#he gets a little fuzzy counterpart :> ]

[p1astr81]

a dream

in which: Oscar has a dream. Like a real REM sleep dream. And he may just have found a pathway to make it a reality.

pairing: Oscar piastri x reader

Warnings: none, but Oscar is more whipped than whipped cream😓

next part

۶ৎ ۶ৎ ۶ৎ

Oscar smiled to himself while he watched you—his perfect wife—chase down your six year old son down the hallway.

“Jace! You can’t leave the house without bottoms on!” You shout after him. His shrieking giggle struck Oscar’s ears and he winced.

“Ugh Victoria! I just did your hair!” Oscar heard you complain from down the hall.

Chuckling, he strolled down the hallway to meet you were you stood: the intersection between the pair of twins’ rooms. Your hands were on your hips, Jace’s jeans loosely held in one hand.

A floorboard creaked under Oscar’s foot, causing you to turn. You sighed in relief.

“I’ll get Jace’s jeans on and you do Vicky’s hair? I’m hopeless at it.” Oscar proposed.

You sighed again. “Absolutely. Trying to get your son to wear bottoms is a real nightmare.” You chuckled, breathless from chasing them around the house.

Oscar took the jeans from your hand. “He’s your son, too.” He reminded, a hum of humor.

“Looks just like you, though.” You patted his shoulder, giving him a shove towards Jace’s room.

Vicky sat relatively nice for you while you did her hair. She did shift a bit, but nothing too extreme.

Definitely nothing to the level that was happening in the next room over.

“Jace, if you put these jeans on, I’ll get you ice cream. How about that?” Oscar tried to bargain, sick of the kid’s kicking after just two minutes.

“No!” He shook his head, arms crossed.

Oscar sighed, frustrated. “You leave me no choice then.” He shook his head. Oscar moved quickly, tickling the little boy’s side to distract him while he slipped his jeans on and fastened them.

“Awe no!” Jace pouted when he realized Oscar’s trick. Always worked.

“You ready Osc?” You called from the foyer, already having slipped on Vicky’s shoes. She stood, stomping around in circles playfully.

Your husband rounded a corner, failing to hold Jace on his hip. “I don’t know how you do it.” He chuckled, a shake of his head.

“Some scientific explanation.” You grinned and waved him off, taking Jace from his arms and placing the boy on the ground.

“Of to gram gram?!” Vicky asked with another hop.

Oscar’s eyes meet your own. Your grin spreads into a wide, toothy smile. He leans over to give you a short peck on the lips.

You took her little hand in yours. “Yes, off to grandmas, now.”

Jace grabbed hold of your pinky finger. A child hung from both of your hands now. Oscar stood back for a second, observing the scene.

His heart swelled with a profound feeling of love. It was new. Sure, he’s felt loved by his mom before, but this was new. Different. A good different that had his stomach tingling and his brain feeling a little fuzzy.

Or, was the fuzzy feeling because of the love? Because now a constant beep beep beep invades his ears. The sound was overwhelming. It’s volume increased with every second that passed. Louder and Louder and Louder until until he couldn’t take it anymore.

His hand shot out, and the beeping ceased.

But he no longer saw his beautiful family anymore. No, now he faced a blank white wall. That of a hotel room.

The swell of his heart became painful. A new feeling overtook the love. It’s grip on his heart was unrelenting, as if trying to squeeze it to dust.

Grief.

He was grieving people he never knew, never even saw with his own two real eyes.

“Fuck.” He cursed under his breath.

۶ৎ

“You alright, mate?” Lando gripped his shoulder, greeting him as he walked into the hospitality. “Lookin a bit down today.”

“‘M just tired.” Oscar shrugged him off. “I think I’m going to go get a coffee.” He muttered, speaking more to himself than his counterpart.

Oscar trudged up the stairs, weighed down by the grief. He found the small cafe bar, fiddling with his wallet while the barista’s back was turned.

“Oh! Mr. Piastri! How are you? What can I get for you?” The chipper voice seemed to pierce Oscar’s ears, familiar in a way he couldn’t place. He brushed it off as a workplace blur.

“I’m good, yeah. Could I just get a…” Oscar trailed off, the sight of your face throwing him off.

You. His wife. No, not his wife. Only his dream wife.

It startled Oscar just how similar you were in his dream. The smile. The chipper voice. The endless gleam of optimism in your eyes.

“Are you feeling okay?” You asked, but the question failed to penetrate the daze he was in.

He exhaled a heavy breath. The weight of grief, because there you were. In front of his very real eyes.

And the love returned. For a person he didn’t even know, not really.

“Hi.” He breathed out. He blinked a many of times, trying to make sure you were really there.

You laughed and he felt his knees go weak. It was you. “Hi. Uhm, Mr. Piastri can I get you anything?”

“Oscar.” He spoke again.

You fought the urge to laugh once more, because maybe he was having some sort of problem with his brain. Maybe all those G forces finally caught up with him.

“Yes, I know your name,” a chuckle slipped. “but can I get you anything?” You asked again.

“No, I want you to call me Oscar.” His face was on fire. You brushed it off as embarrassment, or maybe the outside heat.

You nodded. “Noted. But again, can I get you anything?” You asked again, an edge of nervousness. A short line started to form behind him.

It seemed to get through to him that time. “Right. Yeah. Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “Just a latte.”

When he handed you his card, you pushed it back to him. “Cafe items are free for you, Mr. Piastri.”

“Oscar.”

“Right, sorry.” You shook your head. “I’ll have that latte out in just a minute.” You gave a polite smile.

He waited nearby, trying to catch your every moment while also trying to not seem like a creep.

You turned, catching his gaze. “Oscar,” you called, sliding his cup to the end of the pick-up station. You gave him another smile. It seemed more genuine than the formers.

He went to thank you, but you already busied yourself with another customer.

Then he noticed a small, ‘good luck today! :)’ written on his coffee cup.

And Oscar thinks he just found his new favorite hang out spot. The McLaren hospitality’s cafe.

[charliemwrites]

Part 1

Finally finished this! I think I put way too much pressure on myself to get this just right and it gave me some major writer's block. Anyway, please enjoy!

Content: Wet dreams, Somnophilia (sort of), Identity Porn, Safe/Sane/Consensual Intimacy (through dreams), Uncomfortable Situation, Pushy/Predatory behavior (brief)

“Bad dreams again?”

Drowsy and sluggish, you blink at your aunt. She’s as sleek and coiffed as always, pressed business attire and shiny hair. Shoulders back, spine straight. A woman people respect and heed without question.

Your mother’s voice whispers in your ear, that lovingly patronizing tone. See how professional she looks, dear? Isn’t that nice?

It’s not Aunt Katie’s fault though. She does look professional, and it is nice. It suits her.

You unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth. “They’re not bad, really. Just… intense.”

She hums, elegant fingers tracing the edge of your borrowed desk. “They can’t be very good if they’re keeping you up.”

You’re tired enough that you almost correct her a second time. The problem is that the dreams are too good. You wake up panting, sweating, halfway to – well. You’re not about to discuss the finer points of a kinky wet dream with your CIA aunt. Besides, it’s silly to get so defensive of something that affects you seemingly negatively.

“Maybe,” you reply, rubbing at your heavy eyes. It feels like you’re trying to look through clear jelly.

“Why don’t you take a break?” Aunt Kate suggests.

You frown, a pang of guilt striking your empty tummy. “No… no, I’m okay. It’s not even lunch yet.”

She smiles at you. The same fond smile she’s always graced you with, on holidays and birthdays, whenever she could escape the secretive walls and red tape to be with family.

“You’re already ahead on paperwork. You’re not a bad employee for getting a little sun.”

Your eyes flick longingly to the door.

Apparently, the government doesn’t believe in things like windows or sunlight. Your little desk is at the very end of a long, half-empty hallway in the middle of a concrete cube and drowning in awful blue fluorescence. You can’t even bring yourself to drag a plant to this crappy little island because you’d feel too guilty putting it through this.

“Okay… maybe just for a few minutes,” you allow.

Her smile widens as she nods for you to follow. “C’mon, I’ll walk you out. I think the dogs will be free for some enrichment.”

Well, that certainly gets you out of your squeaky office chair.

Honey sunlight drizzles over your neck and shoulders, dripping syrupy-slow down your spine. It diffuses through your chest, chasing away the artificial chill of the office. The sleepy haze retreats like frost melting from glass.

You sigh into the fresh air, ignoring the tang of gunpowder lingering on the breeze, and turn your face to the sun. Summer is coming to an end, the heat broken into mellower warmth. There won’t be many days like this left before autumn bites down and shakes the leaves from the trees. A shame you’ll likely waste most of them in your administrative prison. 

The dogs stretch out in the grass around you, tongues lolling and eyes bright, keeping you company. A furry bouquet of black and tan in the manicured grass, their ears and tails like stalks to strange plants.

You bury your fingers in Zeus’s coat and get a fuzzy white tummy for your efforts. He’s a young and handsome thing, the newest addition to the K-9 unit, still a bit fluffy around the ears. You try not to think of how that will fade and harden, just like the older dogs in the unit, just like his human counterparts. Just scratch at that itchy spot by his ribs and smile when his hindleg kicks.

Friga stands and stretches on your right side, leaning her shoulder into yours. Then picks her way around the others to sniff at Zeus. Offended by her interruption, he flails onto his stomach and nips at her, one big forepaw thumping the ground.

She goads him into playtime, and you watch with the older pack members as they begin to romp. They tumble and grumble around you, heedless of bumping into any of the others. You laugh, bright and loud—

The back of your neck tingles.

You glance around, not even sure why. Until you see a figure across the field. He’s standing by the track where about two dozen men are jogging. Recruits, you guess. But he’s not observing them or barking orders. No, he’s clearly turned to face you. It’s too far to make out any features, apart from what seems to be an unusual haircut.

You quickly glance away, surreptitiously trying to determine if the man’s attention was on something else that happened to be in your direction. But there’s little else but you and the dogs in this field, the kennels noticeably off to the left.

Then again, someone sitting in the grass with half the K-9 unit is a bit unusual. He’s probably trying to decide if it’s something that needs investigation. You hope it’s not.

Still, you can’t shake the discomfiting sense that he’s looking at you.

You ignore him until it’s time for the dogs to go back - but that prickly feeling of being watched never subsides.

That night, in the guest room of your aunts’ house, the dreams take on new life.

It starts as it always does. A dark room. A lush bed. Silky sheets. Moonlight seeping through blinds like smoke. And him.

He’s behind you. A broad body so solid you’d think he was a wall if not for the heat. It’s so intense this time, like a wildfire raging out of control, crawling from his skin beneath yours. You sense more than feel the big hand around your jaw. Rough fingers clutch at the plush of your thigh. Hot breath fans across the back of your neck, rippling shivers down your spine.

There’s a voice in your ear. No words you can discern, just a thunder-deep rumble with smoky edges. Stubble scrapes the delicate skin of your neck and catches in your hair.

A thick, heavy cock is buried deep inside you, kissing the entrance to your womb. Your pussy twinges a sweet-sharp ache with each deliberate grind of his hips. He’s spreading you open to get as deep as he can, throbbing balls pressed up tight to your sopping entrance.

Your own hands are all but useless. One twists desperately in the sheets, the other clutches at the meaty swell of his ass. Pleasure upends anything like sense or thought, even hazy dream logic. There is just this man fucking you like he owns you, two of his fingers in your drooling mouth, petting your tongue. A ring clicks against your teeth.

“Found you,” he whispers.

You jolt, eyes flying open. The powder blue ceiling of your borrowed room greets you. You’ve kicked the cotton sheets into a tangled mess around your ankles, tiny shirt ridden up your chest. Your panties are soaked.

The taste of metal lingers behind your incisors.

It’s a busy day. For once, you’re free from the confines of your sad little nook. Aunt Kate must have taken pity on your sorry state the day before and has procured busy work. Files that need hand delivery, or physical reports for you to gather. You don’t care if it’s just something to get you out of the office, you relish the stolen moments outside between buildings.

If there’s a downside, it’s the glances you attract. Everything about you projects civilian, despite the access card prominently pinned to the lapel of your blazer. It draws curious once-overs at best and suspicious scans at worst – or speculative appreciation at the very worst. Every time a fresh-faced recruit or overly decorated middle-aged man lingers as you pass, you hear your mother’s voice again.

Don’t you know what those military men are like? Practically animals. I couldn’t possibly let you be exposed to them.

It’s long ingrained to keep your eyes forward, head level, and try to keep your hips from swaying as much as possible. You’re grateful for whatever bit of paperwork you can clutch to your chest, just to hide your figure and have something to do with your hands.

You’re picking up some personnel files from the infirmary, smile brightly at the receptionist as she passes them over. Mallory is only a couple years older than you, and she’s been working here a year already.

“Lunch in the mess today?” she asks, spinning a pen between her fingers.

“As if you even need to ask,” you tease. “Noon?”

“I’ll meet you there.”

She blows you a kiss as you leave, counting the number of files to be sure you have them all. Your eyes skim over one of the names, a white label on the folder fin. “MacTavish, J.” in blocky typewriter font. You shuffle them back into a neat stack and pivot for Aunt Kate’s office.

You’re not in the moonlit bedroom this time. A half-moon grins down from a starry sky, wearing smoky nebulas for lipstick. Beneath you lays cool grass and soft earth, rich and loamy in your heaving lungs. Petals blooming in the dark kiss your overheated skin, little relief for the burn in your veins.

The change in scenery is almost as dizzying as the man between your thighs. Almost.

But it’s not the dew-saturated breeze that muddles your bewildered thoughts. It’s the hot, wet, clever tongue lavishing your drenched pussy. He licks in broad stripes from your aching hole to your throbbing clit, only ever pausing to indulge a slow suck to the bundle of nerves, before resuming that hypnotic circuit.

One thigh is hooked over a wide shoulder, your heel dug into the flexing muscles of a broad back. The other is spread by a big, calloused hand, giving him unfettered access to the softest, neediest parts of you.

You mewl desperately, hand darting down to his bobbing head. Your nails scrape shorn stubble, eliciting a gravelly groan that sends electricity up your tingling spine. It’s nothing compared to the growl you earn when your fingers twist into the longer, soft strands at the top.

For the first time, you’re able to voice more than helpless moans and wanton whimpers.

“Please,” you sob softly, “please.”

You feel him smirking, a wicked curl against your fluttering cunt. Then he focuses the tip of that awful, dexterous tongue on your clit, flicking in purposeful little strokes.

M-A-

“S-so close,” you whine, hips twitching. He pins you flat, pace never faltering.

V-I-

You shudder as your pussy clenches and spasms, finally, finally—

You wake with a sharp sound, head spinning. Your orgasm washes away like the tide, leaving disappointment and exhaustion behind. You nearly scream into your pillow as you press your thighs together. Still half asleep, it even feels like you have beard-burn.

You’re in line at the mess with Mallory, listening to her complain about some rude colonel that just had to share his opinion about her acrylics. She does the best impressions, and you’re grinning and laughing as the two of you shuffle through the options. You’re reaching for a scoop of rice when the conversation behind you catches your attention.

“—came in a couple days ago.”

“The whole squad?”

“With Braveheart himself.”

