#its supposed to be confusing and unnerving

[local-littleguy]

It Watches (it loves)

The world is endless and burning and bright.

It knows this. It has been here for longer than It can fathom.

Maybe It had a name once. The clock never stops.

-

A hand that It grabbed, scarred and warm and rough, but It was the smallest of Its friends. It could not hold on.

And the hand slips away. He does not come back up.

-

(there is blood at the bottom of the gorge)

-

It watches as the time ticks endlessly, watching the world’s cogs churn. A game, nothing more. 

It misses Its friends.

-

It tries to remember, gray-fur and laughter and fire that touched the sky, a dragon, friends, so many of them. All different kinds. Some touched the void. Some had seen It.

They did not know It was not Human.

-

(-----? what’s going on?)

-

They came. So many of them.

-

It failed. Or rather it succeeded too much. Too destructive.

It didn’t know that It could regret things. But It could.

It didn’t even know It could Cry.

-

It was sorry. It was. But It could not lose them.

-

(there are Ten Thousand teeth in my mouth and Five Hundred Thousand wings on my back and my eyes are bleeding out)

-

(and the universe said l̴̡̹͕̟͔̎̇̐̍o̷͙͚̗͕̅́̃͊v̷̡̨̱̰͇̠̟̜̇͆̈͗͂̎͒͜͝ȩ̶̢̡̬̭̝̖̙͚̗̑͂̃̈̄̃̎̎̑͠ ̴̘̋̋̑̿͒̀̽̆̕m̶̢̛͕̽̏̉̊̚ȩ̸̧̼̅̓͌̃̔͒͊̋̔̕)

-

(Į̷̞̈̒̈̍ ̵̮̮͓̭̮̎͆w̶͔͑̈́̀̍̄̂̀̕͜i̵̭̳͖̜͖͚̰̬̻͐̇̑͝͝l̵͙͚͇̹̹̗̪͠ͅl̴̨̧̧̤̳̰̭͓͕͗̑ ̷̛̼̼̮͚̻͔̻͚̖͇͑͗̆n̴̡͚̞͚̬͈̮̹͇͙͐̓́̓̂́̋͂̓̑è̷̢̟̪͓̻̠̰v̵̢̛͙̙͋ẻ̸̡͔̮̙̺̙̹͉͇̤ṙ̷̲̘̗̻̰̳̾́̓̍̏̔̕͜ ̵̛͙̮̻̜̠̓̌͐̀̌͂̿̂̕l̷̪̰̺̹̗̰͑͌́ę̶̣͎̫̥͓͙̦̉͐̀̀̓̒͝͝͝t̵̡̢͖̩̟̳̥̻͇̺̋̄̒̓̌̓ ̸͚̫̬̦̲͍̤̮͠y̶̡͍̺͙̝͖̗͖͑̑̈̈́̆̈́̍͠͝o̴̧̬̫͚͐ủ̵̜̥̤̺͉̣̞͒ ̵̡̤̭͔̟̲͇̼͗̀̚͘g̵̡̢̠̖̺̳͈̤͋͝ŏ̴̱̹̘̻͠)

-

The world is endless and burning and bright.

And It will never let go of Its friends.

-

(Grian? What’s going on?)

-

They are screaming, It does not know why. It is protecting them. They cannot die like this.

-

Chaos cannot be contained. It cannot be contained.

-

(Chaos is not inherently good or evil. It is neither and both.)

-

And it loves its friends.

[tobeholyistobeempty]

G’mornin, bonnie. | john soap mactavish

You wake up from a one night stand — ready to gather your shit and run just like you always do after a night of bad decisions — but turns out, Johnny has other plans for you.

cw: 18+ mdni. smut. slight dark themes ie. stalking. john price has a kid and is a great wingman apparently. reader afab. teacher!reader. morning after a hookup. domestically menacing johnny with a permanent shit-eating grin. first time attempting to write his accent so i’m sorry in advance. piv. voyuerism!kink. rip to johnny’s neighbours. creampie.

for the absolutely lovely @spurbleu. thank you for offering me this challenge. i hope i did him justice 🤍 i’m so sorry i’m so late ilysm

You wake to something warm.

It washes over you slowly — spring streams pouring into fragmented consciousness, urging you from the depths of slumber with a gentle lull. Coaxing. Warm like summer sun internalized, flowing through your hair — hazing the room in a golden film as your eyes peel open with rapid blinks, and confusion hastily nullifies it.

You shift, becoming aware of what your body is subconsciously telling you. Warmth. All of it adding to the growing discombobulation. The lingering heat between your thighs. The cocooning comfort of sheets that aren’t yours. The odd familiarity of a room that’s too bare to be recognized. The grace of a bed that’s glaringly empty save for dark sheets wrapped around bare, aching legs.

It takes you a minute, but your memory eventually resurfaces — gasping for air at the smell of coffee and the hum of movement from the other room.

Johnny.

Hard to forget that name after you’d spent the night screaming it. Your body knows before your mind does, muscles humming with the memory of hands that held too tight, a mouth that took its time. You inhale. Coffee again. A lure. A leash. It tugs at something instinctual, something inside you domesticated — until you glance at the clock sitting on an empty nightstand and realize it’s almost 9 am.

Shit. You should have been long, long gone by now.

You exhale, cursing your constant stupidity as you drag yourself out of his bed and up to your feet — fogged vision scanning the floor, brows creasing as you realize you’re wearing nothing save for a long white shirt that surely isn’t yours — and your clothes are no where to be found.

Oh. Right.

Your clothes barely made it past the front fucking door.

Another exhale, forced from shaking lungs. You’ll have to go out there. You’ll have to face him, grab your clothes and change. It’ll be awkward, but it’s not like you haven’t been here before. Not like you haven’t been through this with past vices. It’ll be fine. It’ll be easy — you all but convince yourself. And within seconds, you’re halfway down the hall, practising your fake smile and empty thank you’s when the smell grows stronger.

Your stomach grumbles with the force of it as you step into the kitchen and —

Fuck.

Johnny stands at the stove, shirtless in grey sweats, bathed golden by the early morning light. It clings to his skin, drapes over the planes of his back, the ridges of his spine. His hair is a mess, wrecked and mussed — a souvenir from your hands as he fiddles with something in a pan, humming hypnotic under his breath.

And it’s then that you forget what you were supposed to be doing.

Because this? This is wrong. This is not how this goes. You don’t wake up like this, wrapped in the scent of coffee and breakfast, staring at a man who should’ve already been nothing more than a memory.

Your breath sticks in your throat, limbs made of cement as he turns. Catches you standing there.

And grins. “G’mornin’, bonnie.”

You blink, the exertion of it painful. You should leave.

Instead, you exhale. “You’re making breakfast.”

His lips twitch, amusement and archaism synchronized swimming in his ocean eyes. “Aye. Tha’s usually what it’s called.”

He is so at ease here, it’s unnerving. You can feel it, see it in the way he moves. Unfettered. Relaxed. It makes a knot of tension bindle between your shoulder blades — because this is familiar to him, but not to you.

Two plates. Two cups of coffee. You should leave.

“You—you don’t have to do that.”

Johnny just shrugs, turning that canvas of a back to you — red parallel lines catching under karat coated rays. Your own painting on display — you find yourself admiring it as if it wasn’t created by last nights drunken fingers.

“Ye thought I’d jus’ kick ye out?” He flips eggs in the pan. Your chest aches. “Ye were tryen t’sneak off first then?”

Your lips press into a thin line — indignant as you force your eyes to the floor. “Admittedly, that was the plan, yes.”

He tsks, shaking his head like that’s the most disappointing sentence he’s heard all week before he glances over his shoulder at you again — all beaming blue eyes and grins.

“Shame. Poor things nae used te bein taken care of, is she?”

That indignation spreads, grows a vine around your throat. Twists your tongue. “Well, I mean—I don’t—“

Johnny cuts you off with a hum. Or, more like you cut yourself off, because you have absolutely nothing to say to that and what you did offer seems to be more than enough of an answer for him.

“Ye think too much, bonnie.” Something sizzles in the pan — you watch the veins in his arms shift against whiskey skin as he lifts it off the element. “All tha’ time plotting yer escape, ye coulda’ been enjoying breakfast.”

Christ. You really should leave. You should slip back into the skin of someone who doesn’t stick around for things like this. But it’s like your feet have grown roots, burrowed beneath his floorboards. You blame it on the smell of coffee, the warmth of the kitchen. The way his fucking muscles flex as he moves.

It’s all nurture to something long rotted in your soul.

“It’s not like I was expecting breakfast.” You mutter, tugging his shirt down your thighs before crossing your arms across your chest. “Wasn’t expecting any of this, really.”

Could you be anymore fucking awkward about this?

“Tha’ right?”

You can’t see it, but you can hear the grin on his mouth. It should scare you that you are beginning to predict him — expecting something smart to come out of him next.

“Didnae expect the shag either, but ye still took it real well.”

Perhaps it should scare you more that you were right.

You clear your throat, but the heat is already rushing down your spine. Settling somewhere inconvenient. He just gives you a quick glance, lopsided leisure tilting his lips as he turns with a plate and coffee cup in hand, gesturing with his head toward the table.

“Come o’nae, I won’t bite ye.”

————————-

Turns out, Johnny MacTavish is real easy to talk to. Too easy.

Mostly because he doesn’t stop talking, but nonetheless, it whiplashes you. You came here expecting the usual routine — get in, get out, leave nothing behind but the scent of mingled sweat on strange sheets — but the one-night stand has somehow stretched into morning and now you’re sitting at his kitchen table, fork scraping against porcelain, coffee steaming — actually talking like this isn’t just borrowed time.

He tells you about Scotland. About real pubs, the kind where the floors stick to your boots and old men sing ballads in voices ruined by smoke. He talks with his hands. His shoulders. His fucking eyes — restless and full of movement, always wandering. Blue. Though that hardly cuts it — the colour of a storm sky split by lightening. Cool in the shallows and rich in the depths.

They hold contradiction well. Like they’ve seen enough of the world to be cynical but still manage to burn bright enough to keep that warmth kindling under your skin.

Perplexing.

That’s the word that sits on the tip of your tongue as you stare at him. Wondering if he was truly just another notch on your bedpost, would you still be here, trying to make sense of what you missed in the dark last night.

“So,” he says, ripping a piece of butter soaked toast in half. “Ye always bolt after?”

You pause mid-bite. Then your mouth moves dumbly. “After what?”

Johnny smirks. “After ye ride a bloke like yer life depends on it, scream his name loud enough tae wake the dead, and wake up wearen’ his shirt.”

“Jesus—“ you choke, grateful you at least swallowed your food prior to him starting that sentence, otherwise he’d be halfway to giving you the heimlich right about now. “You don’t do subtle, do you?”

“Aye.” That grin grows over the rim of his mug. “Subtlety’s a waste on a woman like ye.”

Before you can’t think better of it, you find yourself grinning back.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

His eyes flick away to catch the sunlight.

“Ye dinnae’ strike me as the half-measures type, bonnie.” Then they wander back to yours. “Means ye like a man tha’ says what he’s really thinken, tha’s all.”

That makes you pause, and you try to tell yourself you’re not blushing. It’s the warm sun at your back, or the coffee sitting thick in your belly. It’s certainly not those eyes — still on you, unashamedly, taking in whatever it is they see behind your own.

“You think you know me?” You try to make it sound as casual as possible. You know you don’t accomplish it.

“Aye.” A lazy nod. “I do.”

And that — that makes you squirm. Makes you drop your eyes to his hands as they sit against the sides of his coffee mug. Capable fingers calloused with strength, a few bruised knuckles. Your gaze drifts up to the veins on his forearm, and you stop yourself before you stare too long.

“Why?”

You hadn’t even realized you’d asked it out loud until his lips quirk like he was waiting for it.

“Wha happened te all yer self-preservation?”

You blink. Your tongue is heavy, but you make yourself use it.

“...self-preservation?”

He leans forward, arms on the table between you.

“All it took te keep ye here was a little forward hospitality. Ye got no blasted clue who I even am — yet yer still here, asken questions ye shouldnae be asken in a voice tha doesnae belong te someone looken te run.”

And you don’t know what to say to that, because admittedly it knocks everything off kilter. Leaves you wrong-footed. Lands a little too close to being right. There is safety in one-night stands and running before the sun breaks. There is safety in not learning anything about the man you share a bed with for a night if you don’t have to. You’ve been good at it. Practiced it like a bad habit.

You didn’t realize, until now, just how easy it’d been for Johnny to make you break it.

“I said I know ye,” he whispers. “Because I do m’research on who I share m’bed with.”

He leans back in his chair after that — and your eyes follow. Milliseconds stretch to seconds which stretch thin to what feels like minutes before you find some sort of wherewithal to move. You don’t want to know what he means by that, and you don’t want to look too deep to find the answers — the incrimination dunked just beneath the ocean tides in his irises.

“You are so bloody full of it.” You surprise yourself by not stuttering, staying steady as you stand. “I—I have to go.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “Aye, I am.”

His eyes find yours again before you head for your clothes still scattered all over his living room floor. You swear to all kinds of unholy things that you feel the heat against the back of your skull as the flashes of last night flood your memory — his tongue on your cunt, your nails in his skin, his name on your lips—

“Ye’ll be back though, aye?”

You pause somewhere by the window, turning to note the morning light painting his hair a hundred different shades of gold. There’s an easy smile on his mouth, no trace of last night’s drunken humour in his expression.

“What?”

His smile stretches to something devilish, and you are so not used to the feeling it elicits. Not used to being charmed. Being disarmed.

“Y’like a man who says what he’s thinken.” He wets his lips. You can’t look away. “And what I’m thinken, bonnie, is tha this willnae be just a one time thing.”

He rises, then, and you get the unsettling, stomach-punching feeling that he knows. That he can see the words spinning up and dying on your tongue, can see the flush rising up your neck knowing it’s something he put there.

“Ye want te leave, go right ahead.” Your pulse thrums as he draws closer. “Just know tha when ye come back. I’ll be starven.”

Asinine, you tell yourself, but your heart is in your throat — that suffocating something licking up your spine and curling beneath your sternum. Your eyes dart to the clock on the wall. Time. Work. Reality. The real world standing just beyond the exit of whatever the hell this currently is.

You decide, then, that you actually do want answers.

“You—you researched me,” you find your voice, though it doesn’t come easily. Drags itself up from the pit of your throat, scraped raw by the claws of confusion . “I don’t—”

Glass touches your back through the thin veil of his t-shirt as you take a step back, snow white fabric still lazily draping the curves you let this man get well acquainted with last night. A stranger who wasn’t all that estranged, you realize.

“Relax, lass,” his voice drops to a soothing pitch. Something suiting for the cornered animal you currently feel like you are, as he steps closer again. “I didnae run a background check on yer whole bloodline, if tha’s what’s got ye hackles up.”

You clear your throat, sun beating at your back through the glass. Suffocating.

“Then tell me. What you meant.”

Tongue over teeth, he nods, palms going up. Playful as a puppy, if the puppy was rabid.

