#how to build large rails properly

[edwardos]

[ellewritesx]

liquid assets

(part five of the sugar, baby series)

Summary: You left the boxes, but you never really leave.

Warnings: sugardaddy arrangement, mentions of past sex, Harry's drunk, this isn't very smutty, sorry if that's what you're here for!

A/N: music has helped me tremendously while writing this part, especially ''the archer'' by taylor swift, which captures harry's inner turmoil perfectly, while ''my tears ricochet'' (also by taylor) represents y/n to a tee. both are a must-listen while reading this imo, i couldn't recommend it more!!! i hope you like it lovelies x

Word Count: 3,134

...

The city is still asleep when Harry stumbles out of the sleek black cab, the sky above him bleeding into a pale gray with the promise of morning and soul-crushing melancholy. The street lights flicker in sync with the pounding in his head, and his boots echo hollowly against the pavement as he makes his way toward his building.

He hadn't meant to stay out all night. Or drink that much. But lately, nothing felt intentional. Everything was senseless. Aimless. He hasn't slept in his bed since you left, not really, just collapsed onto the couch when the liquor dulled his mind enough to let him.

This morning, though, the ache is louder than usual. Maybe because the night before, he dreamt of you. Of your laugh. Your lips parting for him. The heat of your mouth. Your hands pulling him closer. Of the way you had looked at him when he'd told you to leave.

He nearly trips over the boxes on his doorstep.

At first he thinks they're deliveries. Something from his stylist, maybe, another line of designer clothes he won't wear. But then he sees the writing on the labels. You always write your ones with a little line at the bottom. Just weeks ago he'd jokingly called it pretentious and kissed your shoulder. Now, he just stared.

Two large boxes. One smaller. Taped shut, but not tightly. Like you couldn't care enough to secure them properly. Or like you couldn't bear to really seal them closed.

He stands there for a full minute, the back of his neck prickling with the sick, sinking understanding of what this means. You weren't just pulling away from him. This wasn't a temporary rough patch. You were returning everything. This was goodbye.

The elevator ride is unbearable. The boxes sit at his feet like the materialization of his guilt, heavy and silent. He drops his keys twice fumbling to get the door open, and when he finally does, he bumps the door open with his hips, carrying the boxes in, the weight similar to the one he's been carrying on his shoulders.

He drops the keys in the bowl, lets his coat slip from his shoulders, and shoves the largest box onto the floor in front of the coffee table. He sits down on the rug and starts cutting through the tape.

Perfume is the first thing that hits him. Your scent. Sweet and warm, a little citrusy. It blooms from the open cardboard like a ghost.

The top layer is fabric: folded, neatly arranged. A black silk nightgown he'd bought you at a boutique in Paris when you'd joked about needing something ''ridiculously fancy'' to sleep in. You wore it that night in the hotel, standing barefoot on the balcony while he held you from behind and the Eiffel Tower glittered before you, so close you giddily told him ''It's like I can touch it, Harry!''

Days before, when he'd first seen the excitement on your face at the prospect of going to Paris and seeing the Eiffel Tower sparkle, he had made some calls, voice hushed so as not to spoil the surprise, securing you two the hotel with the best view.

He remembers watching you and thinking he'd never seen anything so painfully beautiful, the golden lights reflecting in your eyes. You had no idea how much it wrecked him, how much he would sacrifice to just stay in that moment forever. He lifts the fabric to his nose and nearly flinches. It still smells like the expensive red wine you'd spilled on it when he had impulsively pressed your back against the balcony railing and kissed you, making you smile against his lips.

He puts the dress down like it can rid him of the reminiscence.

Next is a pair of Louboutins. Red soles barely scuffed. You'd worn them on his birthday, matching the red lipstick that would leave imprints on his skin when you worshipped him just hours later.

You'd complained for days leading up to it, insisting on throwing him a party. ''It's your birthday, Harry. You deserve to be celebrated,'' you'd said adamantly, wrapping your arms around his neck, a pout on your lips. He told you he wasn't ''a party person''. He didn't have the heart to tell you nobody would've showed up.

He swallows and sets the heels aside, gently, fragile like the memory of you in them. He works through the rest with methodical silence. Each item slices him open a little more.

The floral sundress he'd brought home after he saw you eyeing something similar in a magazine. You laughed when he surprised you with it and teased him relentlessly about ''knowing trends now.'' Which he didn't. He had asked his stylist for advice.

The bottle of your favorite perfume is on the bottom of the box, half-empty. He turns it over in his hand and stares at the gold label. He remembers sitting in a shop with you for over an hour while you sniffed sample after sample and asked for his opinion repeatedly, only to go back to the first one you'd tried. ''You like it, right?'' you'd asked, a little shy. He had, and he told you so. Now, the scent clings to everything in the box. His chest feels tight.

Then come the little things. A silk eye mask he got you for the flight to Tokyo. A tiny tub of lip balm in that ridiculous flavor you always used. Marshmallow. He always hungrily watched you dragging it across your lips, then leaning in and asking, "Wanna taste?" like you didn't already know the answer. He swears he can still taste your lips, even after all these days without your kisses.

His hoodie, one he didn't even realize was missing. He reaches out and curls the fabric in his fingers. You used to sleep in it when he was away. Once, he caught you wearing it with nothing underneath, strutting into the kitchen, legs bare, hair messy, eyes soft with sleep. It undid him. He'd fucked you until the sunset that day.

And then, in the smallest box, wrapped in tissue like you'd been afraid he'd shatter it like he did your heart: the necklace.

It was simple. A fine gold chain with a tiny charm, an enamel daisy. You'd told him one night daisies were your favorite because they always looked happy and reminded you of simpler times. ''Everything changes. Daisies don't. They're the same ones I used to pluck as a kid. It's like a time capsule,'' you'd whispered, absentmindedly drawing the flowers on his bare chest with your fingers.

It stuck with him. He found the charm a few weeks later in a shop in Notting Hill and had it made into a necklace. He didn't give it to you on a special occasion. No grand gesture. Just left it on your pillow with a note that said ''My daisy''. You wore it every day.

He holds it now like it might burn him. You gave this back. You gave this back. His gift to you.

Harry feels his throat close. He stands abruptly, needing air, needing to escape, and forces his feet to move to the kitchen. The overhead light is too bright, worsening his hangover, so he snaps it off and leans against the counter in the dimness, still holding the necklace. It feels so small in his hand. Useless. Pretty and pointless.

He should have known. Should've known from the moment he pulled back when you hugged him that night that it would come to this. But he thought, selfishly, naively, that maybe you'd keep the things he gave you. That maybe they had meant something.

That maybe he had meant something.

Apparently, not enough.

He wanders back into the living room. The boxes stare at him. The scent of you, faint and persistent, clung to the air, to his clothes, to his goddamn skin. It was like you were everywhere and nowhere at once. His apartment hadn't changed, but it felt hollow now. Like you'd taken something with you when you left that he couldn't name.

He sinks down onto the edge of the couch and lets the necklace dangle from his fingers. It spins gently, catching light from the streetlamp outside. He doesn't cry. Just lets the silence pile up in the room like snow, cold and heavy. The kind that buries things.

You returned everything.

But the cruelest part, the part he couldn't just box up and send away, is that his apartment still smells like you. Still looks like you'd just been there. Like you never left in the first place.

It hits him strongest in the bedroom, where the air is thick with warmth and ghosted memories. Even after opening every window, even after lighting a cigarette just to drown it out with something acrid and biting, it clings to him. Your perfume, like flowers pressed into the pages of a book, has settled into his sheets, the curtains, the collar of the hoodie he instinctively pulled over his head this morning, only to realize halfway through the sleeves that it's the one you wore to brunch a few days ago. Your scent is stitched into the seams now.

He moves through the space like a man haunted. Maybe he is. Maybe that's what you get when you open yourself to someone just enough to let them settle into the cracks.

The shower still holds your shampoo. A tall bottle with a pearly label and one of those unnecessarily complex French names you'd once made him pronounce, laughing when he butchered it. He'd picked up the pronunciation eventually, just to see you smile when he got it right. Now it stands like a monument in the corner of the tiled stall, half-full and untouched since the last time you used it. He should throw it away. It doesn't make sense to keep it. When he tried, his hand lingered over the bottle, then dropped to his side again.

On the floor next to his bed is one of your hair ties. Black, thin, stretched nearly to its breaking point. He'd found another one wrapped around the knob of the closet door. Another tucked into the pocket of his sweatpants. You were always losing them. Now he has a dozen, and not a single one matters.

In the living room, there's a single flower in a glass vase on the table by the window. He bought it on impulse. He'd seen it in a florist's window on the way home from an exhausting meeting and stepped inside before he could think twice, it was the last one. He'd watched her light up when she saw it, throwing her arms around him and accusing him of being soft, a romantic. He'd vehemently denied it, obviously. Helianthus. You'd taught him that word, too.

''Just call them sunflowers, baby,'' he'd said with a chuckle and a shake of his head. ''They're majestic, Harry. Helianthus suits them better,'' you'd argued passionately, face drop-dead serious, which only made his amusement grow. But he never referred to them as ''just sunflowers'' again.

The petals have started to curl in on themselves. Losing their brightness. He can't bring himself throw it out.

Your toothbrush is missing from the holder. The space where it used to sit is stark and empty. Your favorite mug is gone, the one with the cracked handle and a faded design of a dancing avocado. You must've taken it while he was at work.

The throw blanket is still draped over the couch from your last movie night. He drops into the cushions and buries his face in it, just for a second. Maybe longer than a second. Maybe long enough to feel pathetic and wallow in self-pity. Maybe long enough to remember how you looked wrapped up in it, curled into his side with your bare legs tangled in his lap and your voice low and sleepy.

There's a forgotten earring on the nightstand. A small hoop, nothing flashy, but he remembers watching you put them on in the mirror, remembers unhooking them with careful fingers before he laid you on the pillows. He doesn't know what to do with it.

His throat tightens with something sharp and sour. It's not just that you're gone. It's how thoroughly you were here.

You made this space feel like a home, like something more than walls and furniture and soft-close drawers. He let you in without meaning to, and now that you're out, he can't scrub you from the corners.

His phone buzzes on the table. He glances over, more out of instinct than anything else. Maybe delusional hope. Just a work notification. He throws it face-down and leans back into the couch.

He knows he should stop checking his phone. Knows you won't text, not first. Maybe not at all. But he can't help it.

Even silence feels loud now. It echoes. And in that silence, he hears you, your laughter bouncing off the walls, your bare feet padding across the floor in the morning, the sleepy hums you make when you stretch. The way you whispered his name sometimes, like it was a secret. Like you were afraid of breaking it.

He drags a hand through his hair. The strands are still damp from the light drizzle outside, and he catches a faint whiff of your shampoo again. Fuck.

He's not used to missing people. He doesn't make a habit of letting them stay long enough to be missed.

The couch dips under his weight as he sinks deeper into it. He drags a hand down his face, eyes gritty from the lack of sleep and too much thinking. He hasn't been out of his head in days. He's always done this. He shuts down, shuts out.

He's used to earning love by being quiet. That was the unspoken rule growing up. Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't cry unless you're bleeding. Don't ask for anything unless you're prepared to owe something in return. There was always a weight to every act of kindness in his childhood home, like affection came with a receipt. He learned early to stop wanting what he couldn't afford.

He remembers once, he must've been around nine or ten, when he'd won some regional spelling competition. For some reason, it was a big deal where he lived. The children winning those were referred to as ''the bright ones''. Their parents always seemed so proud, he'd seen their families hollering and cheering them on. He'd figured that if he won, maybe his family would be proud of him, too.

Every day leading up to the competition, he spent hours on end in the library, reading the dictionary and quizzing himself on words like ''fiduciary'' and ''eudaemonic'', which was way above the reading level of a nine-year-old, but he liked to be prepared. He always has.

And he'd won, impressing students and teachers alike, but he hadn't cared about any of them. He ran home, clutching the shiny laminated certificate with shaky fingers, beaming. His mum looked up from her laptop just long enough to say, "Put it on the fridge, if you want."

No one came to the ceremony. That was the last time he brought something home hoping to be praised for it.

He's always lived in transactions. Give this, get that. Be good, be useful, be what they want, and maybe you'll be wanted too.

He doesn't think about those years often, it's easier not to. The past feels like something heavy in the water, always threatening to drag him under if he swims too close. But now, alone in the apartment with the ghost of you, it all comes rushing back. The empty dinner table. The silence that rang louder than any argument. The way he used stay awake at night dreaming of growing up just so he could finally be in control of his own life.

He'd told you from the beginning; nothing was yours to keep. Every dress, every dinner, every luxury, bought by him, belonging to him. He built the arrangement around ownership. Around control.

He's turned into his parents. He's replicating the patterns that once hurt him, and calling it safety. Because if everything is defined, then nothing can be taken without warning.

You'll never be left disappointed, suffocating in the aching emptiness where something you once called yours used to be.

He slumps back into the couch, fingers pressed to his temples. And for a brief, unguarded second, he considers going to your apartment and dropping to his knees and confessing his feelings, even though he's not sure what they are exactly. But then it leaks in again.

The thing he still carries, this quiet, aching fear that love only stretches so far before it snaps.

When he got sick as a kid, he used to fake being better faster than he was. He didn't like how it made his mum sigh, how she'd move around the house more angrily when he was home from school. He'd lay there, feverish and aching, but tell her he felt fine, insisting on going to school with a tight-lipped smile. He didn't want to be a burden. Didn't want to be more than she could handle.

There were no bedtime stories. No tucking in. No gentle hands brushing hair off his forehead. Instead, there were closed doors and flickering hallway lights, his own small fingers tracing shapes into the walls, waiting for silence to settle enough that he could sleep. Love, in his house, was a presence you had to earn. It had to be invited in, performed for, clung to. Maybe that's why now, even grown, he keeps things transactional. It's what he knows. It's what he can control.

He reaches for his phone to shake off the feeling, his thumbs hovering above the screen. There's so much he wants to say to you. ''I'm sorry.'' ''I miss you.'' ''Please forgive me.''

For a moment, he thinks about deleting your number. Blocking it. Pretending none of this happened.

But the truth is, it did. And it's eating him alive, consuming his every waking thought, and, as of last night, his dreams. He stares down at his phone for a long time before he types. Are we done?

There's a long pause. Long enough for him to regret sending it, for his heart to drop to his stomach and his hand to wander toward the half-empty vodka bottle still on the coffee table.

But then your reply blinks onto the screen. Were we anything to begin with?

It knocks the breath out of him. If whatever the two of you were is already broken, what's left to protect?

What's left to lose?

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

sugar, baby series tag list

@indierockgirrl @prettygurl-2009 @cherryflavoredbyme @dipmeinhoneyh @haliastyless @drewrry @maddiesalvatore1839 @robinsue87 @zoraaasyd @sincerely-yours-marsbar @m0mmyfromtarget @maudie-duan @hoolabalooba @hisparentsgallerryy @txmhxllqnd @harringtonhundreds @freddyselmstreet @caynonmoondreams @matildasatellite @ilovezaynmalik08 @looney-goose @call1800coochie @nostalgiainmybones @billweasleyswife

general tag list

@2601-london @mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc

...

