and I often have difficulties writing more intricate plots.

18. Thoughts on mixed language dialogue?

I'll use it for the occasional line that you can either intuit by context or that is immediately translated in-world (e.g., "Ta gueule!" —> "Hey, don't tell me to shut up!") I do not like to read and therefore will not write fic that has so much of another language that the reader either has to stop and use Google Translate or you have to put translations there in the text. If you're doing that much of another language, just put — "XXX," he said, in [language] —

I generally only do it with Latin languages, since I speak good enough French to be able to tell in Spanish, Italian, etc., when I have a good translation or not, and to use sites other than Google Translate to be fairly sure I'm using it correctly. Oh, and I've done some Hebrew and Arabic.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

It was S.M. Stirling's Emberverse, see above. Unless we're counting self-insert fanfic that I never wrote down, and then it's Star Trek: Next Generation.

20. Favorite fic you’ve ever written?

Soaked to the Skin. Honorable mentions to Both of Us Beneath Your Love and Light as the Breeze, which I think are my most lyrical fics and my favorite one shots, but yeah. It's definitely Soaked to the Skin. I still get like twice as excited for a kudo or comment on that fic than any other one.

Tagging @dragonmuse, @sunless-garden, @gement, @captainlordauditor, @schmirius, @thetimetravellercat, @dubiousculturalartifact, and @femboypussy420

[lucy4242564]

damn shawty, we both not okay

Chapter 2.

Things didn’t go exactly as planned, but I’m not dead…so that’s a win.

October 22nd 2010 1:54 pm

—

“Rick?” Lilah whispered out as she stepped into his room. There were cords on the ground from where he’d been hooked up. The bathroom door was open and the light was on. No signs of a real struggle though. She was internally fighting a battle of freaking out or tracking down what happened. Losing her shit wasn’t going to get her anywhere, so she settled for the latter.

 

Hoping Gale would have an answer, Lilah wandered down the hallway to the room she stayed in— only to find her missing too.

 

What the hell?

 

Lilah continued through the hospital until the biggest red flag jumped out at her. At the end of an all too familiar corridor, she read the words ‘don’t open, dead inside’ sprayed across the doors that held their dead.

 

Cocking her gun, Lilah made her way towards the doors. “Gale?” A thin trail of blood leaked out of a room, close to the cafeteria doors. She winced when her eyes landed on the doctor laying dead on the floor, a gunshot to the head.

 

As much as she wanted to mourn the loss of life, her brain immediately thought of her best friend. He wouldn’t have done this—this was someone else. There was another threat in town.

 

—

October 22nd 2010 3:03 pm

—

After thanking Gale for all that she’d done and checking the hospital as thoroughly as she could, Lilah left the building to look for her group. If someone was wreaking havoc through the town, she needed to make sure they were safe. Then she needed to see if Morgan would be willing to help her look for Rick.

 

She’d do it alone if she had to, but she really didn’t want to.

 

Lilah made her way through King County, looking for any sign of… well, really anything that wasn’t undead.

 

It was all she could do.

 

—

October 22nd 2010 5:28pm

—

There was the good and there was the bad.

 

The good being she had ran into minimal freaks and the ones she did run into weren’t any familiar faces.

 

The bad being she had no idea where else to look and she was alone wandering the streets.

 

Lilah had already checked Rick’s house, nobody was there. Which led her to believe things had gotten worse after her group left and they holed out into another home. There were no gunshots, no shell casings, no sign of anything.

 

Any other day she would’ve been happy about that. The day an innocent life was taken and her best friend was missing though— she wasn’t a big fan of.

 

—

October 22nd 2010 6:11 pm

—

Defeated by the failure of a day, Lilah cleared a house that neighbored Carl’s elementary school and decided to start looking again, early in the morning.

 

She was low on ammo, low on hope, and low on energy.

 

—

October 23rd 2010 10:00am

—

Before Lilah could move too far along, she needed to get some more ammo. Morgan took the bag that contained most of what she needed and unless she ran into him on the streets, it wasn’t going to do her much good.

 

She had exactly four bullets left in her magazine. Four bullets to get her to Rick’s house to steal keys to the armory that she should’ve stolen weeks ago. It wouldn’t hurt for her to grab a couple new changes of clothes either. She was getting tired of the the same thing everyday, and that was the small luxury she was able to indulge herself in right now.


—

October 23rd 2010 11:07 am

—

They were missing.

 

The keys to the armory were gone.

 

Nobody knew where they were, at least nobody in town. Shane was long gone with Lori and Carl, and Lilah cleared the house top to bottom before she moved in with Mr. Clayton.

 

Rick knew where the keys hung though. They were his keys.

 

Lilah paused to think things through. She had just been to the house yesterday evening and the door to the cabinet wasn’t opened like it had been when she got there that morning.

 

If Rick was at the station, she needed to get there before he had a chance to leave. Again.

