#nathan sharp bones

[th3w00ds]

Bones Moodboard

[phant0mh34rt]

AND IMMEDIATELY AFTER MARE,,,

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO BONES!!!

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Day 3: Lyric Inspired

(Disclaimer: neither of the characters in this story belong to me. Both Phantom and Bones are the property of Nathan Sharp/Give Heart Productions.)

(This story was actually inspired by a writing request sent in by @v1rus-fr0g! Sorry this took so many months for me to focus on, friend. Now that it’s finally here, I hope you enjoy it!)

(Trigger Warnings: body horror, eye horror, blood/gore, implied death, talk of death/dying, mentions of illegal business, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

Day 1 Day 2 Day 4 Day 5 Day 6. Day 7

___

I̷ ̵t̴r̶a̷d̶e̴ ̵t̶h̶e̷ ̵w̸h̷i̷p̶ ̷o̷u̵t̵ ̶f̵o̸r̴ ̴a̷ ̵b̷i̶k̵e̷,̴ ̵u̸h̴

̶D̵e̶s̷i̶g̷n̴e̶r̸ ̶f̴o̴r̴ ̶s̶o̶m̵e̶ ̵N̷i̶k̵e̵s̵ ̶

̷S̸w̴i̶t̵c̶h̴ ̸t̶h̵e̶ ̵s̶t̶r̷i̶p̸p̷e̶r̷ ̵f̶o̷r̴ ̵a̴ ̵w̵i̷f̴e̴ ̷

̶B̵l̶a̸c̵k̸ ̴t̶i̷e̶ ̴f̸o̸r̴ ̸a̶ ̵w̷h̵i̶t̴e̵ ̴t̵e̵e̵,̸ ̷u̶h̷ ̷

̵I̸’̸v̵e̸ ̷b̶e̴e̷n̴ ̷m̵o̴v̶i̶n̶g̵ ̶a̶t̸ ̸l̵i̵g̴h̷t̸s̴p̴e̸e̴d̸,̴ ̵l̶i̵g̶h̸t̵s̵p̵e̴e̶d̷,̴ ̵l̵i̴g̷h̴t̷s̶p̸e̷e̸d̴ ̶l̶i̶g̸h̴t̸s̴p̴e̸e̶d̸

̴L̴i̸g̶h̵t̷s̷p̴e̷e̶d̵,̸ ̷l̵i̷g̵h̵t̴s̸p̵e̵e̴d̷,̸ ̸l̷i̷g��h̴t̷s̵p̵e̵e̵d̸,̷ ̵l̶i̵g̵h̸t̴s̴p̴e̶e̵d̵ ̷

Even when wearing his human glamor, Phantom had eyes almost everywhere. It was uncommon for much stuff to get past all the spies on his payroll, and he himself could see far, far beyond what any mortal could. 

(Though, if he had to pick, that whole light-spectrum of “non-existent” colors was by far his favorite perk. TAKE THAT, MANTIS SHRIMPS! YOU REALLY THOUGHT JUST ACTING LIKE YOU COULDN’T SPEAK WOULD LET YOU KEEP ALL THOSE SURREAL HUES FOR YOURSELVES?! HA!) 

So, it was quite a surprise that he hadn’t seen the subject of this meeting coming. 

“You’re…serious about this?” Phantom asked, raising a genuinely curious eyebrow at his latest client, who was sitting on the opposite side of his mahogany desk. 

The client—Client #1382, to be exact—nodded. “Yeah, I am. I read the contract you gave me; all of it. Took me three-and-a-half days, including breaks, but I did it.”

They folded their arms across their chest, slightly ruffling the faded ultramarine fleece of their jacket. Near their collar, a shiny enamel pin that silently announced HE/THEY to the world glinted in the office’s light. 

“…Well, if that’s not dedication, then I’m not sure what is,” Phantom chuckled. He tilted his head to the side, using one hand to fidget with the silvery claws that topped his cane. “Still, if that’s really the case…then you know what’ll happen if you sign. You know there won’t be much in the way of coming back from it.” 

“I do,” Client #1382 replied, leaning back in the provided chair. “I understand all the terms and conditions you laid out.”

Phantom pursed his lips. “You’re saying you don’t care about your soul?”

To be perfectly fair, souls were going through a bit of a rough-patch nowadays. They were still quite valuable, and collecting them was still a valid hobby, MIND YOU. But the quality of a human soul depends on the environment of its vessel. 

Primitive as the mortal world was, part of Phantom was still kind of disappointed to see where it’d been heading lately. And judging by the pure, unfiltered cocktail of exhaustion and skepticism, Client #1382 was, too. 

Client #1382 shrugged. “I’m not sure. Maybe I still do, but not as much as before.” 

Phantom hummed, thinking. 

In all his experience, of course he’d come across a few wheedling, whining people who’d apparently thought that making a deal with any non-human creature was a guaranteed path to something better than the normal, boring world. 

The types who probably assumed that there couldn’t possibly be any negative side-effects to stepping into a fae ring. 

The types whose heads seemed to have permanent rent-free residence in the clouds…well, until their souls entered the glass orbs in his collection. 

After that, things seemed to have come crashing down with a quickness, as far as he’d seen and heard whenever he opened up the cabinet in his secret den. 

Client #1382 was different.

L̵o̵o̵k̷,̶ ̵I̴ ̴d̴o̶n̷’̷t̶ ̴w̶a̷n̸n̸a̵ ̷t̶r̷y̸ ̴

̷K̵e̶e̵p̵ ̸i̵t̵ ̷c̸o̷o̸l̸ ̸l̷i̸k̸e̷ ̶i̴c̷e̷d̵ ̵t̷e̵a̶ ̸

̵S̷o̷ ̶i̶f̵ ̷I̶ ̸s̴e̵e̴m̷ ̴s̶h̶y̶

̴I̴t̸’̷s̴ ̷c̷a̵u̵s̵e̴ ̸y̵o̵u̷ ̶s̵e̸e̴m̷ ̷s̶o̵ ̷s̴h̶e̷i̶s̵t̴y̶ ̴

̷S̵e̵l̷l̴i̵n̶’̷ ̴w̴h̵a̵t̶ ̴y̷o̶u̶ ̶b̵u̸y̸,̷ ̶b̴u̷y̶,̴ ̵b̸u̷y̶ ̶

̴J̴u̷s̴t̶ ̸a̷ ̶p̸r̵o̴d̸u̸c̴t̷ ̵o̵f̸ ̴t̵h̶e̴ ̴‘̷9̷0̴s̷ ̷

̵I̴f̵ ̴y̷o̸u̷ ̸c̷l̸o̷s̵e̵ ̸y̷o̴u̸r̶ ̴e̶y̴e̶s̸,̴ ̷u̴h̸

̶T̴h̴e̶r̸e̷’̴s̵ ̵w̴h̸e̷r̶e̴ ̵y̶o̵u̶’̴l̶l̶ ̸f̸i̵n̴d̶ ̷m̶e̶ ̷

̷I̴f̸ ̵G̶o̶d̴ ̶i̵s̶ ̸a̴ ̵d̵o̸g̴,̷ ̵a̶n̸d̴ ̵m̷a̵n̶ ̶i̵s̸ ̶a̷ ̴f̷r̴a̴u̸d̸,̶ ̴t̴h̷e̵n̶ ̸I̶’̵m̴ ̵a̸ ̸l̴o̵s̵t̷ ̷c̷a̸u̴s̴e̸ ̴

For the most part, they were calm and composed. Polite. 

And, as a bonus: despite the tiredness that was so obviously boiling in their brain, he could still see that their passion was alive. 

They were an artistic type (of course they were; those were the ones Phantom primarily collected, after all)—months ago, they’d somehow picked up on one of the grapevines Phantom had intentionally laid out all over the city. They’d come to him wondering about the pros and cons of getting some magical assistance to draw more attention to their little projects. 