A snort. “You better not let MacTavish hear you say that. He’ll—”

“Helloooo?” You blink at Mallory, who arches her brows and waves a bagel at you. “Want one?”

“Oh, uh… sure, why not,” you answer.

“Atta girl!” she cheers, tossing it in the toaster. “Carbs for days.”

You giggle but can’t help glancing behind you. The two men have already moved on though. Not that it was any of your business – or anything interesting. You’re not sure why that caught your attention. Men are just loud, you suppose, snatching a couple to-go packets of cream cheese.

As you’re leaving the mess, you happen to glance over your shoulder. A pair of sharp blue eyes catch yours from one of the tables. A group of men, just about to sit. Mallory tugs your shirt to keep you from clipping the doorjamb and you hurry after her.

There’s heat at your back. Not from a body this time, but a fire burning low and hot in a hearth. No, the body is in front of you this time, filling up your watery field of vision. Peachy skin and coarse dark hair, an old scar slashing across a sharp hip, miles of lean muscle.

Not that you have much opportunity to ogle with tears blurring your sight. The fat cock bullying the back of your throat makes it hard to do anything but choke. You dig your nails into a thick thigh and pull back, writhing your tongue along a puffy vein as you go. The leaking head rests on your drenched tongue as you catch your breath. Smoke and leather and musk saturate your lungs, cloud your empty head.

He smells so good; you don’t even like cigars.

A rough thumb caresses your cheek, a silent request for you to continue. You can practically feel the lust-drunk moans vibrating in his chest – so deep, they’re barely audible over the crackling fire.

You hiccup as deep a breath as you can manage and swallow him down again. He’s silky on your tongue, you sigh softly through your nose as the blunt head flirts with your gag reflex. You slacken your jaw despite the ache already crawling into the joint. Even then, your teeth scrape the base a bit, but that only makes him twitch against your soft palate.

“Look here, love.”

Your lashes flutter as you try to focus your gaze, scrolling your eyes up his body. Most of the details are lost either in the haze of desire or the vagary of dreams, but the blue eyes that greet you are sharper than real life.

You jolt back to consciousness with a dry cough, the scent of him still haunting your senses. You stumble to the restroom for water. Don’t even realize that you’re glancing in the mirror over your shoulder, expecting someone to be there, until you realize you’re alone.

Oddly bereft, you trudge back to bed and try to focus on the clean soap smell of your aunts’ detergent.

In moments like this, it’s hard not to blame yourself.

Not because you’ve done anything wrong, or even feel like you have. It’s because the situation is so frustratingly out of your control that it’s almost easier to tell yourself that one decision or another would have avoided this outcome. A sharper response, a frown instead of a smile, a different walking route.

(There’s also your mother’s voice, always. Saying to be smart, to pay attention, to not “put yourself” in a vulnerable position. You silence that voice viciously this time.)

Still, the fact of the matter is, there’s no personal choice you could have made to keep Corporal Callahan from cornering you in this supply closet. You just wanted a box of tissues.

“Look, I know you’re Agent Laswell’s niece, but I don’t see why we can’t go out because of it,” he reasons. As if that’s the reason you’ve been trying to gently dissuade his attempts.

“It’s not that—” you begin, shifting. He’s standing too close, but you refuse to back yourself any deeper into this tiny space. The doorway is right there, he’s just taking up all of it.

“Then just say yes,” he chuckles. His tone is all smooth and easy, meant to be charming maybe? “Just one date, that’s all I’m asking.”

Except you’re not asking, you think with helpless frustration. The sharp words get trapped behind your teeth, cutting up the roof of your mouth. Your heart is beating so hard and loud you can barely hear his “romantic” overtures.

“I’m not really…” You’re not even sure what to say this time; you’ve already told him you’re not looking to date. He’d said some vaguely predatory line about changing your mind.

In the absence of a finished statement, Callahan takes the opportunity to continue cajoling.

“C’mon,” he sing-songs, “I’m not letting you out of there until you say yes.”

You pry your jaw open, about to agree to it just for the sake of getting free. Deal with the fallout later.

There’s a rush of air and suddenly the doorway is empty. You briefly see Callahan against the opposite wall, face blank in unpleasant surprise. Then a big body blocks your view of him. Broad, bunched shoulders and thick thighs. A shock of brunet hair shaved close at the sides and long at the top. Your entire body locks up.

“You come near her again, they won’ stop findin’ pieces of ya, aye?” A growl, low and rough, Scottish accent thick. You shiver.

Callahan stutters something, a few garbled syllables through a strained and winded voice. You think you might hear “captain” in there somewhere. The bigger man shifts, you hear a muffled thump – Callahan hitting the wall again, you think. Then, with seemingly no effort, your savior tosses Callahan to the side like trash. He stumbles, catches himself.

“Away ‘n bile yer heid.”

Callahan flicks one last frightened glance your way then hurries off, proverbial tail tucked between his scrawny legs. You don’t even watch him go, eyes glued to the stranger’s muscular back. He rolls his wide shoulders, cracks his neck, and finally turns.

Familiar blue eyes pin you in place as he steps closer. The scent of cigar smoke and leather teases your nose.

A voice you’ve known for months rumbles in his chest. “Found you.”

Previous | TBC...

Masterlist

[whoreforhorror]

Savior complex Pt. 1 (Billy Loomis X Reader X Stu Macher)

You weren’t close friends. Not really, anyway.

You’d sat next to them in class once, back when you’d been forced into a group project. Billy and Stu were the only ones without a group, and you quickly learned why—you ended up doing basically the entire thing on your own while they goofed off. To Billy’s credit, he did just enough that you didn’t report him to the teacher. Stu made you laugh once, but you weren’t even sure if he meant to. The moment the project ended, it was back to strangers. You were vaguely aware of them, as you were of every other person you’d been forced to work with.

They, on the other hand, were very aware of you. Whether you noticed or not, they lingered. Just in the periphery. It became a habit of Billy’s to trail you through the hallways like a shadow. Stu, being much louder than his counterpart, would shout to you from time to time across the quad. It earned little more than a passive, mostly subconscious nod from you. He was like that with everyone, after all.

Like last night, and the night before that, you were home alone once again. You weren’t entirely sure your parents even lived at your house anymore, given how infrequently you saw them. Decked out in a massively oversized hoodie and fuzzy socks, you found yourself standing in front of the microwave, heating up whatever was quick and cheap from the gas station.

Halfway through, the microwave died with a sad chime. Everything else in the house—the appliances, the TV, the digital clocks, and then the lights—followed in rapid procession. You froze in an instant, long enough to feel your stomach twist into uncertain knots. The power wasn’t prone to cutting out randomly. In fact, in all your time living here, it had only failed under the pressure of two particularly nasty storms. But tonight? It was clear, dark, and silent outside.

The air was still, like the house itself was holding its breath alongside you. The dead silence made your ears ring—so loud you nearly missed the creak of a floorboard not even twenty feet behind you. You spun around just fast enough to see him sprinting at you.

Ghostface.

Just like on the news. Draped in black, bone-white mask, and a gleaming hunting knife that caught the moonlight like it wanted to be seen.

You ran on instinct, trying and failing to pry the front door open. You didn’t have even a second to question why. You were already halfway to the stairs, hammering one foot after the other upward. Your fuzzy socks betrayed you—your foot slipped, flew out from under you.

In a blink, your head was on the ground. A distinctly copper taste coated your tongue. Ghostface was on top of you just as fast, knife raised.

And then, just as suddenly, he flew off of you.

A loud thud cracked through the suffocating silence as Ghostface slammed to the ground, another body wrestling on top of him. The fight was loud. Violent. There was yelling, and a scuffle—the knife skittered across the floor, far out of reach.

You shut your eyes tight, trying to quiet the screaming in your ears, the spinning in your vision, the stabbing pain in your skull. In the moment your eyes were closed, the struggle ended.

Ghostface was gone.

And crouched in front of you was none other than Billy Loomis.

“Are you okay?? He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Billy placed a hand under your jaw, tilting your head to inspect where it had smacked against the stair. His fingers brushed the side of your scalp, and you flinched. Not bleeding—but definitely bruised.

“Billy? What—where—?” You had to take a breath, gather your thoughts before anything coherent came out. “Why are you here? Where did he go? How did you know that—?”

“Easy, easy,” Billy said softly, backing up just a little. “I was walking down the street when I saw your house go dark. I was just about to knock when I heard you at the front door, then saw you take off up the stairs. I saw him behind you, knew I had to get in. There was an open window—the same one I’m guessing he came and went through.”

Everything after that was a blur. Cops. Questions. Your parents swearing they’d never leave you alone again. The officers grilled you on why Billy was there. You knew what he said, but you didn’t think they’d believe it. Everyone at Woodsboro High knew the cops already had eyes on him. So you lied.

“We were studying,” you said. “We have the same chemistry class, and—” The cops cut you off with more questions. Less interested in class and more in the killer.

The important part is—they bought it.

Billy drove you home after the cops cleared you and the paramedics ruled out a concussion. Shock was their final diagnosis. You were inclined to agree. Billy walked you inside, helped you onto the couch. He offered to stay. You didn’t say yes, but you didn’t say no either.

The house was quiet again. You stared at the wall, arms wrapped around yourself, eyes unfocused. Billy watched you like you were something fragile. He offered you water. You didn’t take it.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he murmured. “He’s gone. I won’t let him come near you.”

“Yeah,” was all you could manage. And even then, it was barely a whisper. You didn’t see it—but you could feel him roll his eyes.

The silence returned, heavy and oppressive. You shifted slightly, uncomfortable on the couch. It was too stiff. Your skin too cold. Your hoodie did nothing to help. The humming alertness in your nerves hadn’t dulled, not even slightly. Your hands still trembled in your lap.

Then—a knock.

Three of them. Quick succession. Not loud. Not frantic. Measured. Too soft to be a cop following up. Too calm to be a reporter sniffing for a quote. Billy was already on his feet before your brain had caught up.

“I’ll get it,” he said easily, hopping over the back of the couch.

“You’re not even supposed to be here, Billy, you can’t just—” But he had the door open before you could even finish. Stu stood on the porch like he belonged there. Slouched against the frame, grinning ear to ear.

“Hey, cutie,” he said, voice syrupy. “Heard you had a hell of a night.”

“What are you doing here?” Even in your rattled state, you managed to sound as exasperated as you felt. Stu just shrugged, waltzing in like he’d been here a hundred times before.

“What, I can’t check up on a friend? Billy said—” Click. The front door’s lock. “—you got roughed up, and I wanted to see how you were doing.”

Your mouth opened to argue, but no words came out. Billy said? When would Billy have had time to talk to Stu? You’d been with him nonstop since the incident. Your eyes snapped to Billy, who had returned from the front door. He leaned on the couch behind you, draping one arm casually across your shoulder. Stu flopped down beside you, tossing his crossed legs into your lap like this was any other Tuesday.

“We’re just worried about you, is all,” Billy murmured into your ear, tone silk-soft. Almost a purr. “After everything… you really shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“You… should both go. I… I can’t. Not after everything.” Your voice was barely above a murmur. Neither of them moved. Stu didn’t even bother to fake concern. He just laughed—low and soft.

“Oh, come on now. You don’t want us to leave. What if he comes back, huh? I doubt he’d let you live a second time.” He said it with just a little too much certainty. Your eyes flicked to him, but before you could speak, Billy gently took your chin and guided your face back toward him.

“Don’t pretend like you want us gone, sweetheart. You don’t want to be alone again. Vulnerable. Afraid.” Stu doesn’t take his eyes off you while Billy speaks. His legs are still sprawled lazily across your lap, like this is his couch, like you’re his armrest. His smile is too wide, but his eyes are sharp now—cutting through you. Watching. Billy hasn’t moved his hand from your jaw.

You can feel his thumb brush over the edge of your cheekbone in a slow, almost absentminded arc. It should be comforting. It isn’t. Not really. But your skin prickles under the contact anyway. The air between the three of you starts to shift—less like static, more like something coiled and ready to snap. You swallow hard.

“Why are you really here?” you ask, your voice quieter now. Not accusing. Not exactly. Billy leans in just enough for his breath to skim your ear.

“Maybe we were worried about you,” he says. “Maybe we didn’t like the idea of you being scared and alone.”

Stu hums low in his throat. “Or maybe we just didn’t like the idea of anyone else getting to you first.” That draws your eyes back to him.

“To me?”

His grin deepens. “Yeah. You.” Billy shifts behind you. His arm brushes yours as he sits down beside you this time, close enough for your knees to touch. His hand rests on your thigh—not quite possessive, but grounding. You don’t move it.

“You’ve always been kind of interesting,” Billy says, tone casual, like he’s talking about the weather. “Even when you pretended not to notice us.”

“I wasn’t pretending.”

Stu snorts. “Sure you weren’t.” There’s a pause—just long enough for you to notice how warm the room feels, how close they’ve drawn in. You feel like prey, but you don’t run.

“Why now?” you ask. Billy’s eyes meet yours. Cold, unreadable.

“Because now you’re listening.” Your pulse jumps.

Stu leans in next, grinning like he knows something you don’t. “And we figured you might be ready for the truth.” You don’t ask what that truth is. You don’t think you want the answer—not yet. Billy brushes a strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering just a little too long.

“You’re not afraid of us,” he says. “Not really.”

You hesitate. “Should I be?”

“Probably,” Stu answers.

“But we’d never hurt you,” Billy murmurs, and it sounds almost honest. Almost. His hand curls against your jaw again, tilting your face toward him. “We like you too much.” Stu shifts, swinging his legs off of you, by your side in a swift motion. He leans into you with a grin. “Besides,” he drawls, “how could we ever hurt our alibi? We need you.”

“Alibi?” You shoot Billy a look, your voice sharp with confusion. “What are you talking about?” Billy’s smile turns patient. Almost patronizing.

“You know the cops have been hounding me for weeks now. And you, my darling…” He turns your face more firmly to meet his gaze—dead-on, unblinking. “You just cleared me of all suspicion. I wasn’t expecting you to lie for me.” His smile deepens. “Truly, that was the cherry on top. You’re a natural.”

You feel your breath catch. “What are you saying?”

“How could I be Ghostface if you and I were in the same room when it happened, hmm?” Your mouth opens—for a moment, no sound comes out.

“Why would you…” You swallow hard. “Billy. You’re not—”

“Oh, but I am,” he says, voice dipping into something low and wicked. “Meet Ghostface One and Two, sweetheart.” 

Your head snaps toward Stu—he’s already holding up the mask, mockingly poised in front of his face. One gloved finger taps the chin of the skull-white visage. You jolt back, panic flaring, but Billy’s hand doesn’t let you move. It stays firm, grounding, like an anchor—or a shackle. Stu laughs. Full-bodied, wild. He tosses the mask aside, like it’s a party trick.  “We owe you a little appreciation, darling. You did us a big favor.” Stu comments, still cackling. Your breath catches.

“No,” you whisper. “No, you’re lying.” Billy’s expression doesn’t change.

“If I were lying,” he says calmly, “would you still be sitting here?”

You shake your head. “You saved me. You—he had the knife—”

“You think it’s that hard to stage a fight?” Stu cuts in, grinning. “God, you’re cute.” You pull away from Billy’s hand. This time, he lets you.