“I jus’ know who ye are. What ye do.” A pause, glimpsing down at the way your chest is rapid firing, before flicking back up. “Know someone whose kid ye teach. Speaks real highly of ye, actually.”

There’s no amount of blinks that can make those words make sense, yet you hope 10 might do it.

A parent of one of your students is talking about you. To Johnny MacTavish.

“I’m s-sorry?” You’re stuttering, now. Goddamnit. “Who? What’d they say?”

He exhales, props an arm on the glass beside your head and crosses his ankles as his body brackets yours — watching the silence drag. Watching you ruminate in it.

“S’nothin bad, bonnie. Quite the opposite.”

You’re staring at his mouth. “Johnny, who was it?”

He makes you wait, the bastard. And then—

“Price.”

The name punches the air from your lungs. “What?”

Johnny’s smile turns smug. “Captain’s kid. Ye teach ’em, aye?”

It hits you somewhere between the grin and the way he leans in. Captain.

“Price,” you repeat softly, the name tilting sideways in your mouth. “John Price?”

He stills. Just slightly.

“Aye, Captain John Price.”

You blink once, twice, brain whirring. He’s referring to him like an official superior. Routine. That means he’s either a cop. Or detective. Or FBI. or Military—

“You work with him,” you murmur.

“Work, kill, drink. Depends on the day,” he says, that thick Glaswegian accent wrapping around the truth like it’s not heavy. Military. “Didnae put it together, did ye? All tha time I was sittin’ across from ye. Ye never asked what I did. No idea I had credentials.”

You huff, stunned. Unsure what to say. Less unsure what to feel. “Christ.”

“Oh, now yer sayin’ His name,” that smile is back. Rankles you in a way you never knew until him. “Where was tha earlier when I had ye on yer knees—“

“Johnny,” you warn. “Keep talking or I’m leaving.”

He laughs, easy, leaning in until all the air feels like it’s his.

“Didnae have te dig deep, bonnie. Prefer te do all the dirty work m’self.” Eyes narrow, at that. He just keeps going. “Capn’s kid. Jamie. Talks bout ye like yer some kinda’ fairytale. Real sweet. Price said he’s never seen the kid so bright-eyed about school.”

The name finds your ears with a soft ache chained to it. Jamie Price — broad-shouldered for a ten-year-old, barely spoke unless coaxed, drew galaxies on the backs of worksheets when he thought no one was watching.

Gentle kid. Brilliant, too.

Johnny shrugs, that easy, terrible shrug like it’s all nothing. “Price asked me if I knew ye. Ranted on about how ye treat ‘em. Said he overheard ye talken to someone about the bar ye frequent. Said ye had a backbone, a kind heart, and the sort of stare tha makes grown men straighten up like schoolboys.” Blue eyes glimpse your lips, again. “But ye ain’t ever been treated right.”

Heat crawls up your neck. You’re still pressed against the glass, still unsure if you’re more flattered or frightened.

“He said that?”

The amusement falls off his face, something stern replacing it, and nods.

“There’s some things tha just stay with a man.” He shifts closer. Doesn’t touch you, though. Doesn’t need to. “He said it. Like he was tellen me not te fuck it up.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out as a weak exhale, like your body doesn’t trust relief just yet. He swallows, continues.

“I just cannae figure it out. Pretty thing like yerself. Real good with kids.” He breathes the last part thick, like it curls in his throat and tugs. Like it does things to him. “Bit of a wild ride, clearly. And somehow — yer alone. Settlen’ for quick fucks instead.”

You don’t answer immediately. You can’t. You just peer up at him, breathing made heavy by everything you’ve learned and everything he is.

“Choice, Johnny.” You whisper. “It’s by choice.”

“Aye. Choice.” He whispers back, other hand finding the glass beside your head, knees knocking as he leans in impossibly closer. “But all those men who let ye walk. Who didnae fight for ye, they’re fools.” He’s close enough your lips almost brush. No grin on them, now. Just gravity. “I’m no fool, love.”

It’s all hitting you at once, in the same place you’re pressed — against the cool pane of the balcony door. It was all set up. Johnny pulled the entire night from the ether thanks to a man you hardly know. Captain John Price. You’d only ever thought of him as John — the friendly, albeit quiet man who showed up to parent-teacher meetings with stories in his eyes. Said little. Watched everything. A ghost in your mind until now — until Johnny pieced it all together with soldiers determination and an easy tongue.

Sat beside you at the bar. Didn’t come on too strong. Didn’t press or sound too rehearsed. Made it real easy to believe it was all a coincidence.

How foolish you had been to not see through the performance.

But now, the shows over — there’s no final act. No audience to entertain. The masks have come off, and you hear it. The sincerity in the way he says I’m no fool. Like it’s not just about last night but about tomorrow and the one after that. Like he’s telling you he’ll fight for you and he’ll mean it. That this isn’t just a night. That he doesn’t want it to be.

And you’re still reeling from it when your hands find the heat of his chest. Curling around his neck without ceremony, pulling him in the final inch.

He’s kissing you.

Not like he earned it, but like he means it — and you’re kissing him back, hard, moaning as his teeth find your bottom lip and tug. He pulls back before you’re ready for him to, and your head slumps back against the glass. Breathing. Trying to will the ground back into place beneath you as he traces your jawline with his thumb.

“What else,” you croak out as he drops his head into the crook of your shoulder and exhales. “Do you know about me?”

He hums, pressing closer, hips pinning your ass to the glass as you drag your digits down his chest, tracing scars like braille.

“Enough,” he answers, fervent fingers dragging the fabric of his shirt up your hips, torso. “Enough te drive me insane.”

You feel the moment your heart stutters — mouth parted with nothing to fill it but a gasp as your bare ass is exposed against his glass balcony door — giving neighbours and street dwellers a goddamn good view should they be glimpsing up—

“Wait. J-johnny.” He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even blink as you catch his wrists, pleading for reason. “Your neighbours—“

“Donnae care.” He mutters, tugging the fabric up over your head. “Let the bloody bastards watch.”

You don’t want to know what sound slips from your throat at that, but you’re sure it’s some ugly, gorgeous thing. Torn somewhere between lust and indignity as he moves — one hand bracing against the glass beside your head while the other wrestles with the waistband of his sweats, shifting until you can feel him — hot, heavy, throbbing — pressing low against your stomach.

And maybe there’s a moment where you think you should tell him you can’t do this. Something because of the neighbours or the noise or the glass sticking to your back. But his hand finds your face, eyes flooding you like atlantic as he leans in to kiss you before lifting you up, legs curling around him— teasing with false thrusts, dragging his tip slow and sinful over your clit just to swallow the noises pulled from your throat. He doesn’t need words to silence your protest but manages all the same as you’re rocking against his shaft in tandem — one hand holding his lips to yours and the other gripping his back until you’re slick and half out of your goddamn mind with need.

And if you thought he’d be gentle — well.

He doesn’t ease you down. Doesn’t waste time. Just slides into you in one heavy thrust until you’re stretched to your edges and his name is caught on a sound you don’t recognize.

“Johnny! Ohf-fuck!”

He curses, teeth grazing your jaw, hips driving forward like he’s punishing you. Or maybe himself. Probably a little of both. Regardless, there’s nothing easy or soft about this — the kind of frenzied effort that takes you apart and leaves you hoping he’ll stitch you back together. Makes you realize you needed this — the pressure, the friction, the drive deeper into your belly with every excruciating inch as you choke on the sounds he’s drawing out.

You can’t control the pleasure that pours out of you, dripping like honey over his lips as you grip the back of his neck—

“Oh—f-fu—ohgod—“ you can’t find the right words, though you’re not even trying to anymore. It’s better than a dream. Better than last night when it was all alcohol and adrenaline. This is raw. Real. And you realize, through the fog, just how easy it was to get lost in him. To let yourself. Even with nothing but the sound of his voice and the skin on his back to hold onto. “J-johnny—fuckingdeep—yes—“

He sets a frantic pace, teeth sinking into his lip like he can taste the curses you’re whispering against it.

“S’good. S’tight, mmfuck.”

Feral. Best word to describe this. Gnawing you from the inside out, leaving your thighs quivering as you fight to hold onto him, back slicking against the glass as he buries himself so deep you can barely choke out an inhale.

“M’gonna—ohmygod—“

You’re going to cum. You can feel it in the way your belly knots and your thighs tense. His smile gets lost in the crook of your neck as he grunts — not daring to slow down or give you a moment to breathe. Instead, he just slips a hand around your throat, pinning your head back to glass that’s just as humid as you.

And when his eyes finally find yours, they’re a million shades darker than they were five minutes ago. All the blue eclipsed by dark, midnight hunger as he devours like you were served to him on a silver platter.

In some metaphorical way, you know you were.

“G’on. Make a mess of me, bonnie. Know ye need it.”

You want to look away. You can’t. Not when he squeezes your throat like you’re his. Not when he rocks deep and hard and your blood is singing for more. Your pulse thumps wildly and you wonder if he’s trying to slow it with his fingers as he tightens his hold.

And so you moan, because it’s all you can do — while the words you whimper as he thrusts hard enough to make you keen don’t sound like you. They sound like someone he owns.

“Ohfuck, Johnny—yesfuckyesyes—“

It hits you like the shatter of stained glass.

Your mouth falls open, soundless at first, a broken gasp caught somewhere between your throat and tongue. Your whole body tightens, back arching off the glass as you tremble, drowning in it, orgasm dragging you under like a rip current — teeth clenched, thighs shaking, fingernails digging so hard into Johnny’s shoulders you’ll leave marks. You want to leave marks.

“Christ, lass. Tha’s it. Tha’s fucken it, baby.”

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let you breathe. He fucks you through it, jaw clenched, hips snapping forward like he’s chasing your high to the end of the world — like your pleasure is the only map he’s following. You’re crying out now, helpless and shaking and soaked, clenching around him so tight it borders on painful — more for him, you think — as he grunts, one hand bruised into your hip and the other braced against the glass, eyes locked to yours as you fall apart for him.

“Tha’s it, bonnie—” his voice is wrecked, sweat dripping from his brow. “Jesus Christ, s’tight—fucken’ look at ye.”

And you do.

Your head falls forward, forehead against his, eyes burning with the kind of emotion you don’t dare name as you watch him drive in and out, slick coating everything flesh. You sob a noise against his mouth, some choked half-curse, and he swallows it with a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue and possession as his thrusts grow sloppy — rougher, more desperate, chasing his own breaking point.

“Can I—fuck—can I cum inside ye pretty cunt?” He pants, voice hoarse against your jaw. “Tell me no. Christ, I’ll pull out, jus’ say it—”

You don’t say it.

You just grab his face, kiss him hard, and whisper; “don’t you dare.”

That’s all it takes.

He groans — a guttural, broken sound — and slams into you once, twice more before he’s spilling inside you. Hips twitching, mouth open against your neck. And for a moment, the world goes still. Nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing. The steam on the glass. The thrum of blood in your ears.

You close your eyes. Let yourself float. You don’t know what this is — but you know it wasn’t just a fuck. Not with the way he’s still holding you. Not with the way you’re already aching to let him do it all over again.

It’s a few moments before he pulls out. Another few before you find your head.

“Christ,” you breathe, rubbing your face as he fixes himself back to modesty. “I can’t believe I—”

You cut yourself off, because what’s the point. Johnny doesn’t move, just watches you with that maddening calm — sweat still cooling along his temple, chest rising and falling slow like he’s got nowhere better to be than right here. Looking down at you the same way he did when he sat beside you at the bar.

Like he’s well acquainted with the taste of your name.

“I told myself,” you try again, “that this was a one-night thing. Just a fuck. Then breakfast. Then I leave.”

His gaze never wavers. “So why didn’ye?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Because you don’t have an answer that doesn’t make you sound like a fool. Until you give up caring.

“Maybe part of me still thinks you’re bluffing.”

“Bluffen,” he echos, leaning closer — eyes soft like snow. “Ye think I sat down beside ye at tha bar for just a fuck? You think I made ye breakfast just to be polite? Nah. I did it cause’ I already knew I wasnae’ about te let this be just once.”

You exhale — stepping back like you’re reclaiming ground, but the glass is at your back and his voice is in your blood now.

“Johnny,” you breathe. “This is mad.”

“Aye,” he agrees, extinguishing the space. “But I’m no’ lettin’ you bolt just ‘cause it scares ye.”

You blink at him. “And if I try?”

Lips at your temple, he grins.

“Go ahead. But ye best put all tha practice te good use, bonnie. Cause’ I’ll find ye.” His fingers trail up your side, electricity coursing. “And each time I’ll fuck ye harder than the last. Leave ye walkin’ funny and thinken’ of me every hour after.”

Those fingers pause, and you jolt, a shockwave behind the ribs as his words drive through you. It’s maddening and it’s sick — how fast reason betrays you. How fast you clench around nothing, aching like he’s made good on that promise. Like part of you wants to be hunted, dragged back by your hair and wrecked until all your rules blur into white noise.

It’s nonsensical. But all men before him were dull — a realization that makes your mouth dry. And all you can think about is the way his voice dragged over that sentence.

The way each time implies he’s already counted them.

“Quite the promise.” You reply.

He smiles all teeth and truce — and you know you’re already too far gone. He knows it too. Judging by the way he hums, pressing a kiss to your cheekbone.

And adds. “This wasnae’ chance. Wasnae’ luck. I came for ye because I meant te. And m’stayen’ for tha same reason.”

[rosegolden13]

Pictures TF-141 have of you on their phones!!

cw: stalking (but not malicious I promise)

Gaz is definitely a professional photographer. He’s just artsy like that. He’ll take the most perfect photos of you and you don’t even have to train him. He just knows how to do it. Honestly, it kind of makes you jealous how talented he is and he’s so nonchalant about it, too. Maybe it was an ex-girlfriend that taught him all this? (It wasn’t, he just has sisters, he’s a sisters kind of guy for sure). The lighting is always perfect and he’ll even help you pose, guide you into position with his hands. Is it mostly an excuse to touch you? Yes. Do the pictures always come out good? Also yes. His favorites are the more domestic ones: you wearing his shirt in the kitchen with the morning sunlight filtering through the window, you cuddled up on the couch with two blankets and a hoodie with a goofy smile on your face. These are the ones that are printed out, folded into his pocket and accidentally put through the wash, or tucked into his wallet.