He’d cast out his bait, given them his elevator-pitch, sprinkled in some lighthearted chatter, all that jazz. In the end, while they hadn’t signed, they’d still agreed when Phantom offered to let them take his contract home. Just to think it over. 

And now they were back, somehow able to quote the important parts lists on that very scroll and somehow just…not minding the implications.

“In layman’s terms, Paragraph Thirteen says that, so long as you approve it, I can choose to bring some of my stuff into the orb,” Client 1382 continued. “My desk, my laptop, my books, my clay, my paint…that’s all the stuff I really need in order for my soul to keep functioning the way you want it to. And if those orbs are really how they’re described, then my things shouldn’t take up too much space inside one.”

Before Phantom could stop it, a genuine smirk etched its way across his features. That statement reminded him of all those hilarious online debates about what life would be like inside a Pokeball.

“…No, I suppose they wouldn’t,” he finally agreed. He shifted in place, letting his cane lean against the desk. “Did you bring that contract today?”

Client #1382 nodded, leaning to the side in their chair, reaching into the clearly hand-painted backpack that they’d brought along…only to come up empty-handed, now with a bit of anxiety worming through their pokerface. 

It was quite amusing to see that nervousness morph into shock, and then that shock morph into exasperation, when they looked back to discover that the contract was somehow already in their host’s grasp. 

Phantom aimed a toothy grin in their direction, shrugging. With quick, experienced hands, he unraveled the very end of the scroll unveiling that dotted line (the ink of which was a shade darker and bolder than anything else written above, intentionally crafted to seem like it was silently calling the name of any mortal who looked at it). 

“Can you be ready before midnight? Have your stuff packed, get your affairs in order, all that jazz?” He asked, carefully gazing into his client’s eyes. 

Client #1382, to their credit, hesitated. They chewed their lip, glancing back and forth between him and the paper. They then took a deep breath and, after seeming to do some quick math in their head, nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.” 

“Well, then…” Phantom set the contract down on the desk, carefully pushing it toward his client. “…If you’re sure.”

T̵w̸e̶n̸t̷y̵-̶t̴w̸o̸’̴s̵ ̵o̴n̶ ̵t̶h̷e̴ ̵r̸i̵d̵e̶ ̸(̵R̶i̴d̵e̶)̴

̴B̶r̶i̵n̶g̶ ̸m̵e̷ ̸b̸a̸c̶k̴ ̴a̶ ̶f̷i̴v̴e̴-̸p̶i̸e̸c̷e̸ ̴(̴F̴i̵v̷e̵)̷

̴S̶a̵m̷e̴ ̶t̴i̶c̸k̴e̷t̷ ̵f̶o̵r̶ ̷t̶h̴e̴ ̵r̸e̸n̸t̴,̷ ̴y̸e̷a̶h̶ ̷

̴B̸u̵t̴ ̴I̷ ̸s̶p̷l̶i̸t̴ ̸i̷t̸ ̵w̴i̴t̸h̴ ̷a̴ ̷d̷i̵m̸e̶-̷p̶i̸e̴c̷e̶,̷ ̷u̵h̴ ̴

̶M̵a̴r̴r̸i̷e̴d̷ ̵t̸o̸ ̵m̶y̸ ̵f̶r̴i̸e̷n̵d̴s̸

̴T̶h̴e̵y̶ ̷d̸o̷n̷’̶t̸ ̷a̷l̴w̶a̴y̵s̵ ̸l̴i̶k̴e̷ ̴m̴e̵ ̴

̶I̶ ̵s̶t̴a̵y̷ ̵t̸o̶g̸e̷t̴h̶e̴r̷ ̸f̸o̴r̸ ̷t̴h̸e̶ ̴k̸i̸d̷s̴,̶ ̸u̸h̵ ̵

̴I̷ ̸g̸o̶t̴t̴a̸ ̶d̵o̵ ̴t̴h̴e̵ ̶r̵i̴g̵h̸t̷ ̵t̶h̶i̴n̷g̴ ̸

̷

Several hours came and went. 

Phantom paced the floor—like everything else in here, it could be changed depending on circumstance. Most of the time it was fine as a layer of impossibly smooth carpeting, dark green with splashes of black like malachite.

When it came to messier jobs, Phantom found that white marble worked best. Preferably inlaid with decorative veins of crimson, almost like wine stains. 

As he moved, he glanced at the color-stained shelves that made up the walls in here, tweaking the mental list of all their contents. He fidgeted with the face-mask he’d grown accustomed to wearing lately; his cane was resting at the head of a long, metallic table in the center of the room, waiting ever-so-patiently.

The antique clock positioned on one of the blue-stained shelves read 11:56. The time was most likely accurate. It’d damn-well better be accurate. Phantom had made relative peace with the spirit trapped inside YEARS ago, so if it really decided to start screwing around with his schedule now— 

The shadows in one corner turned darker than the rest, warping and shifting in place. They were the hidden entrance to Phantom’s den, so of course they always did this when he popped in. 

Then again, this den was something created by Phantom for the sole purpose of hiding whatever might be related to his true business. So, it had his level of security. Humans couldn’t exactly enter unless certain strings were pulled. Non-human entities, on the other hand opened…well, they could certainly try, and sometimes succeed. Their chances would be better if they had some kind of genuine association with Phantom, but some magicks were more stubborn than others. 

A familiar, bruise-adorned face came peering out through the darkness, the rest of him edging out bit by bit. Bones ground his jaw, glaring at the strands of shadow that clung to his arms almost like seaweed. 

Phantom paused, smirking as he watched. As funny as the little scene was, there was still an important task at hand. So, his own shadow took the opportunity to stretch across the room, gliding along the floor and reaching up to pull the threads of darkness off. 

Bones nearly tripped, but he caught himself just in time. He raised an eyebrow at the humanoid outline, his eyes following it as it retreated back to its place behind Phantom.

“What is it now?” Bones asked, sighing as he lurked by the purple-stained shelves. “A spat just broke out by the pool tables up there; I was taking care of it when you called me.”

Phantom, who had grown fluent in Bones-lish by now, knew that taking care of it was really code for watching it from a corner to siphon off whatever pain was growing between the participants. 

Not that Phantom was judging, though. Bones was a reliable guy; he always eventually broke up little arguments and kicked any assholes through the doors when he needed to.

Plus, the whole being-a-revenant-thing; Bones needed the pain of humans to alleviate his own (yes, even though he had access to that special sensory deprivation chamber in the basement). Really, he was just engaging in self-care. 

“I know, I know,” Phantom reassured. “But there’s something else on the way that you can help ‘take care of.’ And, call it a hunch, but this should be even better than another petty game-argument.”

“Oh, yeah?” Bones replied, tilting his head to the side. He glanced around the den. Yeah, there as all sorts of stuff organized on all the shelves, but nothing had actually been taken down for using just yet. Nothing really stood out at the moment.  “Why? What do you mean?” 

As if on cue, that little antique clock started chiming. The tone was a bit off-key, but not too annoying. 

It was just barely halfway through counting off the twelve chimes when the air began to shudder. A seam stretched through the empty space just below the pendant lamp that hung from the middle of the ceiling. The seam began to droop down toward the table, clearly weighed down by the outline of something large on the other side. 

After an awkward few seconds, that seam finally burst. Cold, humid air came flowing out, along with the form of Client #1382, who landed on the table with a solid thump. Unlike most protagonists, they didn’t sit up, didn’t start gasping or air or staring at their two surprise hosts. Instead, they just lay there. Still and quiet. 

Suspiciously still and quiet…

As the seam in the air knitted itself back together before vanishing as a whole, Phantom watched Bones’ expression shifted from aggravated to shocked to…curiosity. 

He chuckled. It’d been so long since the last time Bones had looked genuinely inquisitive about anything. 

“…This,” Phantom finally answered. “This is what I mean.” 