“You used me,” you say, voice breaking on the words. “You planned this. The break-in. The timing. All of it.”

“Not all of it,” Billy says. “The lying part? That was a surprise. But a welcome one.”

Your hands start to tremble again. You push up from the couch on instinct, needing distance, needing air, but your knees buckle from the lingering adrenaline. You catch yourself on the edge of the coffee table.

Stu’s beside you before you can move. “Careful, princess. That head’s still ringing, huh? You hit it pretty hard.” Another laugh.

“Don’t touch me,” you snap, shoving him back—he stumbles, but it’s theatrical. He’s laughing before he even regains balance.

“I knew she had claws,” Stu grins. Billy rises slower. Methodical. Controlled.

“You can scream if you want to,” he says, voice almost soft. “Your neighbors won’t hear you. But I don’t think you will.”

Your heart pounds like a drum against your ribs. “What do you want from me?”

Billy doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he steps closer, eyes locked on yours—not a threat, not a taunt. Just steady. Focused.

“We want you to stop pretending you don’t already know.”

“I don’t—”

“Yes, you do,” he cuts in. “You noticed the glances. The way we lingered. You liked it. You just didn’t know what to do with it.” You don’t deny it. Not fast enough.

Stu moves again, behind you this time. Not touching—but close enough that you feel the pull. “You ever wonder why we picked your house?” he says, breath ghosting over your shoulder. “Why we wanted you to be the one we saved?”

“You could’ve killed me.”

“But we didn’t,” Billy says.

“We wouldn’t,” Stu adds.

Your throat tightens. “You can’t expect me to be okay with this.”

Billy reaches out slowly, brushes a thumb under your eye. “We don’t want you to be okay. We want you to understand.”

“Understand what?” you breathe.

“That you’re ours now.” There’s a long silence.

Something inside you coils, ready to snap. Your mind screams to run, to fight, to do something—but your body stays frozen. And worse? Part of you wants to believe him. Wants to believe them. Because the truth is, ever since the encounter—ever since the lights went out and the door refused to open—nothing has felt as real as this moment. Not the police, not your parents’ concerned stares, not the fluorescent interrogation lights.

Just this. Them. The space between you and the question you’re terrified to answer.

You should resist. You should scream.

Instead, you whisper, “Then show me. Show me that you won’t hurt me.”

Billy’s smile curves slow and sharp, like a match catching fire.

Stu exhales a low, delighted laugh. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” That’s all the confirmation they need. They’re on you in an instant.

Stu grabs you by the neck, your breath hitching sharply as his lips crash against yours—soft, but greedy in their movements, like he’s been starving for this. His grip is firm, bordering on possessive.

Billy is just as fast. His hands start at your hips, grounding you, then slip beneath your hoodie—fingers tracing up your sides with practiced ease, dragging goosebumps in their wake.

END OF PART ONE~ Comment/repost if you want more! :)

@aghostlywhisper @stanseventeen

[moonmitefactories]

Hello! I have a few questions, tho you don't have to answer them all:

Do mites like anything when it comes to music? (styles, sounds, etc. either those of other species or creating their own) or just lack of interest/preference?

This one's probably been cleared up before but im just clarifying: were ancient mites "insane" or overly dangerous as well, like their "berserker mode," or is that something created purely as result of their species' mutilation?

Did ancient mites have family structures? How were kits treated/cared for?

Music is built into mite kits - though nowadays, neotenies - from the moment they open their silly little eyes and perk their silly little ears. It's mite nature to be allured by new sounds and rhythms, making absolutely insane instruments from a variety of materials just to create a very specific noise. Modern mites love the sounds and sensations that come from anything with electricity coursing through them, though others may have a preference leaning more towards instruments that rely on air, string or a striking force. As a collective, very quick-paced music is their favorite, the quicker and louder the better.

As for Ancient Mites, they're incredibly docile, no amount of stress ever making it possible to go berserk, unlike their modern counterparts (and also the surviving Elderly Mite, despite being an ancient he now carries the berserk affliction). Like very gentle primates that lived in either social groups or as a solitary mite.

Some lived in colonies, populated by workers, soldiers, and butchers, working with one another to raise young and harvest their crops from within. While the strongest of all groups, they get targeted a lot by Herds, Packs, and Scavengers alike for their abundance of food.

Some lived in herds, populated only by workers who spent most of their days grazing and traveling long distances. Their numbers are capable of growing to the thousands. Often led by dominant workers or Shepparded by a scavenging Butcher that defends the herd and eats the elderly/sickly.

Some lived in packs, made up of a small group of predatory mites of any variant, but more often than not, Soldiers. Fighting other packs for their territory and hunting herds that cross them.

Some lived as scavengers, solitary mites of any kind that graze near herds or steal the kills of packs. Some hunt given the opportunity, but they often settle with dwelling in the shadows or tailing herds in hopes of an easy meal.

Ancient workers were considerably larger compared to modern workers, but ancient soldiers and butchers were a little smaller than their modern counterparts. Also, Kits! Youthful mites that exist no more, but in the era of the ancient mites, they were very playful and vocal, mirroring their parents and others in their social groups, creating games and songs that other kits partook in. These social kits born in colonies, packs or herds have a fuzzy white pelt, making them easy to identify for parents and babysitters. Kits born by solitary scavengers on the other hand are born with a fuzzy brown pelt, while maintaining their natural curiosity, they're quieter, silent almost, made to hide whenever they're separated from their parent. Despite kits being born in a social or solitary setting, they can grow to become the opposite, either separating from their groups or joining a group.

Neotenies however are a different story completely, born from the rehydrated eggs left by the mites killed by The Cycle. With all life wiped out and the moon taking a few hundred million years to reassemble and recreate water, only photosynthetic organisms including mite neotenies are reborn. What then follows is a harsh hundred million year era with a few ponds of water and competing neotenies - worker neotenies tending to their own ponds as soldier/butcher neotenies guard them from the surface. Once life has regrown a considerable amount, the neotenies slowly grow into their fully developed forms and the Cycle repeats.

When mites were enslaved, was when The Cycle was broken and mites were changed.

[mandy-asimp]

When She Calls

Lilia Calderu x Life!reader (she/her)

Warnings: language, deaths, sprinkles of angst, fluff, smut (but that's for waaay down the build up), whole lotta friendship, I'm like 87% sure that's it

Summary: when Life is asked to make a promise, she doesn't seem to be able to say no. But that promise was going to be served out so much longer than what she could see.

Chapter 1

Story masterlist

chapter 2

Lilia was lost in her own thoughts. The regret of just leaving her cat like that, her familiar, it was gnawing at her. Thoughts of what could go wrong clashing with what will go wrong. Even as she stood behind the coven and stared out to the house in the sand. Her ears tuning out whatever Agatha was saying as a faint meow emitted from behind her. 

Her head whipped around, swearing she would see her fuzzy friend right near her feet. Calming all her nerves of something actually has happened. “Lilia? Are you coming?” Alice softly spoke, her eyes looking back into the Road trying to figure out what the other was seeing.

She didn't answer right away, “Yeah…yes.” 

~

Life, as a white cat once more,  waited in the tree right above the exit. Watching as each one slid down the ground and onto the other. All crowding over the lost member. Her heart felt heavy to see the woman’s soul stand and stare down at herself. She was shouting for them to see her, but deep down she knew that it was no use. Even as her sad blue eyes glanced up to the trees, she could feel a warmth consuming her transparent self. There she saw the white subtle glow and her brows furrowed. 

“Is this it?” Her voice was weak as she spoke to the cat. Only to watch as she bowed her head in apologies. “What happens now?” But the cat didn’t answer. Instead they both watched as the ‘coven’ started preparing a burial for the lost member.

There was nothing more to be done on Life’s part. All she could do was wait for the inevitable to occur. The moment that Death would appear to make her claim, and she knew the counterpart would stick around. To attempt her hand with her former lover just once more now that she couldn't go far. Life knew that she’d be pulled right along to appear. Tied right back together. Yet, all she could hope was to stay in cat form just a little longer. To hide herself just for a few more moments.

Then suddenly, from the branches she resided on, she was falling through the air. Seeing above the entire Road and its mysterious glory, down to the dirt road that was soon to be under her paws. Her paws, she was still in cat form thankfully. As she kept falling, she could hear the screams from the coven begin to fade in. “How did you get here?!” Agatha’s yell echoed into the sky.

“I was in the neighborhood!” Rio had this twisted grin as she crept forward. Skipping in her step to hand over a leaf from her hand. “M’ lady!” 

Except all attention from her dropped when the cat did as well. She made a perfect landing and just sat while looking amongst the witches. “Dolcezza?” Lilia whispered, watching the cat yawn and flash her sharpest teeth. 

“Lilia, your cat followed you to the Road?” The young boy furrowed his brows, making a clicking noise as he crouched. 

Rio smirked though, she knew exactly who that cat was. She walked over and picked up the ball of white and held her at arm's length, her dirt covered hands ruining her perfect coat.. “This is where you’ve been hiding? As a cat? A familiar?” Her smirk was mocking. Her espresso iris shimmered with anticipation to tell the truth. “You do know who your cat really is right?”

“Meow!” She protested with a bite to her hand. Being dropped instantly to the ground and hopping back to Lilia’s side. Brushing herself all against her legs, glaring at the green witch in warning.

Agatha instantly knew her theory was correct. Life and Death were connected hand in hand. Of course Rio would be able to tell off the bat. That was her lighter half. The brunette, glancing between the both, gave another frustrated groan before storming off. Teen followed right behind and called after her. Leaving the other four to awkwardly stare at Rio. 

“Sup..I’m Rio!” She took in the setting she had now found herself in. “So what, we're just supposed to walk this thing?” Her eyes were looking towards the way Agatha and the boy had gone. Her answer was a collection of confirmations before she went whistling down the way. 

“What a scary bitch.” Lilia hummed her opinion. Eyes falling to the cat at her feet. “How did you get here?” She scooped Life up and cradled her into her arms, noting the way the paws had wrapped around her arm almost in a relieved way. Lilia knew that leaving her familiar wasn’t the right choice, that she needed her for this just as much as anything else. And it was like the feeling was reciprocated from the feline.

Alice came closer, putting out a hand to pet the soft fur. “What did Rio mean by who this is?” She held a soft tone while awing over the precious creature. The oldest only shrugged and wondered the same thing. 

“Meow..” Life pushed her head further into Alice’s hand and purred slightly. 

~

They stood at the next trial's door and the weight of it all was settling on Alice. Especially as she stared at the wooden cabin with the moon on the door representing the fire stage. “Nope. Not doing it.” She quickly turned to go the other way. Everyone was stunned at the reaction just before chasing after the protection witch. 

“Alice!” Agatha led closest behind her. Her hands clasped together the entire time. “What's the plan Alice?” 

Her red tips shook with her head, “I dunno, but it's anything but that.” She kept moving backwards. It was all too close for her to face. Her biggest nightmare was not something she was ready for. Not after seeing how close Jen’s had put them to death.

“Yes, it's horrible, I agree..” her eyes caught a glimpse of the new cabin. “But I think the road disagrees.” She drew the focus right to the trial and shrugged. Hands up as she only saw one way, which was through the cabin.

Rio, eager to know, pointed to the cat. “What about her?” It was teasing. “Are we really bringing the cat into this? What if something is revealed?”

“What are you trying to imply?” Lilia bit back, holding her familiar tighter just slightly and eyes narrowing greatly. “I’m not leaving her out for the Road to get her. What type of witch would I be leaving my familiar?”

Rio chuckled, finger raising and pointing right at Life. Seeing her exactly for who she was. “That is no familiar, but let’s see if The Road accepts this cat form.”

The old witch stood with Alice in silence, her brows furrowing. Letting her enter before setting the cat down and questioning her for a moment. “She’s just a cat, right?” Alice raised as she tilted her head.

Life gazed heavily onto Lilia, losing herself into her brown eyes and meowing a few times over. “I have no idea.” The words came tumbling out from the woman. “She looks like a cat. Sounds like a cat.”

“No reason not to believe she's not a cat.” Jen finished as she passed into the trial. Taking a deep breath before entering. The two shared one last look before agreeing silently to go in together. Life trailing a few steps behind, her only thought was to stay a cat.

But, life wasn't fair for Life herself even. The Road finally counted her into the reality of it and her powers were rendered useless. Meaning she stood at the doorway with her eyes closed as she already knew. She already knew she was exposed for who she was. 

Life stood furthest away in a simple getup. The white boho pants hung low and gracefully fell down her legs. Covering the white boots that added to her height just slightly. The top matched, only it was tied between her breast and revealing her iridescent skin that shimmered in every light and step. The bell sleeves were the most dramatic as they hung at her sides. The blonde curls had been swapped out for long blonde waves that cascaded down her back.

“Welcome to the party!” Rio had her gaze locked to the other by the door. Her cocky smirk of being right was taunting. “It’s nice to see you eye-to-eye.”

The blonde could only stand perfectly in place. Inspecting each reaction to her true self and trying to figure out where to go from here. “It’s not to see you.” She spoke with quiet venom. The gray eyes were sharp and full of emotions as she still had yet to move. 

“Oh! Kitten! Don't act so cold to see us, you came here all on your own. I saw you sneak in while we were opening the door. You knew what you were getting into!” Agatha came from checking herself out, eyes now glued to the counterpart from a distance. “I knew those eyes were too purposeful for a cat.”

The other four were mildly confused. “I’m sorry, can someone explain who she is or are we going to stay uninformed?” Jen had waved her hand in the air, speaking on everyone's behalf. “First we get Rio’s crazy ass and now Lilia’s cat..isn’t a cat? Along with Agatha knowing both of them? Does nobody else see how she could easily be a part of the deeper intentions?”

“I can assure you, on everything that makes me up, I am not with her.” A sharp white acrylic was pointed at the purple witch. “I would rather be stripped of everything before I worked alongside her.”

“That’s so harsh, kitty. You know I have no deeper meaning but to get my power back. And besides, you’re too much of a goody-two-shoes for my line.” Agatha scoffed. Her icy blue eyes bored over. Her mind worked to figure out how much of a loop hole she was now granted with. She was going to make it off this road with or without anyone, and Life herself was going to help. This might work out better than she anticipated.

Rio was the first to step closer to her though, knowing she was the only one who would stand any real chance against Life. “So..care to explain?” She beamed sinisterly as she stepped over. Giving the perfect view to the ‘coven’ that awaited answers.

“You know you’re a part of that explanation right?” Life raised a challenging look to Rio first, and when there was no reaction…her gray gaze snapped to Agatha. 

“No. Let's keep moving on. I don't want to be here forever, no wonder how good I look here.” The brunette shook her free waves and set her path to the sound booth. Her lover, if that's what you could call their strangled relationship, Rio went right after her. 

Life still stood by the door, accepting the questioning stares before everyone went off to search for a clue. It felt cold, Lilia’s stare. For the first time she was staring at the eyes that she used to know as a cat. It was a swarm of hurt, confusion, and most of all..unfamiliarity. Life was a stranger to Lilia all over again, yet this time there was no harmony of meows to be her answers. No, this time she would have to speak if she wanted to continue her promise. 

~

Chapter 3.