Simon only has pictures of you that are as unnerving as they are sweet because you have never seen him take *any* of these but he has almost a thousand all in its own album dedicated to you. Yes, some of them are your regular selfies or posed pictures of you next to a pretty fountain or across the table on a date. His favorites are of you and him together- he likes the reminder that you’re really his. But the large bulk of the pictures are taken from strange distances… You at the bar laughing with your friends at girls night when you’re absolutely positive Simon was supposed to be at home waiting for you… and then there’s the one where you’re on your morning jog… The only explanation he gives you is a casual shrug and a gruff "It's for your protection, love." Just be glad you didn’t scroll to the very top of the album because there’s some from before you two were dating. Ahem… enough of that creep…anyways…

Price has the most terrible pictures of you. I’m talking god awful. Like most of them are of you in your pajamas, unshowered, messy hair, no makeup, and to make matters worse, it’s taken at the worst angle known to man. Of course, a few of them are decent because they’re ones you have sent him but if he’s taking the picture? He’s bound to zoom in way too much and get the strangest angle THEN he’ll even coo at the picture, proud of himself. In half of them, you’re trying to smack the camera away- he always chuckles at those ones when you look through them together. When you try to insist that he delete these, he genuinely frowns, entirely confused like they’re not the most heinous pictures. “What do ya mean, love? Look at that, that’s my girl. I’m keepin’ ‘em all.” Lovesick man tsk, tsk. Don’t ever tell him that he can change his lockscreen from the default or it’ll absolutely be the most embarrassing picture of you imaginable.

Soap is also artsy and can take good pictures of you but half the time, he chooses not to. He likes to capture the chaos and there is some beauty to that, too. So, yes, he’s got some cinematic pictures of you on hikes overlooking a view or on the beach where you're lounging in the sun. But mostly his camera roll is filled with blurry selfies from when you two were drunk at the bar or videos from when you two got scolded at the grocery store for pushing each other down aisles in grocery carts. His personal favorite and lockscreen is a picture of you with your face all scrunched as he squeezes your cheeks between his thumb and forefinger. There's also a scattering of sketches he's drawn of you on classified documents and then secretly snapped a picture of. He'd be in deep shit if Price found out about those... "Keep 'em a secret, lass, will ya?"

Okay just one more of these cuz they're so fun hehe. Yes, ik Price is probs great at tech from being in the military but I like to imagine he's sucky at an iphone- it's so endearing.

[aventurineswife]

aventurine, sunday, and any others when reader pretends to not remember them after a bad injury hehe…[angst with fluff at the end] i love giving my poor babies heart attacks mwahaha

anyways love u and ur writings btw k byeee drink water ok byeee 💕✨

“I'm sorry, but who are you?”

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Soft Fluff, Light Humor Angst to Fluff, Established Relationship, Memory Loss, Reassurance.

Warnings: Emotional distress (brief moments of fear and confusion).

A/N: thanks for the reminder, anon! 😪😮‍💨I really need to drink some water

Aventurine's eyes widened, his usual playful smirk faltering as you looked at him, confusion clouding your gaze. He reached out, as though instinctively wanting to close the distance between you, but he hesitated. Your words cut through the air, soft and fragile.

"You… you are… who exactly?"

The words stung more than he expected. His heart raced in his chest as he observed the faint, distant look in your eyes. He had always been in control of the game, masterful in reading people, but this? This was a blow to his carefully constructed facade.

"You don’t remember me?" His voice was softer now, the bravado slipping as his pulse quickened.

You shook your head, an empty feeling creeping into your chest. "I don’t think so. Sorry… am I supposed to?"

Aventurine's smile faltered, and for a moment, you saw something raw beneath his cool exterior. Pain. Fear. He stepped back slightly, trying to hide the cracks forming in his walls.

"I suppose I’ve miscalculated…" he muttered to himself, voice barely audible.

But then, you reached out and touched his arm gently.

"I—"

Aventurine looked at you, his breath catching in his throat as you softly smiled. "I do remember you, though. Maybe I was just… testing you?"

The game was on again, but this time, it was different. He chuckled, a soft, relieved sound that made the weight of his worries lift just a little.

"You're dangerous, you know that?" he said, his voice returning to its usual lighthearted tone, though there was an underlying tenderness now.

You smiled. "I think I’ll keep you on your toes."

And with that, the shadows of doubt lifted, replaced by the warmth of your presence—one he could no longer imagine being without.

Sunday stood there, his eyes darkened with a mix of concern and confusion, staring at you as if you were a stranger. His fingers twitched slightly, an impulse to reach out, to make sure you were real, that you hadn’t slipped into some other world.

"You… you don’t recognize me?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper, fragile under the weight of his own disbelief.

You blinked at him, the blank look in your eyes unnerving him more than he cared to admit. "I’m sorry… I don’t think I do. Are we… close?"

The air between you seemed to freeze, thick with unspoken emotions. His mind was racing—how could you forget him, forget everything you had shared? The kindness, the warmth, the bond he’d built so carefully with you...

"I see," Sunday murmured, his gaze softening with a hint of sadness. "I suppose it’s a part of the dream, isn't it? To forget… to lose everything."

You could see the strain in his expression, the hope fading from his eyes. "Sunday, I… I didn’t mean to forget you."

You reached for him, your hand trembling as you touched his sleeve. The contact seemed to pull him out of his thoughts, and his breath caught.

A moment of stillness.

Then Sunday smiled faintly, the sadness still lingering. "I suppose we’ll just have to make you remember, won't we?" His voice was gentle, though you could hear the underlying fear in it.

You smiled, this time with a reassurance he needed. "I think I already do."

A sigh escaped him, a soft, grateful breath as he pulled you into his arms.

"Don't ever scare me like that again." he murmured into your hair, holding you close.

Ratio’s usual air of unshakable confidence was nowhere to be seen. He stood before you, his eyes wide with confusion and an almost frantic edge to his movements.

"You—don’t remember me?" he repeated, his voice betraying a crack he hadn’t expected.

You stared at him, trying to piece together the fragments of the world around you, the details of his appearance leaving you more unsettled than anything. "I… I’m sorry, I don’t think I know you."

His frown deepened, his expression unreadable but filled with something you couldn't quite place—was it hurt? Disbelief?

"I see. This is… unfortunate," he said, voice smooth yet tinged with something that didn’t fit. He folded his arms over his chest, eyes narrowing slightly. "I expected better from your memory."

You looked at him more closely, sensing a vulnerability underneath the sharpness of his demeanor. He was, despite his intellectual brilliance, losing himself in this.

You took a step closer, closing the distance between you, your hand reaching for his, gently catching his wrist. "I’m sorry… but I’m sure we’ve met before. I just—"

He paused, his sharp breath catching in his throat as he looked down at your hand on his. For a brief moment, his composure cracked, and you could see the raw emotion behind his usually controlled facade.

"Don't do this to me," he whispered, his voice barely audible, as if the weight of the situation was too much to bear. "You must remember."

You smiled softly, understanding now. "I remember. You’re the one who always insists on teaching me things."

His gaze softened instantly, a relieved exhale leaving him. "Good."

Ratio’s usual brilliance returned, but this time, there was something gentler about him. "Perhaps next time, try not to lose your memory so easily."

And though his words were sharp, his hand reached out to take yours, a reassurance that you were not lost to him.

Me lmaoo

[tbatthis]

ranking classic doctor who title sequences by awkwardness of the mugshot

i was so haunted by the ominous floating tom baker head from the latter seasons of his era that i started kinda obsessing over this. i will now evaluate each and every mugshot in these openings, for my own amusement, and to exorcise the demon.

william hartnell did not have a mugshot in his openings because the photograph did not yet exist in britain at the time. as such we will start with patrick troughton

quite an ominous starter, i feel. vaguely disdainful expression, as though judging the viewer for watching a show about a gay little imp. haunting, and makes me uncomfortable to view for too long. a solid start for Awkward Mugshots in the series

next, we have my goat, the babygirl himself, mr 9.5 cuntquake, jon pertwee.

this one goes for an entirely opposite approach from patrick troughton's look of quiet disappointment. jon pertwee stares straight ahead, unflinching, a smile on his face, and yet... there is a discomfort in his features. as though he's standing next to a man who has, unprompted, begun to complain about how greggs has made sausage rolls "woke." doesn't make me, personally, uncomfortable, but you can sense a troubled soul beneath that smile. but we aren't done with jon just yet.....

this one really tickles me. jon pertwee's expression is pretty unremarkable and neutral, although his fit is, of course, a thing of beauty. i'm more just kinda obsessed with it zooming out into this full body jpg of him where, because it was 1974 or whatever, his legs are just this amorphous blog extending from his big stupid cloak. it creates a unique, extremely funny take on Awkward Shot of the Doctor, and for that i have to applaud it.

its tom baker now. you know this guy, maybe.

tom baker's doctor is very much Supposed to have a kind of unnerving quality to him, and his wide eyed completely blank stare here does quite perfectly capture his ominous fey beast aura. very much not a soothing expression to ease you into the program, but one that definitely sets the tone for how much of a weird freak tom baker doctor is. as such, kind of can't call this an awkward shot.

NOW THIS FUCKING ONE HOWEVER

this is the one that got me thinking about this shit. i do not know what they were going for with this one. tom baker's disembodied, floating head, expression both confused and upset, as if he too is being accosted by the woke greggs guy who was hassling pertwee six years ago. then it just flies directly at the camera, making the sheer befuddled emotion on his face all the clearer and all the more troubling. quite possibly the most awkward of them all.

but, i dare say, we have a contender.... peter davidson, who may or may not be popular youtuber hbomberguy.

this one really fucks me up. his eyes, as unflinchingly trained on the viewer as jon pertwee's. but they're so Wide this time. peter davidson is Alert. he is Looking, At You. and he is smiling. he's so happy to see you. then, as with confused tom baker head, he flies straight at the viewer. frankly, this is much more sinister. get away from me, peter. i don't like that. i genuinely don't know if this or tom baker is the worse one.

colin baker introduces an intriguing new tech wherein they use Two Whole Mugshots in one opening

so first, i like how colin baker gets absolutely coated in the rainbow effects. he does dress like a gay clown, so i think it's suitable. second, i think it's extremely funny that colin baker's doctor was infamous for being like, the most abrasive and unpleasant doctor (i can attest to this with how the first fucking thing he says in revelation of the daleks is to just call his companion a fat bitch who eats too much with almost zero prompting) but they give him these two jovial little smiles. like honestly i think colin baker probably has one of the more natural-looking mugshots and it's so funny that the dude whose doctor was famously A Huge Asshole pulled that off. he's smiling :) he's my friend the doctor who bodyshames me :)

last but not least. my other goat. the silliest old man around. mr mansplain manipulate malewife himself. sylvester mccoy.

sorry colin baker this is my winner for Least Awkward. sylvester mccoy could kinda do it all. they picked a shot of him trying to look all stern, only to hit em with a silly little wink and jolly little smile that do not feel ominous, but instead the playful gestures of a mischievous old man who is maybe constantly plotting the horrific death of his enemies. perfect encapsulation of the seventh doctor's character. in a beautiful perfect world we have like five more seasons of sylvester mccoy.

so yeah final rankings from most to least awkward

KING OF AWKWARD: peter davidson

GRAND VIZIER OF AWKWARD: tom baker 2

VAGUELY UNCOMFORTABLE: jon pertwee 1 and patrick troughton

OMINOUS, BUT FITTING: tom baker 1

JUST KINDA FUNNY: jon pertwee 2

PLEASANT AND INVITING: colin baker

MORE PLEASANT AND MORE INVITING DESPITE SINISTER ANTICS: sylvester mccoy

no i dont know why i fucking wrote this

[specialagentlokitty]

Peter hale x reader - sweet on you

Hello, not sure if your requests are open but if so, could you please please write Peter hale x fem reader? There isn't enough peter hale out there - Anon💜

It was clear to anybody around Scott and his pack didn’t want Peter around, despite the fact they needed his help on a few occasions they didn’t enjoy asking him or being near him.

Which might have been why Peter started following you around like a lost puppy, he usually showed up at your work around lunch time, he walked you to and from your car, and was even known to just invite himself over to your house.

At first it was unnerving, you thought he wanted something out of you, or was trying to pry for information and your brother and his pack, but Peter wasn’t one to be patient, so when months had passed and he still hadn’t made any move to try get you to show or tell him anything, no weird behaviour or comments you let your guard down a bit.

You begun to enjoy his company, started chatting to him a little bit more and he seemed more than happy to hold conversations with you.

Scott, his pack and your mom weren’t fond of this, they didn’t like it, Derek least of all, but they were all partially relieved that since he was so confused on staying around you it kept him out of trouble.

Today was no different, you were doing some housework when you heard the front door open and close.

“Hello Peter.” You called out.

There was a small pause before a reply came.

“Do you just assume anybody walking into your home is me?”

You turned to look behind you just in time to see Peter walking through your kitchen doorway sipping a cup of coffee as he sat down in one of the chairs.

You give a small shrug to him and turn around to carry on washing dishes.

“Pretty much, everybody else at least knocks before coming in, even if they’re in a rush.”

Peter hums slightly and set his cup on the table and leant back in his chair as he watched washing the dishes.

“There are machines that will do that you know.”

“I know but I don’t have one so unfortunately for me I have to do it.”

“Why not?”

You rolled your eyes slightly as you cast him a brief glance before going back to what you were doing.

“Cause I’m not made of money.”

“I have money.”

“Good for you?”

You dry your hands as you look at him slightly confused at his statement.

Peter gave a small chuckle at you shaking his head as he got up and walked over and lightly flicked your forehead.

“No you idiot, I’m saying I’ll buy you one if you want me too, I just need to check to see if you have space for one.”

“You really don’t need to do that but I’m fine washing them.”

As you finished that sentence he had already begun exploring your kitchen and opening things checking to see where you had room for one in the kitchen.

“Peter come on I really don’t need one stop.” You sighed.

“To late I’ve already found a place for one, seriously every good home has to have a dishwasher it’s just so much more convenient.” He said padding back over.

Peter looked around your kitchen before looking back to you.

“Seriously you need to remodel its very old style in here and not in a good way.”

You raise a brow at him, taking a sip of his coffee before pulling a face and taking the lid off to add sugar.

“You know nobody is making you come here right? You have free Will Peter you can go wherever you want to.”

“You don’t seem to be complaining when you’re taking my coffee.” He said gesturing to his cup.

Offering him a shrug and a little grin you took a small sip of the coffee.

“You know the rules Hale, if you bring it here it’s free game.”

He hums a little bit as he helps himself to some snacks from the fridge.

“A small price to pay I suppose, you’re much more tolerable than the others, less broody.”

“Yeah that’s true, in a delight.” You grin.

“Yes and full of yourself too apparently.”

“Yeah says you.” You scoff, slapping his side.

Most people wouldn’t have gotten away with that, and part of Peter was ready to snap at you for it, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

He never could, he simply just looked at you and rolled his eyes slightly, bringing a hand up to lightly flick your forehead again before gently rubbing the spot.

“The difference is that it suits me, but you, (Y/N) are not that type. You’re the selfless type, and that’s why I like you more.”

Peter gestures to your hands that were slightly red from the hot water of you washing the dishes.

“And your hands don’t deserve to look like that, they shouldn’t be red and sore.”

You offer him a small smile and lightly shake your head a little bit.

“Honestly it’s not even bad Peter, this is what hard work looks like you know.”

Peter hummed a little, looking down at you.

“Well you shouldn’t have to do hard work, you already do so much for that moronic brother of yours and his pack, you’re basically a free therapist for them all.”

You sigh slightly.