The orb set in the hilt of his cane began to glow and flicker. Phantom traipsed over to pick it up, holding it at eye-level. “Ah, there you are.” 

 Inside, Client #1382’s soul slowly-but-surely materialized, along with all the things he’d agreed to let them bring along. Not that they immediately acknowledged this, of course. They were just standing, blinking, carefully raising their hands to clutch at their head. 

“Don’t try to take it all in at once,” Phantom advised, snickering as he popped the orb out and carried it over to his collection case. “You’ll adjust soon enough. Just make yourself comfortable; you’ve done your part.”

I̵’̶m̸ ̶t̷h̶e̵ ̶d̸e̸v̶i̶l̴’̴s̵ ̵a̶d̴v̵o̵c̸a̵t̶e̷ ̶

̴G̴o̴o̷d̸ ̸l̶u̷c̷k̷ ̶t̶r̶y̶n̴a̵ ̸m̷a̴n̶a̵g̵e̴ ̵i̴t̸ ̶

̵I̷f̷ ̴G̷o̵d̷ ̵i̸s̶ ̷a̸ ̸d̷o̶g̵,̴ ̴a̷n̷d̵ ̸m̷a̵n̴ ̷i̸s̸ ̵a̵ ̸f̶r̶a̵u̸d̵,̶ ̷t̴h̸e̷n̷ ̷I̸’̷m̴ ̸a̴ ̸l̷o̶s̷t̶ ̷c̸a̴u̷s̸e̴ ̶

He could feel Bones’ dark, glassy-yet-seeing eyes on him as he set a new, vacant orb into his cane. 

“...That’s it? Just another one of your soul-deals?” Bones demanded, taking a few steps closer. “You’re always so insistent on handling this part of the process by yourself! Why do I need to be here?”

“Because this particular process is gonna work…differently,” Phantom responded, slithering back over to the now very-much-occupied table. “They always work differently when the client is willing.” 

Bones opened his mouth, probably to retort, only to shut it with a little porcelain snap. His brow furrowed in contemplation as he looked back down at the latest client’s body. 

“How?” Bones wondered after being silent for a long couple moments. His voice had tapered down a few octaves. It was still rough and tense as usual, but it seemed more of that curiosity from before had managed to worm its way into his lungs. 

“I’m not exactly sure. I might have known sometime before all this, but it’s just been so long since I had a client who actually did all their homework and was still compliant afterwards,” Phantom admitted with a nonchalant shrug. “But then, that’s just the why. The how is a more simple.”

“Like anything’s ever simple with you,” Bones murmured, glancing back and forth between the freshly-vacated mortal vessel and the disguised abomination standing on the other side of the table.

Phantom grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Rolling his eyes Bones gestured for his boss to elaborate.

But before any more snide, vague words could come out, a visible tremor raced through Client #1382’s body. It almost looked like one of those full-body twitches people would get in their sleep…until the next few seconds, that is. 

When the involuntary spasm didn’t immediately fade as quick as it’d arrived. 

When it got much more violent. 

When sections of their skin (both out in the open and hidden under their clothes) began to ripple of their own accord because something was obviously squirming underneath. 

One of Client #1382’s eyelids flittered, as though they were winking at Phantom and Bones. 

Their eye—the same eye that was now cloudy, unseeing, dead with almost all of its color having already drained from the iris—suddenly began stretching out of the socket, forming a long, triangular shape with a tip sharp enough to draw blood. 

It was almost indistinguishable from the natural spikes that common crystals could grow as. 

Bones’ eyes bulged from their sockets.

Humming, Phantom sidled over to him. “It’s starting! Watch, watch!”

With that (almost like Client #1382’s body had been waiting for permission, or encouragement, or a sign of some sort), the corpse finally gave up the ghost, so to speak. 

It all but burst open like a rotten pumpkin left out in the searing sun, seemingly trapped in slow-motion, veils of metallic steam drifting up to the ceiling. 

Blood rushed out, automatically stiffening with a chorus of thin, scratchy tink-tink-tinks, like those tiny icicles that formed on bare tree branches in winter. Intestines unspooled, dangling over the table as fleshy tissues transformed into glittering stone. 

The ribcage took on an opalescent sheen, almost like Mother Of Pearl. Their new shine didn’t falter even as each bone splintered and snapped, pushed up by the lungs and heart as they rose up and petrified, now sharp-edged, misshapen lumps of horrific, unearthly gems. 

Despite all this, the outer skin remained the way it was supposed to be. That didn’t stop the progressing changes and growth of the organs. Flesh stretched and ripped and tore as the crystallization surged up to the surface. 

Sooner or later, the tattered skin made Client #1382’s body resemble a nest of organic strings and glistening webbing. Almost like the cocoons that spiders spun around their prey. 

The gemstones that were once internal organs all stood, as if at attention, glinting in the dim light like blades. They still retained the various red and pink hues of flesh, and those colors had been trapped in a variety of twisting, bending, spiraling patterns. 

It reminded Phantom of the various crazy-lace agates he’d seen for sale at the city’s annual art festival.

“Souls tend to leave a few bits and pieces in the flesh over the course of a lifetime,” Phantom announced once the transformation began slowing to a halt. “You’d know that better than anyone.”

Bones slowly nodded, his eyes glued to the morbidly beautiful mess. 

Phantom continued. “Kind of ironic: even if a soul is willing while being taken from its vessel, those bits and pieces just aren’t. So, when the soul is fully out and somewhere else—”

“Those bits and pieces…act up,” Bones interjected. The bruises and cuts on his face seemed to flicker from the inside, growing and shrinking, darkening and nearly fading but not quite. “They try to destroy the vessel before any outside force can.” 

“Yep,” Phantom agreed, popping his lips on the p. He nodded over to the soul cabinet. “They didn’t feel any of that, since it was all physical. Emotions are tricky little things; when they’re taken out of your head, they’ll just heal and re-grow themselves, sort of like skin. But in cases like this, the leftover ones…”

He shrugged, smirking down at the explosion of gem and color and wrongness on the table. “Well, they can still be pretty damn potent.” 

Slowly nodding and chewing his lip, Bones reached over to the center of the explosion, to one of the larger crystals. He wrapped his hand around it, but he never got a chance to apply any force. 

Cracks spread over the crystal’s length like veins or tree roots, causing it to shudder and splinter. Then, starting at the pointed top, it simply disintegrated into a veil of gleaming smoke. The vapor drifted close to Bones, wrapping around his forearm and seeping into his skin. 

Bones flinched, sucking in a deep breath, eyes wide as they rolled around in his head. 

But none of this was out of fear or anger. 

He was just harvesting pain like he always had to. 

Only, this type of pain was stronger. Brighter. More savory. 

Phantom smirked to himself, spinning his cane in his hands as he crossed the den. He summoned the velvety chair from his office with a snap of his fingers, along with the latest addition to his book collection.

(A black leather tome covered in little slashes. It would’ve appeared ancient…but the etched-out, golden-leaf likeness of a triangular creature with spindly limbs and a single, staring eye seemed to give it a fresh polish.)

Human flesh always had its uses in the market, so of course he’d have to harvest the batch from Client #1382’s body. 

But that could wait. 

For now, he just sat down and cracked the novel open, intent on reading until Bones was finished with the petrified agony.