[multiheadcanons]

MORE INTER-TEAM RELATIONSHIPS I THINK ABOUT A LOT

medic/sniper: sniper greatly, greatly prefers this doctor over his own. fritz is a quiet man, a professional. they are almost twins when they interact with each other. and they rarely get to interact with each other. only when herbert is gone and his counterpart stops in to care for the birds does sniper decide to poke his head into the infirmary. sniper has noted that fritz is intense in his own way, and he shines in battle. but off the field, he seems so mild. and he never seems to smile. or laugh. but he almost doesn’t want him to, either. it would make them too similar. he likes how different they are!

soldier/demo: sit with me while i paint this picture. it is the sixth grade. you are struggling to come to terms with the fact that when you are with your best friend in the entire world, you feel so… fuzzy. you really, really like them! they’re pretty, and they’re so funny, and they’re a true light in your life. you really like them. like, “you don’t want them to have other friends” like them. like, “when they talk to other people it makes you want to throw up” like them. and as you clutch your stomach in the middle of the night, plagued awake by the mere hope that they are sleeping peacefully, thinking to yourself that you would never sleep another day in your life if it meant they would sleep peacefully for the rest of theirs, you start to wonder if you like them as more than a friend. that’s these two.

soldier/demo: these two are fine with each other, honest to god. no genuine issue, no outstanding beef. they simply do not want to speak to each other off of the field. do not attempt to put them together. they will stare at each other blankly, and look at you like you’re stupid. that’s the enemy. if they have something to say to each other, they tell it to their counterparts. and the worst part is, they get sent on contracts together all the time. they constantly mismark the wrong soldier, or the wrong demo, and then they have to work together. and it’s hard. they are nothing like the teammates they know. but they find synchronicity within each other. it just takes time.

scout/spy: honestly, these two aren’t on the worst of terms. yes, they kill each other regularly. yes, it’s damn near a side bet they have going on as to who’s coming out of mann co with the other’s head on the most pikes. yes, they say absolutely wretched things to each other on and off the field that would have anyone else tossing them into shallow graves outside of the respawn radius, but it is little more than training. iron sharpening iron. they simply chose each other to be their absolute worst nightmare. spy does not consider scout his child. he wasn’t there for that birth, he is not that man’s father. scout, at this point, does not want a father figure. that opportunity is long gone.

scout/spy: they actually hate each other. like actually, genuinely hate each other. the quiet burn of disappointment they feel for each other. and neither of them hold pity. they wouldn’t piss on each other to douse a fire. every horrible thing that has happened to them has been deserved, if you ask the other. they wished it was enough to kill them. and they are both grossly vocal about their distaste for the other. it makes their teammates defensive. it has been their utter distaste for the other that has led their scout and spy to bond closer out of this feeling of being collateral damage for an event they don’t even remember happening. and they don’t explain their distaste. its just there, and they sit in it. wallow in it together, like miserable pigs in a slaughterhouse. and they take it out on each other, and they take it out on their teammates.

[deityoftherain]

sleepy snuggle struggle - skizzpulse oneshot

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63751594

Rating: Gen

Relationship: M/M

Archive Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Status: Completed Oneshot

Word Count: 1,503

Summary: Skizz is a hot sleeper, and every once in a while, Skizz wakes up sweating in the middle of the night because the server is experiencing the summer heat and Impulse is glued to them like he's trying to hibernate in the dead of winter. Curse his code for making him run so hot because his husband is just so stinking cute, he could never deny him his well-deserved sleepy snuggles.

Little happy fluffy skizzpulse gift for @v1neyy <33

Full oneshot is included under the cut for your convince, so please kudos/like, comment, and/or reblog so I get some of that sweet sweet external validation >:D

One thing no one told Skizz about having a netherborn husband before they got together or even became best friends was the juxtaposition of a netherborn’s sleeping tendencies.

The two laid together in their shared bed, Impulse’s arms wrapped around Skizz’s torso with his face buried against Skizz’s left pec. Their legs were intertwined, so much so that Skizz barely knew which were his own and which were Impulse’s. Granted, he was still half-unconscious for he had just blinked awake, but still! The limbs must have lost some circulation while they slept, and any attempts to move them risked waking Impulse, and obviously he couldn’t have that.

Besides, waking sleeping limbs tended to lead to blood rushing to heat the affected skin while pins and needles attacked his muscles in the most annoyingly agonizing way it could think of. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, to put it lightly, and Skizz would rather walk barefoot in snow. At least his feet go numb when exposed to the frigid Overworld powder.

Impulse had a few layers of fuzzy blankets draped overtop of him to help insulate the heat his body did produce, but he had also insisted on Skizz’s wing wrapping around him too. He had confessed to liking it when he was completely surrounded by Skizz, and, well… who was Skizz to deny his amazing husband of that? 

Plus, Skizz rather enjoyed being able to hold Impulse close with the white feathers if not his arms themselves, even if it meant someone laying down on the occasionally-sensitive feathers. It wasn’t too bad as long as he kept up with preening, and Impulse never let him go more than a week before confronting Skizz’s avoidance and procrastination.

See, Dipple-Dop’s preferred sleeping environment wouldn’t be too bad if he were a typical Player, but Skizz had always run on the warmer side when it came to his internal temperature. This meant that he didn’t get as cold as his mortal counterparts and his code wasn’t as developed in terms of natural regulation for it hadn’t needed to when he was up in the Heavens. 

While his friends of Overworld origin bundled up in the dead of winter, Skizz would walk around comfortably in shorts and a sleeveless top. When he first fell from the Heavens and gained Player status, it had taken him a bit to get used to the fact that most other beings required external warmth to avoid freezing to death.

Back then, back when Skizz met Impulse, he had assumed that, being from the warmest dimension known to Players, Impulse would be similar to him. Impulse could take a dip into lava with no issue, and, on first glance, anyone would guess that he simply radiated heat. Was it that big of a leap in logic to think he would also run warm? Especially when Tango Top– a blazeborn also from the Nether– was practically a living furnace, especially with the flame on his head?

Apparently so because Skizz had assumed wrong. Crazy, right?

Impulse’s internal temperature was quite cold, his code adapted to accept the constant boiling temperatures of the Nether without consequence to his body. Since he became a Player in his own right, entering the Overworld full-time to join the rest of their friends, the function that had once been an asset became maladapted. Skizz supposed it made more sense why Impulse often opted for more layers than Skizz ever did when they changed their skins to suit whatever server they were messing around with at the time.

The soft hum of a redstone fan’s blades whirling filled the room, accompanied by Impulse’s gentle snores. Most Players couldn’t even hear it, but Skizz’s ears have always worked better than his peers’. Skizz wouldn’t dare complain, though. He quite liked the background noise paired with the little sleepy sounds Impulse made unknowingly.

The fan was directed so its breeze brushed against the bare skin of his face and neck to avoid his fallen angel body from overheating as badly as it once had. That was a rough period of fevers and previously unexplained exhaustion that Skizz would rather forget. Impulse made the redstone device for Skizz far before they were married, as the two had always been a cuddly duo even when they were simply platonic. Gemstone– one of their friends– had always teased them about it, only growing more smug when she was proven right.

Skizz hadn’t meant to confess his discomfort, but Impulse overheard Skizz offhandedly mention the issue to a fellow Player one day, claiming that he hadn’t been sleeping well when they cuddled due to the extra heat Impulse required. Impulse didn’t grow upset or complain about Skizz’s comments to another Player instead of him, and, instead, he went to fix the issue! That moment was one of many that aided in Skizz’s realization that he was lucky to have such a great homie buddy. Skizz more than appreciated the effort and care Impulse infused into the device a lot, understanding that the action was much more than simply the tangible fan itself.

The unfortunate thing was that, even with the fan, he still tended to overheat some nights, especially when the general outside temperature was warmer than usual. The heat would then cause Skizz to wake up with his clothes just a little sticker with sweat than before. Still, he didn’t complain, simply using the half-conscious time in the middle of the night to smile gratefully down at his husband’s sleeping face. Skizz didn’t know where he would be without him. Impulse was the first to help him when he first fell.

Dipple-Dop looked so peaceful as he slept, even with his face squished against Skizz’s chest and a little drool trickling out the corner of his lips. His brown hair was a mess and the curled posture in which he slept was honestly atrocious, but Skizz couldn’t help but find any “fault” of his absolutely endearing.

Skizz gingerly brushed a few stray pieces of hair out of Impulse’s face, not wanting anything to obscure his view until his lover shifted in his sleep again. He bit down on his tongue in an attempt to be quiet, knowing that cooing over his husband may wake him, which isn’t what Skizz wanted. Instead, Skizz redirected the surge of adoration that demanded action within him by leaning toward Impulse to press a chaste kiss against the top of his forehead, a spot just below his hairline and right between his horns.

Impulse squirmed a little when Skizz’s cheek accidentally brushed a horn. He froze, watching Impulse’s face carefully to see if he would open his eyes. Fortunately, he didn’t. Instead, his nose scrunched as if mildly peeved for a moment as he twisted to bury his face against Skizz’s chest again. Impulse muffled a snore against Skizz’s torso, and he couldn’t resist giggling at how cute he was. Void, how Skizz loved him.

A large yawn forced itself out of Skizz’s mouth, leading Skizz to squeeze his eyelids together as he pushed his shoulders backward to stretch his upper back. He smacked his lips together a few times before using his free hand to rub crusties or whatever that gunk was from his eyes. 

During these quiet moments, these little bubbles stuck in time, Skizz would occasionally forget that it was indeed the middle of the night and that he needed rest as much as Impulse did. He couldn’t just stay awake until the sun started to rise peering down at his lover!

Skizz tried not to move too quickly as he reoriented himself, not wanting to risk waking Impulse with him. He even held his breath for maximum efficiency, the thought making him feel better even if it didn’t actually work that way. Skizz allowed his eyelashes to flutter shut for the last time that early morning as he tugged his heat absorbent of a husband closer to his chest. He idly scratched his fingers in Impulse’s hair as he silently commanded his limbs to relax.

Was he a little hotter than he would like to be, hotter than he would be if he were sleeping by himself?

Sure, yeah, of course. 

Would he rather be alone then? 

No way, dude! 

Skizz would much rather sleep beside Impulse any day, even if it meant no actual sleep for him– even if it gave him a fever! Not that that had happened in a very long time–

Cough, anyway– 

Skizz would much rather sleep beside his husband every day than sleep by himself, no matter what the outcome may be.

Impulse’s unconscious form was just as stinking cute as awake Impulse was, and Skizz was never one to pass up an excuse to gaze lovingly at husband nor trace his features with his eyes, if not, his finger. They’d been together for forever, and Skizz was more than content to spend an eternity more by his side, however long that would be for them.

If you got all the way to the end, please consider reblogging this post, kudosing/liking the fic, and commenting on the ao3 fic itself, thank you <333

[mytardisisparked]

The World Will End

Scully thinks about kissing Mulder at different points in their partnership.

Read on AO3

She wants to kiss him.

The thought strikes her one day as they’re quietly discussing a case. Their heads are close together so they can keep their shared thoughts from the prying ears of the local LEOs trying to listen in, and her eyes wander down to his lips. They’re not all that far from hers. It would be so easy…

Something internal pulls Scully back from those thoughts like a bucket of cold water. She looks back up at his eyes, feeling her cheeks color against her will. Thankfully, he’s studying one of the pictures between them and hasn’t seemed to notice.

Why the hell does she suddenly want to kiss him?

Sure, he’s attractive; Scully has eyes that function. She’s noticed Mulder’s soft, hooded gaze and brilliant smile and nice jawline. She’s also noticed the way he calls her “Scully” or “Agent Scully” or “Doctor Scully” instead of defaulting to “Dana” like some of her other male colleagues. She’s noticed the way he defers to her while questioning witnesses. She’s noticed the way he’s quick to remind other law enforcement that she’s a medical doctor and, therefore, extremely qualified and deserving of professional respect. 

She’s also noticed the way he runs headfirst into danger if it has anything at all to do with his sister. She’s noticed the way he allows the darkness to swallow him sometimes. He’s reckless with his life. He’s dangerous, in a way. 

And, yet, she still wants to kiss him. 

He smiles at her, flipping to a new crime scene photograph as he continues to talk about soil samples and local legends. She smiles back, despite herself. Her chest feels warm and fuzzy and–

No.

No, she can’t do this. 

There is a line here, in the proverbial sand between them that, if crossed, will almost certainly end in destruction. Workplace romances never end well, in her experience, and the FBI likely won’t allow them to keep working together. She will be looked down upon even further by her male counterparts. Mulder will be mocked for more than just being a little “spooky.” 

Nothing good will come of it.

And, the truth is, she likes what they have now. It’s not easy or comfortable, but it works. It works very well. Her world is steady on its axle, with Mulder, the X-Files, and her emotions orbiting it in careful synchronization. If one thing steps out of orbit, the whole system will crash and go careening off into space. They have a tentative friendship and mutual respect that she values deeply and would hurt to lose. They provide a push-and-pull set of perspectives to their work that gets good results. This is working.

And so, she does not kiss him, because then the world will end.

—

She wants to kiss him.

This thought is not new. In fact, she’s starting to tire of her own inner thoughts drifting in that direction. She’s thinking it more and more lately, likely because they have been getting closer. Something between them shifted after her abduction, and the resulting loyalty between them is somewhat astounding to her; she feels a strong pull to stay by Mulder’s side and, most of the time, she thinks he feels the same way. 

What they have is good. Very good. He’s the closest friend she thinks she’s ever had, even when he’s frustrating and single-minded and full of hare-brained ideas that are bound to get them both killed someday. 

Kissing him would change all of that. Their friendship is so new – so good – but there is a glass wall between them even still. Kissing him would shatter that glass, the shards would get stuck in their skin, and every action after that – every touch – would have the potential to hurt. 

She likes him too much to risk that. She likes what they have. She likes this partnership between opposites and the balance that has come with it. They make a good team.

If they kissed, the world would end.

And, so, she does not kiss him.

—

She wants to kiss him. 

He has kissed her plenty, on her hollowed cheeks and cold hands, but it is not enough. Not remotely. Her world is ending, drawing to a quiet close, and there are so many things she hasn’t done yet in her life that it makes her want to scream against the coming darkness with every last breath she has in her tired lungs. 

And, she figures, if the world is about to end anyway, then why not kiss him? It’s one of those things she hasn’t yet done and it’s easier to accomplish than winning a Nobel Prize in medicine or solving some famous cold-case. Kissing Mulder would be so, so easy. And she wants to so, so badly.

But his world is not ending. Long after she is gone, his will go on. Is the taste of her dying lips really the taste she wants to leave in his mouth? If they cross that line, will his world end with hers? Or will that memory be what pulls him away from the darkness after she is no longer there to do it herself?

Will it be enough to help him fight his demons? Or will it push him further into their grasp?

She doesn’t know, and the thoughts make her head ache more than it already does. So she does not kiss him. She settles for cheek and knuckle kisses and prays that it is enough. It has to be enough.

—

She wants to kiss him.

She plans to kiss him. 

She pays too much for wine and cheese at the motel’s front desk and takes it to his room. She flirts with him a bit and feels pleased when he seems to flirt back in his typically-Mulder-y way. She cracks open the wine and pours glasses and thinks about how it might taste on his lips. 