[argentisbeloved]

Waiting For A Better Tomorrow

pairings: vampire!viktor x vampire hunter!gn reader

cws: mild violence, mentions of suicide, light swearing, death mentions, blood drinking

tags: vampire x vampire hunter au, some comfort towards the end, season 2 viktor just without the altered body

notes: beta read by @adorabluesposts !! also do not ask me about my fascination because I will Not Answer. I will most likely write a part 2 for this (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵) (UPDATE: cross posted onto my ao3! (Downbadmostofthetime))

word count: 3336

A storm was quickly approaching, as the sky grew darker for night. You should’ve been at home, huddled by the fire with a warm blanket wrapped around you for warmth. Instead, you were navigating through a forest in ankle-deep snow that was only increasing continuously as you trudged to your destination. Your only protection from the harsh weather being a large brown coat that felt way too heavy.

Despite the horrible conditions, you were actually grateful for them. After all, this was all for your plan that preferably required a snow storm, and one was steadfast approaching.

While you continued your journey, a large building begins to come into view through the abundance of trees. As you got closer, the large building appeared to be a small, abandoned castle that was way too far from the closest town.

Perfect. This was your destination.

You rehearsed your false story of how you ended up here over and over again in your mind while trying to walk quicker (despite the snow). Pushing down any anxieties that made you want to completely forget about your carefully constructed plan and run away back home instead. Because now it was simply too late for you to do any of that. You had to go through with it.

Standing in front of two large wooden doors, you took a deep breath to ease your nerves, before pushing one of the heavy doors open and entering the building.

Majority of the people that lived in the closest towns actually didn’t know this place existed. And the few people that did know stayed as far away from it as possible. You, on the other hand, knew way too much about this building and the individual that occupied it for it to be healthy. A harmful obsession of some sorts, but you’d argue that it’s for a good reason.

For an abandoned building, it had bright lighting that made you wince for a second upon entering, before regaining your composure. Despite the good lighting, it was actually quite cold inside even with the harsh weather of mid-winter. You take in the interior, a large staircase occupied most of the room, with a few doors branching into other rooms on the sides that led down two relatively dark hallways past the grand staircase. It was a pretty nice interior. A real shame that after tonight nobody was going to be there to maintain it.

The sound of echoing footsteps that were accompanied by a repeating thud brought you back to your situation. You looked straight ahead at the top of the staircase, waiting for what was about to come.

A figure shrouded in an indigo blanket emerged from the side, standing at the top of the grand staircase with a cane in hand. Even though you couldn’t see the figure’s face properly, you were almost certain you knew what they looked like.

The man that resided in this abandoned castle—a vampire that has a dedicated following of both lower vampires and humans who were desperate to either study him or kill him.

In your case, you were the latter.

“A visitor?” his voice booms, echoing throughout the room. Hearing him speak made your heart skip a beat, likely from the unfamiliarity of how you’d been expecting him to sound like. An accent that was unfamiliar to you, but almost fitting now that you thought about it.

“What brings you here?” he questioned, gripping the railing whilst slowly descending a few steps down the staircase.

“I…” you trailed off, your anxiety suddenly coming back now that you were about to execute your plan. There was no doubt that he could hear your heartbeat pounding in your chest.

You cleared your throat before speaking again. “I’m lost,” you answered. Your nails dug into the palm of your hand to try and ease yourself, not hard enough to break skin and cause bleeding, as that would be the worst thing to do right in a hungry vampires’ territory.

“You’re lost?” he repeated, sounding almost suspicious of you. Though you could have been overthinking it, given how nervous you felt.

You nodded your head. “A snow storm is approaching. So I came here to seek refuge for tonight.” you feigned a guilty expression, trying to act like you felt bad for intruding.

He remained quiet for a moment, considering your words. It almost felt like an eternity had passed by the time he decided to speak again.

“Very well then.” he turned to start walking back up the stairs. “You must be freezing. Come with me and I’ll light a fire for you,” he added, expecting you to follow him as he started walking off, to which you quickly complied.

You honestly couldn’t believe that he somehow didn’t doubt you already. Though you knew he wasn’t an idiot, so he was most definitely going to interrogate you more about you and your situation.

He led you through a dark hallway. Judging by the mild foul smell infiltrating your nose, none of the decor had likely been cleaned in decades. There were probably hundreds of different spider families residing and thriving in this environment, maybe even some extinct ones too.

You almost crashed into him when he suddenly stopped, before grabbing the handle to a door besides you both and opening it. Like a gentleman, he lets you enter the room first before going in himself.

Immediately you noticed a change within the temperature in this room. A fire has already been lit despite his words earlier, illuminating the room in a soft, orange glow. Large bookshelves filled a majority of the room, with some books scattered around on the floor. This was likely the library of the castle.

He stared at you, waiting for you to sit down next to the fire to warm up. You hesitantly went to sit down in one of the big red armchairs, watching him as he tossed more firewood into the fireplace. Once he was done with that he went to sit down in the identical armchair across from yours.

“My name is Viktor.” he stared at you, his golden eyes piercing and intimidating enough to send shivers down your spine.

“I-I’m (Y/N),” you squeaked out. He could definitely sense how nervous you were.

He straightened up in his seat, his gaze never wavering off of you.

“So, (Y/N). What exactly were you doing in the forest?” he asked, as if you were a criminal he was investigating.

“Oh, you know, winterberries!” you replied, forcing a smile.

“Winterberries?”

“Yes! I wanted to make some desserts that utilise winterberries, so I came looking for some!”

Another suspicious look crossed his face. “Winterberries don’t grow here.” He narrowed his eyes at you, clearly not believing your story.

“Oh…really?” you asked, your voice uncertain. You had made a big mistake, and he definitely didn’t trust you now. At least you were being genuine about not knowing something that apparently seemed like common knowledge to him.

“I was told that they did grow here though…” you lied. Nobody told you anything, you had just assumed that winterberries would grow in a place like this.

Viktor sighed, leaning back in chair and watching the snow fall outside through the window.

“You picked the worst day to get lost in a forest,” he said, turning his head back to you. “Especially with that snow storm you mentioned earlier.”

You awkwardly chuckled at his observation, figuring that since he likely assumed you’re a reckless traveller, you may as well play into it as best as you can.

He sighed again, before standing up from his chair and grabbing his cane.

“You may as well stay the night.” He slowly starts to walk away. “Come. I’ll take you to your room.”

You eagerly stand up from your seat and follow him back into the hallway. Eventually you both came to a stop as he opened another door into a guest room. It was a relatively average sized room with a large, white canopy bed taking up more than half the space. Dark dressers lined up the wall opposite the bed, leaving enough space to walk around in the middle.

“Is it to your liking? Do not hesitate to let me know if there’s anything you need,” Viktor said, leaning against the doorframe.

You turned around to face him, another fake smile plastered onto your face. “It’s perfect, thank you.”

He visibly relaxes at your words, a small smile appearing on his face. “Alright, sleep well then.”

“Goodnight.”

Viktor gets off the doorframe, grabbing the knob to close the door behind him as he leaves. You waited until you couldn’t hear his cane thudding against the floor before relaxing, but not completely.

You took your coat and boots off, placing them beside the bed. You made sure to grab your weapon out from one of the pockets of your coat before setting it down. A wooden stake, designed specifically for killing vampires.

You were going to kill Viktor tonight. To seek revenge, even if it wasn’t him who had wronged you all those years ago.

Untucking the white bedsheets, you slipped under them and laid down on the surprisingly comfortable mattress, slipping your weapon under the pillow. You settled in, wedging your dominant hand underneath your pillow for easy access. Now, all you had to do was play the waiting game.

Despite how cozy the bed was, you refused to even get a wink of sleep. Every creak of the castle or odd sound the wind outside makes sent your heart racing for a moment. Even though your body screamed at you to change positions every once in a while, you refused and remained the same.

It almost felt like an eternity had passed by the time you heard a sound that’s similar to his cane thumping onto the floor as he walked. It puts you on edge, making you take deep breaths to calm down enough so that he wouldn’t immediately notice that you weren’t asleep yet. This time, you really knew it was him with how continuous the thumping was.

And before you knew it, he was standing outside your door.

You heard it slowly squeak open, squeezing your eyes shut in response. He’s trying to keep quiet as he slowly crept to your bedside, his cane barely creating any noise as he carefully moved around.

He stopped when he’s standing right beside you, close to where you’re resting your head. Your grip on the wooden stake tightens when you felt his presence leaning in closer to your face.

You didn’t feel his breath on you at all, until he finally opened his mouth to get ready to bite you. You were about to strike before he could lay a single tooth on your skin, but his voice made you freeze.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

His words made your heart drop and your eyes shoot open. But before he could do anything to you, you pulled your stake out from under the pillow and swung backwards, striking his shoulder.

He yelled in pain, staggering backwards with a hand clasping his injured shoulder, his cane falling to the floor from where it was resting. You threw the thin bed sheets off of your body, standing up with the now-bloodied stake in your trembling hands.

While he’s caught off-guard and in pain, you took the opportunity to charge at him and strike again, adrenaline rushing through your veins. However, he’s a lot more alert than you assumed. Viktor dodged your attack by throwing himself against the wall, the harsh contact with his injury makes him bite back a yelp, as his eyes settled on your figure. Just from his gaze, you could tell that he’s furious with you, and that he won’t hold back.

Before you could even consider attacking him again, he charged at you powerfully. You only narrowly dodged him, but your good-luck streak ends there as your ankle gave way from the sudden and awkward movement you dodged with.

Your knees hit the wooden flooring, and you tried to scramble back up quickly enough. But you were too late.

Viktor’s hand grabbed your hair from the scalp, throwing you onto the floor in front of him, causing you to drop your weapon beside you.

The force of him tossing you onto the floor and the way you landed caused you to become winded. You gasped and coughed for a moment, desperately trying to recollect yourself and catch your breath.

Before you even realise that you had accidentally let go of your weapon, Viktor picked it up, examining it briefly before tossing it to the other side of the room. He then leaned down, pinning both of your wrists down and kneeling on your stomach with his bad leg. His now-red eyes were even more intense compared to just a few hours earlier.

The knee pushing down on your stomach constricted your breathing more, as you gasped and sputtered helplessly. If he didn’t kill you anytime soon, you’d probably end up eventually suffocating to death.

“Th-This—“ you cough “—isn’t fair…”

A confused look crossed his face. Even through his anger, you can tell he wants to know more.

He lessened the pressure on your stomach by lifting his knee. You took the opportunity to curse him out in what’s about to be your dying moments.

“Fuck you…” you spat, gritting your teeth in anger. “Your kind can kill my family, but I can’t kill you?”

Viktor’s confusion turned back into anger at your words, his grip on your wrists tightening painfully.

“My kind?” he spat back at you, distaste clear in his eyes. “You’re blaming me for things others have done?”

You felt a rage inside of you quickly building up, one that had probably been buried deep down for years and years and only now revealing itself.

“Shut up!” you attempted to shout at him, but your voice falters. “I know everything about you, about how they practically worship you!”

Viktor opened his mouth to speak, but you quickly cut him off.

“If your people can kill my parents, then why can’t I kill you?!”

You’re beyond furious, anger probably rivaling his own at this point. The pain in your wrist felt like nothing, so did the tears that fell down your face and landed on the floor. It felt like scorching hot lava is what’s coursing through your veins instead of blood to keep you alive.

He’s silent for a moment, considering your words. He didn’t even look as angry at you anymore.

“What do you get out of this? You’ll be no better than the ones who killed your family,” he asked, bluntly.

“Revenge,” you answered. “Then, I can die happily.”

Viktor looked shocked at your answer, guilty too,

“You’ll kill yourself?”

You nodded your head. The look on his face didn’t go away, making you feel angrier.

You didn’t need his pity.

He sighed, fully taking his knee off your stomach. But he didn’t let your wrists go, as if he was worried you’ll try something.

It took him a while to come up with a response, conflicted looks crossing over his pale face.

Eventually, after much consideration, he took his hands off you too and struggled to get up for a moment before using the bed for support. He grabbed his cane and walked over to where he’d tossed your weapon earlier. Though he didn’t give it back to you.

You sat up, watching his every move. Viktor turned back to look at you.

“You’re still young,” he said, mindlessly fiddling with the stake in his hand, as if it wasn’t a deadly weapon that was now partially stained with his blood.

“Living your whole life out of revenge isn’t worth it.” He slowly walked over to you. His gaze has softened, his eyes returning to the golden colour they were before.

“At some point, you have to move on.”

You wanted to protest at his words, give him your reasons for why you choose to live like this, but he shuts you down immediately by continuing his speech.

“I know it’s not easy,” he said, as if he were reading your mind. “I’ve lived for centuries. I know what you’re feeling.”

You grit your teeth again. “You and I are nothing alike.”

Viktor shook his head. “You and I are more alike than you realise,” he stated simply. “I’ve felt what you’re feeling for many years. The grief, anger, self-hatred.”

“You forget that I am immortal. I’ve lost many people over the years, and I can never just end my suffering.”

Somehow, you felt a pang of guilt. Perhaps you two were really more alike than you realised.

He reached a hand out in front of you. “Your life is finite, you shouldn’t have to live it like this.”

His monologue hits you hard. You gave up at him for a moment, processing everything he just said. It made your heart hurt. Why would he go out of his way to say all that to you, even though you just tried to kill him? It made you want to cry again.

After much thinking, you took his hand and let him help you up from your position on the floor. However, him pulling on your hand caused you to wince as pain shoots up from your wrist.

Viktor noticed it immediately, before you could even consider hiding it from him. A guilty expression crossed his face, knowing that he was the reason for the pain.

He ushered you to sit down on the bed, which you complied without a complaint. He thought for a moment, before remembering that your weapon was still on his person.

Viktor grabbed the wooden stake, holding it in one hand with the other laid palm-up in front of him. He used the stake to cut a line into his palm, biting his bottom lip to prevent any cries of pain from escaping his mouth.

He held his now-injured hand out to you. “Drink my blood,” he orders, as if it were the most normal thing to be drinking. You stared at his hand, a bewildered look on your face.

“My blood will heal your injuries,” he quickly clarifies, to ease your mind.

Somehow, that’s familiar to you. You must’ve read it in a book about vampires somewhere down the years of obsessive research. But you’re too mentally exhausted to dwell on it any further.

Despite how the idea of drinking someone else’s blood disgusted you, you took his cut hand in hours and brought it to your lips, suckling the blood oozing from it at an odd angle. You’re unsure when to stop sucking, feeling more awkward as the minutes pass by.

Eventually, Viktor tugs his hand gently out of your weak grasp. “That should be enough,” he said, examining the cut on his hand. “You should be healed by the time you awake.”

You wipe any excess blood off your face, looking down at your feet to avoid his gaze.

You didn’t know what to say to him. Do you thank him? Apologise for trying to kill him? Do both? You felt conflicted about expressing anything to him.

“…If you want, we can talk once you wake up,” he suggested, likely noticing your discomfort.

You considered his offer, before deciding to nod as a response to him. Though you couldn’t see it, a small smile appeared on his face.

“Alright, rest up then.”

You heard Viktor walk away, closing the door behind him as he leaves your room. It took you a minute before you got up from where you’re sitting, moving to tuck yourself back into the bed, this time without your weapon.

You stared up at the ceiling, quickly drifting off to sleep from how much this took a toll on your body.

You didn’t know what the future held for you now.

But somehow, it felt like you were going to be okay.