I̸t̵ ̶a̶i̶n̵’̶t̷ ̷r̸i̴g̸h̵t̶ ̸f̷o̸r̸ ̶m̶e̵

̸I̸s̷ ̶i̴t̷ ̵r̴i̶g̷h̷t̸ ̵f̷o̴r̴ ̶y̴o̵u̶?̶ ̷

̷I̶f̷ ̸y̵o̵u̷’̵r̷e̷ ̴m̴i̶s̸s̷i̵n̴g̵ ̶m̶e̴

̶T̵h̵e̵r̴e̶’̷s̵ ̴o̶n̴e̵ ̴t̸h̸i̸n̶g̵ ̵t̵o̴ ̴d̴o̷

@that-bat @th3w00ds @ineedallofthehugs @flaming-dolph16 @altegos @starchyeah @captainrose35 @nwtbobsessedemo

[stretch-time]

me listening to Bones by Nathan Sharp: wow this is like Dawnbreaker-

[xuchiya]

omg heyy!

i love your writing sm 💖 its literally chef's kiss

any member would do, where the reader is stranded at a late-night party. her freaky ex is there(troubling her) so she calls the member. only thing is, he's not her boyfriend anymore, but the only person she trusts in that moment. maybe the reader is a little drunk, so he drives her home. yada yada. idk I'm making shit up lol.

you dont need to do it! this prolly doesn't even make sense lmao

anygays, you are so cool, like i love your blog, your fics sm!

thank you 💕💕

hello, my lovess!! welcome!!

thank you so much ahhh!! (*feet kicking*) i'm still ... not good but AHHH THANK YOU SO MUCH MY LOVESSS!!

And don't worry, I gotchu my loves!! i understood your request!!

you still came || choi san || one-shot

| genre: fluff. small tinge of angst. exes- to - lover(?). ex!gf reader. ex!bf san | mentions: drunk reader. ex-boyfriend being clingy and asshole to reader. san to the rescue.

The bass pounded like a second heartbeat in your chest, each thud vibrating through your bones and rattling inside your skull. The EDM music blared from the speakers, chaotic and relentless—so loud it blurred the line between sound and sensation. Lights flashed across the room, sharp and dizzying, leaving behind ghostly trails that streaked across your vision. Everything around you seemed to spin, the walls pulsing with color and heat, and your head felt like it was floating above your body.

You were past your limit. Way past it.

You hadn’t planned on staying long—hell, you didn’t even want to be here at all. But your friends had insisted. They told you a party would help clear your head, that it would be a distraction, a way to "feel alive again" after everything that happened. After the break-up.

After the humiliation.

Because it wasn’t just a break-up. It was a spectacle. The kind that belonged in a K-drama or some twisted fairytale. Your mother had actually paid San off—a hefty sum, handed to him with that frosty smile of hers and the unspoken command that he was never good enough for you.

He didn't take it. He wasn't blinded by the amount of money offered to him.

He didn't stopped loving you. No—San loved you with a quiet ferocity, the kind of love that was steady and sincere. But when he met your mother, he was met with poison dressed as grace. She draped expectations over his shoulders like royal robes, heavy and suffocating. She wanted guarantees—of wealth, of power, of a future carved in gold.

And San? He just wanted to love you and be himself.

"I fed myself to your love," he said that night, voice trembling, "but I was eaten every day by expectations. I want to be me, love me from what I am and what I can do… and free from all of this."

Now, here you were—half-drunk in the kitchen of someone you didn’t know, fingers wrapped around a lukewarm cup of something that didn’t even taste like alcohol anymore. You were trying to avoid eye contact, to remain invisible, but fate had a twisted sense of humor.

Because he was here.

Not San. But him—the ex you swore to never, ever see again. The one who’d tried to take cash from your mother’s purse during that cruise trip, as if the ocean could hide his filth.

"Ahh my beautiful princess, how's your prince charming? Or should I say ... your worst nightmare?" He cackles. You huff, wrapping the only jacket that appears thin around you as you stood outside. Hopefully someone has the mind reading ability that you were uncomfortable.

Yet no one does.

"Shut up Nathan ..." Your fingers shakes as you scrumbled them inside your pockets. You could barely hear yourself think because of his constant bickering.

"Come on, Mama would love to see us together! I mean it was a one time thing!" You shake your head, moving away. But then your fingers found your phone. And before you knew it. Fingers fumbling. You didn’t have time to second-guess.

It rang once. Twice.

Then his voice—warm, groggy, familiar. "..Hello?"

"San," you breathed, blinking back tears you didn’t realize had formed. "Can you—can you come get me?"

There was a few rustle in the background, probably from the bed sheets inside his apartment. "I'll be right there, sweetheart."

You didn’t even say where. You didn’t need to.

He knew and that matters. The phone call ended and so does the thousands of thoughts running in your mind suddenly stop.

You turned towards Nathan, a frown on your eyebrows. "The only worst nightmare here is you and my prince charming will come and save me." You flip him off before walking on the other side, leaving him with mouth open.

Twenty minutes. Maybe less. Or whatever time has passed. But in your half-drunken haze, with your heart pounding in your ears and your hands trembling from the adrenaline of unwanted touches and too-loud music, it felt like forever.

Your actions had caused you so much emotions plus your impulsive act. Calling your ex when your ex is bothering you. Drinking with your friends until the break of dawn.

And to your luck, crazy thief ex boyfriend bothering you and flipping him off.

This isn't you.

You were sitting alone on the curb outside the house, knees pulled to your chest, the thin cardigan you wore doing nothing against the midnight chill. Your phone was clutched tightly in your hand, your last text to him left on "delivered." You weren’t even sure if he’d come.

I mean, would you respond to someone that contacts you after 6 months of break-up? would you also respone to that person who almost destroy your entire being because of family expectations?

For a moment, you were blinded by bright lights. Headlights. And then the soft, sweeping arcs of light cut across the cracked pavement. You look up from your position, and notice the beat up mercedes pulling up. Still the same one you used to fight over music in, still the same one he drove you home in after your first date.

Your lips curled in a small smile.

"Hey." He crouched down in front of you, like he used to when you got hurt or overwhelmed, hoodie hanging open, white t-shirt creased, and his hair—fluffy and flattened on one side—evidence he must’ve gotten out of bed the second you called.

His eyes searched yours. Not demanding. Just... waiting.

"You okay?" he asked, voice quiet, careful—like anything louder might shatter you. You nodded. It wasn’t the truth. But it was easier.

He didn’t question any further knowing you might be overwhelmed with what has happened. He knew you despite not being together anymore but it doesn't mean he has to erased you just because of a hard past. He would be lying to everyone if he said that he wishes to wake up next to you everyday.

Instead, he held out his hand, "Come on. Let’s get you out of here."

And without a word, you took it.

The ride was silent, but not awkward. The windows were down, the wind is enough to blew your hair gently and the billboards were shining against the buildings.

You let your hand wave out of the window like a kid. San, occassionaly, glances at you in case you felt a nauseous. The silence between you both were comfortable. The kind of silence that held years of knowing each other’s rhythms, the kind that didn’t need to be filled.

His phone played some mellow playlist—low enough that you could hear the hum of the tires against the road, the occasional soft click of his turn signal. You place your hand back on your lap, San took the chance to pull the windows back up. As it did, you leaned your head against the window, cheek pressed to the cool glass, eyes heavy.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” you said finally, voice barely audible. San’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, knuckles going pale for a split second. He knew of who that guy was and the thing he did during the cruise vacation.

And absolutely, for the first time in his life, loathed that guy for making you feel small and embarassed.

“I’m glad you called,” he said, eyes still forward. You turned to him, taking in the familiar curve of his nose, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. The way the streetlights poured over him in passing flashes like he was caught in the middle of fading dreams.

“Even after everything?” you asked, voice cracking slightly, whether it be the alcohol or the deepest part of your emotions surfacing. It was your vulnerable moment.

He hesitated. Of course he has. If you were him, you wouldn't be doing this. You wouldn't be answering your ex's calls in the middle of the night or even riding in their car to take you home. It would bring up the pain and that pain shouldn't be brought up and buried deep.

You saw it in the way his jaw clenched, just for a moment. Then he nodded, "I’d still come," he said softly. "Every time."

Your breath hitched, chest squeezing so tight it hurt.

The silence returned—but it wasn’t empty. It was full. Of things you didn’t say. Of moments you’d tucked away. Of love that hadn’t disappeared, just folded itself quiet in the corners of your hearts.