And then, in an instant, he is leaving on a wild goose chase. He’s got a goofy look on his face and the pit in her stomach can’t decipher if he picked up on her intentions and panicked, or if he’s really that oblivious. 

Or, perhaps, he’s rejecting her. The thought almost brings tears to her eyes as she tastes the too-cheery drink from the rim of the cold, hard glass. 

She thought that his cheek and hand kisses in the hospital might lead to something more now that she’s healing, but she realizes that his forwardness, his bravery, might have been fueled by the fact that he might never see her again; the emotional equivalent of a one-night-stand.

She shakes herself mentally, realizing how unfair that thought is to Mulder. He isn’t like that. Is he?

She stands alone in his empty hotel room, drinking both of their portions of wine and eating their cheese. Her heart squeezes as she realizes that, despite everything, the world will still end if they kissed, if they tried to become something other than what they currently are. 

And, at the realization that he has ditched her to go investigate on his own again, she wonders if the end of the world is already beginning. 

—

She wants to kiss him. Just, not like this. 

He’s standing in the hallway, but he might as well have been on his knees, for all the begging he has been doing. Their world has been slowly falling apart, their partnership fraying at the seams, but he still begs her to stay; he still tells her she’s his other half, that she’s saved him, that he needs her.

And now he’s leaning forward to kiss her. 

Is this a kiss he really wants? Or is this just another way of convincing her to stay? His prior words feel like the edge of a love confession, but the sting of Diana’s presence and all that has happened since she arrived rip through Scully and threaten to tear her heart in half. 

Does he mean it? Does he really mean this impending kiss?

Still, she lets him lean forward – unable to decide if she should meet him halfway or lean back and rethink everything she knows – until his lips brush hers and a sting, a physical one this time, pricks her neck. She ducks, feeling equal parts disappointed and appreciative towards the interruption. 

But then the floor begins to spin. Her chest constricts. She’s falling to the floor, and Mulder is running, sobbing, clutching her with gentle, desperate hands.

And slowly, dizzyingly, the world seems to end.

—

She wants to kiss him, despite everything.

Despite Diana. Despite his betrayal. Despite the last few, tense months. Despite his arrogance. Despite his lack of apology. 

Despite every last little thing , she’s standing there in the cool night air with his arms wrapped around her hitting baseballs, and she wants nothing more than to turn around and grab his stupid face and kiss him. She wants to kiss him into silence. She wants to kiss him into stillness. She wants to kiss him so he will stop touching her hip like that . 

She’s almost angry at herself. She’s still angry at him. The crack of the bat in her hand sends satisfying shockwaves up her arm as her muscles stretch and flex and strain to hit the ball harder, harder, harder into the night sky.

She giggles and she isn’t sure if it’s the result of elation or some other carefully restrained emotion squeaking out past her defenses. 

Damn it. Damn it all.

She hits ball after ball after ball because, at least, if she’s playing baseball she isn’t kissing him. The history and emotions between them are behind her, at her back. He’s warm and solid and steady there, and it’s easier to forget everything that has happened as shivers run down her spine.

She isn’t sure what will happen when the boy runs out of baseballs to load into the pitching machine. But she knows she will not kiss him. 

She can’t. 

She won’t.

Her heart is too fragile, too tender, too cracked. Letting herself give in after all the hurt and damage that has been done will break it. The world will end.

She hits another ball. And she does not kiss him.

—

She wants to kiss him, and she does. 

One millennium ends. Another begins. The ball drops and the fireworks flash on the tiny screen above them and Scully doesn’t give a single damn because she’s kissing Mulder. And he’s kissing her back.

It’s rather chaste, but she can feel the promise of something more beneath it. Or, at least, she thinks she can. They break away and Mulder gives her a smile that is somewhere between silly and shy and, with a shrug, says: “The world didn’t end.”

Her own smile falters because she catches his double meaning and isn’t sure how to process it along with her own history of thoughts and emotions. 

“No, it didn’t.”

Before she can fall into her own thoughts any further, Mulder is quietly wishing her a Happy New Year and putting an arm around her shoulders in a way that warms her all the way through. The hope she tasted in their kiss – their very first kiss – returns tenfold and she allows him, with a small smile on her face, to lead her out of the hospital to their shared vehicle.

When they finally reach her home, he presses a kiss to her cheek that feels entirely different than the kisses he left there during her battle with cancer. It’s still warm and full of affection, but it’s shyer, as though it’s asking a question. 

She answers the question and pulls him back down by his coat lapels for another proper kiss on the lips, this one a little longer and a little less chaste. 

He smiles after the kiss and wishes her a good night. A very good night. The best night ever. He stumbles away as they exchange goofy, silly grins and light giggles. 

As he drives away, Scully looks up at the stars and smiles. 

“The world didn’t end.”

—

She wants to kiss him and she does. Often.

She kisses him in the morning, when his eyes squint against the sun and his hair sticks up everywhere like dandelion fluff. She kisses him in the evening when they say goodnight and his lips taste like their shared pitcher of iced tea. She kisses him in the afternoons when he says something ridiculous and insane on their way to lunch at the diner down the road from their office. She kisses him often because she can. Because she wants to. Because he wants to.

Because the world does not end. Because it never will.

[vllergy]

painkillers

vesen request, 2.1 k, cold fic ty to @scatter-snz for this elite prompt i hope this is what u had in mind!!! jin-young is a cop (he has the kink because of who i am as a person) vesen is a big tall hot alien assassin aliens and humans are working together but it's still pretty new and things are awkward jin and vesen 100% fall in love with each other eventually that's basically all you need to know

It's Jin's first day being back after a record two days off. In his six years on the force, he can't remember the last time he took actual sick leave. To be fair, he doesn't get sick that often and when he does, he's aways been the type to grin and bear it. Part upbringing, part police conditioning. If you're not dead, you're fit to serve. Or at least that's the way it always has been. The Kheelen changed that. Human officers aren't spread thin these days due to the partnering initiative. So his cases that would have once fallen to the wayside in his absence now fall to his partner, Vesen. And he's expected to trust that his taciturn, ill-mannered Kheelen counterpart can handle that shit on his own when Jin is otherwise indisposed.

For the most part, Jin does. Vesen may be an ass, but he's a competent investigator. Unfortunately, he and Jin's methods when it comes to gathering information are still wildly disparate. Something he knew, but didn't truly understand the consequences of until now as he sits across their latest subject in the interrogation room.

In the two days Jin took to nurse the cold from hell, it seems Vesen has taken it upon himself to put the fear of God into this man.

The man is visibly sweating. His eyes are only focused on Jin, though every so often they twitch Vesen's direction only to snap back as if his very image is a chemical burn. His cuffed hands tremble on the steel surface of the table and he picks at his cuticles the longer they sit there. Jin doesn't blame him, necessarily. Vesen is, objectively, terrifying. Even just sitting like this you can tell he's the apex predator in the room. He's so much bigger than both Jin and the other man--he overpowers the chair and the room itself, looking comically oversized for the entire thing. Jin thinks all the Kheelen look a little silly in the human precinct, actually. Crunching themselves into tiny desks, massive hands cupping small coffee mugs, ducking under doorways--it'd be laughable if they weren't all sure the Kheelen would crush their skulls for even a giggle about it. Jin sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Intimidating is usually an advantage in an interrogation, but whatever Vesen's done to this guy over the past two days has pushed it over the line. He's not just intimidated, he's shitting his pants. There's no way they're getting through to him now. And frankly? Jin is too tired to rectify the situation. He's still not feeling great. His head is fuzzy and dulled, his painkillers are wearing off, and part of him knows he should be back in bed. But he's legitimately worried Vesen will frighten this man to death if he leaves him alone with him for any longer, and that's a bad look for everyone. Sniffing softly, Jin blinks and tries another tactic. "We want to help you, Anish."

Vesen scoffs at this, and Jin just barely manages not to roll his eyes. "But you have to give us something to work with," he continues.

Anish shivers and shakes his head, "It doesn't matter! You know it doesn't! These bastards are taking over and they're just pretending to play nice until they don't have to anymore." Oh boy, here we go. Vesen's hackles rise, just as Jin expects. The alien leans forward, a muscle in his jaw jumping. Artificial light flickers over his lilac skin and makes his dark hair shine like ink. "You dare insinuiate my people are not here out of good faith?" he hisses, sharp canines flashing, "When you are accused of aiding in a terrorist attack against them?" Jin reaches out for his arm. Down, boy. His fingers drift over steel muscle beneath Vesen's uniform as he tries to tug him back into his seat. He's about to say something to try and reign him in when he realizes with sudden horror that he's about to sneeze instead. "Hhh?" He quickly turns away, angling himself away from the table and steepling his hands over his nose and mouth. His eyebrows crash together as an embarrassingly sharp breath snags in his lungs before-- "chhSH’iew!!"

And it's never just one. "CHshISHh’iu!"

Two is actually pretty good for him, especially with this fucking cold. He gives a tentative sniffle before raising his head and clearing his throat. The tickle abates for the moment, but he can feel it buzzing dully in the back of his sinuses, tickling in the corners of his eyes. Ordinarily, he wouldn't care. Sneezing in public isn't his favorite thing, given how he feels about the activity in general, but he's never been good at stifling so it's not something that can be avoided. But sneezing in front of Vesen is a new hell in and of itself. Without even looking, he can feel the intensity of his partner's gaze on him and it makes heat begin to crawl up his throat. Fucking hell. "Excuse me," he says with a soft sniff and clears his throat again.

At the very least, he's dispelled the tension. "Arguing about who started what or whose intentions are genuine isn't going to get us anywhere. So let's not even get into that," he says, sending Vesen a warning glance. Vesen, he suddenly notes, is staring directly at his nose. For some reason that revelation sets off a nuclear detonation in Jin's lower belly and all the blood in his body rushes south. Self-consciously, Jin rubs at his nostrils and tries to think about anything else. But that only aggravates the dormant tickle, and he has to press his tongue to the roof of his mouth to curb the impulse. "Fine," Vesen hisses, turning his eyes back to Anish, "Then let us stick to the facts." Anish gulps. Jin strokes a finger down the datapad in front of him, bringing up a few files. They could pin Anish with his money transfer trail. Or his text messages. He and Vesen haven't which way they were going to do this--they hardly ever agree anyway--but he shifts the pad closer to his partner so that he can look too. "The facts are, you are a coward, Anish," Vesen suddenly purrs, "And you will not survive a week in prison if I put you there." Jin could strangle him. He does roll his eyes this time and looks toward the ceiling, as if asking some higher power for the strength not to. "What my partner means is that you nee--" The bright lights overhead tease the last bit of the tickle out at the most inopportune time. The fuzzy, static feeling inside his head snaps like someone struck a bolt of lightning into the middle of his face. He whips to the side, his elbow in front of him and his hand braced on his opposite shoulder. "Hh--excuse meehh'IIsHH!"

He mists the inside of his elbow, shakes his head softly and then gears up for another. His breath stumbles, eyelashes fluttering. "Are you going to continue sneezing?" Vesen deadpans. "Hhhuh?" Jin blinks blearily, his cheeks going red as he tries--unsuccessfully--to pinch off the next one, "nnTTchSHH'iu!"

"Madrax. What is that inane human saying? Bless you, Jin-young."

Vesen stands as Jin pulls a crumpled tissue from his pocket and tends to his nose. In the next second, he feels his collar being tugged and himself yanked up from his chair. Feet stumbling under him, he struggles to get his balance for a moment until Vesen's large hand steadies him at the small of his back. Vesen's low voice simmers with what sounds distinctly like a threat, "We will return, Anish. Make yourself comfortable."

Then, before Jin knows what's happening, he's being guided out of the interrogation room and back into the hall. The door shuts and Vesen's hand retreats from his back. In a moment, the alien is towering before him, arms crossed over his broad chest and staring down imperiously at him. "Jin-young," he says disapprovingly. Jin blows his nose softly and retrieves another crumpled tissue. "Vesen."

"You are still ill." "I'm on the tail end of it."

"I do not wish to work with you when you are not well."

Jin scoffs, dabbing at his red nostrils, "I thought the Kheelen didn't get sick. I'm pretty sure you can't catch this."

"It is not my well-being I am concerned for."

Jin's eyebrows shoot skyward. Vesen, concerned for someone besides himself? No fucking way. He might have said as much if his nostrils didn't suddenly swell double. He crushes the tissue to his nose and mouth to muffle a tired sneeze.

"hdj'SHMMf!!"

"Bless you."

Jin blinked and gasped, "Hh'chhmpf!"

"Bless you."

Jin adjusts the tissue to try and find a dry spot, missing the next sneeze entirely and directing it to the floor. "You don't have to say it every ti-hiime--hhCH'ISSH'iu!"

"And why not? Bless you. You said it is something humans say when another sneezes. You are sneezing, are you not?"

Jin blushes darkly as he attends to his nose. Does Vesen have any idea what he was doing to him? Clearly not, or else he'd be raking him over the fucking coals for it. But somehow him being oblivious is making it so much worse. "Look who's suddenly so concerned over human-Kheelen relations," Jin gripes hoarsely, trying desperately to deflect. Anything to stop talking about him sneezing and Vesen blessing him. He'd rather be waterboarded. "You should go home, Jin-young." "And leave you to eat our sole witness alive? I don't think so." Vesen bristled, "You doubt my abilities."

"If we were torturing the guy? Not for a second. But we're trying to get him to talk to us, Ves." "Ah yes, and sneezing at him incessantly is doing the job just as well. Perhaps there is some merit to that," Vesen leans forward, grinning, "You look so unspeakably pathetic that he might take pity on you and finally tell us the truth."

Jin tosses his sodden tissues in the nearby wastebin and scrubs at his face.

"Fuck you," he groans, "Can we just go back and get this over with?"

"No, you are going home."

Vesen grabs his upper arm, his grip like a vice. Jin never really forgets how strong the Kheelen are, but every so often a brazen display hubles him completely. Vesen steers him effortlessly back down the hall without any hope of him struggling against him. "Wait, Vesen, c'mon--" He struggles anyway, just on principle. But a moment later he yanks on his grip unintentionally as he wrenches away from him with another ill-timed sneeze. "Hh'CHISSihuh!" He nearly bends double on that one and Vesen abruptly pulls him to a stop. The alien holds fast to his arm as if he can sense that Jin is going to lose his balance if he's not tethered to anything. "hah'hhCHHishh! iSSCchuh!" His ears begin to ring. Distantly, he's aware of Vesen's other hand bracing against his shoulder. That second point of contact sets his blood on fire. Before he can think too hard about that, another sneeze tickles the inside of his sinuses and he attempts to smother it with his free hand, "PpshhiSHHch!"

"Bless you," Vesen sighs as Jin straightens back up wearily, "Are you finished?"

"Yes," Jin lies and then shakes his head rapidly, turning away and pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger, "NnghsSHH'iu!"

Vesen taps his shoulder. It almost feels...sympathetic?

"Go home, Jin-young. I will wait until you are well again to interrogate our witness."

Jin sniffles and glances up with watering eyes. "W-wait, really?" It's an unexpected gesture of charity from Vesen who has been historically uncharitable all the time he's known him. He narrows his glassy eyes, skeptical. Or at least, he tries to look skeptical despite the fact that his heart is in his throat because Vesen is still holding onto him and just watched him sneeze his head off with rapt, disgustingly erotic attention. "What's the catch?" "There is no catch. Just go before I lose my patience," Vesen said.