[letmedixonyou]

i'm not yours - part 7

summary: Daryl and you are (were?) friends. He's dating Leah. You told him you loved him and things fell apart. Will it ever go back to normal?

words: 3.2k

warnings: rough language, I have no idea what else so please do let me know! <3

A/N: Hello, my lovelies! It took me so long to write this because I was ill and then it was my birthday, so I spent it away from electronics and with my family. It was partly proofread, so sorry in advance for any errors. Hope you enjoy it!

~ 11 MONTHS AGO ~

The sun shone brightly through the tree canopies, shimmering in the nearby buckets of water and reflecting in the cars’ windows. Shadows danced gently on the ground, as the breeze swayed the branches. The air was warm, filled with the scent of the lavender bush that was growing by the road and the distant hum of the bees. You could hear the generator noises coming from a shed, and some birdsong in the woods. You sat on the soft grass, feeling the dappled sunlight kiss your skin. You could see Carol and Lori doing the laundry. You could still see Dale sitting in a foldable chair on top of his trailer, wearing his bucket hat and Hawaiian shirt, even though he wasn’t with you anymore. You missed him dearly, and your heart ached whenever you thought of him. He most definitely didn’t deserve to die. Not like that. Not yet. Andrea and Shane was nowhere to be seen, and Daryl and Rick were on a supply run for some medicine. Glenn and Maggie were chopping wood in the shade not that far away from the camp. Carl was playing in the sun with some sticks and stones.

To your right stood a big, white farmhouse that belonged to Hershel and his family. It was a modest, two-story building with a traditional American farmhouse style. Sitting on a large plot of rural land, it was surrounded by rolling fields and patches of woodland. The front porch, with its white railings and steps, offered a welcoming, rustic charm.

You met Hershel’s family a while ago, in an unfortunate situation of Carl being shot by Otis. Hershel helped nurse Carl back to health afterwards. Even though he was a veterinarian before the outbreak, he have done a great job saving the boy. Slowly, Carl came back to being himself and soon enough was bragging about being like his father - having a shot wound and having survived it.

Maggie and Beth, Hershel’s daughters, were the ones who convinced Hershel to let us stay around his farm for a while. Maggie had a good point in saying that there is strength in numbers, and Beth was adamant that they indeed needed more people around to help out, because Hershel was getting older and couldn’t do much much than he was already doing. He eventually agreed with reluctance.

You were really grateful for it, especially considering that some of you were not in the greatest health. Like you, who suffered a nasty cut on your ankle during the evacuation from the CDC. You have cut it on some rusty metal bars sticking out of one of the cars around the building. You were really lucky to find Hershel when you did, not just because of Carl’s shot wound, but because you were suffering from some type of infection, that not even Merle’s bag of magical drugs could cure. It turned out that a piece of metal was stuck in your ankle all this time, causing your body to try and fight it off, but it never could as the infection was happening over and over, no matter how many drugs you took. Hershel have taken out the smallest piece of metal and gave you some antibiotics, saying that a couple more days and the infection would’ve kiledl you. Soon enough, the fever and the shivers subsided. The wound looked less infected and swollen, but you still weren’t able to walk on your leg properly. It made you feel like a burden to everybody who was helping you move around.

While sitting under the tree, you were chatting away with Lori and Carol, who you made friends with along the road. I guess you could say you made friends with everyone in the group to some extent, and it felt like home with all of them. They all made the world a little bit better by being in it - some more than others. Especially Daryl, who you had been close with since he rescued you, but his confession at the CDC made you grow even closer. He worked tirelessly, helping out the group as much as he could. He usually wasn’t staying at the camp, with everybody - he preferred to stay away, alone in the field. But, because you weren’t able to do anything on your own, he took it upon himself to help you out. So, he moved closer to the camp, right next to your tent.

Daryl showed up with Rick after driving to the town for some supplies. He took the bag of medicine to Hershel and left some for our group. Walking towards you, he put his crossbow down on the ground.

“You alright?” he asked, sitting next to you. He pulled his knee up and rested his arm on top of it, as he looked at you with his blue eyes, his hair covering his face in a ragged fashion.

“Yeah,” you nodded to him and smiled lightly. “Feeling like I’m absolutely useless right now, though.”

“You’re not useless. You’re healing,” he gruffed out, shaking his head. “Being hurt doesn’t make you useless.”

“It sure as hell feels like it.”

“Let’s go for a little walk,” he said suddenly, standing up. He stretched his hand towards you.

“No.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion.”

“You’re giving orders now?” you looked at him amused.

Before you knew it, he hooked his arm around your waist and stood you up, holding you tight. You fly up and you have to hold onto his arms to steady yourself. As you put both of your feet down on the ground fully, you feel some pain in your ankle and you wince. You knew that part of the recovery was making sure you move the ankle and put weight on it to regain some strength and balance, but it didn’t change the fact you hated moving when you were in pain.

Daryl held you close as you walked, or should we say hobbled, on the gravelly path around Hershel’s house. With each step, you felt your foot going a bit more numb, but you kept on going. The sweat drops showed on your forehead. You squeezed Daryl’s side harder to make sure you were not gonna fall. Daryl stopped in his tracks for a minute.

“I got you,” he said and looked over to you. “We can stop and have a breather if you want.”

“No,” you breathed out. “I can get to that bench over there.”

You pointed to a small bench under the big oak tree, and Daryl nodded once, turning slightly before you walked further. The bench was on a slight downward hill, which made it harder for your ankle. You struggled for a couple of minutes, trying not to grunt in pain. You took slow, small steps towards it, your hands clutching Daryl’s top so hard, that your knuckles were turning white. He wasn’t stupid. He could see it on your face, how much you struggled, so he scooped you up in one swift motion and carried you, princess style, for the remaining distance to the bench. Once you were seated, you sighed deeply and smiled at him.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said, taking a deep breath. You wiped your forehead with your forearm and licked your dry lips. “I could’ve done this.”

“Oh, really?” he said, looking me up and down with some type of amused look. “That is a brave comment to make when I could clearly see your face was contorted in pain.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t in pain, I said I could’ve done this.”

“And hurt yourself even more in the process? Yeah, I don’t think so.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile never left your lips. It wasn’t like Daryl, to care so much about people, but once you make a family out of strangers, it changes. And he cared about you the most out of everybody. You were so dear to him, the closest friend he’s ever had.

You stayed on a bench for a little while, talking about Daryl’s day of supply runs and stupid jokes Rick made before Daryl took you to your tent and gave you a worn-out book from Dale’s trailer. You thanked him, seeing how the book can be a great distraction from the fact you were stuck with a hurt ankle and couldn’t help out with anything. You settled on your cot bed and you read that book pretty much in one evening.

The next day, everything was going smoothly, until the evening. You and the group were sitting in Hershel’s house, talking about future crops to plant, water and medical supplies, when you heard a gunshot. It was close, ringing through the walls of the house. You all got up abruptly from your seats and ran towards the doors. Getting out on the porch, you saw Rick running, shouting something about walkers. Seconds later, you all saw a large group of walkers, appearing from the darkness, and all of you started to scramble around, trying to get guns and weapons to fight them off. 

You hobbled towards the house, and grabbed your knives, putting them in a holster. Then, you reached towards your machete. It was clean, so clean that you could see your reflection in it. Your face was calm but your eyes panicked. You quickly avert your gaze from it, and you step out onto the porch again. You tried your hardest to ignore the pain in your ankle. Your people needed you, so nothing was more important. 

Looking around, you tried to find Daryl, but he was already out there, firing the arrows at the crowd of walkers. He was a good shot, all his arrows landed in walkers heads.

You quickly made your way down the steps and started killing the walkers with blows to the head, your machete bloody and bits of skin and brains all over it. Soon enough, the group got broken up, and everyone flew in different directions.

You find yourself in a situation where you were sure you couldn’t escape from. Your breathing quickened when multiple walkers cornered you off against the side of Hershel’s house. The chaos of the situation was getting to you and you frantically searched with your eyes for anyone from your group, but no one was around. You swung your machete, killing some of the walkers, but there were more and more of them pooling around you, and there was no way you could outrun them with your ankle. Your eyes started to water, thinking that this was definitely your end. How could this possibly get better? - you thought to yourself.

Suddenly, Andrea popped up in the corner of your eye and shouted something intelligible to your ears. Most of the walkers turned to her, and began walking towards her. She broke into a run and it gave you enough time to hobble out of the situation. You turned left and you grunt slightly, trying to weave around the walkers as well as you could.

One of them grabbed your shoulder and yanked you towards them. You took out your knife and stuck it inside his eye socket, some blood spilling on your face and your clothes. You closed your mouth just in time for the blood to stain your lips but not get inside of them. Before you could turn and kill the other one, that was lunging towards you with their bare teeth and eyes rotten and green, an arrow flew through the air and killed it with a pop. You could’ve sworn you heard the skull breaking and the flesh ripping.

“Come on!” Daryl yelled at you.

You broke into a run, ignoring the shooting pain in your ankle. As soon as you got to him, he wrapped his arm around your waist. Swinging his bow to his back, he took out a knife from his belt. You moved quickly through the horde, killing any walkers in your vicinity, until you reached Daryl’s bike. He put you on it, swinging your leg effortlessly around the seat, before swinging his own leg around, sitting down and kicking the starter pedal. The bike roared to life. He told you to wrap your hands around him and you have done so. He accelerated forward, taking you both out of Hershel’s farm.

“You came back for me?” you asked once you were on the road, away from the walkers.

“I couldn’t let ya die now, could I?” he said. “I knew you were in no condition to make it by yourself.”

“I thought I, for sure, was a goner.”

“Not gonna let ya die, as long as I live,” he said looking through his shoulder and at you. His smile was barely visible, but not to a trained and knowing eye like yours.

~ PRESENT DAY ~

You woke up with a headache the next morning. Your head felt like it’s been bashed in multiple times, leaving your brains scrambled and confused. The light coming from the window was almost too bright to look at and the sound of people outside the house was as loud as someone putting an air horn to your ears and pressing a button. All you dreamt about was some painkillers but you knew that hangover wasn’t the greatest reason to use up the already small medicine stash Alexandria had. So you settled for a shower.

As soon as the cold water hit your body, you shivered and your eyes widened, like someone injected you with adrenaline. You wash your hair while at it and then get out of the shower, feeling a bit better, although the headache persisted just a tiny bit. You were for your lookout tower duty, so you jolted around your bedroom, trying to find a clean pair of socks and combat boots. When you finally got dressed, you walked out of your home and jogged all the way down to the lookout tower by the gates of Alexandria. Rosita, who had an entire night shift, looked at you, impatiently tapping her leg. Her arms were crossed on her torso and her mouth was contorted in a slight annoyance.

“You’re late,” she says, observing as you're climbing the ladder. “I hope you have a good reason for it.”

“I got drunk last night.”

“Good enough for me.”

You laughed when Rosita said that and hugged her. She began to tell you about a date she has with Abraham later and shared some explicit details of what they’re going to do. That was all Rosita. Always really honest and straightforward. You didn’t mind at all, and you secretly put all the things she described to you in a little vault in your mind titled ‚shit to do with my next partner.

The day was long and quite boring. Nothing crazy happened. You thoroughly took notes on everything - every walker outside the gates, every opening and closing of the entrance, what ammo you used and if you used any. That was basically the job of a person that was on a watch tower. And it was probably the most boring thing you could do around Alexandria. You knew that you'd rather be out and about, collecting supplies or hunting, but everyone had their duties shared fairly.

Spending an entire day on the lookout tower, you were happy to go home, when Sasha came and switched with you. You gave her a rundown of what happened during the day and then made your way down the ladder and down the street.

It just so happened that you had to walk past Daryl's house to get to yours. As you were walking, you heard some noises coming from the inside of the building. You didn’t think much of it, you just thought it was loud music as Daryl liked to listen to some music pretty loudly at times. But as you were about to pass the house, you heard a loud crash and then a boom.

You turn around at the speed of lightning and you look at Daryl’s house. The living room window was broken, the glass and wooden frame were in pieces, and the yelling emerged from the inside of it. Almost at your feet, there was an old vinyl player, also in pieces. You could see the few plastic bits that broke off of it and rolled in many different directions. Your eyes widen at the sight, and you turn your head towards the house, your body freezes in place. You couldn't see anything but you definitely heard every single word.

„Leah, please, don’t be ridiculous!” you hear Daryl’s raised voice. He sounded frustrated and confused.

„Ridiculous? RIDICULOUS?! You’re the one who’s being ridiculous!” Leah’s voice sounded like screeching, and you could tell she was crying.

„Where the hell is this all coming from?! You didn’t care about it last night or any other fucking day! Why now?!”

The smell of cigarettes gets to your nostrils and you knew almost immediately that Daryl was stressed out and angry. He only ever smokes when his emotions are a bit too much for him and he’s looking for something that will help him relax. Usually, he had a few packs hidden around the house for easy access.

„How comes I don’t know shit about you? Not one thing?” Leah’s scream sounded desperate. „How come she knows more than I do?!”

"She doesn't know more!" Daryl's voice resounds in the air, a roar that could only come from a man who is slipping into a rage mode.

"Oh, don't fucking bullshit me! I could see it in her eyes! She knows you! She knows things about you! Why aren't you telling me shit?! I want to know you, too!"

Your heart stops in your chest realising that they’re arguing about you. Oh, God.

There is a deafening silence after Leah’s last words and you chose not to stick around for more. This wasn't meant for your ears. This wasn't something you should listen to. Shaking your head, you looked at the vinyl player on the ground. It was completely broken. That bitch, you thought to yourself, feeling a bit frustrated at Leah yourself. You picked up the pieces, threw them into your pockets and lodged the music device under your arm. You decided on taking it with you before someone helps themselves. You started walking away, but you could clearly hear the next words Leah said to him.

„This whole relationship is fucking bullshit! You’re not worth it, you’re not worth me or my love! You are nothing! Just a stupid, little man that is too broken to care about someone as much as they care about him!”

You almost stopped and turned on your heels. You wanted to storm inside and let her hear a piece of your mind, but you didn't. It made your blood boil. The way she spoke to him. The way she assumed he didn’t have feelings, because he didn’t share some past experiences with her. The way she thought that he didn’t love her, because he didn’t tell her things about himself. And the way she said he was nothing and worthless. That there made you thirsty for blood. It was the farthest from the truth. He was worth it. More than anyone. He deserved the world. And more.

You quickly made your way home, not wanting to hear anything else, the vinyl player under your arm. The words echoed in your head like some kind of mantra.

[writtenbyshama]

Memory Theatre (Sylus x Reader)

Synopsis: Y/n is a protocore researcher who is looking for answers about how an aether core got lodged into her heart and why is it messing with her brain. In the midst of this elaborate maze of dead ends and false answers, she encounters a man who seems to be very interested in her and is willing to find ways of providing her with the answers she's seeking.

Author's note: Y/n is not a hunter; she is a Master's student (not based on myself at all) and a part time protocore researcher at the Association. No changes to Sylus, although there may be situations in the story where he might be a little out of character. Mentions of the other LADS men, but they are not the love interests here.

Chapter 9: I Get To Be A Lab Rat

Sylus’s living quarters were on the topmost floor of the skyscraper which was supposedly Onichynus’s base in the N109 Zone.

The twins flanked me in the elevator as it rode down to the ground from the sixtieth floor. They were silent, and hadn’t taken off the bird masks. I didn’t venture to talk either, thinking over all that happened to me after the auction, repeating stuff to myself and trying to find a connection before I forgot any detail. 