“He’s my brother Peter, there’s not many people him or his friends can talk to about all of this, and everyone knows you’re not going to sit and play therapist to them.”

“Hey I never had anybody to talk to about this stuff and yet I turned out wonderful.”

Laughing you shake your head at him and smile up at him.

“Of course you did you big idiot.”

“Hey, careful now I’m the big bad wolf remember?”

“Oh of course you are how could I forget.”

Peter smirked a little bit, standing in front of you and crossing his arms, leaning down a little bit.

He showed you his claws and his eyes turned bright blue.

“You’re saying this doesn’t scare you? Especially knowing everything I’ve done, Hm?”

You give him a small smile and bring your hand up to lower his, being mindful you didn’t accidentally catch yourself with his claws.

This wasn’t new to you, every so often he would do this, almost as if he was trying to scare you away.

“You know it doesn’t Peter.”

His smirked gaze way to a soft smile and a small chuckle as he put his claws away so he didn’t hurt you and his eyes returned to normal.

He shook his head slightly at you and press a very soft and almost unnoticeable kiss to the top of your head.

“You’re far too precious for someone like me, for this world in fact.” He smiled.

He tapped the coffee cup in your hand and guided you to sit down at a chair.

“Stay, let me go get lunch.”

With that Peter left, leaving you sat there.

This was your everyday life with Peter, he was sweet then would distance himself but you knew he wouldn’t let anything happen to you that much was clear

[kelsunnie]

What Isn’t Said (Deltarune Kris X Reader)

hehehehhe it sounded funnier in my head ANW HAVE THIS QUEEN INTRO BC IM STILL TRYING TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO WRITE BATTLE SEQUENCES AND I FEEL BAD MAKING U GUYS WAIT OK BYEEEEEEEE

Chapter 2: Queen

You looked around your surroundings, mind confused and foggy. Where were you? Nothing in your sights was familiar, and you were too scared to walk ahead alone. You looked down at your feet, paying attention to your clothing. It certainly wasn’t the same clothing you wore just a few minutes ago, yet somehow it feels comfortable. You had a scarf draped in your favourite color, loosely hanging on your neck. Your usual tops and bottoms were tied with an intricate belt with a flower engraving that looked similar to the flowers you used on your flower crown a few years ago.

Enough of the fit check, you mused to yourself. Let’s get out of here, this place is creepy.

With little courage, you made your first few steps, echoing like a metal sounding that seems eerie yet familiar—each one bouncing off the distant walls of this neon, empty expanse. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep moving. The world felt too big. Too quiet. You hugged yourself instinctively, fingers brushing the scarf at your neck, grounding you in its soft, familiar fabric.

A glint of light stops you at your tracks, catching your eye in the unfamiliar dark. Your breath hitches as you cautiously step closer, drawn to the strange object lying abandoned on the ground.

It was a grappling hook–but not like any you’ve seen before. The metal shines unnaturally bright, almost humming with energy, and the rope attached to it glows faintly, threads of light weaving through it in the hue of your favorite color.

“Um… okay..?” You found it weird that there was a grappling hook just sitting there, as if someone had placed it for you on purpose. You glanced around, half-expecting someone, or something, to leap out and claim it, but the silence pressed in, heavy and unnerving. You kneel to pick it up, feeling an odd warmth in your palm, as though the weapon recognizes you.

“Well, you’re mine now,” You stared at the weapon in hand, swinging it around as if to test its weight and balance. The grappling hook felt surprisingly natural in your grip, the metal glinting faintly in the dim light.

You gave it an experimental flick, watching the hook extend and retract with a satisfying whir. A small, almost giddy grin tugged at your lips. Despite everything, there was something kind of cool about this.

“Okay, maybe this won’t be so bad,” you whispered to yourself, feeling a flicker of confidence. The hook coiled neatly back into its mechanism, as if eager for its first real use.

Grappling hook in hand, you press on, feeling slightly secure with the weapon’s weight resting comfortably in your hand. The eerie silence of this strange world hums in your ears, only broken by the soft clinks of your footsteps. Eventually, you came across a cliff’s edge with three yellow arrows pointing down as if telling you to go down.

You checked the height of the drop, feeling at ease when you saw that it was shallow. You slid your way down and followed the path ahead, meeting a what seemed to be an adorable, pink creature that had a familiar face. They appeared to be shaky, as if scared of something

“Um, hello?” You softly asked them, keeping a distance so as to not scare them even further.

“The wires… the wires…” The pink creature muttered.

“Wires?” You raised an eyebrow, looking for any sign of what they were afraid of. You tilted your head back and saw a couple of wires dangled from above, the power cord menacingly hanging like a serpent ready to strike.

Huge wires, you pondered. I don’t think they’re supposed to be that size.

You see another cliff with yellow arrows and before you went ahead and slid down, you bid goodbye to the pink creature, silently wishing for them to be okay.

You arrive at the bottom and discover more power cords hanging ominously. You carefully stepped forward, weaving between them, trying not to let your nerves get the better of you. Suddenly, one of the cords crackled, and a sharp burst of electricity swerved down. Unfortunately, you were too late to move away, hitting you in the process.

Ow. You hissed at the pain, running towards hopefully a safe spot where the surge wouldn’t hit you. Okay... lesson learned. Stay sharp. Watch the surge.

You waited for a moment, carefully watching any kind of pattern on the surge. Luckily, you noticed a recurring pattern and kept it in mind, watching out for a clear gap between the crackling bursts.

Heart pounding, you took a deep breath and bolted forward the moment the cords pulsed harmlessly. Each step felt heavier with tension as you sidestepped through the pattern you learned. Finally, you reached a safer patch of ground where the wires thinned out. You exhaled sharply, only now realizing how tightly you’d been clenching your fists.

“And this is why parkour isn’t for everybody,” you muttered under your breath.

“Wait…”

You stared at the grappling hook in hand, facepalming once you realized something, “I could’ve used this thing. Stupid.” You cursed at yourself, feeling the sting of embarrassment creep up your neck. You were more than glad no one saw you.

You were about to take a step ahead until you heard a thud from the direction where you last came. Your body tensed, heart skipping a beat. The sound echoed eerily in the empty space, making it hard to tell just how far, or close, it really was. You froze, straining your ears for any hint of movement. Was someone... or something following you? You shifted your gaze to the sound, looking past the dim shapes of the cords.

The sounds of what sounded like two footsteps inched closer to you, anxious about who or what it was that was going your way. You heard a familiar voice from the same direction, squinting at who it could be. You spot a familiar purple figure, their hands behind their back in a chill manner. Next to them was a blue-skinned figure with a face that you knew all too well.

“... Kris? Susie?” You yelled out in the distance, your voice echoing off the strange metal and neon structures around you.

You heard your name being called out by Susie. Relief washed over you as you saw Susie break into a run, hurrying towards you with Kris following at a brisk pace, but something about Kris made your stomach twist. Kris didn’t slow, didn’t offer a wave, didn’t say a word—just stared, their expression unreadable, like they were looking through you.

“You look funny from here,” Susie gives you a crooked grin, “Like you’d seen a ghost or something.”

“In my defense, I thought you guys were some kind of scary… thing,” you retorted, “At least I’m not trapped here alone anymore.”

Susie let out a short snort, folding her arms. “Heh. Big words for someone tiptoeing around like they’re scared of their own shadow,” her eyes flicker on the grappling hook in your hand, then back to you, “Cool weapon. Guess you’re not totally useless.”

Kris finally caught up, their empty, almost puppet-like stare making your skin crawl. You couldn’t help but shift a little, feeling uneasy.

“I’m useful in my own way,” you turned back to them and pointed at another cliff with yellow arrows, “And this useful fellow will now go ahead. You guys don’t mind if I do, right?

“It’s safer to be together,” You heard Kris speak up, their voice carrying a strange, hollow edge that made your skin prickle. It was as if the words were being forced out, with a voice that somehow sounded like it was through a speaker.

You stared at them, uneasy, but managed a small nod, “... yeah.. I guess you’re right,” you murmured, trying to shake off the chill that ran down your spine.

It’s just Kris, you tried to convince yourself. Nothing to be scared about. Why would you be scared of your best friend?

“… Alright, then,” you hitched, moving behind Susie, “lead the way, Kris.”

And they do so. Kris leads the group smoothly, heading to the cliff as you all slide down. You reach a similar area, except the ground is littered with cracks, which alarmed you.

“Somebody help me… Somebody, please…” A familiar voice echo, pausing the three of you from your tracks. In front of you was Noelle, sitting on the ground, her body shaking

“Noelle!” You sprint towards her, heart pounding with worry, “Are you okay?”

Noelle cried out your name, a sigh of relief escaped her lips, “I’m… I’m so glad you’re here.”

“We’re here now,” you hugged her, patting her back to comfort her. You felt the tension slowly ease from her shoulders as she clung to you, shaky breaths gradually steadying. “Kris and Susie are with me.”

“What…?” Noelle opened her eyes to her purple haired classmate. “Susie?!” She quickly wiped her tears, breaking from the hug and attempting to compose herself from her position, “It’s.. uh… cool that you’re here, just…”

“Wait,” She pushes you away, enough for you to stumble and fall, “Get out of here before it’s too late!”

“What…” You were interrupted when some kind of cage flew from behind Noelle, trapping her in it.

“NOELLE!” You and Susie cried out in unison, your voices echoing as the trap lifted, carrying Noelle helplessly above the ground. Panic surged through you as you reached out instinctively, but the cage was already rising, out of reach, leaving only the sound of rattling metal and Noelle’s startled gasp behind, until…

“Ohohohohoooo…!”

An obnoxious sound echoed through the area, breaking the moment you had with Noelle. You snapped your head toward the source, only to see a blue robot with sleek, feminine proportions sitting comfortably on a couch with fire blowing out of its bottom like a rocket. Metallic and glossy, she shone under the strange light of this odd world, her expression fixed in an unsettling, toothy grin that never seemed to waver. Her sharp, rectangular visor shined in rectangle patterns, like a LCD. She seems to be holding a triangular wine glass with a neon green liquid that resembles acid.

The robot swirled its drink confidently, a smug smile plastered on its metallic face, “Hell Of A Study Session.”

“Who the hell are you?!” You and Susie yelled out in confusion.

“I Am Known As Serial Number Q5U4EX7YY2E9N,” The robot introduced itself, “But You Foolish Children May Call Me…”

The female robot paused for a second, taking a sip of its juice, “Queen.” A green neon-like message popped up next to it, with the words ‘Queen’ written out.

You deadpanned, confused and baffled at the scenario in front of you, “... What the fuck?”

“Heh, like we’re gonna call YOU “Queen”, Susie retorted.

“Q5U… 3… 7… Uh…”

“Queen.”

Susie pointed at Queen in a mocking manner, “Well LOOK, Queen. We’re NOT children!”

… We kind of are, though. You shot a glance at Kris, wondering if they were thinking the same thing.

“Teens Are Merely Big Children,” Queen argued, showing the group a neon presentation of two figures that were labelled ‘stupid’ and ‘big stupid’, “And Adults Are Even Bigger Children.”

“... doesn’t that make you a child, too, then?” You pointed out.

“No I Am: A Computer (Smart),” Queen retorted, showing yet another neon presentation of two laptops that were labelled ‘smart’ and ‘smart’. This somehow offended you.

“Wait, how in the hell did you do that???”

“... computer?” Susie’s eyes widened in confusion and surprise.

“Well Thank You For The Stimuli But I Must Leave Now (Goodbye),” Queen quickly takes off, her figure and couch rising above and away from you.

“Wait! WAIT!” Susie yelled out, ”Why’d you capture Noelle?!”

Queen, as if being called upon, came back immediately, “I Would Have Captured You Too But I Ran Out Of Cages.”

“Why the capturing??”

Queen shows a neon presentation of Noelle, “So That She May Become My Willing Peon.” She then presented multiple globe pictures, all of which were stained red. Somehow you found this all too silly, “In My Quest For World Domination.”

“Also Maybe I Will Make Her Face Into A Robot One?”

“WHAT?! Why?!”

“Seems Cool.”

You remained silent, trying to process whether Queen was serious or just messing with you all. The ridiculousness of the presentation, combined with her flat delivery, made it hard to tell. You exchanged a glance with Susie, who looked just as bewildered as you felt, and with Kris, whose unsettling stillness wasn’t helping your nerves.

“Well, FORGET it, dude.” Susie argued, “Nobody’s turning anyone’s face into a robot!”

“Could That Be A Statement Of Animous Dissension.”

“Huh?” Susie blinked in confusion.

You sighed in exasperation, “She meant, like, are you disagreeing or something.”

“Oh. Well. Yes?”

“You Wanna Fight, Losers.”

“YES!! YES, ALREADY, YES!!!” Susie excitedly pulls out her axe and continuously hits the ground.

“Oh Then Bye.”

“WAIT! A GODDAMN! SECOND!”

“I Have no Time For Such Frivolities (And Would Kick Your Ass),” Queen sips her acid juice for the umpteenth time, you start to wonder if it's that addictive.

A smirk starts to form on her metal mouth, “But Perhaps Someone Else Could Entertain You.”

You groaned, “What now?”

Suddenly, two cords fall from above startling the group, but the cords didn’t fall or hit on either of you. Two pink creatures fell victim to the cords, but instead of them getting hurt, the power cords landed on their face, fitting perfectly on their eyes and mouth. They transform into a tall, colorful bunch with extending fingers, face covered with the cord and still connected to the wire.

“Enjoy: Your Assimilation.”

[starleska]

about that scene with the Doctor...(spoilers for The Interstellar Song Contest)

i agree with everyone that the Eurovision allegory was dreadfully handled, and the character of Kid was done a tremendous disservice. the messaging of making your genocide-survivor character hell-bent on murdering countless others to make a point is dreadful, especially in the context of the Israeli-Palestininian conflict. what we end up with is a weak, gross message that one should comply with their persecutors in order to deliver 'acceptable' protest (e.g., Cora with her Hellian song). of all the messaging in these recent episodes of Doctor Who, this has been the nastiest, whether intentional or otherwise. however: i don't think the Doctor snapped because his morals suddenly went out the window and he decided to torture a genocide survivor. he snapped because he saw himself reflected in Kid.