“You didn't have to,” you whispered, looking over at San, "I'm no one to you."

He was silent for a moment, his mind fill with thoughts but it was enough in his heart to ache and for his body to react, his hand reaching over at your cold ones.

"You may be no one to me anymore but my heart knows who you are and it will never stop beating for you." Your throat tigthens as you gave his hand a squeeze.

He walked you to your door, both of you bathed in the soft orange glow of the porch light. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders hunched like he didn’t trust them not to reach for you again.

You fumbled with your keys, a little clumsy from the alcohol and the ache in your chest. Then you turned around to face him, blinking back tears you hadn’t meant to let fall.

“Thank you,” you said, barely above a whisper. “For picking me up. Even if it’s just tonight.”

His expression cracked—just slightly. But you saw it. That glimmer of something breaking through the restraint, “You can always call me,” he said, voice almost too soft to hear. “Even now.”

And for a split second, as the door creaked open behind you and his warmth lingered like the last note of your favorite song. You halt just right before you enter your apartment, looking at him.

"Will you still come like tonight?" You whisper. Scared that you might be just being a delusion ex if second chances still exist but his answer made your heart soar.

"I still came, didn't I?" San smiles at you and for a while, you felt yourself being the same woman again. The one who was deeply inlove.

You nodded, smiling softly, "You still came ..."

[azrielgreen]

PRISM: CHAPTER TWENTY

stunning, gorgeous, ACHINGLY PERFECT art by Ster

Part Three of Prism has begun:

It’s been a long time coming. There is a softness in him that lies dead, decayed, only bones now, but it was once intrinsic. Innately soft. Weak. Fawning. Faun. Steve Harrington can trace it if he tries. He can isolate the feeling, even dead, and know where it came from. Whose cruelty, violation or neglect shaped him in such a way that he distorted himself the way only water can when pushed, crushed, smashed, or pulled. He shudders to think of himself as he was. He dreads to think of himself as he is. And cannot see how he might yet be. The bones of his dead softness, now rotted of their beauty and silky skin, are sharp enough to make weapons of, less brittle than he’s ever been. His parents sold his soul for show when he was malleable, they made a whore of him before he even knew what the word meant. Nathan Fox shaped him into a plaything. He poisoned him with love, or something that tasted just like it. Billy beat out of him what was masculine, had him cowering like a housewife and aspiring only for domestic safety, nothing more. It's not until Tommy that Steve ever really knew himself. Had space to breathe, examine, explore. Tommy is a splinter in his lungs.

read Chapter Twenty HERE

[wrappedinpinklace]

Out of Bounds, Chapter Four.

(Authors note!! This one is a bit longer to make up for the shorter chapter yesterday, so hope yall enjoy since it’s starting to get interesting 😏, with much love, angel!!)

————-

(Jason’s POV)

Jason Todd didn’t like her.

Sure, she was quick-witted. Kind of brilliant. Looked criminally good soaking wet under the moonlight at the Black Lake. But that wasn’t the point.

He didn’t do crushes. Or soft feelings. Or whatever the hell had him pocketing her pen one day and throwing his robe over her shoulders the next.

This wasn’t that.

…Probably.

Still, his eyes flicked toward the Gryffindor table the second he walked into the Great Hall. Not on purpose—it just sort of happened. Habit. Reflex. Whatever made it sound less pathetic.

She was already there, laughing at something Stephanie Brown said, her hair still slightly damp from the morning shower rush. And sure, maybe she was wearing her own robes now—but Jason still remembered the way she looked in his. Drowned in green. A little flustered. Weirdly soft.

He sat down at the Slytherin table, frown already forming. Roy noticed immediately. Of course he did.

“Your Gryffindor’s looking cozy this morning,” Roy said, nodding toward her with his usual smirk. “You sure you don’t want to just move tables and sit with her?”

Jason shot him a look sharp enough to slice through stone. “She’s not mine.”

“Right, right,” Roy said, clearly not buying a word of it. “That’s why you’ve been walking around like a dog without a bone since the lake.”

Jason stabbed his fork into a sausage. “Let it go.”

But Roy didn’t. Naturally. “Y’know Nathan from Ravenclaw was asking about her. Said he might ask her out before the next match.”

Jason froze.

Just a second. Barely noticeable.

But Roy definitely noticed. He leaned back, smug. “Ohhh. That’s interesting.”

“She can date whoever she wants,” Jason muttered, trying to keep his tone casual. He was not bothered. He was not irrationally furious at the idea of some floppy-haired Ravenclaw asking her out and making her laugh the way he barely managed to do.

“Sure she can,” Roy agreed. “But what if we made it fun?”

Jason raised a brow. “Fun how?”

Roy grinned. “A bet. Twenty galleons says Nathan gets her to go to the next Hogsmeade weekend with him.”

Jason looked at him like he’d grown three heads. “You’re seriously betting against me?”

“You said you didn’t care.”

“I don’t.”

“Perfect. So what’s the harm?”

Jason hesitated.

His eyes drifted back toward her. Still at the Gryffindor table. Still laughing. Still unaware that Jason’s internal monologue had basically turned into an angry, confused sonnet about her stupid smile and her even stupider habit of making his chest do weird things.

Roy leaned in. “Unless you’re scared.”

Jason snorted. “Of Nathan?”

“Of feelings.”

Jason didn’t answer.

Instead, he finally looked away and muttered, “Double it. Forty galleons says she doesn’t even look at him.”

Roy’s grin turned feral. “Now we’re talking.”

Rose Wilson slid into the seat across from them, raising an eyebrow as she unceremoniously dropped her books. “What are you two plotting?”

“Jason’s trying to pretend he’s not halfway in love with a Gryffindor,” Roy supplied cheerfully.

Jason didn’t even flinch this time. He just crossed his arms and looked up toward the staff table, bored and brooding as ever. “She’s not my type.”

“Sure,” Rose said flatly. “That’s why she was wearing your robe. And why you’ve been checking for that pen that isn’t even there in your pocket every ten minutes like it’s a lifeline.”

Jason scowled. “The pen is hers. She’d be annoying if she lost it again.”

“Mhm,” Rose said, clearly unconvinced. “Well, enjoy your little bet. Just don’t cry when someone else makes her smile.”

Jason didn’t say a word.

But that night, when he passed Nathan in the corridor flirting with a group of Ravenclaw girls, he may or may not have “accidentally” shouldered him into a suit of armor.

And he may or may not have a new plan brewing.

Because Jason Todd didn’t “like” her…But he sure as hell wasn’t about to lose her.

————

You weren’t thinking about Jason Todd.

Not when you woke up, not when you got dressed, and certainly not as you walked out of Charms with Nathan Sterling trailing casually beside you, grinning like he was trying out for a toothpaste ad.

“Anyway,” Nathan was saying, nudging your elbow lightly as you both stepped into the courtyard. “Hogsmeade weekend’s coming up. I was thinking—if you’re not already going with anyone, maybe we could get a butterbeer or two?”

You smiled. Not because of the offer necessarily—though Nathan was sweet—but because of how utterly uncomplicated it was. No tension. No one stealing your pen. No near-kisses at midnight under a moonlit lake or behind stone walls.

“Maybe,” you said, giving him a playful look. “Depends how my exam goes. You know I only treat myself after academic triumphs.”

“Oh, please,” Nathan groaned. “You’ve never not aced an exam.”

“Don’t jinx it.”

You were still laughing when the air shifted slightly—like the change in weather before a storm. You looked up instinctively, and—

Jason.

Standing a few feet away, arms crossed, looking like he’d just swallowed something sharp. His hair was windswept from flying, his tie half-loose, expression unreadable as ever.

But his eyes were on you.

Nathan glanced over his shoulder and gave Jason a small nod of acknowledgment before turning back to you. “Anyway, think about it, yeah?”