Jin knows better than to argue with that. Vesen is someone who loses his patience extraordinarily quickly, and it's never pretty. If he's giving him an out, Jin might as well take it.

Sniffling, Jin nods and gives him a tiny salute, "Thanks, Ves."

Vesen finally lets go of him. He grunts in response, gives him one last unreadable glance, and then turns on his heel. Before Jin can say anything else, his impossibly tall figure disappears back down the hall towards the interrogation room.

Jin isn't totally sure, but he thinks Vesen might not be such a bad guy after all.

That, and he's suddenly unreasonably horny.

[or13m]

Waking Dream (fnaf) Chapter 015

You shook your arm violently as if that would somehow loosen your soul from the thread and fabric of the doll. It stubbornly refused, serving only to create an ache in your shoulders. You whined, not used to the feeling of pins and needles now bombarding the limb. Ice dropped into the pit of where your stomach should be. How long were you going to be trapped like this? Would you feel pain if someone threw you? You were a doll in a daycare, after all. How long would it take for a toddler to attempt to divorce your head from it's neck?

As the panicked thoughts continued to pile higher and higher, you continued to nosedive deeper and deeper. Even the telltale signs of familiar bells escaped your notice until a yellow face filled your fuzzy vision.

Great, now you were crying. A doll crying made about as much sense as a ghost crying, making your head hurt in conjunction with your heart.

"Oh dear! Sunshine!" Sun cried, his voice loud as ever but now you could feel his bellow vibrating through your tiny body. "Did you possess little you? Oh no, no, no, no! What happened?" Your heart lurched into your throat when he picked you up without thinking, unable to answer his rapid-fire questions as he continued to fret over you. You were mildly surprised by the feel of his hands. They were not the icy hard metal that you had been expecting, but warm silicone that were, admittedly, nice against your...

Well, it wasn't skin, per se, so...felt?

The afterlife really needed a training video...

"Maybe Captain Foxy knows how to unpossess things?" Sunny started to ramble, his movements getting more erratic with every passing second. "Oh, no, no! That wouldn't work! He was POSSESSED, so he wouldn't know how to stop possessing...right?" He continued to pace in front of the security desk in the daycare, cradling you tightly in his arms so much so that you could hear the fans through his casing. You could hear them spinning faster and faster until his voice was barely audible over the noise.

"Uh, Sunny?" you managed to squeak out, but failed to catch the bot's attention. He was quickly spiraling into the same hole you were slipping into, delving into all the "what-ifs" that could happen. What if you got dirty? What if a kid took you home? What if something fell on top of you? Would you get hurt? Could you feel pain?

Could you die again?

'Sun! I swear, I will take over if you don't calm down!' Moon threatened from within their shared space, but Sun's anxiety-riddled mind would not be quieted. With one final muttering about how HE was supposed to be the morbid one, Moon pushed a specific set of codes through. It took only seconds before he was in control, blue and silver replacing yellow and gold while Sun sank into the background with a distressed cry.

"How are you--nevermind," you wheezed, noticing the change immediately since Moon didn't have you smooshed up against his torso like Sun had. If Sun could force a takeover from Moon, then it made sense that Moon could do the same. "Is Sunny okay?"

Moon looked down at you, eyes squinting from the overhead lighting. His optics were not optimized for such bright areas. "He'll be fine. He's in 'timeout' to calm down," he answered, a slight smirk on his faceplate at the word "timeout". He could hear the faint grumbling from his counterpart, who was much calmer now that he'd been the program equivalent of "slapped" to his senses.

You hummed, looking down at the stubby hands you now had.

"You should enjoy it."

You looked back up at Moon after he spoke, a questioning tilt to your head. He rolled his eyes and sighed so heavily that it sounded more like a groan of pain than a sigh. "Starlight, stop thinking so negatively about everything. Babies don't know how to walk or talk right after they are born." He chuckled at the pout on your face at being compared to an infant. "You know what I mean."

You jolted as he began to move, making his way back to their balcony with you in his arms. It was...different to feel the air rush past you as you were lifted up onto the platform. When he walked through the curtains, you got to see what Sun had been preparing earlier. Your jaw dropped at the display, excitement swirling in your chest.

The bed--which was essentially just a mattress balanced atop piles of books--was buried under layers of fluffy blankets and soft pillows. Another stack of literature sat at the foot of the nest, supporting a large laptop with several DVDs splayed all over the floor as if they'd been haphazardly tossed there. The lights were already off, leaving only the gentle glow from the fairy lights strung across the ceiling like tiny stars.

"Sun thought you could use a pick-me-up," Moon explained as he made his way to the edge of the bed. He settled down into the mound of softness with you in his lap, the collection of movies within easy reach of his long arms. As he diligently sorted through them--humming every now and then when he stopped over a particular cover only to shake his head before continuing his search--you became acutely aware of just how much you could suddenly feel.

Their pants were soft. In the games, they were clearly made out of metal, but in this life, they were actually just billowy fabric. Fabric that enveloped you like a cushion, instantly making you want to sink into it and relax. The warmth coming from their body only helped to encourage that desire. The gentle whir of their systems was like a siren call beckoning you to melt like butter in their lap...

Except you couldn't. You were stiff as a board and freaking out about finally being able to TOUCH something, anything! The fact that SOMETHING just happened to be the robots you'd developed an unhealthy attachment to was making your figurative heart race and skip a beat...or a hundred. Could they tell that you were embarrassed? What if they figured out that you had crushes on them? Well, that wouldn't do. It could destroy your friendship with them and you didn't want things to get awkward, especially if you were stuck here for eternity.

Quick! Think of a distraction...

"What's Peter? I mean, is Peter Gregory?" you choked out, stumbling over the question that had been your primary objective earlier. Now, it was just a way to avoid thinking of how nice it felt to be in Moon's lap...

The lunar bot's grin tightened. You watched as his hands spasmed before picking up a particular disc and popping it into the slot on the side of the computer. You didn't get a chance to see the case that it had come from since it was too far and too dark for your little eyes to discern, but Moon was quick to take your attention by climbing further into the nest Sun had made and bringing you along for the ride. By the time he settled, he finally looked you in the eye and sighed.

"Gregory...was Peter's name before," he started with obvious hesitation. You tilted your head, curious, but said nothing so he continued. "When he was a child, he broke a rule in the daycare...and Sunny banned him for it." He chuckled here, his eyes unfocusing temporarily. You could only imagine the tirade Sun was having in their mindspace about some rulebreaker from the past. You knew that the sunnier animatronic was a stickler for such things. You had seen him chase Foxy around the daycare after the pirate had swiped some crayons and proceeded to draw  on the walls because he'd been bored. Banning someone from the daycare, however, was a huge step. What on earth had Peter done to achieve that level of punishment?

Still, what did that have anything to do with changing his name?

"Gregory is banned from the daycare, but Peter isn't," Moon answered your unspoken question, scarlet eyes shining in the dark. He appeared amused, as if what he'd said wasn't suspicious as hell.

"That's a dumb reason to change your name..." you mumbled, your own eyes narrowing at his reasoning. You were about to follow up with more questions when the opening theme song to the movie caught your attention. There was something familiar about it and you couldn't help but turn towards the laptop screen.

"Casper, the Friendly Ghost" popped up on the monitor.

Now, it was your turn to throw a tantrum, berating Moon for his choice in films and earning little more than a flurry of laughter from said bot as he easily took your soft punches and kicks.

"Ready for a movie night, Starlight?"

[scripts4dreamers]

Warm fuzzies

AN: My brain is infected by werewolves in love. My sincerest apologies to anyone who isn't submerged in World of Darkness lore. I also wanted to pay homage to the old WoD Litany with regards to werewolves not being allowed to bone one another. Characters: Patrick Hodge, Elton Dey, Ashley Nin, Melodie Palys Warnings: Mention of suicide, Spoilers: None

First, it’s important to keep in mind that Patrick Hodge doesn’t care about the Litany…much. The old werewolf laws are just that; old and laws, neither of which are exactly his forte. He’s respectful of the spirits of the Wyld, wherever he finds them, because that’s just common fucking sense, and he keeps his werewolf shit secret because he doesn’t want to get silver bulleted by some harebrained hunter with a god complex but, outside of that, he leaves the Litany to the philodoxes and minds his business. So, imagine his surprise when, at the first lurching of his heart, when you reached across his body to grab…something - he doesn’t fucking know - and he caught a whiff of your apple scented shampoo and just melted, his mind went straight to the old rules.

It had been years since he’d really thought about his initial…education? Initiation? Crash course? Whatever, it had been years since he’d taken the time to remember that first conversation with Graynail, when he was just a snotfaced, rich problem child who had been headhunted by the Broad Brook Caern. He remembered the old wolf’s face, all deep lines and stormy eyes, serious as a heart attack as he talked Podge through everything from tribe selection to pack etiquette to who has the right to speak at a moot and, of course, the golden rule:

No werewolf on werewolf action.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t quite the golden rule. It wasn’t even technically part of the Litany anymore, more of a general guideline for members of Broad Brook, but it had been the one that made the biggest impression on the teenage boy - hopped up on rage and puberty as he was. He’d thought that was funny. Werewolves are real, he’d thought to himself, vampires and witches and ghosts are real. Gaia is being destroyed by malignant forces of eternal destruction and he was supposed to fix it with his anger management issues, and there was a rule that was like a real world counterpart to that viral YouTube video about a world where straight people are the minority. Would a straight werewolf technically count as a diversity hire?

Haha. Funny werewolves and their funny rules. He had bigger things to worry about than women, he had a world to save.

Less funny now. Less funny when he’d spent the last several years in a kind of self imposed isolation (first because he was fed up with how the Silver Fangs treated Bone Gnawers and then, later, because his whole pack was dead) and, consequently, could barely remember the last time someone had touched him gently. Less funny when you were throwing him a shirt and helping him fix the buttons and your sheer proximity made his skin tingle and his knees get so weak that he’d nearly fallen into your arms. Less funny when you were pulling on your clothes after shifting back into human form, still half covered in monster blood, and he couldn’t stop looking at the way the moonlight caressed the curve of your thighs.

No, it turns out that twenty year-old Patrick Hodge found the whole deal a whole lot less humorous than his dumbass teen self had.

He watched you as you worked, ignoring the prickly, uncomfortable aching in his chest as his wolf howled to be let out. You hated this stupid little coffee shop but it helped you make enough money for the pack to get by and your boss gave them yesterday’s pastries for free, so you stuck it out. The fluorescent lights would’ve been unflattering on anyone else but, as Podge was quickly learning, you were the exception. Your hair shone, your smile was radiant and warm. You looked like any other student working a part time job in a shitty town, but you were so much more than that. He could almost see the wolf beneath your skin, all tawny fur and bright yellow eyes, faster than the wind with senses no one in the pack could hope to match. You were a creature of power and rage and no one in this dingy little fucking place even knew it. It was a tragedy.

Ug, look at him, getting all poetic and patriotic over a girl. He was so fucked.

Nin elbowed him in the ribs, “You’re staring again, Podge.”

“Am not,” he replied, wincing but not looking away.

“You are, and it’s getting pathetic,” Melodie chimed in, twisting a thick lock of her auburn hair around her finger as she scanned the cafe for threats.

He fought back the urge to snarl, tearing his eyes away and focussing them on Melodie, “Okay Mrs Harvest King, considering that, without me, you would be food for an evil spirit by now, I’d be careful who you call pathetic.”

Melodie’s rage flared and she leaned forward but, before she could snap at him, Elton intervened.

“That’s enough of that, I think,” he said, always the voice of reason, “if you two act up, Pembe might fire Y/N and then we’d all be screwed. She and I are the only two members of this pack with steady employment, if you’ll recall.”

Podge and Melodie protested half-heartedly, unwilling to give Elton the impression that he was winning the argument but also unable to counter his logic. Nin chuckled, enjoying the show. Podge leaned back in his seat and tried to not be conspicuous.

“Seriously though,” Melodie eventually said, her tone more even as she looked at Podge with clear sincerity, “you know you can never go there, right?”

“Why? Because of the Litany?” he countered with his usual mocking tone, always more comfortable letting Melodie think he was an idiot who didn’t care rather than risking being truthful with her, “Some old men from a billion years ago said I can’t fuck my roommate?”

Melodie rolled her eyes. Elton sighed as though just being near Podge was draining him. Even Nin shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“You know that’s not it,” Melodie said, “there are reasons why Garou don’t get involved with other Garou.”

“Kathrine and Elton got involved,” he reminded her, idly wondering why he was pushing this at all considering he kind of agreed with her.

The truth was, he understood and had always abided by the rule, even when others had decided that the risk was worth the reward. His logic was as follows; Patrick Hodge was an ahroun - a warrior amongst a race of warriors - his rage was always closer to the surface than it was with others of his kind. While theurges and philodoxes and galliards could probably get all emotionally wound up in one another without tooooo much issue, the risk was just higher with him. It had always been higher. It would always be higher, so he’d turned his gaze from his fellow wolves and focussed on the human world, for all the good that did.

Still, he watched you wiping down a counter with your hair brushing the back of your neck and he wanted. All he seemed to do these days was want you and want you and try to stop wanting you and end up wanting you more. He had kind of hoped that living together might quash his ridiculous little crush but that hadn’t worked. The more he saw of you, the more time he spent by your side, the more he wanted. What was worse is that he was fairly sure you felt the same. A silly little unrequited fondness he could handle but when your eyes lingered on his chest for just a second too long, or when you went out of your way to make sure he was alright after a fight….well, werewolves aren’t exactly known for their patience and restraint.

“Katherine and I are - were - both theurges,” Elton chimed in.

“You and the cub are both ahrouns,” Melodie continued, “do I really need to tell you what a colossally bad idea it would be for two hot headed murder machines who live together to throw sex into the mix?”

No, she didn’t.

“Yeah, maybe I do,” he prodded, sitting forward in his chair again and locking eyes with Melodie, “please, oh great and wise Silver Fang, educate this poor ignorant Bone Gnawer on the error of his lustful ways.”

Melodie pursed her lips. Nin let out a burst of laughter and even Elton had to hide a snort. The room started to close in on them. Podge could feel his beast’s claws scraping against his ribs, the rage simmering just beneath the surface just itching for an excuse to come out. Melodie could feel it too. She could sense the bait and, judging by the battle in her eyes, was fighting hard to not rise to it. But, she was a philodox and he had just asked her to explain a rule to him. What was a Garou to do?

“Well, first off, you would destroy that little cabin you two stay in.” she started.

He shrugged, “It’s a piece of shit anyway.”

“Second, she’s a cub so I’m pretty sure that would make you some sort of predator. She doesn’t even have a tribe yet. You might influence her and stifle her spiritual growth.”

“She’s five months younger than me,” Podge countered, rolling his eyes, “and she’s been talking to North Wind and Stag already. No chance of me poaching her over to Rat.

Elton frowned, “North Wind and Stag? Strange pairing. I would have thought she’d go with Gorgon as her back up.”

“Yeah, well, she’s full of surprises,” he said, cringing at how obviously proud and fond he sounded.