Kid was about to murder three trillion people. by the skin of his teeth, the Doctor managed to stop Kid from murdering the thousands on board that space station, and he still thought they were casualties because he had no idea to get them back. to him, not only was Belinda dead, but every memory of Earth was also dead, all in an instant, with another atrocity coming. i think the poorly-communicated message of this episode which attempted to flesh out the Fifteenth Doctor's character is to do with the cycle of trauma and violence. i think we can all agree that the Doctor's reaction was horrific, and it's clear we are supposed to be horrified by his actions. we've seen in previous incarnations (Seven, Ten, etc.) that the Doctor is capable of a tremendous amount of cruelty in response to horrendous acts. for the past two seasons the Doctor, a war veteran who has witnessed unimaginable horrors across countless lifetimes, has been on the edge of a complete nervous breakdown, and we've been seeing signs of that since Boom and Joy to the World. in Kid, the Doctor saw reflected back a version of himself he despises: a person willing to harm others to exact vengeance and make up for heinous acts. and he lost. his. mind. the gigantic misstep in this episode was making Kid the villain. the writers attempted to fix this by having the Fifteenth Doctor assess Kid as having a "cold, filthy heart" that "just likes to kill", and because the episode has such awful, muddled messaging, we can't even begin to untangle whether or not that's true. either way it doesn't look good: the most generous interpretation is that Kid was just a "bad egg" who wanted to hurt people in the first place, but what kind of awful writing is that? we end up with Kid being the bad one for lashing out, and Cora being the good one for complying, and that...ugh. that puts a sour taste in my mouth. this episode was not the right time or place for the Doctor to have his Time Lord Victorious moment. it is important to note that this episode aired directly before the actual Eurovision Song Contest, on the BBC. i'm honestly astonished that they let this air at all, as even a confusing, politically murky reference to the ESC being funded by Israel could've easily been tanked. the episode makes an attempt at a pro-Palestinian allegory, but it drowns itself in its own contradictions and ends up making our main character torture someone who is both a Palestinian stand-in and a would-be mass murderer. my confusing feelings on the episode are:

i understand what the writers were trying to do, and i think they missed the mark enormously

i appreciate that they were trying to make an episode which addresses the controversy around the Eurovision Song Contest, but it came off as offensive and honestly a bit horrifying

i was glad to see the Doctor finally have an episode of sincere, uncontrolled rage, but unnerved by who that rage was directed at (even if it makes sense given the Doctor's history)

it's impossible to divorce this episode from its real-life context, and that makes examining the Doctor's actions very difficult.

does Kid's attempted mass-murder justify the Doctor torturing him? of course not. does Kid's status as a genocide survivor preclude him from committing horrendous acts? no, but that particular messaging with this context feels deeply gross. did both Kid and the Doctor act in horrendous ways partly due to the trauma they've both experienced, as well as their own propensity for violence and harm? yes, i think that was the idea, even if it was handled very, very poorly. tldr; writers tried to do something clever and flesh out Fifteen's capacity for anger and harm, but did it in a way which demonises a suffering group of people. i don't think deliberate harm was intended, but there's a reason why myself and so many others watched this episode and came away feeling disturbed. the episode is ostensibly critical of Israel's funding of Eurovision, but the allegory falls flat in the face of the Doctor's rage.

[ngage2003]

To me, one of the most confusing assumptions in the Marble Hornets' fandom, is the idea that Brian's weird little doll is supposed to for some reason be representative of the Operator.

Why the hell would be the case though? We know for a fact that Brian hates the Operator with a passion and I can't imagine why he would leave a representation of it for Jay, and maybe most damning of all it has little sewn dots for eyes.

So, what the hell is up with that little doll thing?

Alright, so first things first, lets talk about how/where this doll shows up, because it mostly does so in two main places in Marble Hornets, in Brian's house, and with Tim's medical files.

Let's talk about that first time.

✦ Entry #18

Ah yes, by and large one of my favorite entries of season one, but before we get fully into it the whole that Brian's creepy little doll plays in it, lets talk about what precedes it.

Before this entry comes out, the ToTheArk channel releases one of its own best entries from season 1 of Marble Hornets, Signal. In this video, Jay is told rather explicitly to "come back" to Brian's house and to "find me," all while there is creepy audio about the narrator showing the listener a secret, taken from the short film Silent Snow, Secret Snow.

Entry 18 is of course the first place where we finally see Masky for the first time, but I don't believe this message is from him. Rather, I think Brian knew or told Masky to be at the house, and lured Jay there as a way to scare him, as endlessly throughout Season 1 that really is the prerogative of these two, to scare or intimidate Jay away from the mystery.

Alright, that makes sense, yeah? But, so, what's the deal with the doll?

It honestly could be placed there just to freak Jay out, but I just want to point out the fact that Brian has a habit of doing things with a sort of artistic flare. There is a logic/through line to these actions, to his videos and his choices, even if it isn't apparent to us the viewer.

-

Moving on, ✦ Entry 60,

Alright, so admittedly this one is the main fodder for my theory, but I think it incredibly interesting that Brian leaves the doll for Jay to find with the medical records.

Yeah sure, maybe he is pointing out the fact that Tim had seizures due to the Operator, ok, but most of that folder isn't really about Tim's seizures but instead his childhood and hospitalization, even including some papers about his therapy sessions from MUCH later in his institutionalization, about 7 years later. (If you want to read more about my thoughts on that, click here.)

Why the hell would Brian leave the doll here? He is a man of details and what is he trying to tell us with this one?

Well, Dearest Reader, allow me give my two cents.

Are you familiar with the concept of a therapy doll?

They are a specific exercise often used in child's therapy, where a small doll is usually decorated and used as a tool to help a kid express their feelings and practice social skills, working through them in a safe environment with the doll.

This doll can often represent an important person in the child's life, or even themself at times, acting as a way to help with internal emotional management as well as external! And we know based on Tim's records, "Pediatric Admission Profile," Page 2, "Section XI - Teaching" that Tim has emotional barriers to learning.

Dear Reader, I believe this curious little doll, which we always see in relation to Tim, (either with his protector alter or with his medical files,) which people in the fandom love to misconstrue as a representative the Operator in some sense, is his therapy doll, from all the way back when he was institutionalized.

I believe he kept it as he went through therapy, and it was just something that accidentally stayed with his medical file, along with his older records. I believe that Brian knew of it and decided to lay it in wait before Jay saw Masky as a way to unnerve him, but he thought of it in the first place because it was Tim's, and by extension it was Masky's too.

I think the reason it is un-decorated is because, while abandoned at the institution, Tim didn't have an adult he trusted or wanted to talk to who could be the doll, and he didn't have a solid self image either due to his dissociation. That is why it is blank.

This doll does not represent the monster of Marble Hornets, but rather its martyr.

[hoseoksluna]

A MILLION YEARS AGO | jhs

pairing: idol!boyfriend!hobi x f. reader 

genre: smut, fluff

word count: 4.6k

summary: when your faith in your healing wavers, hobi is there to go the extra mile for you.

taglist: join | playlist: million | cp: wattpad, ao3 | discord: join

warnings: near car accident, confusion in the body, iffy feelings towards an ex, seeing an ex for the first time in million years, being mistreated, religion, praying, oc smokes, hobi is the perfect boyfriend that i wish i had, oral sex (f. receiving), raw sexual intercourse.

note: i'm crying as i'm writing this because i'm so sad, but i promise this healed me more than i expected. as you know, i write little fics whenever something happens to me—and this is based off what happened yesterday. me and my cousin sat down at our smaller family event (not the one we had on friday, if you follow me on twitter), and she asked me if i were healed. and she told me about what she saw. i think it's meant to move me somewhere forward, otherwise i would've never got to see his face. i don't know. i hope you like this little fic, you know i had to write it out like i smoke out my feelings. i'm proud of this work in terms of the way it's written. think i kinda killed that. i love you guys. and i miss you, terribly. i love you.

side note: sorry for my vulnerability. a smaller side note: this is also for my baby @hoseokkie-caeks. i promised i would write a hobi one shot after berries, and here i am. <3 i love you, baby. miss you.

The night was dark. Too, too dark. 

I sensed it swathing my bones long before I glimpsed at something I should and shouldn’t have—or rather someone, to be proper. 

The trees remained unmoving, despite the summer breeze drifting through the macrocosm that unfolded with each and every footfall I shared with my beloved beside me. Hand in hand, we walked leisurely through streets that were prosaic until our energy imbued them with our intimate poetry. White swallowing, little by little, the dark. There was no one and everyone around us, but we didn’t see them; we merely saw each other, for we were in love and we deserved to be so. Hoseok after his hard, agonizing work regime and unfair treatment from his management and… the whole world essentially. Me after the way I had been treated, handled, tossed aside by the person I found inside the screen of a phone—inside a world that once used to be mine, but now is nothing but foreign. 

Million, million years ago. 

The stars were aligned just right, stringing together a shape of the wholeness and the throb of my heart, and we sat down to eat dinner with one of my closest friends that came to town—one me and Hoseok have settled in within the precious, year-long break that burst open in his work life. Hobi didn’t want to see people, at least not those who didn’t bear familiar faces, and I didn’t want to see the city, so it was the most fateful of compromises, most perfect of the kind that was naturally threaded between us; a conjoined idea that blinked within our brains at the same time. And the laughter that followed after we voiced it out at the same time, the long kiss that spread roots inside the pillows of our lips—to this day, it is a fond memory, or perhaps something beyond that, that embraces me at night before I enter the realm of dreamland, tugging me closer into the snug heat of Hoseok’s safe place that I regard his body to be. 

Though before we arrived, I gazed up at that constellation of me through the windscreen as Hoseok’s car began to make a strange noise that unnerved him. I prayed for its rightness to be true and I prayed for our safe travel, as short as it was. According to our previous plan, we were supposed to wait for my friend, Hyun-Ae, and her boyfriend, Do-hyun, outside of the restaurant because she had a strong yearning to jump into my arms upon seeing me. My excitement for that to happen ripped my eyes away from the nightly heavens, searching for her in the dimmed lights of the mutely lively building, in the shadowed greenery surrounding it, near the trees that didn’t move, yet my hair did. 

Strange, that dark energy. 

I hoped she was peeing somewhere, where the light doesn’t reach. She invariably had a tendency to chug everything she drank and her bladder paid for it each time—but this time, she wasn’t squatting by a bush. 

She almost didn’t get to me at all. 

A driver, merely minutes away from entering our town, nearly swerved wrongly into the traffic lane that Do-hyun was driving through, yanking away the stars from the canvas of the heavens. He had to pull over and take deep breaths in order to stabilize his mental state as the thought of almost getting in a car accident with her being in the passenger seat triggered his long-fought panic attack. And because the woods at the beginning of our secluded town doesn’t have any service, we waited for them for half an hour without any knowledge of their whereabouts. 

I bit my cuticles until they bled. Until Do-hyun’s lungs were lifted of its heaviness with Hyun-Ae’s help, his breathing evened out, and he was able to get behind the wheel and cross the distance. 

Upon hearing what obstacles stood before us, I didn’t understand it at first. Hyun-Ae’s yearning was gratified, we hugged until our necks ached and our arms quivered in our stifling, long-coming hug with her legs wrapped around me, ate the food we always ordered when we were together and not apart while she filled me in—but I didn’t perceive the darkness for what it was until that very last detail. 

One she wouldn’t provide until I promised her, a million times, that I was fully healed and ready to hear it. I didn’t know what she was about to uncoil, sitting beside me as she was, with her hands in her lap. But I should’ve known that those obstacles were put in our path for my preparation. 

Hyun-Ae hinted, before she began articulating her discovery, that it was about my ex-love. I stiffened a little, taken aback. I downed a shot of the spirits that we had left. And I was being tugged in two different directions, thrown to and fro, asked by the lawlessness of life to choose. 

Stay back and not go further—not let her tell me because Hobi doesn’t know the specifics about my last situationship. 

Ask her to hold my hand and give her the consent to proceed as my curiosity was piqued and my wound was healed, a million years ago. 

And in the short dwelling of the manhandling, my spirit of inquiry crowned, my fatal flaw. I chose the latter—because why would I not? I carry my heart in my chest for my beloved beside me proudly, for his waters mine with the fulfilling streams of his laughter and sound effects, gentleness and devotion. He has grown and nurtured monsteras within its past mutilated chambers—and the longer he cradled my life and made it his own, made it his endeared responsibility, the more healing flowers of wild, undomesticated origin bloomed against the verdure. The pair of us—Hobi, the elegant leaves with its perforation symbolizing the dimples above his mouth when he smiles; I, the chamomile that has the gift to make better, but everyone mistakes it for a daisy, tossing it aside. 

Everyone but Hobi, the worker who cultivated it in me. 

And caught in the snare of my pride, I wanted to know if my ex-love still remained in the exile of his emotional unavailability, fucking everything that walks on his solitary Pluto planet while I made love to the Sun three times a day, minimally. 

Hyun-Ae gripped my hand with her lukewarm, refreshing touch as she told me that he was dating someone, fundamentally poisoning the girl with his ways like he did to me. That she didn’t understand what I had seen in him as he looked worse than ever before, a characteristic of the unhallowed set deep within his eyes. My lungs refused to inhale any particles of air; they must’ve taken a break from their work in order to process, at their own time, the information that was given to them. The male who pretended to date me while I edged his planet for years, laboring myself in order to heal him with my prayers and words because I believed him after he said he loved me, but he needed to get right first. Needed to unload his baggage and bandage up the slashes across his heart from his previous relationship. 

All sweet nothing without an ounce of genuineness. He took pleasure from the way I stayed around while he hurt me again and again by entertaining other girls, my feet indented in the soft soil of the planet. It was a form of compensation for him. A some sort of merriment—and madness, unmitigated madness for me. 

I lost my mind, standing upon that edge. And I had to get off in order to find it again, my hands outstretched beyond me—held by the invisible fingers of God while he taught me how to walk again, how to walk in a gravity-filled space of greenery, the rainbows of colors, the rain and the sunlight like a baby. 

And I did. 

I walked until my feet stopped in front of Hobi’s.

At first, I felt a sheer wisp of happiness for the guy that he managed to make such an immense step in that direction, however it flickered in me for mere seconds, replaced by a doom of nothingness that began to swim in me. Heavy, heavy nothingness that felt cosmically peculiar—and my body urged me to go outside and smoke it away.  

But my mouth spoke first. 

Who is she? Show me. 

Hyun-Ae narrowed her chocolate pools at me, her brows furrowing until they darkened. Then, they flicked towards Hobi beside me and I followed her gaze—he was preoccupied with a heated conversation with Do-hyun and he didn’t hear a word shared between us. Hyun-Ae lowered her voice, nonetheless. 

So you could compare yourself to her? No fucking way. 

But I pushed. Driven by that nothingness in me, I desired to feel something. Hurt, pride—anything that would stir my body and give it what it asked. It was used to feeling great clouds of negative emotions in terms of the male, and now it was searching for it, in spite of the million years that have flown by since. And to shut me up and distract my mind from wanting the wrong things, she showed me a picture of him. 

And upon seeing that dark characteristic of his eyes, gone, hollow and dead from the laws and the ghosts of the Pluto planet, my stomach clenched and I averted my gaze. My body rejected him—I couldn’t look at him for more than two seconds. 

My good, smart body. 

I fell into quietness, more gravely than the one this town was weaved with. Hyun-Ae’s eyes returned to their original round size, softening on me, and I held her hand tighter. I needed, vehemently, to smoke the descending nothingness away, and when I asked her to go outside with me, Hobi reached the conclusion of his conversation. Wrapped his slender fingers around my arm, tender sound effects, only for my ear to hear, slinking inside as he rubbed his nose against the place right beside it. 

You wanna go smokie smokie? Hobi asked, gliding his fingers down my arm until he reached my wrist, the belly of his index tracing the blue and violet ‘V’ shape of my veins upon my left arm. 