You nodded, watching him walk off before you could even begin to process what just happened.

“You’re really pulling the Ravenclaw charm card, huh?”

You turned to find Jason exactly where you’d left him. Still casually posed, still unreadable—but now much closer. Too close, actually.

“Jealous?” you teased, lifting a brow. He snorted. “Please. If I wanted your attention, I’d just steal your pen again.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Touch my pen, and I’ll report you for academic sabotage.”

Jason smirked. “So violent. So territorial.”

You started walking again, not bothering to wait for him. He fell into step beside you anyway.

“I was going to ask what your plans were for Hogsmeade weekend,” he said, far too casually for someone whose jaw was clenched like he was biting back something sharp.

“Oh, well,” you said, tone equally breezy. “You just saw my options.”

He looked over at you, jaw ticking.

“And you’re seriously considering it?”

“Why not? Nathan’s nice.”

“‘Nice,’” Jason repeated like the word personally offended him. “That’s your bar now?”

“Better than being called a menace and nearly getting a detention record because of someone else’s inability to shut up in the library.”

“You’re never gonna let that go, are you?”

“Not until I graduate,” you said sweetly. “And maybe not even then.”

Jason grinned, but there was something in his eyes that didn’t match it—something sharp, calculating. He was quiet for a beat.

Then, “What if you didn’t go with Sterling?”

You slowed a little, narrowing your gaze.

“What if you went with me instead?” The words hung between you like a dare. He didn’t break eye contact. Didn’t flinch. You blinked. “Why would I do that?”

Jason tilted his head. “Because I’m more fun.” You laughed. “And definitely more dangerous.” He didn’t deny it. “And you like that.”

You didn’t answer. Mostly because you weren’t sure what your mouth would say if you opened it.

Jason smirked. “You think about the lake at night, don’t you?”

“Jason—”

“Because I do.”

Your heart stuttered.

Before you could respond, Professor Nygma’s voice rang out from across the courtyard, barking out everyone’s next class like it was some twisted riddle. The spell broke.

Jason stepped back, eyes still locked on yours. “Just think about it,” he said, voice quieter now. “I’ll see you around.”

And then he was gone.

And you were standing in the middle of the courtyard, heart hammering in your chest and Jason’s words playing on repeat like a curse.

Because the worst part?

You were thinking about the lake. And the pen. And the almost-kiss. And the stupid robe that still smelled like him.

Hogsmeade weekend was going to be dangerous. One way or another.

———

You told yourself this wasn’t going to be awkward.

You had a plan: go to Hogsmeade with Stephanie, enjoy your butterbeer, do some window shopping, and absolutely not spiral about Jason Todd or the fact that he had, in fact, asked you to come with him.

…Except now you were sitting at a corner table in the Three Broomsticks, clutching your mug like a lifeline, and very pointedly not looking at either of the two boys flanking you.

Stephanie, of course, had ditched you approximately five minutes after you walked in, claiming she “spotted a Gryffindor who owed her five galleons,” which conveniently left you alone just in time for both Nathan and Jason to show up.

At the same time.

And now they were both here. With you. At the same table.

Nathan was smiling in that boy-next-door way he always did—warm, harmless, easy. Jason was not smiling, not really, though the smug little curve at the edge of his mouth definitely counted for something.

“So,” Nathan said, his voice loud enough to break the silence. “I didn’t think you were coming.”

“Yeah,” Jason chimed in before you could respond. “She’s full of surprises like that.”

You gave him a sharp look, but he only sipped his butterbeer like this was a game he was already winning.

“I decided last minute,” you said, forcing your tone to stay breezy. “Steph dragged me.”

Nathan leaned in slightly. “Well, I’m glad. I was worried I’d have to survive this place without intelligent company.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “You calling me dumb, Sterling?”

“Just saying, Todd, some of us passed Charms without blowing up the professor’s desk.”

“Some of us were trying to blow it up,” Jason replied, still calm, still smiling, but now with that unmistakable edge in his voice.

You took a long sip of butterbeer. This was fine. Totally fine.

Nathan turned to you. “Anyway, I was thinking of heading up to Honeydukes in a bit. You in the mood for something sweet?”

Jason snorted under his breath. “She’s already got treacle tart.”

You nearly choked. Nathan looked between the two of you, clearly confused.

“I—he means—never mind,” you muttered, avoiding both their gazes. “I’m good with butterbeer for now.”

Nathan leaned back a little, expression thoughtful, but didn’t push it. Jason, on the other hand, had shifted closer. Not by much, just enough that your shoulders brushed when he moved, warm and infuriating and entirely intentional.

“You cold?” he asked quietly, dipping his head near yours. “You could’ve worn the robe again, you never gave it back, you know.”

You turned to glare at him, but your breath caught when you realized just how close he was. His eyes flicked down to your lips for half a second.

Nathan cleared his throat.

Jason leaned back, expression unreadable, as if nothing happened at all.

You swore under your breath and stood. “I need air.”

You didn’t make it two steps before both of them were on their feet too.

“I’ll come with you—” Nathan offered.

“Me too,” Jason said, cutting in.

You turned on your heel. “No. Neither of you. I’ll be fine.”

And then you were out the door and onto the cobblestone path, heart pounding.

Merlin help you. You were going to lose your mind between these two.

And the worst part? You hadn’t even finished your butterbeer.

The cool Hogsmeade air hit your face like a cleansing charm, and you welcomed it with a shaky inhale.

You didn’t walk far—just past the edge of the Three Broomsticks, settling against the stone wall with your arms crossed tight over your chest. The quiet outside buzzed faintly with the laughter of passing students and the rustle of leaves overhead, but compared to the tension simmering inside, it felt like bliss.

You needed the space. From the two of them. From him.

Nathan made sense. Nathan was the boy your parents would approve of without question—top marks, house prefect, always remembered to ask how your day was. He was steady, dependable. Sweet.

And yet…

Jason Todd was the storm. The flicker of something dangerous beneath the surface, the smirk that made your skin prickle and your heart race at the same time. He annoyed you like no one else could—pushed your buttons, stole your pen, teased you relentlessly.

And still, still, your thoughts twisted themselves into knots every time he looked at you like you were something he wasn’t supposed to want, but did anyway.

It was infuriating.

“I figured I’d find you out here,” a voice said behind you.

You turned to see Stephanie walking up, her coat draped over her shoulders, face drawn with concern and a touch of knowing mischief.

“You good?” she asked gently.

You hesitated. “…Define good.”

Steph came to stand beside you, arms folded, watching students pass by on the road ahead. “So. Wanna tell me why you fled like you were about to faint in the middle of the pub?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, debating. Then, with a sigh, you caved. “Nathan was there. And Jason.”

Steph didn’t say anything at first. She just nodded slowly, like she was letting that information marinate.

“And?” she prompted.

“They were both trying to sit with me. Talk to me. Fight each other with words and smug glances while I just sat there like a total idiot who forgot how to breathe.” You groaned and leaned your head back against the wall. “This is not how I saw my Hogsmeade weekend going.”

Steph made a thoughtful noise. “Let me guess. Nathan’s the guy who’s perfect on parchment, and Jason’s the guy who makes you forget you know how to write your name?”

You blinked at her. “That’s… disturbingly accurate.”

“I’ve known you for too long,” Steph said, bumping your shoulder. “So what’s the real problem here? That you like Jason?”

You flinched. “I don’t like him.”

Steph stared at you.

“…Okay, maybe I do. But I shouldn’t.”

“Why? Because he’s a little rough around the edges? Please. You’re acting like he’s a Death Eater.”

You gave her a look. “He’s not exactly a model student. And he’s always—he’s always messing with me.”

Steph shrugged. “Yeah. Because he likes you.”

You didn’t respond, and she nudged you again.

“Look, I’m not telling you to run off and declare your undying love in front of the whole school. But don’t pretend like you’re not already in it. And maybe,” she said, lifting her brows, “just maybe you need to stop trying to pick the perfect answer and start paying attention to the one that makes your heart beat faster.”