Sylus didn’t have any use for me and obviously didn’t need my resonance capacity, and yet, he’d rescued me from the kidnapping attempt and offered me food and a temporary shelter to rest. And before all of that, he’d deployed his pet to keep an eye over me. He was the kind of man to calculate every possibility before doing something, so what was his angle here? Had we met before and I’d forgotten our history? It was possible, but I wasn’t sure that I’d forget a face such as his. 

Outside, the moon had just risen for the evening. It seemed that these people always operated nocturnally. Sylus had showered and changed into an all black biker outfit and was leaning against a silver motorcycle. 

The twins left us alone and I walked towards him, recognising the make of the bike. “I have the same model but in the darkest shade of green.”

 He’d been looking at the expanse of the courtyard and turned his head at my approach. “I know.”

“How do you—“ I stopped myself. Of course he knew. Mashi, or Mephisto had my entire history on pages of a report. “Where’s my bike now?” I asked instead.

“Still there where you initially parked it.”

“Right.”

There was no one else in the courtyard. You’d think a man of his status would go around with an army of bodyguards, but Sylus didn’t need any. I noticed his gaze roving appreciatively over my clothes, a black top with matching trousers that fit me perfectly.

We looked at each other in silence for minute before he broke the eye contact and handed me a helmet. “Do we know each other?” I asked quietly.

He didn’t answer directly. “What do you think?”

So we definitely had history. 

He straddled the bike and started the engine. I fastened my helmet properly before climbing on, keeping some space between us and clasped my knees for support. However, he took off at such a speed I was forced to lean forward and press myself against his broad back, my arms hugging his middle. A harsh intake of breath from him rasped in my helmet from the mic. I didn’t comment.

He traversed through the streets with a speed that would’ve gotten him fined in Linkon. I found myself enjoying it, even when it was ironic: a government worker breaking traffic rules with the most wanted man here. 

About fifteen minutes later, he screeched to halt in front of a low building similar to the warehouse I had walked into for the auction last night. I slipped off the helmet and followed him through the metal door. 

The layout inside was also familiar. 

The foyer was a balcony, overlooking a large metal furnished hall sunk deep into the earth. The ceiling rose almost twenty feet above, hung with rusted metal parts and empty, half-broken chain links. Before I could step up to the railings and see below, a door opened to our left, revealing a middle aged man in greasy coveralls. 

“We are already closed for business—oh, Mr. Sylus.” The man fumbled a little and bent into a small bow. “It’s been a while since you’ve been here. What can I help you with?”

The man hadn’t noticed me yet; Sylus stepped aside and pointed at me. “She has a protocore fragment in her heart, but can’t resonate with my evol. Check and recalibrate her evol linkage.”

The man glanced at me and his face shifted into an expression of horror for second, as if he’d seen a ghost. He quickly schooled it into a nonchalant expression and led us in. 

I followed warily, not knowing what to expect. This could be a charade to extract my aether core and leave me to die. But for some reason, I didn’t find it in myself to panic and run away. The man led me to a room filled with machines and made me sit down and swiped an alcohol swab on my temples and collarbones before sticking electrodes there. I caught glimpses of Sylus sitting on a leather chair nearby and playing with an electric taser. 

“Close your eyes, miss,” the man requested and I obeyed.

🗡️🐦‍⬛🗡️

The arena was shaped like a tiered amphitheater and I found myself standing right in the middle, facing a large metal door.

I took a look around, and Sylus materialised next to me like a hologram coming to life. “What’s this?” I asked him, bewildered. 

He shrugged and cracked his knuckles, pointing his chin to the door that was slowly creaking open. “Time to check if the alteration worked.”

I took a deep breath when the bulkiest wanderer I’d ever seen stepped out. Its modified protocore shield was so powerful I could see it shimmering with naked eyes. Alright, this was just an attempt to take my life indirectly. 

Regardless, I concentrated on my evol and glanced at Sylus, whose face gave away nothing. “Ready?” He asked. 

I swallowed. “Let’s do this.”

His faint smirk was the last image in my mind as I shifted my focus on the wanderer and erased everything else. I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling the resonance power surge through me. However, I still couldn’t resonate with Sylus. Ugh, how tiresome. 

Sighing, I concentrated on the wanderer’s protocore since I had no other choice. It was rapidly advancing toward us. 

Sylus lazily twirled a finger in the air pulsing with his red mist. “It’s your time to shine.”

Taking another breath, my mind went to frenzy as the resonance clicked with the protocore.

🗡️🐦‍⬛🗡️

Writing fan fiction is my way of practising my skill as an author. If you'd like to show appreciation and be a part of my journey in publishing full-length novels, do follow me on Instagram/Wattpad/Tumblr at _writtenbyshama. Happy reading!

Part 1: Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

[rohvee]

WIP Wednesday, the meet-nerd 🖤

—

Jayce had nearly forgotten about the exchange—until a few days later, when he stepped into his lab and found a stranger standing in the middle of the room. 

A sharp pang of irritation flared in his chest. 

“Hey, this area is off-limits. How the hell did you even get in—” 

“Your calculations on chiral entanglement are incomplete.” 

The voice was smooth, thickly accented, matter-of-fact. Jayce froze mid-step, his words catching in his throat. 

“Excuse me?” 

The man turned slightly. “You are accounting for time distortion within the Beach, yes, but your equations assume a constant gravitational influence. Chiral space is not bound by such constraints.” He gestured lazily toward the scrawled equations on the large holo screen of the far wall. “You need a variable to account for the fluctuations. Otherwise, your model collapses at high densities.” 

Jayce blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. He followed the man’s gaze to his own notes, scanning the numbers.  

Finally, he shut his mouth and took in the stranger properly. 

He was shorter than Jayce, as most people were, his frame rail thin. He leaned heavily on a cane, kept the weight off his right leg. His cheekbones were razor sharp, his complexion pale. A mole sat below his eye, another just above his lip. Waves of chestnut-brown hair cascaded halfway to his shoulders, a shock of light blond peeking out from underneath.  

But what struck him most were his eyes. 

They were chiral gold. 

“You must be Viktor,” Jayce muttered. He wandered deeper into the room, the door hissing shut behind him. He stepped up to the holo board and ran his gaze over the calculations, rubbing his chin as he rearranged the numbers in his mind to account for Viktor’s correction. 

And—damn it. He was right. 

How had he not seen it before? 

He felt a rush of heat—startled, flustered. He had spent his life studying chiralium, was regarded as Runeterra’s foremost expert on the subject, and yet this stranger had waltzed in and pointed out a flaw he hadn’t even considered. Embarrassing. 

And yet… exhilarating. 

Jayce exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “Alright. That could improve data transfer stability. But it still doesn’t solve the real problem—how to move physical materials through the Beach.” 

“No, it doesn’t,” Viktor conceded, tilting his head slightly. “Tell me, what do you know about tar?” 

Jayce frowned. “It manifests in BT-dense areas,” he said slowly. “And in places where voidouts have occurred.” 

“Indeed—regions where the boundary between our world and the Beach is thin.” Viktor tapped his cane idly against the floor. “Do you know what happens when an object falls into a pool of tar?” 

Jayce gave him a look. “You don’t get it back.” 

“Correct. Even after the tar recedes, the object is gone.” Viktor’s gaze was sharp, pinning Jayce in place like butterfly wings. “It has been speculated that the tar acts as a buffer of sorts—a conduit between worlds. It is where BTs come through, yes, but it is a two-way gate. Anything swallowed by it here is transported to the Beach.” 

Jayce’s eyebrows shot up. 

“I’ve never heard that theory.” 

“It is not widely accepted,” Viktor admitted with a wry smile. “But reports from Jumpers would appear to support it. Buildings appearing on their Beaches. Objects from our world.” 

A thrum of excitement shot through Jayce, the gears in his mind turning at full speed. “If we could track travel through the tar...” 

“Then we could quantify the relationship between entry and exit points,” Viktor mused. “And then, perhaps, we could learn how to direct it.” 

Jayce's hands were already moving, clearing a space on his cluttered desk to pull up a holographic interface. Equations, schematics, old reports—his thoughts racing ahead of his fingers. “We’d need controlled experiments. Objects with tracking devices, maybe something embedded with chiralium to send the data back—” 

Their conversation tumbled forward in a rush of mutual excitement. Jayce had never encountered someone who could not only keep pace with him but push him to rethink his assumptions, recontextualize his own expertise. He had spent years dissecting the properties of chiralium, convinced it held the key to bridging the gap between cities, between worlds, but Viktor was opening an entirely new avenue of thought. 

Jayce had always regarded the black, viscous liquid as a byproduct, an environmental hazard. That tar was a phenomenon to be avoided or mitigated. But Viktor approached it differently. He spoke of its composition, the presence of d-amino acids—a biological anomaly in a world built from l-amino structures—suggesting that the tar was not simply an inert remnant of the Beach, but an active medium. A birthing pool for new forms of life. 

The implications sent a thrill down Jayce’s spine. 

The more they spoke, the clearer the picture became. Jayce had spent years staring at one half of the equation, never realizing he had been missing the other. Tar and chiralium—two sides of the same coin, inextricably bound.  

Jayce had already forgotten why he was angry at Mel for bringing Viktor here. For the first time in months, he felt something other than frustration. He felt the edge of a breakthrough.  

It wasn’t until he caught Viktor struggling to keep his eyes open that he realized how much time had slipped away. He glanced at the clock, startled to find it was already late, their enthralling discussion having consumed the hours without notice. 

“You must be tired from the trip,” Jayce noted, studying Viktor more closely. The man looked haggard, exhausted. “When did you get to Piltover?” 

Viktor stifled a yawn, setting the tablet down on the desk he had been leaning against. “A little after noon.” 

Not long before Jayce had discovered him here. “And you haven’t slept?” 

Viktor shrugged, gave a noncommittal hum. 

Jayce stared. A multi-day trek through unstable terrain, past BT-infested zones, and he hadn’t even stopped to rest. Most people would have collapsed into bed the moment they arrived. He was impressed, but he supposed he should have expected as much. The kind of mind that could keep up with him like this—of course it belonged to someone just as obsessive. Just as willing to push past human limits, no matter the toll. 

He understood, but concern still nagged at him. There was something here—something gravitational, pulling him in with a force he’d never quite experienced before. He felt himself drawn in, his focus shifting toward Viktor like a satellite dish locking onto a signal of interest. The last thing he wanted was for him to keel over before they’d even begun. 

"Well, I think we’ve done more than enough for one day,” he said, stepping forward, his hand landing on Viktor’s narrow shoulder. Viktor glanced down at the contact in a sort of detached curiosity before flicking his gaze up to meet Jayce’s. 

For the tenth time that day, those golden eyes startled him. 

“Let’s go figure out where they’ve put you up and get you settled.” 

For a moment, Viktor hesitated. Then, with a slight nod, he fell into step beside Jayce, cane clicking as they headed out the door. 

[authorhjk1]

Hwasa X Moonbyul

(I apologize for writing this so late. Someone requested this, but it somehow got lost in my inbox. I can't find the original request anymore. I hope this is what you had in mind.)

"Got you."

Moonbyul's eyes widen in surprise, before she spins around. But it's too late. She barely manages to catch a glimpse of the furry handcuffs that close around her wrists with a fateful click.

Hwasa spins her back around, pushing her forward. The older of the two stumbles forward, against the makeup table. She sees herself in the mirror, bend over, hands cuffed together, still in her stage outfit.

"Wait...!"

Moonbyul realizes what's going on too late once again.

Hwasa has already pulled her pants down to her knees. It makes it impossible for the blonde to get away, or properly move even.

"Where is it?"

She can't see it, but she can hear the youngest rummaging around in her purse. After a couple of seconds, Hwasa looks at her through the mirror, a triumphant smile on her lips.

"Found it."

Moonbyul swallows hard, knowing what's next. It seems like Hwasa still isn't over the fight from last night. She should've known. Moonbyul should've seen this coming.

She unconsciously rubs her thighs together as she watches the younger one pull out what she was searching for. Her eyes are glued to the large black strap on in her hand.

"C-Can't we talk this out?"

Hwasa shakes her head.

"I'm sorry, unnie. The time for words is over."

Moonbyul can't do anything else, but watch as Hwasa starts to put the dildo into position. After securing it around her waist, Hwasa gives the blonde a slap on her naked ass cheek.

Moonbyul involuntarily let's out a moan.

"Seems like you want to be punished."

"N-No."

Hwasa chuckles, before pulling down Moonbyul's panties. They are simple. Just white fabric. But a small wet spot is already visible.

"Don't get too excited."

Her mocking tone makes Moonbyul shiver.

She closes her eyes, expecting Hwasa to thrust into her without warning, or build up, or anything. Instead, she feels the younger one's hands groping her chest. Her tits are still covered by her skimpy top, but her nipples harden at her bandmate's touch. The black plastic grazes the skin on her ass as Hwasa leans forward.

"Can't wait, huh?"

Moonbyul's eyes shoot open.

"No. I don't-Ouch!"

Hwasa pinched one of her nipples through her top. Moonbyul's breasts are very sensitive. Especially when she is turned on. She doesn't want to admit it. But it starts to become quite obvious.

"Let's see..."

Whispering more to herself than to Moonbyul, Hwasa reaches underneath her unnie with her left hand. A gasp escapes the blonde as she feels a finger invade her pussy.

"Tight and wet. Just how I like it."

"Pl-Please. Can't we talk about this? You're always so rough, when-"

A loud spank shuts her up. Hwasa grins as she watches the blondes cheek ripple. Her hands wander over Moonbyul's back towards her waist. Her strap on is resting against her bandmate's folds.

"Time for some fun, unnie."

Moonbyul escapes a low grunt as she is pushed forward. Hwasa buries herself deep inside her pussy, making Moonbyul hiss in pain.

"Nice, huh?"

The blonde's eyes are closed as she tries to get accustomed to the size. But Hwasa doesn't let her. She quickly pulls out, before thrusting into her again. Moonbyul gets rocked forward once more.

And so, Hwasa soon starts to get into a relentless rhythm. Moonbyul is powerless, only able to moan and scratch at the table's surface as she gets railed from behind. Her eyes are closed, not wanting to see the younger one's smug grin on her face.

"It's so easy to fuck you. You are so wet."

Hwasa's compliment falls on deaf ears. Moonbyul's moans drown out any other noise. Her hard nipples rub against the cold white surface of the desk. The result of being pressed down by one of Hwasa's hands.

The younger one now moves that hand around Moonbyul's waist. A moment later, she feels a finger on her clit, slowly starting to move in circles. She knows she is done for. There is no way she can resist Hwasa, when she wants to make her cum. But how is she gonna explain this to the people who come in later? A shiver runs down her spine at the thought.

The combination of Hwasa's powerful thrusts and her finger on her clit bring Moonbyul to that edge of the cliff. As her body keeps getting rocked back and forth, her nipples rubbing against the wood, she knows it's only a matter of time until-

Moonbyul suddenly stops. Only a second longer and Moonbyul properly would've cum. The older one shakes, almost cuming untouched.

"Fuck, Hwasa."

She groans, well aware that Hwasa is having the time of her life.

"Call me unnie."

"What?"

Moonbyul can't believe her ears.

"Call me unnie and I let you cum."

"No way. I-"

Hwasa starts pounding her again without warning.

"Oh, fuck!"

Moonbyul is send back into this mindless state, almost where she left off. It only takes Hwasa a couple of thrusts to bring her close to climaxing again. But just when Moonbyul is about to cum, Hwasa stops again.