He grounded me. 

I nodded, my smile natural, my love for him abounding, and Hyun-Ae encouraged me to go, gently slapping the side of my bum. And so I went, hand in hand, with him.

Our inherent, pristine characteristic. 

Hobi stole my lighter once I fished it out of my purse. He didn’t smoke, but whenever he joined me, he thought it gentlemanly and proper to light up my cigarette for me. It’s the least I can do, he had explained and I had kissed him so hard for it that he blushed. 

It’s what he does now, flicking his thumb upon the spark wheel until the small flame erupts and bathes us in a delicate, orange tint. I hold the cigarette steady between my lips with my two fingers and Hobi draws closer, appeasing my inner need. Waits for me to take that first drag before he prepares me for the rush of his enormous affection by heating the small of my back with his palm, rubbing the sensitive place. It’s something that I’ve learned he likes to do; take things slow so I open for him like a bud of flower. It gives him pleasure, the laboriousness of the process and the following harvesting, the dampness of my dew the evidence of his success.  

It’s extremely attractive because he does it more for my sake than for his own. 

He lets me take another drag, our visual connection a string stouter than the constellation up above, and I feel myself, nonvocally, giving over that heaviness of the nothingness with each exhale. I decompress and Hobi can see it, joining his other hand to my loins and dipping his head to my neck. He scatters tiny, weightless kisses upon that tenderness of me and I am lulled by his enticement, soothed and sleep-drunk, his pheromones and the cedarwood of his fragrance unfettering me. 

I want to take him to bed. 

And I tell him, innocently, with my hands that clenched the muscles of his arms rounding towards his pecs and lowering to his abdomen, the ivory smoke following my movement, but never touching him. Hobi knows this is my language of sensuality and his mouth parts as he feels the words. 

“We should go.” 

He lifts an arm and brushes a strand of hair away from my cheek, his fingers lingering upon the shell of my ear—his private obsession. His endeared eyes study my features for a fraction of time before he leans in and peppers a singular kiss to the button of my nose. “Why are you sad, muffin?” 

The trees towering behind him move in a daze at last, but it’s a blurred swaying motion that merely divulges to me that the obstacles, the preparation and the dark energy have been conquered. And it helps me to speak a little. 

“Hyun-Ae told me something I didn’t really expect to hear. Can I tell you on our way home?” 

Hobi nods, cradling my cheek, and I melt. 

“I can leave the car here and we can walk home. And in the morning, we can go grocery shopping in the city.” 

I liquefy in his hold and I finish the last of my cigarette, kissing him feverishly and reciprocating the kisses he left upon my neck, sinking our domesticity into the column of his throat while he holds me and I drip into the fullness of him. 

When we return to the restaurant, Do-hyun is by himself, informing us that Hyun-ae has gone to pee. The familiarity solidifies me and I sense upon me a moonlit energy of joy that cleanses me of the past. Hyun-ae perceives it long before I open my mouth and she jumps into my arms, telling me how she’s proud of me. We say our goodbyes, promise that we’ll see each other soon, and Hobi pays for the whole table, calming every inch of me. 

I pray as we watch them drive off. I pray for their safe travel into the city and I pray over our car. 

We walk through our miniature, unlit version of the city, breathing in the purity of the air, listening to the rustling of the leaves being fondled by the breeze. Hobi mimics the act of love, rubbing his thumb over my hand, and I feel at ease when I tell him about my first love, chain-smoking just to help me infuse poetry into my words. 

With each detail, I forget it has happened to me as I unattach myself from it, consider it an element of the past that no longer has anything to do with me. Hobi lets me speak, doesn’t interrupt me, though I notice that as I venture into the brutality of the pain I waded through, his teeth grit and his jaw clenched, the preceding flush of his cheeks withering and falling beneath his skin, pallidness blanketing it in ashen gray. And it pushes me further into my process of letting go and forgetting for another million years to come. 

He stops in the middle of the road once I finish the story. Gives me a mournful look that penetrates me so deeply that I mourn, too. His hands find my forearms, my shoulders and my clavicles. Prepare me for the treasure of the most sympathetic of hugs I have ever received in my life and I loosen up in his strong hold, bury my face in his black-clothed chest as his palm holds my head to him. And he kisses my crown, kisses my temple; strengthens me when he squeezes me until I can’t breathe and I grasp that he is cleansing the pollution of the monstera leaves and the chamomile petals. 

And then he begins to speak, dampening me with a fresh layer of hydration. 

“You had to walk through hell in order to find me and I shall spend my lifetime bringing heaven to you. I swear on my life, muffin,” he says, for the entirety of the peripheral corn fields and the trees to hear, as he cradles my face and makes me look at him. My vision blears as I regard him more as my savior than I ever have before, nodding my head in agreement as my eyelashes flutter, the finality of calmness settling down in me like we did in this town. “You’re mine. You were mine when you were with him, which is why fate didn’t allow him near you. Mine to find, mine to take care of, mine to love, kiss and dance with. Mine. You’re gonna keep blooming in my hands and you’re no longer gonna pray for him, you’d done enough of that already. You’re only gonna pray for yourself.” 

This, I disagree with, dissolving sugar personified. 

“No, I’m only gonna pray for you.” 

Hobi pouts, his mouth rounding downwards, and his thumbs rub my cheeks, smearing my makeup—and I don’t mind. It’s always been his to ruin. He presses his nose and forehead to mine, breathing with me as the breeze swishes past. I slip my hands beneath the hem of his T-shirt, needing to feel his skin, and Hobi sighs against me. Withdraws a tiny bit and steals the breath he gave me. 

“Teach me how to pray for you.” 

I’m so struck with awe, wonder and my genuine love for him that I cannot speak, my lung failing, though differently this time. They swell up with the essence of my feelings for him, my devotion and my besottedness that my eyes well up before I can halt their rivulets. No one has ever prayed for me, certainly not a male I loved and looked up to. I spent years having my empty prayers echoed back to me and now the love of my life, my eternal beloved one, asks me to teach him how to pray for me. 

Only the omnipotent Listener of my prayers could make this possible for me, and before I know it—my mouth gives my beloved the instructions, the contents of my knowledge that I learned along the trajectory of my somber, otherworldly life and then he’s whispering the voice of his heart into my ear. 

“Dear God, please give my muffin the strength not to be pulled back into the life she had before me. Make sure she’s not influenced by it either. Take her burdens and give them to me because I can bear them. Relieve her heart and make her happy. Use me to do it.” He withdraws and drags his thumbs across my eyelashes, asking me to open them and I do. Once he has my attention, he seeks my guidance. “What do I say now?” 

I huff a soft laugh, endeared. Kiss the edge of his hand. “Say thank you and amen.” 

Hobi grins and the Sun peeks through the night. “Thank you and amen.” 

My laughter gains volume and he wraps his lips around it, shushing me, kissing me madly, and I bury my fingertips into his short hair, reciprocating the different, different madness and expanding it. Weightlessness seizes me and I don’t feel my limbs, stupefaction firing me with enthusiasm and then tongues clash and the kiss gains a verve that forces me to collide my body with his and— 

And then we’re dancing. 

To a slow song he begins to hum with the deep raspiness of his voice. Our bodies are one, singular, intertwined as we move to the rhythm of our unified heart and I weep. 

I weep in my joy. I weep in my contentment—and I weep in my love for him. 

He touches my back all over, cupping my hair as if it was water, leading our bodies in the dance, and there’s no one around us, no cars coming, no animals to watch us—only the trees, the fields, the buzzing of cicadas and the breeze and the moon up above. And then he’s twirling me until I’m dizzy and my soft laughter reverberates through the spaciousness of the road that is ours at this very moment. And the Sun beams at me, my Sun, as he pulls me close and continues to dance with me. I feel the jealous shafts of the light of the moon digging into my back that I soon forget about because his lips pursue mine and I dwindle away into his magnetism. 

His hands, his pheromones and his cedarwood fragrance take me to his bed. 

And he’s feasting on me like the dessert he didn’t get to have at the restaurant, bent over as I am over the foot of the bed, my dress bunched in his fist over my loins and my panties pushed to the side. My hungry beloved, my parched Sun, nuzzling his face in my femininity while I drip my dew and moan his name for him. Sucking my clit, he keeps me hovering on the cusp of my orgasm and I tremble in my vulnerable position—face planted on the bedding while the lower half of my body is raised in the air for him. And once my throat begins to let out whimpers and incoherent pleas, he draws back, closes his body over mine until his lips explore my ear and there, there he teases me. 

“What was that, my little muffin?” 

I whine, grinding my ass into his groin, and he hums. It takes me back to his song and I apperceive that it is the only thing I ever want to be pulled back to. Reminiscent of it, his song is blackened by eroticism, by his enormous arousal, drenched by my dew and I need him. While I feel God, the Listener of my prayers, to be a glaring light in me, I need my beloved Hobi to be interwoven with it. 

“I want you inside me. Please, I need it,” I beg, twirling my hips against his hardness like he twirled me in the middle of the road and Hobi sucks in a breath, exhaling it in the form of a whimper and I stoop in my heady longing. 

Abruptly, he plops me onto my back and yanks my panties away. “I’m gonna marry you, you know that?” 

I can only whisper my overwhelming agreement, my bones and my muscles too overcome with elation to do anything else. I would marry him tomorrow if I could. Go grocery shopping with him in the morning, unload it at home, put on my white silky dress and go to church with him by midday. Spend the rest of the day celebrating our union in bed, round after round until we get so exhausted that we submit to slumber, dreaming of our wedding, reliving it. 

He takes off my dress, kisses my forehead, ruffles my hair around me, his thumb dragging across the skin beneath my lower lip as if he was fixing my smeared lipstick for the special day, getting me ready, and I change my mind. I would marry him right now if I could.  

And I tell him. 

“I would marry you right now.” 

His eyes wet, casting a glimmering light upon my naked form, and a paroxysm of his joy gushes out of him and onto me. Hobi tickles my tummy with butterfly kisses, holding me down with his strong hands that he soon pins above my head, leveling with me, my dew drying on his face—yet he still glistens. Glistens with a gleam of bliss that washes over me. 

“Then, let’s get married,” he murmurs, and seizes my lips with his own, kissing me so roughly that I instinctively open my legs for him, the heated pressure in between unbearable. And then he holds my wrists in one hand while the other unbuckles his pants, fisting his length and tugging on it. My favorite sight. He guides it to my sopping hollowness and with one hard thrust, that he knows I am wholly enraptured by each time, he sheathes himself inside me all the way, completing me. Rests at the delicate touch of our mounds. “I’m gonna fuck you like you deserve and then I’m gonna take you to church.” 

And he gives it to me. Doesn’t pull out fully, but pounds me into the mattress. One hand gripping my wrists together, the other my jaw—ascertaining that my attention doesn’t fluctuate but remain fixed on him, on the twists of his features, on the guttural moans, his pheromones and his fragrance that trickle out of him and dunk into me while I struggle to take it all. 

“Am I hurting you?” he whispers, kissing my cheek and breathing against it, slowing down his strokes that scramble my brain. The tip of his cock grazes my cervix and I lose, I lose my identity. 

My eyes flutter and he pries my mouth open with his thumb, providing me something to focus on as I intuitively suck on it, keeping my head afloat enough to answer. 

“No, it’s just too big.” 

Hobi hums, rewarding me with a peck on the mouth and the gradual speed of his thrusts. “You can take it, muffin. I know you can. You’ve shown me before.” 

The praise, the belief in me—it all crests in lowest part of my sexuality and again, I edge around the cusp of my orgasm. Beads of perspiration line his forehead, soaking his hairline and he’s a sight to die for, the final piece to the fulfillment of my release. Blush reddens his cheeks, his irises enlarged and digging into mine. He doesn’t falter, continuing with his fast rhythm and I moan out poetry lines that make him squeeze his eyes shut. 

“I’m gonna come for you.” 

He groans. “Uh-huh, come for me, muffin. Give it to me. Show me again how well you can come on my cock. Yes, yes—”

Pluto bursts and ceases to exist. I come so vehemently that my spine arches off the mattress, colliding into Hobi’s chest. I shun out all constellations, all planets, the entire universe collapsing under the weight and gravity of my orgasm and our own marble, green, yellow and white with no one around but us, is called to creation with the bloom of Hobi’s own climax. 

He stuffs me full, my hollowness and my mouth, kissing me so hard that I become dizzy all over again. Moans my pet name as he shoots out his ivory love for me, fucking into me sluggishly while the twitching of his cock enamors me even more. I swallow his voice, swallow his grunts and little curses. My iridescent, entranced spasms caused by his exuberance prolong until I don’t know where my head stands, where my legs are wrapped around or what body part of his my hands clench. 

My savior, my beloved, linked to me for all eternity. 

This must have been our wedding because I shall never be the same again, my mind and my heart swept clean and filled with brand new oxygen. I no longer remember what happened prior to our love-making and when I share that with him, Hobi is possessed with the need to do it all over again. 

And he does, a million times over, until he marries me in the church of our town, with Hyun-Ae and Do-hyun present, mine and his parents and his sister with Mickey. 

A wedding most perfectly extraterrestrial, on our own Hope planet, with nothing hurting, with no thoughts resurfacing. 

Me and my beloved, me and my savior, me and my Sun. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild ,  @jjk7k ,  @parkinglot-nights , @bethvar , @Sexytholland , @yoongibaybee , @crystaleah , @fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan , @euphoricmyth , @jungkoock , @cinmongirl , @hoseokkie-caeks , @kam9404 , @fr0ggieth1nk .

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

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[k1ngyuyu]

The Breathe Of First Life

A sentient Dan Heng hsr fic

--

Dan Heng felt eyes burn on the back of his head.

His companions, the Cloud Knight and the merchant doesn't seem to feel it, let alone alone notice it.

It was unnerving, maybe even frightening, so much so that he decided to keep quiet -- earning himself the nickname, "Silent But Deadly," from the Cloud Knight girl. Atleast it's not as bad as Cold Dragon Young.

When in combat, Dan Heng's moves are calculated. But when the mysterious, staring precense, he suddenly feels light. It feels like something or someone is telling him to attack, to target. He feels stronger.

Dan Heng feels as if he's being puppeteered. He should be mad, rightfully so. How dare someone control him? It doesn't matter if it was an Aeon or anything. But then again, it feels nice, sort of.

The moment his conversation with Caelus through the phone ended, the precense suddenly ceased -- it was as if it evaporated.

He should be glad but all he feels is numbness. It was like part of his soul was ripped away, and he didn't even know if he had his soul complete in the first place.

The precense came back when he was fighting the familiar Stellaron Hunter and the Xianzhou's Lieutenant. Instead of controlling him like he was used to in the previous battles, the precense just watched him. It was lingering all over the place. Sometimes its gaze was on him, sometimes it wasn't.

--

As he split the sea, revealing Scalegorge Waterscape, the precense watched intently. He felt quite a bit of pressure, both from the people below him and the mysterious precense. It didn't really matter as he executed his task, perfectly.