You exhaled through your nose. “You’re no help.”

Steph grinned. “I’m great help. Now come on. You left your butterbeer behind, and I have a very strong feeling that one of those boys is still watching the door, waiting for you.”

“…Which one?”

Her smile turned positively devious. “Why don’t you go back inside and find out?”

—————

Jason’s POV

Jason watched her go.

Didn’t mean to—but he did. His eyes followed the soft swing of her coat as she slipped through the crowd, out the front door of the Three Broomsticks like the air had suddenly become too thick to breathe.

Which, honestly? It had.

The moment Nathan slid into the seat beside her, smiling like he belonged there, Jason had felt it—that hot, sharp twist just beneath his ribs. And then she’d smiled back. Not the half-annoyed, barely tolerant smile she usually gave him, but one of those real, warm ones. One that cracked open her whole face.

And it wasn’t for him.

“Rough day, captain?”

Jason’s gaze flicked to the other boy now sitting across the table, sipping his drink with the kind of smug ease that made Jason want to break something.

Nathan Sterling. Ravenclaw golden boy. Polished. Predictable. The type of guy professors loved and girls introduced to their parents.

Jason leaned back, stretching one arm over the back of the booth, the picture of lazy indifference. “Didn’t realize you were keeping track of my emotional state, Sterling. That a new hobby of yours?”

Nathan chuckled. “Only when it starts affecting my social calendar. You’ve been hovering around Y/N a lot lately.”

Jason’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t bite. He just arched a brow, amused and sharp. “Yeah? You jealous?”

“I think curious is a better word,” Nathan said, tapping his fingers against his butterbeer glass. “She’s not really your usual type.”

Jason’s smirk widened. “Didn’t know I had a usual.”

“Well, you’re not exactly known for being… consistent.”

Jason tilted his head, pretending to consider that. “You’re right. I usually don’t bother sticking around long enough to get bored.”

Nathan’s smile tightened at the edges.

Jason caught it—filed it away—and leaned in just a little, voice dropping with deliberate ease. “But see, Y/N’s not boring.”

“She’s also not a game.”

Jason’s eyes glittered. “Didn’t say she was.”

Nathan gave him a flat look, like he was trying to read between the lines and not liking what he found. “So what’s your angle, then?”

Jason snorted, finishing the last of his drink and setting it down with a soft clink. “You think I need one?”

“I think you usually have one.”

Jason didn’t respond right away. He just stared at the door she’d walked through, tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek.

Truth was, he didn’t know what the hell he was doing. He hadn’t meant to care. Hadn’t meant to get curious about her, or start noticing things—like the way she held her quill when she was deep in thought, or how her laugh got louder when she wasn’t thinking about it, or how absolutely livid she got when he stole her stupid pen that first day. Merlin, that had been fun.

But it wasn’t a game anymore.

And he definitely wasn’t the only one playing.

“Word going around says you made a bet,” Nathan said casually, like he wasn’t trying to bait him. “Something about how she’d fall for you by the end of the term.”

Jason’s gaze snapped back to him, and now the smirk was gone.

“Careful,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “You’re talking like you want to make this a thing.”

Nathan met his eyes evenly. “Maybe I do.”

Jason didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

“Then go ahead,” he said finally, leaning back again, fingers drumming lazily on the table. “Just don’t cry when you lose.”

Nathan didn’t respond, but the challenge hung between them like the weight of a drawn wand.

Jason shifted his gaze back toward the door, where he imagined her still standing outside. The pull in his chest hadn’t gone away.

This wasn’t just about a bet anymore.

Not even close.

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

This is so pretty! I love what you did with the colors and shading!!!

some recent meme of 4 coffee but 5 bosses but it's NWTB egos(maybe?

just in case some lines get way too blurry to see

Venting type:"Guess our company is really short of water for these Fxcking gueese."(the original text is a kind of turtle lives in water, which sometimes stands for bastard, sorry for not being able to come up with a good substitute

Professional type：drink 1 cup，leave 3 cups and pour 2 cups of tea. "There're coffee and scented tea here，please feel free."

the last one: getting sadder and sadder due to the bad performance and hang themselves at the company hallway tomorrow (no

[amoristt]

Grazing the Fire | VI

yippee!!!!!!

reblogs + tags and replies will make my entire day as i put a lot of effort into this :)!

story continues beneath the read more. let me know if you can’t access it!

warnings: language

want to support me? here's my ko-fi!

-----

The bat is heavy and demanding in your hands. Your mind races behind your eyes- a million concerns shrouding you. What was he going to have you do? You’d seen Nathan do some pretty heinous shit when he was bored, so what exactly constituted fun for him? You roll the bat in your palms, scanning over the chips and cracks in the weathered wood. A part of you worried that this was going to be some sort of hit-man crap- like now that you’d ventured into the next tier of his friendship pyramid he was going to bring you into his bad dealings. He turns to look at you and the sun catches on the expensive camera nestled in his hands. 

All you can offer is a lopsided, unsure smile. 

He guides you deep into the heart of that junkyard, a maze chock full of broken down appliances and soda cans dotted with pellet gun holes. For the first time since summer had begun to settle into shrill fall, you were grateful for the chillness in the air. God, it would have stunk, all those mounds of trash just baking in the heat. 

A sharp, popping echo of glass breaking has you leaping nearly a whole foot in the air, and you whip around with a harsh glare at the source of the sound. Of course, of course it’s Nathan. He’d set his camera down on a tipped over fridge and made quick work to whip brown beer bottles at the ground. With every toss they explode into glittering shards, and you twitch every single time. 

“Would you chill?” He laughs pointedly. “There’s no out here but us.”

“Have I ever been chill?” You grunt, feeling the full weight of the bat in your hands once more.

 “Guess not. Tweaker.” He hauls a microwave up from the ground and settles it on a chest freezer. “Maybe you should take some of that stress out on his bad boy.” He pats it, the metal echoing hollowly, after settling his camera down on an upside down box off to the side. Away from all the danger. 

You swallow. “You want me to hit it?”

“Fucking duh.” 

It takes a long moment for you to consider it. Shifting your weight, feeling your heart rate increase. You never really were the destructive type. 

“Hello?” He waves until your eyes follow his hand. “Come on, hit it! You’ll feel great.”

The microwave's door hangs limply, threatening to fall at any moment. “I fail to see how this is going to make all my troubles go away.”

Nathan couldn’t roll his eyes any harder than he had in that instant. In a moment’s notice, he’s beside you, and then he’s behind you, close enough you can feel his chest clasping over your back. Your instinct is hard- shoving yourself forward despite the raging heat that instantly rose to your cheeks. To your surprise, Nathan doesn’t allow you. He’s quicker than you, grabbing the bat and keeping you in place. Trapped. You’re once more reminded of his height, the inches he has over you. And how those little noodle arms of his hide some serious power.

“Dude, what the hell,” You manage with a surprisingly even voice. 

“Like this.” He drags your arms high over head. There’s a moment where they linger above your head. Your shirt rides up just high enough to feel the breeze over your naval. 

He breathes in, you breathe in. 

He crashes the bat down onto the microwave with you in tow. 

Wood meets metal in an explosive bang and you can feel the exact moment the appliance gives way from underneath the powerful swing. The door clatters to the ground, bolts spring out from every corner, a hefty dent plays right down the center and caves in the empty middle. The vibrations rattle you to your core and sink into your bones, adrenaline greeting every nerve. You blink at the sight of the destruction.

When he laughs, deep and full, you do too.

“See what I’m talking about!” He cheers, and you do. He’s moving like he’s on air now, light on his feet as he backs away and motions towards the microwave once again. “Do it again! Come on, imagine it’s fucken- uhhh,” He taps his forehead, brows drawn together. “Fucken- you know! Those two bitches!”