 

She bolted down the hallway and into her bedroom. Quickly emptying her bag, Lilah began shoving in new clothes to replace her previous ones. When she went to zip everything shut, her eyes caught on the tube of arrows that laid on her bed.

 

Those fucking arrows.

 

Begrudgingly, she situated them back in position and darted out the door.

 

—

October 23rd 2010 11:48 am

—

Getting hit by a car wasn’t on her agenda. As a matter of fact, it was the furthest thing on her agenda. When a truck came swerving from the corner of the police station though, she jumped out the way. She’d definitely be bruised on the leg pretty good from where the bottom of the hood had hit her. 

 

Tires screeched and taillights flashed in the corner of her eyes. “Lilah?” A familiar voice rang in her ear.

 

The blonde girl groaned before rolling over. “Still alive Morgan. I’m still alive.”

 

“Son of a bitch. Girl, get up. I thoughtchu was dead!”

 

“Almost was with you flying like a bat outta hell.”

 

“Lilah, listen. Your friend, Rick Grimes, he just left town.” Morgan said, holding a hand out to put her up.

 

“What’d’you mean he just left town?” She asked looking around, hoping what she was just told was a lie.

 

“Get in the car.” He walked back towards the vehicle. “I’ll run you back to the station, get you a car. You’ll probably catch up with him if you hurry.”

 

Without question she slung the back door open and rolled inside.

 

Her best friend fucking ditched her.

 


—

October 23rd 12:29 pm

—

Lilah sped down the road towards Atlanta. She had so much on her mind and even more time to make up. Morgan told her about Mr. Clayton’s fate and it rocked her much harder than Gale’s death.

 

Mr. Clayton had saved her life multiple times. He was her company when everyone else left her, he was her friend at night when the undead wandered outside their shared home, and he was her advisor whenever she felt like giving up.

 

This world wasn’t fair.

 

Then to find out she’d only missed Rick by a little less than an hour— now that just sent her into a rage. She spent nearly two months waiting on him to wake up. The entire town had gone ghost, but she stayed for him. Now he was just gone.

 

Lilah wasn’t mad at him, just at the situation.

 

Morgan broke the news that she’d died to Rick. Apparently he didn’t take that very well, which pained Lilah. Her best friend thought she was dead and was mourning her.

 

He was sure in for a surprise when she finally caught up to him. 


 

—

October 23rd 2010 2:48 pm

—

Lilah had about 40 miles left of fuel when she saw the Kings County patrol car in the middle of the road. Assuming he had less gas than her, she slowed down a bit as she continued down the road.

 

Surely she’d find him.

 

—

October 23rd 2010 3:23 pm

—

Surely she didn’t, and now she was out of gas.

 

Maybe he’d found another car and took off in it.

 

Either way— she was still on the outer parts of the city with a couple miles to go. Lilah could tell it was getting late and it wasn’t safe out in the open like this. Especially with a thunderstorm rolling through.

 

—

October 23rd 2010 4:08 pm

—

Were those sirens?

 

Lilah had been walking for what felt like years on the highway into Atlanta. If a flash of orange hadn’t caught her eye, she would’ve thought she was just imagining things.

 

Atlanta patrol cars weren’t orange?

 

It became quite clear to her that it wasn’t a police siren when the roaring of an engine approached her.

 

If you had asked Lilah the day prior how many time she’d had to dodge getting hit by a vehicle she easily would’ve said none. That day however— she’d done it twice.

 

Her body ached a lot more her second time though. She almost wish she’d been hit directly. In the process of saving herself, she’d managed to cut her arm open pretty good. When she heard tires screech for the second time that day, Lilah was really hoping she’d be reunited with a familiar face again as well.

 

“Uh, hey!” A man’s voice called.

 

Her heart sunk when recognition never clicked.

 

Footsteps approaching her, Lilah lifted herself up with her blood covered arm. A guy, a little younger than herself, looked down at her nervously. “Hi.” She winced when speaking.

 

“I didn’t mean to run up on you. I wasn’t really expecting anyone to be walking in the middle of the highway.” He said nervously.

 

“Ya know, it’s just my causal evening stroll.”

 

The man laughed at her attempt at a joke. “Hey, I’m heading to a camp I got with some friends. I’ve made a habit of picking up strangers today, they probably won’t mind if another joins.”

 

Lilah thought on his words. If he had a camp and wasn’t at the refugee camp, she could only assume that it was a bust. Rick was supposed to be heading there though. She needed to catch up.

 

“I can’t, I’m looking for a friend.”

 

“I just saved a guy looking for his family in Atlanta. Maybe we can get you fixed up and you two can go searching together.” The guy urged.

 

A guy looking for his family.

 

“You know that guys name?” Lilah asked more encouraged.