Maybe when this all blows over, he could ask Mr. Yang about this strange phenomenon. After all, the Data Bank seemed to be a bit empty.

--

The fight with the Emanator of Destruction, Phantylia went off without a hitch... Is how the others would have described it. But Dan Heng knew better.

Phantylia struck the General, leaving him on his knees, blood seeping out.

And everything stopped.

Then everything went back into place. Everyone was in the same position whe the battle first begun. It was as if he had turned back in time. He wanted to ask someone what just happened but Phantylia attacked before he could get a word out of his mouth.

There was one time when all of them were on their knees, defeated by the Emanator. Then it stopped again, everything just stopped.

Then he was back again, fighting Phantylia with his allies he swore were on the ground drawing their final breathe.

The battle repeated three or four times before Phantylia was eventually defeated. General Jing Yuan was nearly turned into a member of the Anti-Matter legion, but thankfully the Emanator failed in doing so.

This is his chance, now is the time to ask what the hell's going on. What is it with the precense staring at him? What is it with the timeloop during the battle against Phantylia?

He asked, yet received no answer.

It was only when he asked Caelus that same question.

"Do you feel.. that?" Dan Heng asked after approaching the silver-haired boy. "Feel what?" He spared his companion a confused glance. "A precense, eyes," He responded, looking around them cautiously.

"Precense? Yeah, what about it?" Caelus answered a he crossed his arms, ignoring the oddity of the situation or maybe he just didn't know it was odd.

"You feel it too?" Dan Heng asked again, his eyes widening. The trailblazer nodded, "Yeah, the others can't seem to notice it," Caelus added, glancing at March and Mr. Yang briefly.

Dan Heng felt a bit reassured that he wasn't going crazy, but then again the Trailblazer was a bit crazy... some people just have trashcan searching as a hobby, he supposed.

"Mm, what about the timeloop when we were fighting Phantylia? Does it have anything to do with it?"

"..."

"...?"

"What timeloop?"

--

A/N

AAAAAH!! This is my first time writing a short fic in TWO YEARS, can you believe that!? Sure you can. But anyways, please excuse my writing as you can see, I am awfully rusty and in need of shaping up. I hope you liked this first post and I'll hopefully see you on my next~♡

[shineonyoucrazyyandere]

Imagine GER just finding darling and bringging them to Giorno out of nowhere (as a first meeting, Giorno not knowing darling beforehand)

My stand brought in a stranger and I end up obsessed with them?! That’s a wild thought for Giorno honestly.

Also don’t ask me how this devolved into a weird mix of headcanon/scenario either

I’m seeing somehow, some way, GER anticipated Giorno’s potentially developing feelings for you. He’d be so bewildered his own stand brought him a person, it’s so unexpected that the two of you end being confused not quite sure what to do at first. Since Giorno is the head of the mafia now, he has all sort of potential issues that could arise in it, thus leading you into danger.

There’s really no time in being upset at his stand, there really isn’t a point either. The blond decides to profusely apologize firstly, and he’s not quite sure how you got here. He puts on the gentlest smile he can muster deciding to guide you through this confusing situation. Ironically all of this worrying about you, probably leads to an obsession.

He of course has Mista help him through this, and to no surprise his jaw is wide open when Giorno straight tells him his stand brought you there.

You are eventually taken home, with seeing little of the estate Giorno was staying on. He distracts you as much as possible with casual conversation, he even rides home with you, knowing that’s still a compromising position on both his and your end. He’s certain you’ve accepted what happened and will likely keep it to yourself. The blond could likely leave it be, if he drops it now everything would be fine…

He doesn’t end up dropping it however, it starts off slow, with him keeping an eye out for any increase in crime in your area. Small little excuses that Giorno tells himself needs to be addressed. He ends up figuring out where you work, maybe stages a few people around other local businesses. Unbeknownst to you, you were now under the protection of the mafia.

Any criminal issues, or even abusive behavior is abruptly addressed and taken care of, it’s almost frightening how quick it happens. You’re rather unnerved at how some people look the other way when you walk by. Especially those you might have had a hard time with. There’s a few times you feel like you’re followed, but nothing comes of it. But hey that little garden you had bloomed to life so much, it looked like something out of a fantasy.

You had a feeling who was responsible for all of this, aside from the garden. (You had no clue Giorno was behind helping that flourish). What were you supposed to say? You couldn’t exactly call the police? And you knew people would just tell you to keep your head down. Did you do something wrong?

Ah your heart was starting to palpitate from panicking, one of your coworkers asked if you were alright. You tell them you think you need to go lie down, luckily they were understanding and happy to cover the rest of your shift. Leaving you to walk home shortly after lunch, your eyes casted down on the ground.

Nothing would happen…it would be okay. Yeah, just breathe….

Getting home your hands tremble while putting your key into the keyhole. A click and turn later you rushed inside, until you spot something in your kitchen. It wasn’t there this morning, at least not in the state and type of flowers that were there.

A vase that you usually put cut flowers in, which before you were left for work were in a sad, wilting state, and needed to be composted or thrown out, were replaced by a gorgeous bouquet. There was even a butterfly on one of the petals, slowly opening and closing its wings. You couldn’t really keep your eyes off it either…

It was beautiful, but it sent a sense of dread through you rather than comfort they usually would. Who ended up placing those there? They seemed to know what they had been doing with how they were cut.

Poor butterfly, did it accidentally get trapped in here too? You could at least relate to the feeling of being trapped. Free to roam but enclosed in a strange space at the same time? Was that really freedom?

[ranting-writer]

To say Dirk didn't want to be there was a massive understatement.

He'd been minding his own business in his corner of the meteor, tinkering with some random piece of machinery he'd found. Then suddenly, they were passing through dream bubbles again, and his room had become his old apartment's living room.

Well, a version of it.

Smuppets and puppets littered the floor, empty apple juice bottles and soda cans were piled in a box, and the air smelled of stale cigarette smoke and week old Monsters. The sounds of a skateboarding game came from the TV in the living room corner, and cresting over the back of the futon was a familiar shade of strawberry blonde poking up under a black hat.

It wasn't until he'd stepped around the futon that he realized who this was.

Him.

Dave's him, anyway.

Dirk "Bro" Strider, the man, the myth, the douchebag himself.

Bro didn't seem to realize Dirk's presence at the end of the couch. If he did, he didn't show it, engrossed in his Xbox.

Bro at once seemed both nothing like Dave's descriptions, but yet every bit like them. When asked about Bro, Dave had given a clearly rehearsed spiel about how cool the guy was. "Aw shit yeah, dude," he'd said. "Bro's, like, the epitome of cool. The god damned Emperor of Irony, and King Shit of Puppet Island. Best ventriloquist rapper in the game."

And, yeah, sure, this guy definitely had an air of "cool" around him. Typical cool guy markers. Shades, a cool hat (everyone knows a good hat adds hella levels to the Cool-Guyometer), a nonchalant demeanor...

Yeah.

He was cool.

Yet, something inside Dirk's stomach gnawed on itself, twisting in knots to get at its own tail. This man before him was a manifestation of all the wrong he could do. Bro was the epitome of who Dirk was or could reasonably be. Manipulative. Cold. Shut off and shut down. Abusive.

" 'Ey. You good there, lil dude?"

The light southern drawl pulled Dirk out of his anxious spiral and he jumped a bit, looking at Bro. Bro hadn't moved an inch.

"Huh?"

"I said, you good?"

Dirk blinked dumbly as he tried to process the question. That was definitely his voice, but lower and raspy, like Bro was a-? Oh, yeah, there it is. Bro was definitely a smoker if the absent tapping of a pack of cigarettes on his thigh during a cutscene was an indicator.

"Yeah," Dirk finally replied. "I'm fine."

Bro nodded absently. He still hadn't looked over. What was this guy's deal?

Before, Dirk hadn't quite understood why his lack of movement, or lack facial expression had unnerved Dave so much, but he was beginning to understand.

Bro spoke again, gesturing to the empty spot next to him. "Then pop a squat, Dirk."

Dirk reluctantly sat, not having much else to do besides tinker again. Maybe this could be an opportunity to learn something about himself, or maybe Dave.

"Aren't you 'Dirk' too?", he asked, curling up as far from Bro as possible. The man was uncomfortable to be close to, if he was being honest with himself.

Bro shrugged a bit. "Depends," he answered. "Who's asking and why?"

Dirk frowned slightly. What the hell did that mean? Two seconds in, he was already confused and annoyed.

"Well, I'm asking, obviously."

"Then it's D', or Bro. Either works fine for me."

Dirk hummed, looking at the TV screen.

What the hell was he supposed to ask? What was your life like? Did you have a good family? Do you use labels for your sexuality, or do you care? Do you like robots?

Unfortunately, what fell out of his face was, "Why is Dave scared of us?"

Bro paused his game and stared ahead.

Dirk flinched a bit.

Oh he fucked up. Perhaps he was going to get first hand evidence as to why Dave winced when he moved, why Dave never looked directly at him...

But nothing happened, not for a long moment.

After a bit, Bro started playing again, speaking lowly. "It ain't you, it's me," he said, voice tight, like he was upset. "I scare him, not you."

Dirk huffed a bit. "Yeah, but why?"

Bro shook his head, pausing his game again. "Are you wanting a verbal answer, or a demonstration?"

Dirk stared a bit as Bro finally looked over. What was this freak on about? What kind of demonstration? Dirk's lips tightened into a line, thinking about what the hell that could possibly mean.

He hoped it wasn't something utterly unforgivable...

Bro, seemingly impatient with Dirk, huffed and stood. "You pop by for a chat," he drawled. "And you can't even hold the damn conversation to save your life." He opened the window and took a cigarette from the pack.

Absently, Dirk realized there was no ashtray about as he answered. "Would you even be able to tell me?", he asked.

Bro shrugged as he lit the cigarette. "I can give you my best guess," he replied. "You could leave it to Dave to fill in the gaps or whatever the hell he'd do."

There was something almost affectionate in Bro's voice when he said Dave's name. Was he proud of Dave? Possibly. Dirk was certainly proud of Dave.

A long silence passed between the two Striders in the dream room, long enough that Dirk thought the bubble might pass before their conversation finished. Luckily, Bro finally spoke up again.

"Would you believe me if I said I genuinely believed I was doing right by him?"

Dirk looked over at Bro's back. Would he believe that? Probably. Dirk himself acted oddly, even badly, towards others in the attempt to help them improve or grow. Brobot, for example, was literally designed to help Jake learn to protect himself and get combat experience in a controlled manner. Ignoring the fact that the robot was also a bizarre attempt at flirting of course...

Bro continued without an answer. "I knew about the game a little, we all did. Rox, Harley, Mrs. Egbert and her son... We all knew. We had to prepare the kids for what was to come."

Dirk hummed as Bro took a drag of his cigarette. "So, what," he began. "You tortured and abused him to, what? Teach him something?"

Bro shrugged noncommittally. "Eh, more or less I guess."

"You kicked him down the fucking stairs."

Dirk really needed to recognize when to shut the hell up. First the question itself, now the angry blurting out? Jeeze, he really needed to take a chill pill. He could defend himself if it came to a fight, sure, but he wasn't sure he wanted to see what this version of him was capable of with twice the lifetime of training.

Bro turned to look at Dirk, something angry in his demeanor. "You try it," he snipped. "You try being 20 fucking years old and suddenly having to be a father without support. Most I had was fucking Dennis, and that guy was borderline useless."

Dirk stared blankly. "...Just because you were 20, without help, doesn't mean you should have treated Dave that way," he retorted. "Dave trusted you for love, support, and affection. You gave him a bruise in the shape of your foot on his sternum at least once."

Suddenly, Bro seemed to vanish. Dirk stood sharply, swearing. He was familiar with his own flash step, but he wasn't accustomed to someone else doing it.

As suddenly as Bro vanished, he reappeared in front of Dirk, making the younger Strider fall back onto the futon. He put his foot up, lightly pressing it into Dirk's chest. "Yeah, yeah I did," he drawled, almost sounding bored were it not for the tenseness in his shoulders. "I left a lot of bruises on him, left a lot of scrapes from the roof."

Dirk squirmed a bit as the pressure on his chest increased as Bro leaned down.

"I was trying to teach him skills he needed to survive that damn game, to persevere and do shit like help your sorry ass."

From the new angle, Dirk could see through Bro's shades. A familiar orange color, perhaps a bit more gold than his own. But more than their color, Bro's eyes were slightly widened. Not enough to really raise his eyebrows over his shades, but it made him look unhinged. Like something in his head had snapped a bit and he was one more comment away from losing his cool.

Was this how others viewed Dirk? As one little thing away from losing it and pinning people to futons under his foot?

Was this an angle Dave had seen Bro from? And, shit, if it was, Dave wasn't the height then that he is now. Dirk frowned as he pictured a much smaller Dave, maybe shaking and scared, with Bro's heavy sneaker pressed into his tiny abdomen. Dirk wouldn't be surprised if crying in fear was one of the things Bro scared Dave from doing earliest.

Bro muttered, "Dave needed to be independent and able, and willing, to draw blood to save his own ass. He needed to be smart, adaptable, and able to feed himself. I couldn't, in good conscience, let him grow up and be scared of weapons or pain. He couldn't be afraid of surprises or the obscene. He needed to have the skills to fucking survive."

So, here were Bro's reasons.

Honestly....

Probably not unlike the reasons Dirk himself would have given had he been in that situation.

And that tore Dirk up inside.

Was he truly so capable of disregarding the actual feelings and affection of a child in favor of hurting them for a long term goal? Was he really so callous and cruel?

Was he really capable of putting a shoe print bruise into the chest of someone he loved?

And that actually brought up a new question...

"Did you even love Dave?"

Bro's eyes sort of slumped into grief before vanishing behind the shades again as Bro pulled away. Bro sighed, "Obviously."

"He doesn't seem to know that."

"He does know that. He's a smart kid, he-".

"Did you ever tell him? Like, outright, 'hey, man, I love you'? Or was it more like, you bought him apple juice and his collectables and thought he could infer from there?"

Bro sat back down, grumbling. "I don't know, okay?"

Dirk let out a little puff of relief as Bro plopped down. He did not like being on the receiving end of a threatening bespatted shoe. Bespatted? Was that a word? Either way, Bro wore spats and that was ominous on its own.

The two sat in silence for a time, ignoring each other, but eventually, Bro mumbled. "Dave was all I had..."

Dirk looked over, curious and confused. Didn't Bro say he had... Who was it? Dennis? Who the hell was that, anyway?

Bro sighed, taking off his hat and shades. He rubbed his face with his hands then left his hands over his eyes, unwilling to look at Dirk. "Sure, my buddy Dennis was around..." Ah, Dennis again. Cool. Cool. New info maybe.

"But he was really only about to help with Game Bro," Bro continued. "And he hated it when Dave cried. Once told me I should lock him in the bedroom to get him to stop."