"Oh, damn!"

The blonde groans. The pleasure in her body keeps rising and rising, but she can't find release. The pressure inside her is building up.

"Say it."

"No way."

Moonbyul's breathing is heavier than before, but she doesn't want to give in.

"Suit yourself."

Hwasa begins to fuck her again. Slower this time. Almost too slow. Moonbyul feels how the hard plastic drags along her walls, the friction starting to become too much.

"Do it. Admit you're mine."

Moonbyul shakes her head.

Hwasa reaches forward with her free hand, the other one is still slowly rubbing the blonde's clit, and takes a fistful of her hair. Pulling at it, she forces Moonbyul's head up.

When her eyes eventually open, Hwasa immediately starts thrusting into her again.

"Oh, god!"

Moonbyul bites her lip at the sight in front of her. Hwasa, in her black leather top and jeans, fucking her from behind and pulling her hair. While she can't do anything. Her hands are still cuffed, her legs are still tied by her own pants and panties.

The finger on her clit brings Moonbyul towards her braking point. Fast. She breaths faster, trying to hold it in. But as she gets closer and closer, she realizes she already lost.

"Unnie!"

A second later, Hwasa lets her cum. Moonbyul's body shakes, her legs buckle. Her juices, which have only run down the length of the black plastic inside of her until now, are now gushing out of her. A puddle quickly builds on the dressing room floor as Moonbyul orgasms, bend over the table.

"Good girl."

[queenburd]

fic time fic time. been working on this one in pieces for maybe a couple weeks.

takes place a little after file paths. will be on ao3 with the collection tomorrow! This one's about.... well, it's about the Confusion run, in a sense.

----

There is… a restless energy to Stanley. He drums his fingers against desks and doors, and on the rails to catwalks, and on his thigh. Rat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat.

It all serves to make the Narrator rather nervous, but he sticks faithfully to the script for many runs while the thrum-drum persists, until finally Stanley prompts him—

[ I want to do the Confusion Ending. I want to do it until you remember it. ]

“The Confu—on repeat? That seems, I don’t know, rather tedious, don’t you think? Why would you possibly want to subject yourself to what, based on what I’ve gleaned from you, is an exceptionally long ending, over and over?”

Rat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat.

“I—look, it’s different, I won’t deny that the preferred story is quick to run, it’s not the same thing! You’re talking about slogging through multiple resets sheerly to—what? Ensure I have the entire path memorized forward and back?”

Rat-tat-tat.

“…Yes, I admit this work-around I’ve sorted out regarding remembering endings needs some fine-tuning—but even so! Can’t we just, oh, I don’t know, play it by ear? We shouldn’t have to brute-force the thing… it’s a precise instrument, not a wall to beat against! It’s my mind, for heaven’s sake!”

Rat-tat-tat.

“But—Hmph. Fine, fine, you’re the one who wants to subject himself to this anyway, who am I to stop Stanley from his all-important decisions? And all for my benefit, of course. How considerate.”

Stanley’s fingers stop drumming the desk.

“…ah. Too much?” Sheepishness leaks into the Narrator’s voice. “A bit too facetious? Too on the nose? I admit, it’s difficult to feel grateful when we’re dealing with this sort of thing.”

Rat-tat-rat, on the desk.

“Tell you what—give me a sort of run-down before we get started, that way I’m not going in totally blind. I don’t expect we’ll change anything, and in fact that's not the point of my asking, but if I could just have some kind of a reference, then I bet we can build off of it in the future!”

Stanley may not look terribly convinced, and the Narrator gets the sense Stanley thinks he’s trying to stall (only a little!), but the man spins his chair to fully face his desk and reaches for a blank sheet of paper and a pen.

-

“Wait! Stanley, go back, and look at that fern!”

Dutifully, the protagonist stops and treks back to the large plant in question. The Narrator examines it alongside him curiously.

“This fern… you didn’t mention the fern to me, before we began this ending, did you? No, you would have mentioned something so integral, of course you would have!”

Stanley’s studying it, or rather the Narrator can tell he’s making a show of doing so. He appreciates it; he imagines that usually he would draw great attention to it, demand it be studied closely. After all:

“It’s so peculiar! When I perceive objects in your general environment , there’s this low-level, near-about imperceptible note about, oh… hit boxes, and interaction, and relevance to an ending. You sort of learn to just tune it out, it only ever matters when you choose to mess with it. But here! Goodness— I know you can’t see it, Stanley, but it’s like the equivalent of a flashing neon sign pointing at the fern! Look! It’s significant to the story! Pay very close attention!”

The Narrator laughs.

“What a bizarre little artefact of the game’s design! Good fern, though. Excellent bit of shrubbery.”

Stanley nods.

-

“Alright, so, yes, at the beginning of our last run we… ehm… we discussed something…” He tries not to sound terribly lost, like a child who hasn’t studied for his exams, and he really, really doesn’t want to stoop to asking for a hint. The fact he can’t properly remember already narrows down the list of endings they could have done, right?

Stanley’s fingers drum against his desk. The Narrator inhales sharply (or at least, it sounds as though he does).

“Right! Yes! The Confusion Ending! That—yes, I remember that, you wanted me to practice remembering endings!”

Stanley gives him a thumbs up. Feeling vindicated, the Narrator pushes on.

“Right, okay, we… we went to the maintenance room, that, okay, yes, and—“

He wracks his brains, but very little he can recall seems strung together in any cohesive manner.

“I know I reset, I must have reset a few times, though I can’t for the life of me recall why. There was a lot of wandering around, I think?”

Stanley’s expression is a little pained, but he seems unsurprised. His fingers continue to drum. The Narrator tries to ignore it in vain.

“And there was—why was there a bush, of all things?”

[ A fern, ] Stanley tells him.

“Hm. Weird.”

He hems and haws for a few empty seconds before finally admitting, defeated, “No, I’m afraid that’s about all. Hardly a very good system I’ve devised, trying to access these memories. Maybe I’m just not meant to have them, Stanley.”

[ You remember more than you have before. This is good. I want to try again. ]

“You’re sure? Well… okay, if what you want is for me to get enough pieces each time to get the gist of how this goes, I can’t say it’s the worst plan ever formed. I can’t say I’ll ever retain the full details, but—I guess it’s better than nothing.”

The voice sighs.

“But try to pace yourself, won’t you?”

-

“What I don’t understand is, where does the story even go? I mean—Stanley, have you ever tried the doors that were the original left and right doors, to um, to see if you can’t make it to the original story regardless?”

Stanley nods, walking quickly through the hall and taking a right turn; he ends up facing the doorway behind the chairs in the Doors room. The Narrator sighs, lost and impatient.

“Although I can’t see why you would. Always poking your head into places it’s not supposed to go; I’ll bet you didn’t even consider the original doors on your first go around, too eager to explore. Well, sorry to say, pal, but I’m looking at the map from the outside now, and there’s not a lounge in sight. We didn’t know how good we had it.”

Stanley’s made it back to the Doors room now. He lifts a hand and lazily gestures, wrist twisting and fingers loose. His other hand rests on his thigh. It’s begun to drum again.

“Yes, yes, I know I need to reset, I’m getting there. I’ll remind you that you’re the one who wants to keep playing this thing, walking these paths, looking for god knows what—“ the voice cuts itself off before the building irritation in its voice can climb to a proper tirade. “You know what, fine. I’m sick of these weird halls anyway. Anything’s got to be better than this, at least.”

-

“Although, I suppose there is a kind of humor to be found in that kind of a map,” the fellow reflects, when trying to recount the run after the ending is over. “There’s something very referential to it, an homage of sorts if you think about it! Lots of cartoons from, oh, I think the 90s, would have a similar gag, to pad runtime and add humor. A nice long hallway with many doors. Pop in one, two minutes later, pop out another on the other side. So I guess I can appreciate the levity of the design!”

The protagonist is sitting crooked in his seat, elbow on the desk beside him and hand holding his tilted head, fingers pressed to his mouth. A look at him is enough to know he’s only barely listening.

“Um…”

He glances upward from where he’s been frowning into the middle distance. His fingers have been drumming again, over his mouth and chin.

“Look, I—whatever you’re trying to accomplish, you’ve more than met the mark, don’t you think? I mean, that I’m remembering specifics at all for something like this means it will only get better with time! We’ve shown it can be done! All credit where it’s due, your actions have—wait—where are you going?”

The Narrator watches, a little stung, as his office worker goes back to the room with the two doors, and he tries to get to his point because it’s clear, at least, what will happen if he doesn’t.

“Can’t you take a break from it? Why not run the freedom ending, or, the ending with the other games, something that isn’t just this again! I don’t—“

Stanley has gone through the right door, and he barely glances at the lounge as he crosses it. The voice doesn’t sigh, but it does feel a creeping anxiety it can’t explain. It’s made worse when Stanley gets into the lift and presses the button again and again, without a drop of patience.

-

It’s not that the Narrator necessarily forgets the Adventure Line™️ each time, although he does seem to forget where it ends up. Rather, the Line™️ itself is not as interesting as watching Stanley choose to either follow it exactly, eyes and hands tracing it when it climbs walls; or choose to disobey it when he can, peeking through open doors the Line™️ swerves away from. Even here, he’s rebellious. Even here, he’s cheeky and curious and silly.

This time, he barely looks at the yellow strip along the floor, and he only walks along the Line™️ without any of his regular attention to it.

Anxious, the Narrator tries for music to add a bit of merriment to the walk. Stanley, at least, can’t seem to help the slightest more spring in his step, so it’s not a total failure.

Even if, after the ending’s complete, the voice can’t help the tune being stuck in its head from time to time. It’s fun to hum, at least.

-

“Okay, this is your favorite ending, I get it. Here I thought you were a big fan of the broom closet ending, but now I can say with complete confidence that this, in fact, is at the top of your list. I get it, I do! I mean, what can beat that wacky music and the Line™️? And that fern? Talk about a no-brainer.”

Stanley crosses his arms and waits where he stands in the Two Doors room. Both doors in front of him are closed. His index finger taps where it sits on his upper arm.

“And it really does let me just go on, doesn’t it? Why, I’ve been reconsidering my perception of your view of me in multiple angles for multiple runs now! My understanding of the office, through the lens of your experiences of listening to me, it’s all incredibly titillating stuff, really!”

The Narrator knows that Stanley knows what he’s doing, but what else is he supposed to do?

“Truly, it’s so enlightening, I think I need a break to really process and digest it all properly, don’t you? Why don’t we relax, this run, and do literally any other ending, and really just let it settle. Hm?”

Stanley shakes his head. The Narrator groans.

“God, look, we can’t keep doing this. I’m sick of it! I’m sick of trying to sort out all these consecutive runs, do you have any idea how piecemeal it is? How much of a real headache it’s starting to give me, working out how these runs are structured while they start to bleed together and overlap? Are you punishing me, Stanley?”

Stanley’s face, which has been mostly placid, if a touch annoyed or bored, falls. It’s not the reaction the Narrator was expecting.

(If he’s honest, part of him expected that defiant lift of the chin, the grim spark in Stanley’s eye and the straightening of the spine—the admittance that he had, indeed, orchestrated this as a way to hurt the voice. Even if Stanley isn’t like that, sometimes the Narrator expects him to be. It’s complicated.)

The protagonist has the decency to look shamed. His eyes fall to the carpet and the tapping finger finally halts, because he’s opted instead to curl his hands into the fabric of his sleeves. He shakes his head.

“Then why? Why are you forcing the issue? What’s so important about me remembering this ending, every stark detail I can manage to scrape out of the mess of my fractured mind? You’ve been so adamant, and I—“ the Narrator’s voice trembles, losing all of the sharp frustration that’s been pointed at Stanley like a rusted blade. “I don’t know what you’re looking for, I don’t know what’s good enough that you’ll let it go. If there’s something you want me to remember, you need to tell me, because I—I don’t know what goalpost I’m supposed to be reaching for, that I can’t seem to find.”

Stanley frowns at the floor, brow lined with thought. The Narrator tries to wait, but then that blasted finger starts tapping on his sleeve again in a rapid rhythm and—

“My god, can you find a shred of patience for more than thirty seconds? It’s like you’re not even—are you literally incapable of even pretending?!”

The man tenses, and then his exposed hand curls into a tight fist and he drops his arms from across his chest, eyes darting around the room. The Narrator starts again, charged up, but he’s only half through the next word when Stanley holds both hands to chest level, palms flat, and quickly pinches fingers towards thumbs. He does it again, then again.

[ pause pause pause ]

Which really takes the wind right out of the Narrator’s sails.

“I… this isn’t a bit I’m doing, Stanley, I’m not acting for—“ he says haltingly, watching Stanley rub his hands over his face and then turn and fall into a seat in one of the chairs by the window. The man rests his weight on an elbow, holds his head up and covers his face with his hand. The other waves in the air to dismiss the rest of the statement. It’s recognized. This may not be a script, but Stanley’s asked him to stop before he works himself up into another lather, because Stanley doesn’t know what he did wrong.

“I thought I was being exceptionally clear about my problem with repeating this ending! Were you even listening to me? I can’t—“

Stanley readjusts in his seat, elbows on both of his knees, and he waves both hands in front of him: no, not that part. He knows the Narrator’s feelings on that, or he thought he did, even if he didn’t seem to understand the proper depth of them.

But the Narrator had started to wait for him to form a reply, and then—ah. From Stanley’s perspective, the Narrator’s follow-up outburst had been out of left field. Stanley was the one being impatient? Stanley was the one doing something wildly repetitive to try desperately to get them on the same page!

“You—don’t you turn this on me, about how this is for my sake! I acknowledged that numerous times, I gave you an excuse to stop, but you ignored me and it’s wildly clear to anyone that you’re resentful about it! It’s that tapping, Stanley! Look, you’re doing it now!”

And sure enough, when Stanley looks down, he finds his foot tapping quickly against the carpet. He glances up and asks with slight accusation, [ this is about me fidgeting? ]

“That is not fidgeting! Stanley, I’ve known you for countless runs now. I know what it looks like when you’re bored or you’re tired or you’re trying to get extra energy out after a Countdown run. I know what it looks like when you get lost in thought or when you get properly anxious! But that? That thing? You’ve been doing it for multiple runs, before we even started this whole Confusion ending mess, and even if you haven’t noticed it, I’ve spent the entire time painfully aware of my own inadequacies. My inability to just remember whatever it is you need me to remember, to give you whatever answer you so obviously want.”

The Narrator watches Stanley look down at his outstretched hands as though seeing them for the first time. When the man glances up again, he apologizes with hesitancy. He hadn’t realized he was being so apparent about some frustration—hadn’t even realized he was frustrated.

“Hmph. Ignoring the obvious untruth in that statement, when you clearly have some kind of end goal you’re working towards; you’ve always had incredibly obvious body language to me, you know. I may not always know what the language means, but your silence means you use other means to express yourself. None of this is meant as an insult!” The voice adds quickly, catching itself. “Honestly, if I had a protagonist that barely reacted to me, I’d probably go out of my mind trying to figure out the reasons for any of his actions!”

Stanley winces a little for reasons the Narrator can only guess at, but says, with a fragile attempt at a smile, [ You already do that with me. ]

“Yes, and that’s with you being this responsive. I can only guess I would be much, much worse off if you weren’t.” The Narrator sighs, allowing himself to finally relax after letting his outburst control his tongue again.