 

“Uh yeah,” the Asian man trailed. “Rick. He got caught up in Atl-“

 

“Let’s go.” Lilah stood up swiftly, beating her savior to the orange car that blared loudly.

 

“I’m Glenn by the way!” The guy shouted over the alarm.

 

“Lilah!” She yelled back

 

—

October 23rd 2010 10:12pm

—

Lilah woke with a start. Her eyes darted around the room to land on Glenn and a woman who looked to be in her early forties. “Sleep good sunshine?” Glenn asked, a friendly smile on his face.

 

She tried getting up but the woman paused her movements. “Hey hun, why don’t you drink some water first. You were pretty dehydrated and beat up when Glenn brought ya back.”

 

Lilah furrowed her eyebrows in confusion and began recalling the previous events. Her mouth was dry.“Rick here?” She asked, taking the cup of water from the woman’s hand.

 

“Yeah. He actually just went to get himself some sleep.” Glenn said. “He’s been in to check on you a ton, apparently you were supposed to be dead.”

 

“Well, he was too according to Shane.” The lady added.

 

“Shane’s here? Lori and Carl?” Lilah desperately wanted to get up and reunite with her family.

 

“They’re all here hun. You just need to rest up for the rest of the night so you can be in a better state to greet them.”

 

“That’s Carol by the way. She sewed that gash on your arm up and got it all clean.” Glenn stood from where he was sitting. “You’re in an RV at the camp. I’m on watch tonight, so that bed is yours til you’re up and moving.”

[rabid-sheep]

Animal

Chapter 3: Soldier, Gun, Bow

Summary: Midori observed through the perception of a faulty man. (Canon-divergent fan-story told from the perspective of Muchisute)

Author: Rabid-Sheep

Fandom: Mr. Arashi’s Amazing Freak Show

Warnings: Heavy Abuse, Abuse of a Child. This is the world of  Shoujo Tsubaki, if you know that that is and what that entails, you are warned enough.

Author's Note: This chapter is a fan-created backstory for Muchisute and can be considered AU. Will be referenced lightly in other chapters, but can be ignored if preferred.

Muchisute had been a practiced archer. He was, still, an archer, but his abilities were only stage worthy now. 

Sometimes he would remember the cold nights in the mountains where his father and mother, faces swept into the melt of time, would command him to stalk the icy woodlands: feet to ground and hands to bow. Where he wouldn’t be allowed back until he brought back meat and skins.

He had had siblings back then, when he was someone’s son. And he knew that some of them died on that mountain. 

But he, Muchisute, didn’t die there. And later when he was a soldier he didn’t die. And later, after the Mukden incident, he didn’t die. 

A bow had been traded for a gun when he wanted to get away from the mountain, his parents, his siblings. And Japan needed soldiers after the dredge of World War 1. The Mukden incident, the False Flag, was the pretext for the Japanese invasion of Manchuria- of which he was looking forward to. 

But Muchisute did not get to feed that bloodthirst in him. He only got an explosion; bright and blazing and terrific- waking up later to find his hands and arms had been blown off. 

Fourteen years old and armless. 

And then the infection set into the skin, the open burn lesions festering. And he had been swamped with a fever so high he had forgotten who he was. The face of his father and mother degrading into the smelt of thoughts. The path back home got lost in a river of magma. 

He had been told, simply, to die. Left to die. Uneducated and a gimp- the nurses had spared him only bindings for his leaking flesh while he relearned how to be a person.

He would never be a person. 

Muchisute left that dream long long ago. Not when he incurred more bruises and beating when he begged for food. Not when the seat of his pants held blood when he couldn’t fight off men and boys even smaller than he. Then, as sugar was to pastry, he contracted leprosy. 

He’d been mean before. He’d been cruel before. Any kindness leaked out of the stumps left behind. Any softness was eaten away by his illness. 

And now, he was also ‘The Mummy Man’. The gun had been traded back for a bow. The title of ‘abused’ had become ‘abuser’. 

So when he woke up remembering the long days of learning how to eat sitting up like a man instead of hunched like a dog, of walking with a limp, of the blood and the sickness and the-

He stood above Midori. It was winter still and would be for some weeks and so she sat there shaking and chattering in her sleep. The girlish curve of her cheek and the caress of her bobbed hair curled to the underside of her jaw. A place he wished to bite. 

She was the same age that he had been when he had descended the mountain. He wondered, idly, if she would even survive the two years before her arms were blown off. 

He could have been cruel in these moments. He could have kicked her so hard that she would have only woken up long enough to choke on her seizing diaphragm before falling into unconsciousness. He could have stepped on her face. He could have bitten off her clothing and chased her, dead scared, into the deeper cold outside the tent. 

Instead Muchisute laid himself next to her, the leather of his jacket keeping him warm against the hissing draft. He would be cruel in the morning. When Midori inevitably scrambled and screamed and tore away from him, the monster in her worst nightmares.