Melodie crossed her arms and leaned back, triumphantly, “Plus you might accidentally kill her.”

Ah.

“Or, she might accidentally kill you,” Melodie allowed, “the point being, with so much rage in one house, the two of you are already one bad day away from double homicide.”

Podge picked at his napkin, hating the sickly feeling her words brought up in him, “We don’t fight.”

“Now.” she corrected, sensing victory, “Because you’re roommates. Roommates don’t fight. Couples fight. Couples who are hopped up on rage and battle adrenaline fight hard, and often. Can you say with absolute certainty you wouldn’t end up ripping one another apart?”

He gave her a annoyed look, “Fuck you, Silver Fang.”

“So, no,” she replied correctly.

“So what’s your solution then?” he pressed, unwilling to back down, his wolf urging him to bite back harder, “We just inflict ourselves on regular people who have no chance of fighting back when we do lose our shit?”

Something shifted in Melodie’s eyes, subtle but unmistakable. Was that grief?

She sniffed, tightening her arms over her chest and forcing an air of nonchalance, “The only honorable thing we can do is remove ourselves from the equation entirely.”

“Suicide?” Elton asked incredulously.

Melodie shot him a disgusted look, “The romance equation, Elton, obviously.”

Nin shrugged, “I kind of thought you meant suicide as well.”

“Thank you, Nin,” Elton replied, vindicated.

The tension loosened its hold. The wolf simmered down as Podge felt a rush of something uncomfortable, like pity, flood through him. Melodie was steadfastly avoiding eye contact with him, focussing on the passing humans instead, but he could see the tension in her. So that’s what Melodie believed. He thought of her alone in the earthen barrows, tending the bones of her dead family, removing herself from the equation. It wasn’t quite an admission of anything, but it showed the Silver Fang in a new, clearer light and he had to admit, he felt a little bad for her.

“I guess we know why you’re so damn uptight now,” Podge finally said, injecting lightness into his tone, “you need to get laid.”

She didn’t smile, but it was a close thing, “Fuck you, Bone Gnawer.”

Just then, you appeared at the table, stopping by to collect empty plates and mugs and steal a few moments of conversation. Embarrassingly, Podge felt his heart leap into his throat and he straightened up in his seat like an excited dog. You noticed, which would have been mortifying if it didn’t make you smile fondly at him. Podge flushed with warmth. He would endure almost any embarrassment for that smile.

“You guys playing nice?” she asked, “The customers got a little antsy there for a second.”

“Just a friendly debate,” Melodie assured, “the value of the Litany, our relationship to the mortal world, you know how it is.”

You groaned, rolling your eyes sympathetically, “Don’t get me started, my day’s been shit enough already. Are you guys heading out?”

You transferred the big black tray you were carrying to your hip and rested your hand on Podge’s shoulder absentmindedly. It was nothing, a casual gesture of comfort. If you had been standing next to Nin or Elton you probably would have done the same. Still, he practically vibrated with pleasure. Fuck, he needed to spend time with people more. He didn’t used to be like this.

His packmates clocked the change in his energy with varying levels of disapproval, but you seemed oblivious.

“In a moment,” Elton replied, “we were just finishing up a chat.”

You nodded, giving his shoulder a squeeze as you made to move away, “Well, I’ll see you for dinner this weekend, yeah?”

The others made various sounds of agreement and he felt you relax as you headed back to work. Weak to his own impulses, Podge followed you with his eyes, his skin still tingling.

Melodie cleared her throat.

“Seriously, Podge, be careful.”

“I think they should go for it,” Nin replied.

Podge tried not to look too surprised. He didn’t usually have much support from within the pack other than you. It was a nice change. Melodie and Elton gave the younger woman incredulous looks.

“Seriously, Nin?” Melodie asked, “What reason could you possibly have for supporting this?”

Nin shrugged, sipping the dregs of her ice coffee, “Seems like the simplest answer. All your worries are more about the risk of emotional entanglements than physical entanglements and, if we’re honest, they’re already pretty entangled.”

“Wha-”

“No we’-”

“Nin-”

Nin turned to Podge, interrupting, “Y/N’s coworker is hitting on her. He’s asked her to dinner this weekend and she’s laughing and leaning into his chest and he’s threading his fingers through her hair so that he can kiss her ne-”

“Stop it,” Podge snarled, feeling a lick of rage so hot and visceral that the people at the next table got up to leave.

His packmates all felt the spike, their own wolves flaring up in a desire to join him in his anger. Nin smiled triumphantly.

“See? Forcing them to keep their clothes on won’t stop either of them from lashing out if they don’t keep themselves in check. We just have to trust that they know themselves and their limits better than we do.”

It was a good point. Nin was actively being supportive of him and yet it took all of Podge’s remaining self control to keep from lashing out. This was the problem with werewolves. No matter how good they tried to be, the monster was always right there, ready to be unleashed at a moment’s notice.

He thought about the night he’d met you.

The flames radiating off the Sullivan house. His blood thrumming with the promise of violence, his senses sharpened by the wolf as he runs through the plan in his head. Lots of moving pieces. Lots of potential for disaster. Podge must ensure Sullivan pays for the damage he has done to the earth. No chance for redemption. Sullivan must die.

New smells. Enemies? Conspirators? No, old cigarettes and paper - friend! - Elton-of-Broad-Brook smell. Someone else - Garou. Unknown. Green apples and fresh dirt. Copper-iron-metal of blood. Pastries and coffee - perfectly brewed. Home.

Something stirs in the pit of his stomach, tingling like the electric buzz of wire. He throws himself into the Sullivan house without a second thought. Elton-Shadow Lord slips around the house. New Garou - female, follows behind Podge. Cannot allow distractions.

He rips into Sullivan’s guards, feeling the rush of savage pleasure that always came with a fight. This is what he was born to do. This is the job his selfish hands were built to accomplish. Let some other wolf be responsible for saving Gaia. He would slay her enemies and be content.

Movement to his left. The new Garou - apples-coffee-blood-dirt. He can smell her joy. No fear. No hesitation. She joins him in the slaughter and he wants to howl his appreciation and they are alive. Perfect synchronicity. She hasn’t transformed fully, but she moves like lightning. A guard shoots at his exposed ribs. Brace for pain. Warm arm around his waist. Apples-coffee-blood-dirt. She moves him. He lets her.

The first sound he hears her make is a gasp of pain as the bullet pierces her shoulder in Podge’s place.

He sighed, the anger leaching out of him in a rush. He could feel his packmates staring, he could feel their discomfort and concern. Podge wasn’t normally the most emotionally expressive member of their little pack and, indeed, he was only being as open as he was now out of desperation. Even he could recognize that he was in over his head, unsure which of his waring impulses was the coward and which was his true desires.

Elton leaned in, his brow furrowed with concern, “Come on, bro. Just tell us what’s nagging at you.”

“How do I know if the way-” he sighed, wiping his hand over his face with frustration as the words slipped away, “fuck-man. I don’t want to rip her fucking face off, alright? But Nin’s not wrong, I’m in too fucking deep now to just ignore it. And Nin’s all ‘oh, trust that you know your limits’, but what if I don’t? I’ve never been with another Garou, I don’t know.”

“Do you feel angrier when you’re together?” Elton asked simply.

Podge shot him an incredulous look, “No. Obviously not, she’s the best.”

“Well, there you go.”

“But you’ve seen how we are when we fight together,” Podge countered, “it’s carnage.”

“So you share a hobby,” Elton replied, “There are worse things than being a good team, you know?”

Something hopeful fluttered in the pit of his stomach and he looked over to you thoughtfully. You were working at the register now, taking customer’s orders with a polite smile. He let himself imagine what it might be like if he could just walk up and kiss your cheek.

“Plus, you’ve already asked her out,” Nin chimed in.

Ah, fuck.

Melodie’s mouth opened, “You did what?”

—

[2cutie]

Shang Tsung with Hope is now my roman empire, and if one of them dies - I will be crying rivers, so angst time!

During Titan Shang Tsung reveal and fight with Order of Darkness, Hope could try to attack Titan ST but he just grabs the cat and could probably harm it heavily (throwing it or doing something evil, all my homies hate Titan Shang Tsung). I think Shang would go rampage and try to kill his Titan counterpart, but second one already disappears.

i love angst, thank you for feeding me. Please, allow me to make it so much worse <33 also sorry this took me ages to reply, I saved this ask to think about and then forgot it was still in my box bfchd continuing cat!reader+Shang Tsung prompt

Shang had to (begrudgingly) side with Liu Kang when he realized he was a victim of deception. His own kind, even, from another timeline. It was both disgracing yet commendable.

Hope - you, his loyal & fierce cat - of course stood beside him through anything, even wars. Shang had trained you, enhanced you; you would battle by his side 'til the end.

So when Titan Shang Tsung posed a threat to your Shang, you were in a fury. You were fighting alongside him, but the Titan's army was vast, and you were caught between fighting many villains with familiar yet different faces from those in your timeline. Shang was fighting his own battles as you both could hold your own.

But that was until the Titan variation of him diverted his attention to Shang. Both versions of themselves battled, but your timeline's was not to compare to the Titan version. When you finished fending off your own enemy and looked to Shang, you saw him spiraling back to the floor, blood gushing from his nose. The crimson flow was staining his clothes, his hand grasping it doing nothing stop the blood.

You barely registered moving, or your claws gashing alongside the Titan's face. But you did feel the immense pain that followed after. The feeling of something - maybe somethings - in your body shattering as you were thrown to a wall that crumbled as you hit it. Some stone also would land on you from the sheer age of the deteriorating architect. Your mind turned fuzzy then, you couldn't really comprehend things. You felt paralyzed. Maybe you were. You could only faintly feel the buzz of pure pain vibrating through you.

Shang was still, as if he could not comprehend what had happened. He stared with wide eyes where he saw your body fall to, but the rubble was blocking him from seeing you. He didn't breath as he stared with a blank mind.

Until the Titan scoffed and his eyes flicked back to him with immense speed, a searing inhuman anger in his glare. The Titan Shang wore an impressive wound - your claws had seared him across his cheeks and to his lips, blood gushing down to stain his chin and neck, to his clothes. He wiped in vain, as the blood continued. You cut deep.

Frankly, Titan Shang Tsung barely registered what he had thrown to the wall; just acted purely on instinct from the threat and pain. But when he gazed back to his lesser counterpart, saw his towering rage, a wicked smile spread across his bloodied lips. Blood filtered to his mouth, staining his teeth.

"Oh my," the titan spoke, pure velvet. Sickening. Impure. "I didn't hurt your little cat now, did I? You can't possibly blame me. Who would bring a pet to a fight? That's all your own fault, really."

Shang Tsung's teeth bared as the Titan approached and he brought his hand away from his nose, instead using it to pull himself back up. Now, Shang didn't show much of his emotions outside of his careless, sassy demeanor. But now? He was pure unchecked, hysteria rage. Purely seething. If looks could kill, Titan Shang Tsung wouldn't be just dead a million times over, he wouldn't even have been born.

"How sad," the Titan continued, circling slowly around him. Predatory. Like an animal teasing his prey. "To think an offspring from me could be so pitifully stupid. Getting attached to such a filthy thing.. I truly am the superiority of all timelines. Which is exactly why I-"

Often times, Shang would ramble to you. It had been a thing between you two, since he didn't keep friends. He would ramble and catch your expression when he spoke too much. But he would roll his eyes and continue. "Please, I do not talk *that* much," he would say, containing to ramble.

But now? Yes, he could see just how much he talked. Just how insatiably annoying it could be.

Because he just gave a vicious, toasty uppercut to Titan Shang Tsung just to shut him up. It caught him so off guard, he bit his tongue, the appendage almost splitting in two.

The horror that passed on the Titan's face for even a split second before shifting to annoyance and anger would fuel Shang. Seeing more blood spill from his mouth inspired him. The Titan had to keep his chin tilted so he wouldn't choke on the blood. Shang hoped he would - but wouldn't mind if he didn't either. That way he could kill Titan Shang Tsung himself. Feel his neck crunch in his hands. He would avenge you.

a/n: ending is up to youuuu. did you survive?? does shang win?? eye emojs all around !!

[sable-skies]

LinkedUniverse boys as Monsters (from monster hunter)

I'm waiting for MH:World to download so watch as I merge my current two major interests together in real time

These are based off of vibes mostly and descending from most confident to least confident

Twilight - Zinogre

Beloved thunder puppy. I will not take any sort of argument or objections on this. But on a more serious note, it's mostly the canine connection that makes me think these two are similar, and I think Twilight deserves a beefed up monster wolf form as a treat. Nintendo please give him a scary wolf monster form please.

Legend - Mizutsune

While Mizutsune's aren't difficult monsters to fight, and if Legend was one he would be a bonkers hard battle, there's something about the elegance and movement of a Mizutsune that's very Legend to me. Also it could be the pink and yellow mix on both of the designs.

Warriors - Ratholos

Okay okay if ANYONE is gonna be a giant raging dragon, it would be Warriors. And while Warriors isn't from a mainline game, I think he holds an immense amount of iconography that is almost comparable to the Ratholos for their respective game series.

Time - Kirin

Despite not being a fan of OoT or MM (sorry Time), he has this almost ethereal yet intimidating vibe to me. If any creature can match that, I think the Kirin can. A respectable and formidable opponent.

Sky - Paolumu OR Legiana

Alright alright Sky kinda gets two because I couldn't pick. I wanted to give him a bird wyvern but none of them really fit his vibe to me, so I settled on these two. Paolumu looks like the weird cat from Skyloft that I forgot the name of, and I think its very fuzzy appearance makes it appear less threatening and that fits Sky immensely. Legiana is the more intimidating version, it's a flying creature and I think can represent Sky's untapped abilities.

Wind - Tobi-Kadachi

Technically speaking, Wind should probably have a water based monster because of his game, or a wind based one because of his name. But I say no to both of these, watch a video of a Tobi-Kadachi fight and you'll see this mf flying and flipping around all over the place, that feels very Wind to me personally.

Four - Great Izuchi

From what I remember from the Izuchi fight in MH:Rise, they tend to travel in packs. Given Four's whole deal of being able to split himself into four parts, I think the Izuchi's whole pack thing is weirdly fitting for it. Also raptor claws. Yes.

Hyrule - Great Girros OR Rathian

Forgive me fellas, I could not land on one for Hyrule. Almost none of the large monsters really gave me a Hyrule vibe at all except for the Great Girros, but that's technically not really a full on monster and doesn't have its own special fight and all of that. My alternative pick was the Rathian, which is the female counterpart to the Ratholos. I figured if anyone should get an iconic monster or at least one associated with it, it should be the first Link of them all. :]

Wild - Nargacuga OR Odogaron

Wild gets two to pick from because one is a relatively nice pick, and the other one I made because I was feeling mean. The Nargacuga gives me the same vibes he does while in the stealthy sheikah suit, something swift and probably beating the shit out of you before you know it. The Odogaron, however, I think would represent Wild's initial death in his own quest to save Hyrule, and could be a fun way to further showcase how he's living after dying, even if resurrected, and probably doesn't function the way everyone else does. there's something inherently off and maybe a little undead about him. also picking the odogaron gives him a shared canine monster with twilight, so teehee.

i still have an hour waiting on my download im so mad

[theheadlessgroom]

"...my father felt just the same."