He still feels… not great. He doesn’t want to keep doing this ending and he doesn’t want to try to figure out what Stanley wants anymore, and, honestly?

“I thought we said we’d talk to each other. I’ve been trying to figure out what the point of doing this again and again is, and I’m sick of it, really I am. I wish you would just tell me, because it can’t just be that you want me to remember every moment, can it? Because—even if it’s that simple, I’m going to fail, Stanley, I can’t manage every moment like you want me to, and—“

That’s the crux of it, isn’t it? He needs Stanley to tell him what the right answer is so that the Narrator can stop feeling like a failure. Every time he hears that terrible drumming of Stanley’s fingers on a surface or his foot on the carpet, it’s a reminder that Stanley’s uninterested in the thing in front of him and wants something more. Is expecting more, and is being let down. This, the world around him that he moves through? It isn’t good enough.

The protagonist waves his arms in front of him, shaking his head. His grimace is apologetic and his eyes squeezed shut in sincere upset. The signs he uses are not necessarily frantic, but they are adamant, trying to emphasize.

[ Did NOT have a real goal like that. Swear. Don’t need you to remember specific instance, or every second. Needed you to have the gist of it. Wanted… ]

He frowns at his hands. He’s got a sour expression on his face, and the Narrator gets the funny feeling Stanley is coming to a kind of internal revelation, and is deeply displeased with what he’s found. Still, the man takes a deep, bracing breath, and explains.

[ Want you on the same page as me. Too many endings you don’t remember. I want to fix it, and I started with this one because it’s the most complicated one with resets and your memory. Also, ] he adds, with that sour look again, [ most fun of them. The other ones don’t feel good. ]

“So, let me see if I’ve got this right; you intended to go through all these endings that the game forces me to forget, one at a time, most likely on repeat, until I miraculously manage to have some idea of them all?”

Stanley looks prepared to argue this, but he scrunches up his face and acquiesces.

“And you didn’t think to tell me this?”

Okay, there’s the fidgeting the Narrator is familiar with. Stanley’s hands clench and unclench in front of him, and he squeezes the knuckles of one hand with the fingers of his other before swapping hands and repeating the action. Stanley hunches a little defensively, but his pinched cheek means that he absolutely concedes the point.

You see? The Narrator knows his tells.

“For god’s sake—Stanley, I know you’re not actually stupid, but you really give me reason to wonder sometimes, you know that? Here I am, honest to god trying to meet you in the middle, and what do I get? Half formed plans that aren’t shared with me. So much for a partnership!”

Ah, that one stings, if Stanley’s flinch is anything to go by. While causing upset isn’t really what the Narrator wants (really, what does he gain by making the man feel guilty?), it’s hard to stop him when he gets going.

“What, was I just supposed to figure it out? Didn’t I tell you that you play a critical role in guiding me to remember the endings? Yet I can’t help noticing that you haven’t given me any prompting to recall the past several runs, despite the subject matter! I’ve had to try to figure it out on my own, is that supposed to be fair? To try to work out bits and pieces while you sit there, knowing what happened, and not giving any clues? Just showing more and more signs of impatience, before making us do it all over again!”

[ pause. Pause ]

“Stop trying to—to-“ the voice has to force itself, really properly force itself, to take all the frustration and anger at Stanley (for this mess, for not communicating, for not helping, and now for trying to use their “take a break from the game” signal to stop its endless talking), and stifle it. Do you know how hard it is to try to clamp down on all those feelings, when you’re not at all accustomed to doing it?

Stanley’s shoulders are tightly hunched, his head bowed over his knees. A hand presses to the back of his exposed neck, protecting the vulnerable skin. The other makes its way over his mouth, covering it, fingers digging in and knuckles taut. The voice thinks that the only reason he is not in the fetal position is because Stanley is not on the floor.

Right. The Narrator knows this one more than he probably would like to, and the barest glance at the swirling mind confirms it. Shame.

…well, good! He should be ashamed! This was all entirely unnecessary!

Even so… the Narrator isn’t exactly skilled at restraint. Hasn’t he made his point? Why keep talking, rubbing it in? He’s made this whole thing about him, because the Narrator only really knows how to do that.

“Right, I… I think I’ve gotten my point across,” the voice says, with much less vigor behind it. “Okay?”

Stanley doesn’t move.

“Stanley?”

The hand over his mouth edges downward, over his chest. He signs, without looking up, [ sorry, sorry ], slow and repeating without end.

“I… Yes, well. I’m glad you recognize the scope of the issue now.”

[ sorry ]

“Okay, you’re sorry, apology accepted, could you please…” the voice sighs. “Do you need a minute?”

He nods jerkily. The Narrator resists the urge to harrumph, and keeps quiet while his protagonist presses both hands to his face and inhales shakily.

“….Stanley? Are you... You're not afraid of me right now, are you?”

A long, slow inhalation, before Stanley shakes his head. The Narrator all but slumps in relief.

“Oh, thank god. For what it’s worth, I…” he struggles with himself for longer than he’d like, but he finally wrangles his pride into place and continues, “I’m sorry for letting my temper get the better of me. I sometimes—well, I’m still me, after everything.”

Stanley shakes his head again, still in his hands, before he pulls back and tries to straighten in his seat. His face is a little ashen, terribly tired and sad. His hands wobble a little when he lifts them to sign, though it’s not the horrible tremble of a man on the verge of a breakdown.

[ I screwed this up. You’re right. ]

God, the Narrator has always wanted Stanley to tell him that he’s right, why does this have to be the context in which it happens?

[ I’m still not good at this either. I don’t know how to talk to you without— ] he clenches and unclenches his hands, failing to find the words.

“…without feeling combative, or defensive. Like we’re on opposite sides.”

Stanley nods.

“I do… I understand that, you know. You aren’t the only one who feels on edge all the time, unsure how to work with someone who might find it easier to fight you.”

[ You were trying to do it anyway, a lot longer than I was. ]

“I wasn’t very good at it, then or now,” he grumbles. “And besides, I only ever started because I finally got a clue that you weren’t actively a malicious little shit who wanted to see me suffer. You’re just a normal little shit.”

His tiny snort is a balm that soothes the voice’s ruffled and sore edges. It continues with some embarrassment, “you know, sometimes there’s still a part of me, nasty as it is, that expects you to do things just to hurt me. It’s as if, despite all evidence to the contrary, I’m braced for the moment you’ll go out of your way to crush me. Maybe you can’t destroy me in any real physical way, but—I spent such a long time telling you that I didn’t care about your opinion for me, or this game, that it didn’t matter to me at all, and it was a terribly obvious lie.”

The corners of Stanley’s mouth pull down, deep lines on his face. He knows.

“I’m not supposed to want or need your approval. You’re just Stanley, you’re not supposed to be anyone and your opinion isn’t supposed to matter to me, and yet, any disapproval was just so, so….”

The man nods.

They need each other.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is, I understand why it’s still very hard for you to tell me what you’re thinking. This isn’t… we’re not really meant to operate in the way that we’ve chosen to.”

Stanley shakes his head, eyebrows furrowing and gaze on the carpet in front of him. [ I should be trying harder. ]

“Listen you dolt, one of us was built to talk and the other was built to listen, and if you think you’re just supposed to be capable or even good at communicating because you want to be, then I’ve got bad news. If I have to practice, so do you. Luckily for you, I can and will be consistently and constantly reminding you of my needs because I am literally incapable of anything else.”

Much to the voice’s chagrin, Stanley seems to find this funny. The smile that stretches across his mouth is entirely involuntary, and why is it always such a relief to see Stanley smile like that? To see his forehead relax from the pinched frustration—Stanley looks so much younger when he smiles.

“Now, look Stanley,” it continues, “at the end of the day I can’t make you choose what to do. But I’m asking politely for you to do literally any other ending for a run or two. Frankly, I think it takes a lot of energy out of you, even if you won’t acknowledge it. And can I be really, uncomfortably honest with you here?”

The protagonist nods, shifting a little in his seat in discomfort.

“I don’t want to risk forgetting this conversation. These moments mean something to me, more than I can even begin to convey. Not to mention, I’ll lose my mind if you start with that infernal drumming again and I don’t remember how the hell to make you stop.”

Stanley has been looking up with a funny sort of slack expression (some kind of new awareness of the Narrator’s vulnerability, maybe, how embarrassing), but this last sentence has him looking at his hands again with a mild frown. He nods; no Confusion ending this go around, or perhaps even any time soon, but when he places his hand on the armrest, he’s very careful to emphasize the drum of his fingers once, and then again. It’s not a challenge insomuch as it’s a question, a clarification.

“Yes, Stanley, that. There’s also the tapping of your foot, although it’s different from when you bounce your heel surprisingly. I’d be remiss to not include when you tap your index finger. On any surface, really. I’ll admit I try to ignore it, god forbid the tantrum you'd throw if I told you you’ve no right to be impatient or frustrated in places, but god, imagine seeing it over and over and over. You can be really annoying, Stanley.”

He rolls his eyes, his fingers stilling on the armrest. Neither of them acknowledge the truth of the Narrator’s discomfort with it, but who needs to? It’s been said. This is about moving forward; one of Stanley’s favorite pastimes.

He’s aware of the issue now, aware of the habit, which means he can catch it and self-analyze and correct. Again, a thing to practice. In the meantime—

[ You’re really weird for knowing it’s different from bouncing my heel and the other stuff. You need to stop staring at me all the time. ]

“Wh—You are allergic to staying still, you don’t expect me to notice your stupid little habits after all this time? This is on me for paying attention to you and analyzing patterns?” Offense floods the Narrator’s tone, familiar and maybe even a little comforting to both of them. “Who in their right mind would be insulted about this? But that’s Stanley for you, rudest man alive.”

[ I’m supposed to be a boring office worker, ] comes the retort as the doors swing open and Stanley stands. He stretches, and goes through the door on his left.

“Stanley, the one thing I’ve managed to internalize, despite all the memory nonsense and the resets and the arguments and my own selfishness: you are far from boring.”

The dry delivery does not conceal the smile. Stanley matches it.

“Oh—another thing,” the voice adds while he moves through the meeting room. “Let’s hold off on any of the endings that you wanted to push vis-a-vis testing my memory, alright? Oh, I know, it’s important to you,” it responds quickly at his disapproving frown. “Only, you said yourself they feel unpleasant, and I feel confident in saying you and I could both use a little bit of time without suffering. Just for a little while?” The tilt of a question, like a peace offering, comes while Stanley approaches the stairs. It’s a very careful but real plea.

It matters that they get through the endings, yes. But even if the Narrator is being a little avoidant, trying to stall, it comes from a real place of wanting connection that doesn’t have to hurt either of them. He thinks Stanley appreciates that. They can bond outside of just trying to problem-solve, can’t they?

The protagonist stops before the door to the stairwell and sighs, thinking it over. He nods, but then lifts a finger.

[ Only if I can sit in the broom closet right now for as long as I like. ]

“B-why?” Is the flabbergasted response. “Why do you have to make that a condition, you could have just—what, you want me to be complicit in my own irritation at you? You want me to choose being irritated?”

He’s smiling and nodding, the little shit.

“Oh my g—fine, fine, but I’m not going to sit there quietly while you do absolutely nothing for who knows how long. I will not endure in silence,” it spits while Stanley turns and retraces several steps, swinging the door open so the voice can watch him stand in the middle of the room and turn to face the doorway, smiling.

For all the the two minutes he stands there (a blessedly short time, all things considered), the voice hurls insult after insult at him, and the smile only ever grows. Bastard. What an awful friend. The Narrator wouldn’t trade him or his happiness for anything. Not even for something as simple to make (or lose) as memories.

[intheorangebedroom]

hello, i'm the worst but i was wondering if you could post a snippet of the next chapter of TYBTM, no rush at all, whenever suits you well, but... i just finished my first re-read and cannot get them out of my head right now.

Hey Nonnie 🧡🧡🧡

You’re not the worst, you're the best, and I’m very thankful to you and for you 🧡 Your ask is like fuel, or vitamin D, it's giving me strength to keep going 🥰 I’ve recently been tagged by some lovely writers for the WiP Wednesday game, so thank you, too, @frannyzooey @whatsnewalycat @chronically-ghosted and @evolnoomym 🧡🧡🧡🧡

And Nonnie, here’s a very rough first draft of chapter 6 for you, along with all my love and gratitude 😌🧡👇🏻

“What do you mean, the room is taken? Taken by whom?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I cannot disclose this kind of information.”

Raul’s affected attempt at hotelier’s etiquette has Frankie scoffing into the receiver. Or is it Joachim? No, you said his name was Raul.

“Wait, it’s taken now, but it is booked tomorrow? I just need it on tomorrow. Friday. Just move your costumer to some other room, I’m pretty sure you got plenty of vacancies.”

Why is he behaving like an ass to this poor man who’s only trying to do his job properly? Why is he getting so nervous over this? How does it matter if you’re not in room number 2, this week?

“We have vacancies, but I am afraid I cannot ask the lady to change rooms, sir. She hasn’t specified a date for the end of her stay.” 

Frankie feels like a bucket of ice is being poured over his head in slow motion.

“What lady?” he rasps, his throat suddenly parched. “Who’s in there? Is it the– Is it the woman who comes in every week? With me?”

Raul doesn’t answer, but his silence tells Frankie everything he needs to know.

“Alright, thanks,” he snaps, hanging up hurriedly. 

An hour and a half later, he’s pulling up into the motel’s parking lot. Lupe has been gracious enough to agree to pick up Lua from day-care, even though Thursday is his day, so he’s got the rest of the afternoon to sort this out. 

This is foolish. He, is foolish. Your car is not even here. He’s probably overreacting. 

The thing is, his gut instinct tells him he’s not. It’s almost a familiar dread. Like the vision he had on Christmas evening. Your lonely silhouette sitting by the window on the edge of the bed.

He gets out of the truck swiftly, with a quick glance at the reception office, and walks straight to room number 2. The place looks even shittier in the bright afternoon sun. The contours of the low building are pressed flat by the blinding light and the heat. The lime wall between rooms 2 and 3 is streaked with deep, long winding cracks. The paint on the porch’s poles is chipped, it comes off the dried out wood in large, crispy flakes. The hanging lights are rusty and the base of the railing is moldy. 

Once more, guilt squeezes his chest tight at the thought that he’s made you come here, week after week. That you tacitly agreed to it, and never said a word. That you kept coming back. Back to this place. Back to him, too.

The door is locked. He rattles the doorknob again, harder this time, more to shake off his own frustration than to achieve anything else, really. The yellow curtains are drawn, and no matter how hard he squints, he can’t see jack shit inside the room. 

He’s probably overreacting. 

What if he picked the lock? Just to make sure you’re not in here?

“Jesus,” he sighs heavily, running a palm over his face, “the fuck is wrong with me?”

He stands in front of the door a while longer, head hung and hands propped on his hips, so still he can feel the sweat beading on his nape. Eventually, he lifts his cap and combs his fingers through his hair, then turns around and steps down the porch. 

He’s halfway to his truck when your sedan appears at the end of the road and turns into the parking lot.

—

NP tags!!! @secretelephanttattoo @jolapeno @juletheghoul @saradika @mrsmando and anyone who wants to share 🧡

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚📚🦮🦮🦮🦮🦮🦮🦮🦮🦮🦮

Hiii!