Bro dropped his hands to let them rest in his lap, letting Dirk see his face for what it was. Sunken cheeks, heavy eyes bags resting under feral orange eyes, freckles dusting his nose, and a few pockmarks on his cheeks. His crooked, broken Roman nose sat almost... Blandly on his face, instead of standing out beautifully. Dirk absently touched his nose, wondering if his was as improperly healed as Bro's from Sawtooth breaking it at least once...

"I know I wasn't 'Dad of the Year', or whatever," Bro muttered as he stared off. "But I would have given anything for that kid. I wasn't warm or cuddly with him for the most part, but... Fuck, I would have sooner burned the world and myself than watch him be harmed in any real way."

And somehow... Dirk believed him.

He understood how it felt to truly care for someone, to want them safe, and to be willing to destroy himself and everything for one person. At one point, maybe that was Jake, but now? Maybe it was Dave, just like it was for Bro. Dirk sighed a bit. "You should consider telling him these things, man," he said. "He doesn't exactly realize how much you gave a shit."

Bro didn't respond, not to that part anyway. He slipped his shades back on and turned back to his game. "Dirk," he started. "Make the best of our second chance. I fucked up our first one. Be a better man than I am."

Dirk stared a bit, swallowing as the meteor began to full pass through the bubble. "I... I'll try."

Bro nodded and then, Dirk was left alone, his room his once again.

[art-missy]

Could you do one with Fade, where (let’s just pretend) reader is who “they took”. What if one day she finds us and how the reunion will be? I love your work ❤️❤️

Let's see...

So I made two scenarios :

Scenario A : Fade was the one fetching reader to be an agent for the protocol.

Scenario B : Reader is an agent of the protocol and knew Fade a long time ago and meet her again when she joins Valorant.

Scenario A

Fade was watching you training your aim in the range. She was admiring your concentration and how laid back you were. The gun was like an extension of your body in your hand and your eyes was as merciless as the lense of a sniper. A cold shiver ran down her spine. It was when she was watching you like that that she wondered how she managed to get you to join Valorant.

You once were a hit person and was known in the underground world to be the coldest death one could ever had the misfortune to meet.

When your gaze finally met once you were done shooting the training targets, she realized that her past self was pretty lucky when you first came face to face with eachother.

Fade was a bounty hunter before joining the protocol. She knew how to track people down and how to drag them to her employer. Cypher just had to give her a picture of you and she was on her way to fetch you. She might have overestimated her skills or underestimated yours. She had followed your trail to a disaffected warehouse. She knew you were there and had sent her prowler away to capture you to only realize her mistake when she felt a grip grabbing her hair and tilting her head back as a knife threatened her throat.

"Who have the gall to send someone against me ?" she had heard a confident but very bored voice in her ear.

You had known all along you were being followed. You were the one setting a trap, not her.

"Not against you. For you," she corrected, keeping her calm. "We want to hire you."

"We ?"

She had then explained why she was tracking you down —very calmly because you were also known for your unpredictability. When you had released her from your firm and threatening grip, she slowly stepped back to finally look at you. And that was when she met your sharp but attentive eyes for the very first time. She had felt so little under your gaze, so weakened.

Today, when Fade looked into your eyes, she mainly saw her affections for you being returned with an almost unnerving protectiveness. She almost found funny how you ended up a couple.

"Need my company already ?" you smirked at her.

Today when your hand touched her hair it was to caress them, when your hand grabbed her jaw it was for you to press a kiss on her lips. When you touched her, it was only to be gentle and loving. Today, she felt so protected under your gaze, so supported.

"Always, aşkım."

Scenario B

It was supposed to be a simple tour of the protocol, not a flashback session. All she did was turning around the corner of a corridor of the headquarters with her tour guide and she ended up frozen. Her eyes were wide opened, her lips parted and her throat suddenly so dry. She was confused, wondering if it was again another dream that was soon going to turn into a nightmare. But unlike any other dream, you were returning her stare with the same amount of shock.

"Hazal ?" you breathed out, and your voice was oh so real.

Last time she saw you, you two were screaming at each other and saying things you were both now heavily regretting. Fade couldn't even remember the cause of your argument. All she remembered, was the hole you left in her life when you disappeared without a trace. But after so many years, here you were, right in front of her. Alive and safe.

Her body moved before her mind could register its movements and, in a blink of an eye, your face was cradled in her hands. Tears also escaped her beautiful heterochromatic eyes. Tears that you immediately wiped away gently with your thumbs. Your touch was the confirmation she needed. You were there. You really were there.

"I thought I've lost you," she murmured, her breath shaky. "I found you ! I finally found you ! Why did you disappear ?"

"I...became an agent," you answered, your voice shaky as well. "Hazal, you are Fade ?"

She nodded and you took her in your arms, rocking her from side to side. You couldn't believe that the individual blackmailing the protocol all this time was her. You couldn't believe that, after all these years, you were holding her in your arms again.

You were caressing her back when you heard someone clearing their throat behind you. You looked back and saw Cypher tilting his head.

"I believe you'll take the tour from here ?"

You nodded and thanked him as he walked away, your attention returning on the Turkish new agent.

"Don't ever disappear on me like that," she murmured against your shoulder. "Please."

"I promise."

"I thought you were taken away from me."

So that was the reason of the blackmail. She wrongly thought that the protocol took you away.

"Sorry," you wiped another tear from her cheek. "Sorry for... everything. I...thought you hated me."

She took a deep breath and looked at you again. You've matured without really changing. You were still you. After all this time, you were still you.

"Me too," she whispered. "And I apologize. For what I said, for what I've done, for... everything."

[after-witch]

Horrorfest: He Sat Upon a Throne of Pumpkin Pie [Yandere Mahito x Reader]

Title: He Sat Upon a Throne of Pumpkin Pie [Yandere Mahito x Reader]

Synopsis: ... Mahito and a very special pumpkin pie

For Horrorfest request: Mahito and a very special pumpkin pie

Word count: 1149

Notes: Yandere, Mahito is his own warning, food related horror

The last thing you ever expected Mahito to set down in front of you was a pumpkin pie. 

And when you’d looked up at him in genuine confusion, the last thing you expected to see on his face was a look of quiet pride and contentment. No manic grin, no slinky smile. Simply a serious pleased expression that didn’t seem befitting of his usual moods around you. 

“What… is this?” You asked, as if it wasn’t evident by its appearance.

“I made you a pie,” he said simply, although perhaps not so simply, as nothing was ever simple when it came to Mahito. He turned away from you, and you heard the distinct sound of cutlery rattling before he set down a small plate, a fork, and a knife. 

The chair screeched when he pulled it back and sat down. He put his elbows on the table and simply stared at you.

“Well?” He asked, when you had evidently not moved quickly enough. “Aren’t you going to try it?”

Your hands moved slowly, feeling leaden, as you used the knife to cut a haphazard slice and lifted it onto your plate with a fork. He watched, tilting his head a little, as he was prone to do when observing you. 

On your plate, the slice of pie looked… normal. A subtle orange-brown color. Light brown crust. The filling was firm, but had a bit of moistness to it. 

Just a pie, a normal pie. 

Well, almost normal. The one peculiarity were the walnuts crushed up and interspersed throughout the slice.  You saw them in the cross section of the pie, now that you’d taken out a chunk. They looked a little burnt, but you suppose curses weren’t exactly prone to baking, and that was to be expected.

It was probably something he saw in a recipe book or on TV. He had been peeking at old recipe books lately, a stack he’d found in a box left on the side of the road. 

Mahito made a shooing gesture at you, and you broke out of your thoughts. 

“Come on, come on!” He said. His voice took on a whining tone that was at least more familiar to you than his unusual seriousness. “While it’s fresh!” 

And so, because you still had enough self-preservation to know that you should do what Mahito wanted, you scooped a bite of pie onto your fork and put it in your mouth, then chewed. 

He sighed almost instantly, a whimsical, dreamy sound, leaning his chin on his hand while he watched you eat. The way he looked at you was entirely unnerving, because he did not look in the least bit terrifying. Instead he looked at you like a man--a curse, you reminded yourself--enamored. Like you were the sweetest thing in the world. 

“I think I understand why people like to bake now,” he said, perhaps more to himself than to you. “Watching someone enjoy what you made…” He sighed again, his lips curling up in a smile. 

Although “enjoy” wasn’t quite the word you would use to describe what he’d made, even as you took a few more bites to placate him. 

The taste had the vaguest resemblance to pumpkin pie, you supposed. But it was more like someone’s idea of pumpkin pie, like it had been strained ten times over before finally being baked. 

Maybe he tried to make it from scratch and it wasn’t sweetened enough. Or maybe he’d over mixed or added too much liquid or baked it at the wrong temperature. You weren’t exactly a baker, and if you ever indulged in pumpkin pie, it was something you bought from the bakery. 

It wasn’t vile, but it wasn’t good or pleasant to eat either. A child’s first time baking in the kitchen. 

The walnuts were the strangest addition. They were burnt and their texture and taste was unusual. They weren’t crunchy, exactly, the way you expected a walnut (burnt or not) to taste. They had a slightly chewy texture, with an overlaying firmness. Like raisins encased in something, maybe. 

Maybe they were raisins… that would explain the overall unusual taste of the pie. 

“Mahito,” you said, dabbing at your mouth with the inside of your shirt since he didn’t see fit to give you napkins. “Are these walnuts or raisins? I can’t quite tell.”

Mahito blinked at you, his mismatched eyes holding an ounce of genuine confusion before they seemed to glint with an awful realization. And then his lips curved into a smile, the type of smile you hated to see, the kind that made you feel sick to your stomach.

He reached out and plucked one of the pieces from the cut pie, holding it with his thumb and forefinger. A bit of orange pie stuck to the edge of it. 

“I was able to make them smaller than usual,” he said, casually. “It took a lot of work. Especially once I started baking!” He pouted. “I had to go through a lot of kitchens before it came out looking this good… how does it taste?”

His words hit you low and slow. It took a while to put them together, like a puzzle you didn’t want to finish. 

“You were able to make… what smaller than usual?” 

And oh, didn’t a small part of you already know the answer? You weren’t naive anymore. Not after all you’ve been through with Mahito. What he’s done, what he’s made you do. 

What you’ve seen.

And now, what you’ve tasted.

Your tongue curled inside your mouth, the taste and strange, chewy texture of the--pieces--you swallowed lingering in your sense memory. 

The answer came but you knew it already.

“People!” Mahito popped the piece he held into his mouth and continued while he chewed. “I had to get a lot for this recipe. Did you know the recipe called for two whole cups of nuts? The people who make these books should be more considerate.” 

He closed his eyes and shook his head, an exaggerated mimic (but maybe it wasn’t a mimic, you thought) of annoyance. “It’s not like these ingredients grow on trees!” 

“Walnuts do grow on trees,” you said dully, thinking of the people he’d murdered and cooked and fed to you. How much did they suffer? (You did not ask yourself, ‘Did they suffer?’ Because you knew, from witnessing Mahito’s work firsthand, that they undeniably did.) Were they alive when he baked them? Were they alive–now? 

Mahito opened his eyes and widened them, unaware or uncaring of the turmoil roiling through your guts.  “Oh, really? Well, it was easier to substitute something else, anyway.” 

You shoved yourself away from the table, feeling the acrid vomit finally begin to climb up your throat.  Mahito made a soft sound of surprise--

“Don’t you want to finish your slice?” 

“No--you can have it.” You just managed to get the words out as you walked out of the kitchen, heading for the hallway and the bathroom.When you glanced back, his expression was back to that subtle pleasure. You half-wished for him to break out into a nasty grin. It was easier to stomach.

No pun intended. 

[not-an-alien-scientist]

The Friend You Need

Vi'miel: Human Andrea, did you get any new paper stories to enjoy?

Andrea: Haven't read them yet. One of the magazines *waves the thin bunch of paper around* is from InterGeo about some new species found in the Amazon

Vi'miel: ... new...species?

Andrea: Yeh scientists back home are always discovering new species, particularly in the dense tropical rainforest or non-light portions of our oceans... but sometimes its just something new in that swamp we never thought twice about

Vi'miel: You are not aware of how many species live on your planet?

Andrea: *laughs* no we aren't even close to knowing

Vi'miel: Hm, I suppose I should not be surprised, it is. . . Earth.....we are discussing after all

Andrea: *laughs* You can read the magazine first if you want *pushes it over to him* But look, the other one I got *holds up book* is a story about a Selkie so it might be really fun, always love a little fantasy

Vi'miel: And what is a selkie?

Andrea: ... ah. ... its. um. errr. Have you read about seals from Earth?

Vi'miel: Oh yes I was quite fascinated reading about the cold zones

Andrea: Soooo a selkie is a seal... and a human... they switch back in forth by taking their seal skin on or off. . .

Vi'miel: *slightly confused* Why was this not in the information I read

Andrea: Well because they aren't real its mythol- -

Ryan: *grabs Andrea's wheelchair's handlebars and attempts to move her out of his walking space*

Andrea: *holds breath, shuts eyes tight in fear, and grips her hand rims so tight her skin turns red*

Vi'miel: HUMAN RYAN! What are you doing???

Ryan: Huh, what do you mean

Vi'miel: *stands* You humans always say do not touch without permission!!!! Why have you touched Human Andrea without permission?

Ryan: Calm down, I didn't touch her I moved her out of the way

Vi'miel: And that is touching her!

Ryan: Y'all freak out so much about normal human stuff, no it isn't, relax for once *still has hands firmly on handlebars*

Vi'miel: Human Andrea are you alright? Is he touching you?

Andrea: *very quietly, eyes still firmly shut* yes, please, stop him

Vi'miel: *stands straighter at his 8ft full height and color hue changes to heavily contrast the colors around him, gaining the attention of every Miel in the room* Human Ryan, remove your hands from Human Andrea. Now.

Ryan: *takes hands off Andrea's handle bars* Gods I hate this place fine, you big baby *rolls eyes but leaves ... the stares of the Miel are more unnerving than one would think based off their normal demeanor*

Andrea: *puts head in hands and cries very quietly*

Vi'miel: I am sorry Human Andrea *sits* may I help?

Andrea: *sniffles* you already helped *hiccup* a lot, thank you so much

Vi'miel: *hue returns to a bit more normal blue* Human Andrea, why would a human break such rules? To not touch others I mean.... it is something I have heard humans speak frequently about

Andrea: *wiping eyes with tissue another Miel had gotten for her* well for people like him, either my wheelchair does not count as a part of me... or I'm not human enough for him

Vi'miel: ... human "enough"?

Andrea: Yeh, some people.... *breaths unevenly wiping eyes a bit more* well some people think certain types of humans are less than them .... I don't know how to explain it....

Vi'miel: Human Ryan thinks "less" of your "type" of human?

Andrea: yeh.... and so I don't get the same respect he would give other humans.

Vi'miel: *color hue turns a deep shade of red in sadness* Human Andrea, may I touch you?

Andrea: Yes?

Vi'miel: *uses front appendage to rubs Andea's back* I have seen this help other humans

Andrea: Thanks Vi'miel *breathes a bit easier* I wish I had more friends like you

Vi'meil: ... may I know more about the "selkie"?