Her assessment from the night before was only confirmed by this statement of his, that August Pace would've quite liked Philippe de Clair. They seemed to have a very similar outlook on life, honestly, what her father called a "glass-half-full" perspective. They didn't deny the cruelties, the injustices of the world, but they also didn't doubt in the existence of the good things, that there was joy and blessings to be found, if one knew where to look.

(For a fleeting moment, a silly notion, perhaps, passed through her mind...that somewhere, up there in the skies, was her father, smiling down on her, having put this man in her path...)

"He always tried to find what he called the silver lining," she continued, without thinking. "Even when the world kept pushing his head down, he kept on keeping it up. Even in the darkest times, he kept a song in his heart, and a smile on his face. He found the silver lining, even when it came to such sad stories as Mr. Hugo's. In some ways...I-I think he felt that was the real point to his books, and not the tragedy. The good times, the...impact made...that's was what really mattered."

After all, how much sadder and lonelier would Quasimodo and Gwynplaine been had they not met La Esmeralda or Dea? Even if it was for a short time, they found happiness, and that, in August Pace's opinion, was the most important aspect to their stories, something that got overlooked when people talked about them.

@beatingheart-bride

"Mmm, sometimes," she replied with a little nod: Sometimes, if she'd had a particularly rough and tiresome week, she liked to enjoy her day off with something hot to drink as well. Nominally coffee (she took it black like her father; even the littlest bit of cream or sugar in it was unpleasant to her palate), but if she was feeling fancy, she'd brew some tea, some of the more herbal blends her father used to keep kicking around, having taken a liking to them after marrying her mother.

Now, if she were feeling particularly flush with cash (which wasn't very often, admittedly) and feeling very bold, she might be brave enough to go down to the local bakery and buy herself something strawberry-flavored, some sort of little cake or piece of pie...but then again, it might be better for her to just buy the ingredients and make it at home. Less staring from the other customers that way.

But even the cold looks from these imaginary customers didn't completely dissuade Susannah from looking forward to something similar come Saturday: A hot drink at her elbow, a little something sweet, and a good book in hand.

"D-Do you...like Victor Hugo?" she ventured to ask him, the curiosity having seized her: Though his books were thick and oftentimes filled with words she had a bit of trouble with, she loved them all the same, in particular The Hunchback of Notre Dame. She wondered if Philippe, with his affection for horror, felt similarly.

[bam-stroker]

New Same

@betweenblackberrybranches, RLGL Sun and Moon. The lovey dovey art they have going got to me.

So have a sweet little love confession flashback drabble for the RLGL boys. SFW, and very fluffy

New Same

Something had changed recently. 

The two of them have been in some of the most hedonistic, lewd, sybaritic situations together. Their day to day was blush worthy to most. And it was something they had become accustomed to and felt not too far off from any other job someone might have. An accountant might clutch their pearls to do what they do - but Sun and Moon would be equally thrown if someone were to suddenly ask them to start planning out spreadsheets. It was just part of the daily flow. A job is a job and they had their own skills. 

But Moon had never felt a flutter in his internal fans when Sun caught his eyes before. 

He knew very well the warm hum of arousal - but this… This was something he’d never known. Sun’s laughter would have him grinning wide, hoping to keep him laughing and smiling like that forever. Whenever Sun would reach over to gently tap him on the shoulder to grab his attention, his wires would feel all staticy. But then just as quick it’d be gone as soon as Sun’s touch left him. The two of them were a pair. Always had been, and most likely always would. From the very beginning the world was the two of them working together and then living together. 

Sun was his best friend because of it. He was the person who could understand him in ways no one else could. And he cherished him for it. 

But whatever these feelings were, they were starting to get more and more distracting. And much harder to ignore. When they had their last weekly movie night he practically felt like he was going to shoot into the sky like a rocket with all of the heat boiling up inside. If Sun noticed it he very pointedly didn’t say anything because he just kept leaning on him and chuckling like a goddamn handsome and sweet romcom character. Why’d he have to be so charming huh?! It wasn’t fair! 

Moon wasn’t shy. There really was no need for it, but these days even at work if their eyes locked he’d have to look away or else Sun might see the hearts that wanted to flutter forward. Instead he’d lean into the act and focus on the job at hand. 

But if he had waited long enough he would have been able to catch the way Sun’s eyes twinkled just a little brighter at his back. The subtle shifting of his rays as his own internal workings were all a flutter. 

Moon had to be the most handsome, beautiful, and amazing person. Every day the adoration Sun felt for him grew bigger and bigger. He couldn’t help but feel the gravitational pull to his counterpart. Quite literally feeling the need to reignite the spark that ran all throughout him whenever their hands might brush or Moon would lean against him in moments shared alone. Moon’s touch grounding but at the same time making him feel light as a feather with some sort of sweet feeling. Leaving his head all fuzzy, but not in a bad way, never in a bad way. He wanted to bask in it as much as he could. So he grabbed, pinched, poked, and held as much as he could.

It had been on a day when the two of them were out for an evening stroll when the realization hit him. Moon had put on a lovely dress with glittering beads and tear drop pearls. And as the sun was setting and the light reflected on the lunar bot like water it was like a brick had been dropped on his head. 

Sun was in love with Moon. 

The following weeks after the realization were full of the most awkward scuttling about and embarrassed floundering when Moon asked even the simplest of questions. Sun was talented in the art of smooth talking, but suddenly it felt like the person he could talk to anything about was making every coded letter of the alphabet get dumped from his mind. 

So when it came time for their weekly movie night the energy surrounding them was definitely… awkward.

“So, um-” Sun claps his hands together while hovering near the couch, “What do you want to watch?” His usually cozy clothes on. At least he could feel comfortable in some way while his inner workings anxiously ticked inside. 

Stepping into the living room, Moon looks breathtaking as always. He’d gotten a new pair of navy blue satin loungewear. Loose flowy shorts fanned out just above his knees and a long sleeve button up top. Oversized to act more like an off the sleeve sweater then an actual button up. Sun has to clench his hand to stop himself from reaching out to hold onto the lunar bots inviting waist to pull into a snuggle. 

Shrugging Moon flops down on the end of the couch where he likes to lean on the arm rest, “Don’t know. Something slower? I don’t feel in a comedy or action mood.”

Sun nods his head and goes to do some finger guns, redirects halfway through thinking it might be awkward, but then commits back to them - resulting in a wild frenzy of hand flapping to then end on finger guns, “Yoooooou got it!” A weird hunch to the side thrown in to attempt at making it seem like it was all according to plan. 

Moon looks at him for a solid minute, a small bit of confusion - and then his sharp smile cracks and he chuckles. 

Sun flops down on the couch next to him and lets out the smallest exhale, Crisis averted.

Eventually they both land on Howl’s Moving Castle. Studio Ghibli offering the kind of slow and calming energy with lovely imagery the both adored. At some point in the movie the two of them ended up in a light hearted argument of which one of them would be the Sophie or Howl. Some rebuttals thrown on Sun being the more practical one of the two while he defended that he offered more of the charming energy Howl has. Moon fighting for the spot of the fancy wizard by saying he once had an entire morning process with for a favorite necklace lost, while Sun was Mr. Practical with all his outfits. 

Through it all they eventually ended up holding on to each other as they laughed. 

Moon’s shoulders finally stop shaking from laughter, as he leans into the comforting hold of his other half. Forehead pressed into the cotton of Sun’s hoodie on the solar bot’s chest. The warm steady hand on Moon’s back better than any cozy blanket could feel. He lets out a final low chuckle and shuts his eyes, humming softly, “Maybe we’re just both of them?”

A moment passes where they hold each other. Silence filled by the movie continuing on. 

Moon grips tighter to the thick fabric of Sun’s hoodie. An overwhelming melancholy washing over him at the realization that if they were both Howl and Sophie… Then surely it must mean something more. That they must mean something more to each other. Like a light being flicked on it finally hits him, the realization of exactly what he’d been feeling for the solar bot all this time. 

Shifting to sit up, Moon steadies himself by pressing his hands to Sun’s chest as his voice shakes, “Sun.. I-I think-”

At the same time Sun bursts through with his own declaration. Resulting in both of them unison saying “I love you.”

Leaving them to only stare at one another with owlish blinks as their shared sentiments land. A good couple of minutes passing by as their internal fans whir softly. Eventually Sun’s left hand raises from where it had been pressed to the couch to instead slowly cradle Moon’s cheek. Not a word spoken as Moon leans into the touch. Finally able to really just look at one another with no hesitation. And that’s exactly what they do. Held in a trance of putting to memory the moment and exactly how beautiful the other was in front of them. 

They stay like that until the closing scene of the movie, where they both lean forward - a tentative action. Lips softly touching. Barely a kiss. But the feeling of it is like none they’d ever felt before. 

Leaning back Sun smile’s down at Moon with a smile that could outshine every star in the sky, “C-cool…” All his usual smooth charm from work gone to instead offer up a new side Moon could easily get used to adoring. Bubbly and sweet. And just the slightest bit awkward. Something only the lunar bot would get to see. 

Moon smiles and lets out a chuckle, “Very cool.” Shifting to cuddle up to Sun’s side and lay his head on the solar bots shoulder. Grabbing onto the other’s arms to better lock their cuddling hold together, “So you want to watch Castle In The Sky next?”

Relaxing into the hold Sun rests his head on top of Moon’s, letting out an extremely content sigh, “Yeah… Yeah, I think I’d like that.” 

Holding onto one another it feels like any other night but just that much more perfect. Because finally that missing piece was finally clicked into place for them. And Howl’s Moving Castle would forever hold an extra special place in their hearts. It was the movie they’d watched when they’d finally confessed after all.

[multiheadcanons]

MORE SILLY LITTLE TEAM WIDE THOUGHTS I HAVE

1. all of the mercs suffer some form of memory loss from the cloning operation. the originals find that, though they are arguably as whole as they were before they went under the knife, there are some things that are missing that used to be regularly called upon knowledge. recipes, jokes, identities, lies they’ve told, lies they believed, or didn’t. certain tasks they remember they used to be good at they now can’t do, no matter how hard they try to go through the process mentally. the clones find they can’t place how they know their information. they know there was a life that was lived, but it’s almost hearsay. they hardly remember being there. the past feels fuzzy. almost fake. names are gone. unless they talk to their counterparts, they will never know the full picture. some of them take a greater advantage of this than others.

2. someone said the willis family would accept both scouts, and i agree to an extent. i also don’t think they would really see the difference between the scouts until they are in a room together. then it’s obvious. the blu scout would let the red scout take the reigns on the family. the blu scout remembers what home was like. he remembers the way he stuck out. his counterpart has the better personality for the family. in fact, they think he’s doing great! and he is. he’s doing just fine for himself. but if the willis family did find out, they absolutely would not bat an eye. they’re all adults, at this point. it’s not really another mouth to feed, except during the holidays. he just needs to bring an appetizer or some snacks.

3. the soldiers unarguably have the best relationship with each other, and when they are allowed to fight together, they are the perfect unit. the soldiers are actually how most company wide information is shared, and it’s a key element in the team realizing the company thinks they’re stupid. as they swap news with each other, they realize intel isn’t lining up. that what the blu team is being told isn’t matching what the red team is being told. the spies, when they realize these two men are gossips, also use this to feed information to teammates. both soldiers have become quite important tools for inter-team communication.

4. the pyros are both avid fans of the color pink. the red pyro will pick out blushes and baby pinks, while the blu pyro will opt for magentas. and while it’s not new to say the pyros have a penchant for the pursual of the pyre, the ways in which they like to stoke their respective sparks are different. the red pyro has a bad habit of starting grease fires. there is a reason they are banned from the kitchen. they just think its cool when they watch the food shows and the chefs throw something in the pan and it catches flame. they attempt and fail to recreate this. meanwhile the blu pyro is a large reason dell had to move his workshop off the base. they have a nasty habit of fiddling with wires that get them killed and the workshop destroyed.

5. the demomen have the worst luck. most everything they involve themselves with that are not their bombs are guaranteed to take a turn for the baffling and the worse. and they don’t even understand how it happens, but it makes the team want to take them to the casino. it’s not even that they’re getting particularly lucky, they just know if they hedge demo’s bets and double it, they can turn profits big enough to get them banned. the demomen hate when the teams do them like this, though the cuts they get from the earnings is enough to just make it annoying.

6. if you can get both heavies to get along in a kitchen, you can ask for literally anything you may have a taste for and it will be created. it will be created in bulk. between the two of them, the amount of recipes they know spans so many different cultures and styles that, if it can get made in fifteen minutes or less, they can provide you with anything you may want! once they exceed fifteen minutes, there is bound to be an argument. so its best to get what you want and let them depart before they start breaking things.

7. the engineers have the most complex relationship between each other. they also have the most complete understanding of who Dell Conagher is, and function seamlessly between each other. both dells are interacted with as though they are the real dell. and while this makes their lives quite easy, it makes their philosophical struggles harder. they are the twin neither one of them wanted. one of them just showed up. but they’ve come to rely on each other heavily, even between the teams. its not a shocking sight anymore to the teams to see two texans in their bases. they never cause any trouble, and they’re on their way just as quickly as they were spotted.

8. whenever people call for the doctors on the field, it is an audible assault to both of them. it is a noise that doesn’t leave either doctors’ ears until they at least give the call a moment of consideration. they only noticed this in the other in the heat of a difficult battle, that ended in a stalemate. they found each other after battle to discuss it. the red medic compares it to a severe case of tinnitus. grating, and annoying. he can’t hear anything over it, and his attention is almost immediately directed to the location of the call. the blu medic compares it to hearing a baby with colic. it’s almost frightening. it fills him with dread, and he is mentally urged to solve the problem. both doctors find the calls hard to ignore.

9. while both snipers are adept in the wilderness, they do have different preferences of their geographical locations of choice! the red sniper prefers desert or desert adjacent areas, with dry heat and minimal ground cover. if you ask him about it, the red of his uniform blends in better with the dirt, and he finds it easier to make successful hunts. he would also call himself a prowler. he would call the blu sniper a “climber”, and the blu sniper would agree. and its why he prefers thickly wooded areas! the blue of his uniform is close enough to the sky, so as long as its not raining, it’s a task to find him through the trees. at least, not before he finds you.

10. the spies get into regular arguments about cigarettes. the red spy swears up and down that menthols are the superior cigarette. the blu spy literally wretches at the mere mention of them. but he smokes clove cigarettes, and the red spy feels like he’s inhaling a spice cabinet. neither one of them realize that the blu sniper is selling them cigarettes that have been mixed and restuffed with weed when they buy from him, because at that point they’re too high to care. it’s the only cigarettes they agree on.

11. when i think of the teams, musically, they are both intense in different ways. i find the red team to be heavy bass, hard 808s and stuttering high hats. drum oriented, almost. synths and 8-bits. they are in your face, and function as a chaotic unit. it’s hard to keep track of them all when they are all so dynamic. it’s easy to get lost in one merc and ignore another, and its an easy way to get caught by the team. the blu team is more like the tastiest guitar riff you’ve ever heard in your life. intricate bass lines, with slower, more constant beats, and intricacies in the harmonic stackings. the beauty of the blu team comes from their ability to add to each other to create a full musical picture.