Okay 51 new sentences for 📚:

---

See, when Ravi dropped out of college, his parents had been scared for him. Convinced he was throwing his life away to become a city employee. Like it was a dirty word. His father, one of the owners in a large property management company, had felt the need to take matters into his own hands. I won’t stop you from following what your heart says is right, Ravi, he’d said. But I also will not leave you without a safety net. He’d always thought his safety net was exorbitantly rich parents, but apparently not. Apparently, he needed properties. To begin building his own generational wealth. His father, therefore, put the ownership of two apartment complexes in Ravi’s name. One in Montebello and one in La Cienega Heights. 

The latter building was smaller. Only six units, one of which Ravi lived in. It was close to work. Easy to manage. And yes, a good asset to his name. The Montebello property - much larger - and the one across the street his father was pushing him to buy? A way bigger chore. One that Ravi was finding difficult to manage. 

“No,” Ravi shook his head. “No, I wasn’t just going to sell it.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Anil said, doing an excellent impression of sincere curiosity. 

“I was going to talk to you,” Ravi promised his father. “About taking it back or selling it. Investing the money properly. Letting the funds accrue.”

His father looked crestfallen.

“You did this behind your father’s back?” His mother asked. 

“No, no.” Ravi said again. “I haven’t done anything.”

“Well you talked to Shin.” Anil dropped another colossal bomb. 

“You talked to an agent at a rival brokerage to your brother’s?” His mother gasped, like Anil accused Ravi of stabbing him.

“I talked to my friend, who is familiar with the area and prices.” Ravi clarified. “It was one lunch.”

And how word of that got to Anil, Ravi did not know. 

“You don’t sell a gift, Ravi,” his father chastized. 

“It’s not…” Ravi sighed. “Look, I’m keeping the La Cienaga place. Montebello is too much for me, right now.”

“Too much for you to manage? Free real estate?” His father retorted.

“Pops, between all the shifts I’m working, and the drive out that way more than once a week, it’s been a lot,” Ravi tried to appeal to him. “I need down time. Time to decompress. I don’t do well if I-”

Anil scoffed. “So this is an autism thing, then.”

---

30 for 🦮:

---

“Are you sure?” Bobby asks.

“Yeah,” Buck nods. “Trainer says it’s my choice.”

Bobby smiles giddily. “Well, good. I love dogs.”

Buck grins. He misses Bobby. He visits sometimes, but it’s different from being here everyday. It’s different when it feels like he’s visiting out of some strange guilt.

“Also, I made everyone wait up there so they don’t overwhelm her,” Bobby says. Buck looks up. Sure enough, Hen, Chim, Eddie, and someone Buck has never seen before are standing at the rails of the mezzanine, looking down. “But we can bring coffee and lunch and everything down here so you don’t have to use the stairs.”

Buck gives the team a small wave before answering Bobby. 

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Buck says. “I can do stairs. It’s good to get practice in.”

He doesn’t want any more accommodation than he already has by bringing a dog in with him. He’s fine. He’s capable. 

“Okay,” Bobby nods. “Well, then up we go.”

Buck walks towards the fire station stairs as if he isn’t at all daunted. Not just to be climbing them, but to be climbing them with a dog. He’s definitely nervous. And he’s definitely going to feel a little wiped afterwards. Bobby walks ahead of him, and then Buck focuses on climbing each step the way he’s worked on in physical therapy. Foot first, then prosthetic.

[nullfier]

the small office floor is bustling with guests, holiday tunes blasting from the forbidden speaker that was typically kept hidden ( for very obvious reasons, a result of kunikida and dazai's on - going office wars ), local channel projected over the presentation board — there is an air of comfort and belonging that has settled nicely. especially once the punch had been properly spiked, the eggnog bowl almost empty. yosano could not recall the last time the building had been so full, so many new faces, and in the wave of it all, her attention always returns to him. they escape it all, finding momentary peace outside on the balcony overlooking the nearby lake, where smaller parties were taking place. noisemaker still in his mouth, she faces him, chin tilted as she gently removed it from him to use it for herself, brow lifting as she blew at it, the sound loud and abrupt. she could spot strands of his hair lightly lifting from the air. “ biggest mistake getting these. it's going to be insufferable for the next few days. ” removing it from her mouth, she slips it inside his pocket, and then opts to wrap her arms around his torso, underneath his coat. she doesn't realize how cold it'd gotten, the sweater she'd worn doing little to keep her warm and she steps closer until they're chest - to - chest, mischievousness dancing over her features. in the distance, she could hear the countdown start. “ here's to another crazy year with you. with us. ” magentas flickered from amber hues towards his lips, and then back up. teasing grin stretches, “ wanna do the world's longest kiss ? ”

winter's chill and the quiet rush of wind are a comforting difference from the excitable noise from the office, the celebration filtering through the doors and windows and beyond the balcony itself, carried in the air from the lakeside where the lights twinkle and people shout their promises kept this year, and those they anticipate to uphold in the next. dazai blows the noisemaker before she takes it from him, releasing it from between his teeth and squinting as she blows through it and the sound meets his ears, the air meets his face with an upward turn of his lips. a hum of laughter, side of his body leaning against the railing as he watches her, fond warmth pooling in his eyes as yosano nears, slips her arms around his form and steals the heat from his body. he lets her. “ kunikida's already trying to confiscate them. buzzkill. ” mischievous gleam flitting across auburns as he pats his pocket. “ lucky me, i've already hidden ten of them. ” idle fingers come to take off the new year's headband that kyouka managed to slip onto his head when he wasn't paying attention, too busy taking in the sight of the celebration inside with distant gaze still laced with affection for those in attendance. the ears of it large and sparkly and donning the numbers of the new year, bobbling this way and that as he instead chooses to crown yosano with it, leaving empty hands to settle at the sides of her face, warming her cheeks. dazai sighs, the edges of it contented despite the dread of another year lived coming to a close, a feeling that never leaves him. but standing at her side it becomes more bearable, he thinks. the corners of a promise to live another year not just surviving become a little less cold and unwelcoming. “ you like it crazy. ” as if she'd ever refute it. he fixes a bump in her hair, in the process tilting her face closer as he mirrors the movement of her gaze, the dawn of the next year reaching zero as their lips brush. “ ah—thought you'd never ask. ” an explosion of warmth and colour, fireworks dancing across clear sky as the distance between them diminishes at last, after dancing around the crowded room all night waiting for a moment for themselves. a bitten smile into the slide of their lips, caught between a desperation for one another and commemoration, kept close together under love and light.

[musclesaber]

Merry ChristMASS Chapter 2: Santa's Workshop

[Story Gallery] [First Part] [Previous Part] [Next Part] [Latest Part]

After some introductions, the group is introduced to their first test. Building a toy train. How hard could that be?

Back in the room, the four are getting settled in. Eating cookies and talking about each other’s lives. Their hobbies, their families, what they do to be so charitable. Their conversations were interrupted as their hosts walked back into the room.

“Okay. If you all will follow us, we’ll get you to the workshop for one of our first tasks,” said David as he motioned them to follow him. They left the building that they were currently in and through the snow.

“So we’re really in the North Pole sir?” asked Bruno.

“Who’s this sir? I told you to call me David. Saint David if you want to get technical, but David is fine. And yes, you are. I transported you all from your respective homes through magic,” said David.

“Is that how you deliver presents every Christmas Eve?” asked Peter.

“In a way. Remember when I mentioned Father Time? Every Christmas Eve, he has agreed to stop time for us in order for all of the presents to be delivered. Old Saint Nick did use the reindeer from time to time, but ever since we made our deal with Father Time and I learned a little teleportation magic, it’s been easier this way.”

“Couldn’t you just teleport all of the presents at once?” asked Vincent.

“We tried that once. It was a disaster. Wrong presents were scattered across the globe,” said David

“Yeah, that was a bad year. Everyone was generally mean that following year and it plunged the world into World War 1. And then there was Nick. He nearly blew up,” added Joseph.

“Blew up? Santa Claus nearly blew up?” asked Rafael with concern.

“He was fine. Nothing I couldn’t handle. But ever since then, we’ve just tasked Santa with being teleported to each home in order to ensure that each gift gets delivered properly,” said David. They finally made their way to a set of two large wooden doors.

“Gentlemen, welcome to Santa’s Workshop.” David opened the doors, and they were met with a bright light as they entered the room. The men rushed to a railing in front of them and saw blinking lights, lifts, and conveyor belts moving toys all over the large room. Men in tight uniforms tinkering with toys below them.

“Where are the elves?” asked Vincent.

“Oh we got new elves a few decades ago. Far different from what you’ve seen in the media. As Christmas gained more popularity, the demand for bigger, better, and generally more presents became too much for the poor elves. We created a new type of elf in order to take their place. These new elves have the original strand of elf DNA with some dwarf thrown in for strength along with some human DNA for some height to them.” The men looked at the many muscular men that were clad in tight pants and tank tops. “And they’re pretty easy on the eyes.”

“Getting back on track, this is where all of the toys are created,” said Joseph. “All of the elves are assigned a specific toy they need to make. They have supervisors that know everything about a group of toys and then each level of the chain of command is broader until you reach Santa and I. We each should be knowledgeable on all toys or any gift that someone might ask for from a teddy bear, to a PS5, to a dildo.”

“I should get one of those for my husband,” said Peter.

“Oh you have a husband Peter?” asked David.

“Yeah. Michael and I have been together for 3 years now.”

“Oh, how sweet. Want another cookie?” David snapped his fingers and a bigger cookie appeared.

“Sure. These are delicious.” Peter grabbed the cookie and started eating.

“Not a problem. Now to test you all a little bit.” David snapped his fingers and four doors appeared in front of them. “You will need to build a toy. Nothing too extravagant. Just a basic child’s toy,” said David.

“Excuse me sir. I have no knowledge on how to build toys,” said Rafael.

“This is a very basic toy that even some monkeys have been able to build. Joseph, take it away,” said David

“Sure. You all will be creating a toy train. You will have 10 minutes to complete this and all of the tools you need are right in your room,” said Joseph.

“Enter your rooms and we will begin,” said David. The men walked into their respective rooms. Each room was about 10x10 feet with an 8-foot-tall ceiling. In it, there was a table with various tools sitting on it. Each man took their seat behind the table and a mirror appeared where the door just was.

“3, 2, 1, Go!” flashed the mirror. The men started to work on the trains. Bruno breezed through this task as performing surgery multiple times on people has prepared him to work with his hands on this task. Vincent also picked up on the train and the mechanics of it all. Rafael took his time on figuring out how each piece fit together but was making good progress.

Peter however was having an increasingly more difficult time with putting the toy together. Hearing soft sounds from below him as he continued to put everything together. So focused in on the task in front of him, he did not notice his ball gut growing below him. He was only brought back to reality when his pajamas he had been wearing started to ride up on him. He looked down and clutched his gurgling gut as the sounds got louder and louder. He felt it pulse outward with each release. His shirt running up his torso as his belly fought for more space.

“Excuse me David, I think I have a problem he-“*GLOOOOOOOOORRPPPP* Peter clutched his belly as it ran into the table with that burst. The only response that was given to Peter was a blinking number on the mirror saying, “7 minutes”. Seemingly unaware of Peter’s grievance. Peter looked back down at his train and tried to continue as his gut only grew bigger.

“What did you do to him?” asked Joseph, seeing the display going on in Peter’s room through the one-sided mirror they put on the wall.

“Oh nothing. Just wanted a little show before he leaves. I also realized I should have put another stipulation in the magical search. Hot, gay, selfless, and SINGLE. I’m no homewrecker. Once he loses this challenge, he’ll go back to his husband and deflate by morning with no memory of what happened,” said David

“Okay, but why’d you have to do this to him?” asked Joseph as he motioned to the ever-expanding gut on Peter that has swelled to the size of a beach ball.

“Oh that’s for him and his husband. I saw that the two of them are into the inflation fetish so it’s a little “I’m sorry for almost stealing your husband” gift,” said David. Snapping his fingers again, a new phrase appeared in front of the contestants, “5 Minutes”.

Peter saw the mirror’s warning and was getting worried. His belly had only been growing since the first warning. Letting out more gurgles as his gut started to push the table away from him. He could feel his fingers begin to chub up as he tried to work. Becoming too sausage like to work with the tiny parts. His shirt and pants began to rip as he gained more and more weight.

“What is happening to me?” *BBBBBRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTT* came his stomach as it surged forward knocking over the table. “I know I had a few of those cookies,” *GLOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRPPPPPPP* His stomach hit the floor with that one. “But Rafael had way more!” *SWEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL* His stomach reaching the other end of the room and forcing Peter to fall out of his chair.

David snapped his fingers to reveal a new message that read “2 Minutes”. Peter no longer cared about the competition. He was consumed by his growth. His body had reached immense proportions. His clothes had become just pieces of fabric thanks to his ever-growing form. Now standing up, Peter’s stomach rested flat on the floor and was getting closer and closer to the ceiling.

“Fuck it!” *SWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLL* “If I’m gonna be big,” *BBBBBBBBBBBRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTTTT* “I’m gonna be fucking big!” *GLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRRRPPPP* Peter had fully embraced his belly as he filled the small room. His gut pressing into the ceiling and beginning to press into the walls. With his back presses up against the wall behind him, he could feel the pressure of each wall pushing against his belly. 

“It’s getting a little cramped in here!” *SWWWWWWWWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLLLL* “Please stop!” *BBBRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT* “I’m gonna burst!” *GLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP*  He braced himself when the pressure became too immense when suddenly he heard a bell.

“Times up!” David snapped his fingers and doors appeared again on the rooms. The other three men walked out of their room with their finished products. David and Joseph walked by each contestant judging their work. “Excellent job Bruno, love your attention to detail,” said David.

“Good work Vincent. A solid train,” said Joseph.

“Rafael, your train leaves a bit to be desired. But with some practice, I’m sure you’ll be a master in no time,” said David.

“Hey, where’s Peter?” asked Bruno. The five men turned to look at the unopened door. David walked up to the door and turned the knob. The door immediately swung open to reveal a wall of flesh pouring out of the doorway.

“Peter, how are you doing in there?” asked David. Peter felt a bit of the pressure be relieved from his stomach when the door opened, and some of him got out.

“Uh well, I’ve been better,” came a muffled voice from behind the fat.

“Do you think you can get out of there?” asked David.

“I don’t think so. It’s a pretty tight fit in here,” again came the voice from the doorway.

“Alright then. I’m gonna get you unstuck then. You all should probably stand back,” said David as the four men took some steps back. David snapped his fingers and there was a loud *GGGGGGGGGGGGGGLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP*. The wall tore down like it was paper by the belly that charged toward the men like a locomotive. The gut even broke down the walls of the other rooms as it fought for more space.

“Couldn’t you have just broken the wall down yourself?” asked Joseph.

“Of course I could’ve, but this way was more fun. James! Francis! Would you come get Peter out?” Two 6’6, well-muscled elves appeared on each side of Peter. They grabbed at the fat and pulled. With loud pop, Peter flopped out of the room.

“Wait, that’s Peter? All of that is Peter?” said a perplexed Rafael. The once slim man had morphed into a large orb of lard that was well over 15 feet tall. The two men rolled the ball of a man over so that the others could see the rest of his body.

“I’m sorry to say, but Peter, for not completing your train, you have been eliminated from the competition. Any parting words?” asked David

“Not at all! This is incredible! It’s an honor just to be nominated!” yelled out Peter.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. Now Francis and James will escort you out.” The two men got on one side of Peter and started to roll the overinflated man out. The other contestants started with a mixture of shock and lust as Peter left them.

“Now gentlemen, shall we continue on with our tour?”

[verishere]

Chapter 7

Previous next (not out yet, will update) Masterpost

This takes place JUST after part four. Part five takes place well after this. Yes I'm out of order, no I don't care, if I ever fully compile this properly I'll fix it.

Context: How age works

Berloin and Nrolin walked down the hill of Vrenda.

Nrolin, who had designed most of the city's public walkways, radiated pride as they walked. The walkway was paved with cement, pressed flat and painted white, while the outlines and rails were made of gold. They were walking down the stairway side, while on the other side, a Numen in a wheel chair rolled up the ramp. It was the perfect way for building roads over slopes, and not only was it practical, it maintained the beauty the rest of Blonciku's road boasted.

Most would have been tempted to chastise her for the open pride, but Berloin was a Lililnu. He understood.

They were heading towards Calkoras' forge for city orders. Calkoras was Blonicku's lead practical smith. While most of the other blacksmiths have dedicated themselves to artistry, Calkoras almost exclusively made nails and tools and such for Blonicku. His last artistic project had been when he'd made his forge, and since then he'd put his Skill to work.

His forge was his home. Or rather, at least 70% of his home was taken up by his forge. He had a kitchen, a bedroom, a bathroom, and a forge larger than all of those combined. The building was wide, black in color, and all the fittings and fixtures were created by himself. Most of the forgework on display had markings, telling a story or a design about some experience in his life.

The brazier out front showed, on the bottom of it, a depiction of when he was held by Kuthribruth in his western dungeons, two figures standing above a smaller one, who had chains stretching from his limbs. Beneath this was simply the word "pain." They had never commented on it, and they never would, unless he did first.

Berloin knew not to knock. He didn't mind if they barged in, and even if they did knock, he wouldn't hear. He was almost certainly at the forge.

They walked into the house, and as expected, heard the repeated sound a hammer striking metal through the wall. They opened his forge's door and sat down at the fireside table just beyond it. He would notice the door was open and, once he could take a break, he would greet them.

It took a few minutes for them to hear the hammer stop, and a few minutes after that for him to actually walk over, sweat dripping down his face as he did.

"Majesties." He muttered, dropping himself full body to the chair.

Nrolin swiped at his arm. "You know you don't have to greet us like that."

Berloin nodded and added, deadpan, "Should just say Your Majesty. Nrolin's the only monarch here."

Nrolin shot her tongue out at him.

Calkoras chuckled tiredly. He'd clearly been at it for hours. It took him a second to start, but he caught his breath and said "business, or pleasure?"

Nrolin grinned, and answered, "Both!" and dropped onto the table a bag full of parchments, commissions attained both from the cities populace and from the Crowns, which was jingling with the sound of the coins at the bottom.

Calkoras took the bag and counted. Fourteen parchments were inside, though few of them were large. Mostly it was commissions for fixtures in a few of the new homes being built, and one message for a consultation.

After a moment, he put the bag next to him on the ground and turned back to his guests, asking "So, did little Liam like the jewelry?"

Berloin blinked. He turned to Nrolin, and saw that she had turned to him to ask the same question. They looked back and Calkoras and Berloin asked, "What?"

Now it was Berloin's turn to blink in confusion. He glanced between them a few times, before saying "...They didn't tell you, did they?"

Berloin shook his head. "Tell us what?"

Calkoras chuckled for a moment and leaned forward on the table, "Axel was taking Liam around the city a few days ago and they stopped here for Liam to see how I use my Skill. They told me about his interest in the process of forgework but not in anything you've shown him, so they tried my practical side. He was even more bored here, but he was looking at some of my jewelry the entire time." He gestured at the earrings he was wearing as he spoke. "Axel said they'd been planning on taking him to Blueya, but they didn't really know where she lived or how to contact her, when I said i knew her and offered to reach out for them. The way they said it, I thought it was Dowan's idea."

Silence, for a moment. Then Nrolin put her head in her hands. "We are fucking idiots."

Berloin nodded his agreement, though he was smiling instead. They'd been trying to get Liam interested in a Skill, but while he'd been interested in the process of forgework, he never cared for anything they made. Weapons, swords, fittings, tools, patterns, most of the engravings, he didn't seem excited for. They hadn't thought of jewelry, since no one in their family really wore any. Dowan and Nyra wore earrings, but that was it.

Calkoras nodded, grinning still. "I asked Blueya if she could meet with them, and she said she would today. Did they really just not mention it?" He got up and walked over to the

Berloin shook his head again. "Axel just said they were going to the city with Liam, nothing specific at all. I had no idea."

The front door opened, and Axel walked in, looking exhausted. They blinked at the group, probably expecting Calkoras to be alone at the forge.

Calkoras lifted a hand in greeting, and asked, "how was the jewelry?"

Axel glanced at all three of them and groaned.

They sat down next to Berloin and said "Liam is going to be so mad."

"What? Why?" Nrolin asked worriedly.

"He got a gift from her and he was so excited when I told him no one knew we were there. He wanted to surprise you and lie about where he got it from." While they said this, they reached down into their pocket and pulled out a letter, presumably from Blueya.

Berloin took it and read it, tuning out the conversation for a moment.

Liam clearly delights in my Skill and would like to see more of it. I have given him a necklace that I'm sure he has already shone you, made of silver with a ruby set at the bottom. I'd be able to meet him again any time next week, just message me first, and if he still wants to I'd be happy to apprentice him when he's old enough.

-Blueya

Finally, they'd found a Skill Liam might enjoy. It had only taken four months of trying.

Looking up from the letter, Berloin saw Axel facing Calkoras, a finger pointed at his face. "...You didn't tell me she can't talk sometimes!"

Berloin snorted as Nrolin almost spilled her cup holding in her laughter. Axel was only twenty two, and they had the gangly limbs and youthful face to match it, but they were tall for their age, putting them just an inch taller than Calkoras was. A tall, lanky child is putting their finger in a grown, strong smiths face and shouting at him, which is apparently more than Nrolin could handle.

Axel shot their grandma a glare, still pointing at Calkoras, and Nrolin finally laughed out loud.

[smileygoth]

8. You Should See Me In a Crown (Inspired By a Song, Month of Darkness 2024)

I'm thinking more of the Otep cover than the Billie Eilish original (just more to my taste), but both are good!

CW: Blood.

Image is of the BEAUTIFUL Dani Divine, found on Pinterest.

Find the Masterlist here!

The next night had Christina wishing she was still on the sofa watching tv with her ghoul. Yet another party at yet another of the capital’s Elysiums, and she was stuck watching one of her clanmates give an incredibly pretentious speech about their latest series of paintings. Paintings that hard clearly been done in their own blood. Christina could tell by looking at the faces of some of the other Kindred in attendance that many of them were doing their best to ignore the tempting smell that permeated the canvases set up all around the ballroom the event was being held in. She was aware that she probably looked the same. She hadn’t fed for a couple of nights and it was all she could do to keep her fangs retracted.

The artist was a skinny woman with long, poker-straight red hair and skin that was pallid even for a vampire. Christina suspected that she hadn’t fed recently either. They’d been introduced, but Christina couldn’t remember her name and didn’t care to. Pretentious milkweeds like that are why other clans look down on us, she thought bitterly. If I ever get like that, stake me out for the sun.

The artist was giving a speech about the symbolism of using her own vitae for paint, something about power and rarity and other such edgy, self-involved blatherings. Christina looked round at all the glazed looks and vacant expressions and decided she could get away with slipping outside. She slid silently behind a large canvas to her left, gritting her teeth as her Beast stirred inside her at the smell of blood. Fucking idiotic idea, putting a bunch of bloody paintings in a room full of vampires. If someone doesn’t kick off tonight I’ll be very surprised. And if they do, I’m going to crucify the Keeper.

She wouldn’t, though. That wasn’t her job. All she could do was yell at them and then report them to the Seneschal, who would decide if it was worthy of bringing up to the Prince. She sighed heavily as she tiptoed to the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that opened up onto a narrow balcony. She needed some air. If it was up to me, the Grand Keeper would be able to make, punish and remove Keepers as they saw fit, she thought bitterly. Instead of being some glorified tattletale. There’s no real power in this position. Damn Prince needs to learn how to delegate. If I were in charge….

She paused, leaning against the stone railing and looking out over the city. This particular Elysium overlooked one of London’s large parks, so the lights of the buildings were more distant tonight. For a while she stared off into the darkness, letting her mind drift, imagining being in charge of the city, all those lights, all those people. One day, she thought with a small smile. One day I’ll run this fucking city.

It was a silly thought, given how powerful the current Prince was, so she indulged it for only a moment longer before dismissing it with a shake of her head. Even sillier considering she’d been a Prince before – not of London but of somewhere far smaller – and she’d hated it. But then she’d been manoeuvred into the position by a coterie of conspirators who wanted the previous Prince removed and someone they could puppet in his place. They’d chosen her to be their puppet, and she’d refused to dance on their strings. It had been a frustrating and ultimately doomed venture, and she’d been lucky to get off the throne with her unlife. But she liked to think she had been quite a good Prince, despite everything, for those few years.

One day I’ll get a chance to do it properly, she thought, tracing the shape of the treetops with her eyes. And no one will ever dare underestimate me again.

‘Penny for your thoughts,’ a voice said behind her.

[lights-on-why]

reading the labour manifesto.

seems ok so far. usual bit of waffle.

(waffle of my own below, which I've stuck under a readmore)

they're gonna recruit more teachers. fantastic! (how? it doesn't say. but how hard can it be?)

free school breakfasts in every primary school is actually great news and i'm very happy about that!*

*I think that's what "free breakfast clubs" means, not just free morning childcare. not that free morning childcare wouldn't be fab, mind you

they're going to end tax loopholes, which might be harder than they make it sound, but it sounds like they have a few plans to make it more difficult. and they are gonna focus on large businesses avoiding tax, so what actually matters.

they're really vague on immigration, which does worry me. they're gonna stop illegal dangerous crossing and not send people to Rwanda, but they're not actually taking a position on whether immigration is good for this country or not.

"securonomics". lol.

i don't really understand economics and it's always hard to judge what it actually means. there's a bit of "yay business is good" for sure, but then also talking about "shaping markets not just serving them" and the downsides of big corporations. they are capping corporation tax at 25%, apparently the lowest of the G7 (Canada, France, Germany, Italy, US, UK and Japan) which seems backwards to me.

national rail is coming back! i was not even born when they got privatised but it will be interesting to see what that looks like. and local bus services are allowed too i think? their transport plan actually looks pretty good to me.

building more houses, which. i mean. i'm not actually sure but i think empty houses is more the issue? but then there is a proper housing crisis at the moment so. some stuff about environmental friendly housing which seems reasonable but i don't know enough to make a full judgement on.

growth growth growth. i'm not a fan, but then the 2nd biggest political party in the uk is hardly going to say "capitalism is a mistake and we need to get used to a lower standard of living in the grand scheme of things in order to be able to live sustainably" so. i'll take it on the chin.

oh! they do have an opinion on migration. it's bad. and "must be properly controlled and managed". and you were doing so well until now.

reforming jobcentre and work capability assessments, which are definitely broken at the moment. so hopefully any changes to that will be an improvement.

more workers rights! yay!

i'm gonna read the rest of it tomorrow. i may also ramble my thoughts on here, more just so that i don't get bored reading through it than anything.

[asmitasinghseo]

How PCB Connectors Power Compact and Reliable Electronic Assemblies

Devices are shrinking, but expectations are rising. Whether it’s in smart lighting, factory control units, or automation systems, size is getting smaller, and reliability? Non-negotiable.

As electronics move toward denser, multi-functional designs, dependable interconnections become the unsung heroes holding these systems together. One of the most trusted realities stems from not properly seeing and often underappreciating PCB Connectors. 

What Are PCB Connectors? Types and Where They Are Used

PCB connectors are mechanical interfaces that join a printed circuit board with another PCB, wire, or an external device. They are found almost everywhere in today's applications-from smart thermostats to LED drivers, programmable logic controllers, and small industrial sensors.

Types vary, and their structure depends heavily on form and function. Here's a snapshot:

The wire-to-board connectors: It is used to connect external wiring to the board.

Board-to-board connectors: Very much given for modular arrangements or compact layering. 

Wire-to-wire connectors: Less frequent but may be required in some routing cases.

Pluggable connectors: These allow for installing some components without the mundane toil of doing it by hand and also can be quickly taken off and replaced.

Now here’s where it gets interesting: the ideal connector doesn’t just transfer signals or power. It prevents vibration failure, allows easy wiring, and maintains integrity across thermal cycles, all while helping devices get smaller and smarter.

Why WAGO’s PCB Connectors Are a Game-Changer for Compact and Tough Assemblies

WAGO's engineering approach cuts through the clutter. They’re not just making smaller components; they’re optimizing how those components function under stress, over time, and in the tightest spaces.

Now, PCB connectors, particularly the tool-free lever models WAGO offers, bring tangible advantages. Right in the middle of your control unit or LED module, these connectors make installation so much easier and faster, and still ensure that over 30+ terminations maintain solid contact under vibration or movement. They’re especially appreciated in tight builds where space constraints don’t leave room for error, or for a screwdriver.

Key Features That Matter:

Tool-free connection: You don’t need to reach for any special gear. Just lift, insert, press, done.

Vibration-proof reliability: Spring-pressure technology holds tight, even in mobile or high-motion applications.

Compact footprint: Helps reduce overall product size, vital for miniaturization goals.

Multiple conductor types: Whether it's stranded, solid, or fine-stranded, compatibility isn’t an issue.

It’s not hype; it’s practical design thinking that shows up in real-world use. Engineers know that rework, time, and failure risk are all minimized when connectors just work, and WAGO’s models do.

Where Are These PCB Connectors Actually Used?

In a nutshell, anywhere you need strong connections in confined areas. However, the following top-use cases illustrate their adaptability:

1. Systems of Lighting

With their secure yet small form factors, PCB connectors help ensure reliable power delivery without the need for large wiring terminals, making installation easier in tight spaces or suspended fixtures, whether you're wiring LED drivers or building modular lighting tracks.

2. Industrial Automation

You’ve got multiple sensors, signal pathways, and real-time controls packed into a DIN-rail-mounted controller, these connectors simplify wire management, reduce error margins, and allow rapid replacement during maintenance cycles, directly impacting uptime and system resilience.

3. Machine and Motion Control Panels

In dynamic systems exposed to continuous vibrations or movement, PCB connectors, when properly rated and tested for such environments, ensure that your control board doesn’t just survive, it performs optimally even after thousands of hours in operation.

Conclusion: The Right Connector Isn’t Just a Part, It’s a Strategic Choice

Here’s what it comes down to, your choice of connector can either amplify your product’s reliability or quietly sabotage it. The push toward smaller, smarter, more interconnected electronics means that interconnect quality can't be an afterthought.

When PCB connectors are engineered for tool-free use, vibration resistance, and compact layout, like WAGO’s solutions, they don’t just fit into your assembly. They elevate it. And in a space where every millimeter and every second counts, that makes all the difference.

According to a 2024 report by MarketsandMarkets, the global PCB connector market is projected to reach $17.3 billion by 2028, driven by automation, smart devices, and the rapid miniaturization of electronics.

Need help integrating high-performance connectors into your product design? Now’s the time to evaluate your current setup—and upgrade where it truly counts.