“April and May?” You blink at him, still feeling laughter dancing on your tongue. When he nods, you chuckle. “I don’t wanna kill them, Nathan.”

“Okay then,” He rubs his face before it lights up suddenly. “Oh! Those two fucks that stole your book of whatever the fuck that whole thing was!”

An unpleasant memory drags through the forefront of your mind. Trying to relax at the fountain, having your very private artbook ripped from your hands and tossed around like it was nothing. The nasty things they said to you. Yeah- you could definitely give those two a whack. Or three.

You’re rearing up and crashing that bat back down before your mind can catch up with your body. More bolts rattle out of the metal frame, and when you swing once more, you relish in the way it cracks under the force. The microwave teeters off the edge before it plummets to the dirt and damn near shatters from the abuse. Coils, shreds of plastic and metal are confetti around its remains. 

Nathan whistles when he peeks over the edge at the sight. 

“I always knew you had that in you. Maybe you didn’t need me that day after all.”

He says it so offhandedly. Quick, mindless. But it rocks you in a strange way that’s hard to place. Mostly because you definitely did need Nathan that day. And also because for just a second you’re launched back to the first moment you saw a glimpse of something other than just vitriolic hate in him. He had stood between you and those two boneheads, unmoving and unwavering. 

All for you. Even though you didn’t realize it at the time. 

“Give it.” He says, arms outstretched. You offer the bat with just the slightest reluctance and he takes it, gets to work without a second thought. z

He nails the tipped over fridge, drives dents into the thick metal over and over again until it craters like the moon. He howls, he laughs like it’s a performance. You step back when he picks up more beer bottles from the ground and lines them up on the fridge, struggling to stand them upright on the dipping surface. When they’re set and ready to go, he swings, hard, and glass launches in all directions as he tears through the line. 

“That’s what I’m fucking talking about!” He cheers. He tosses you the bat and it slams into your chest before you manage to catch it. While you’re getting your bearings back, he’s stacking more bottles. “Your turn.”

You feel those similar nerves rising your chest, unignorably and bubbling, but you step up to the plate anyways. Those slotted eyes follow your every move, all the way from you rearing back and to the very moment you swing with everything you’ve got. 

When you miss, you feel the air leave your lungs. The bat glides right above them, just merely an inch away, but a miss nonetheless. Oh, how Nathan laughs at you. He doubles over and everything, chest heaving with every breath. You cringe so hard it feels like you could die. 

“Keep laughing and I’m gonna hit you next!” 

“Go on, killer.” He motions for the bottles once more, snickering. While you get into position, you can hear him faintly chuckling to himself, likely replaying the moment over and over again in his head.

Running for redemption, you put your back into your swing once more. The bat collides with the bottles so satisfyingly it makes you shiver. It glides through the line like they’re nothing, and the impact sends bursting sprays of glass everywhere the eye could see. It feels so good- feels right deep in your chest. Your shoulders are loose, your heart is light. You laugh and you grin at the man before you like you’d known him your entire life. 

And he grins right back with visible pride. A mentor, a guide to your unmannerly behavior. 

“Okay, I see what you mean now.” Your voice is fast, breathy. “That’s fucking awesome.”

“That’s nothing, light work.” Nathan rummages through his pockets and pulls out a red and white box. He draws a cigarette out, settles it in between his fingers, lights it like a professional. He draws in a captivating breath before it leaves him in a plume of gray.

He reaches out, offers it to you. Though you hesitate, you ultimately decline. 

But you do make a mental note of the day Nathan Prescott tried to share his precious cigarettes with you, a lowly no one in the eyes of Blackwell Academy. There’s something beautiful in the moment, the way the sun catches and glitters off the mounds of shattered glass and broken metal. The clouds dragging over the vibrant sun and the breeze swaying through the many piles of forgotten trash and leaves that were beginning to fade from a true green to a mellow yellow. You may as well have been on top of the world.

Nathan must have felt it too. He plucks his camera up from the box he’d settled it on, routinely boots it up with its hundreds of buttons and takes tasteful snapshots of the evidence of your fun. It prints, see’s daylight for just a moment before he’s shoving it into his back pocket without even sparing a glance. That’s how you knew he was the real deal- he didn’t even have to check. Just knew that it was a good one. A keeper.

The early afternoon draws on just the same. You both work your way deeper into the thick of the junkyard until the piles of garbage are tall enough to box you in, leaving a path of broken glass and metallic shrapnel in your wake. You’re only stopped when you see train tracks yards away, cutting a sharp boundary between the heaping trash piles and green, lush grass. Little ways before the tracks a ramshackle shed-like structure stands with holey walls and what may as well have been a tin roof. Nathan doesn’t pause before he approaches it like you do. Doesn’t have to take in the sight, really absorb the atmosphere. You wonder how many times he’d been in this very spot wasting the day away.

Neon graffiti demands your attention when you’re close enough to see it, cigarettes and crumpled blunt buds seeding the perimeter. A bottle of Jack Daniels rests against the wall, half empty. Nathan drags a puff from his cigarette and toes it with his black shoes, rolls it over and watches the contents spill out with a less than amused expression. The smoke climbs the air hypnotizingly and you watch what you can before it disappears entirely. 

“I haven't been here in years.” He breathes. His voice is low, mellow. Lost in thought and memories. He nudges a snuffed out cigarette on the ground partially buried in dirt. “Before Vic and all the parties and the Vortex Club shit I used to come out here and just chill out.”

You lean the bat on your shoulder, nodding, imagining him all those years ago long before you met him. Before he came the menace on site that was Nathan Prescott. You wondered how he presented himself back then- softer, or perhaps just quieter. A subtle anger that had only really started to fester. He steps into the shed and you follow without a second thought, join him when he leans his boney back against the brick wall and slides down. The interior is overstimulating- dirty, haphazardly decorated with the most college-like shit you’d ever seen. A dart board, stolen road signs, a disgustingly bright yellow tapestry with an elephant etched into the fabric. Streaks of light beam through the gaps of the roof and shine down on a small coffee table. 

You eye the vulgar messages written in black marker while Nathan leans his head back against the wall, huffing out a breath of smoke that makes your nose twitch. Once again, he offers the now half smoked cigarette out to you. 

This time you accept. He doesn't hide the way his lips tug into a smile. The cigarette feels uncannily heavy between your fingers, beckoning you. Your chest feels tight, anxiety rising under your skin for some reason.

“I used to come out here when my dad would chew my ass out.” He rubs his face with the flat palms of his hands, eyes unfocused. “Fucking prick. This one time he made me take this stupid ass role in this stupid ass play and I didn’t even wanna be in and I totally blew that shit. Just fucked up all my lines right on show night. Man, he let me have it.”

You feel your breath stuck in your chest at the sudden venting. Venting about his father, no less. It was sudden, unwarranted. He was opening up to you all on his own without prompting. 

“What happened?” The cigarette still burns, a red glowing halo. 

He shrugs, tosses a rock from the floor and bounces it off the wall across the room mindlessly. “I don’t know. I didn’t even want to be there so when I saw all those people just staring at me- I don’t know. They were laughing at me and I just totally froze up.”

You could picture it if you really tried. Nathan, younger and anxious, locked up on stage with a sea of eyes all glued to him. Muscle memory and rehearsed lines vanishing in the blink of an eye. Pity grows in your gut. 

Pity, and understanding. Your own memories of being younger, up on stage in front of countless people watching your every move flare up in your mind. Your mother was raised in pageantry and made damn sure you would be the same despite your complaints. 

“I can’t imagine you in a play.” You admit quietly. He snorts.

“I couldn’t either. But that doesn’t matter, does it?” He huffs. “Always pushing me into shit I don’t want to do because I'm a Prescott and it’s apparently my job. He even made me sign up for the football and get this-” He turns to face you with a harsh expression. “I didn’t fucking cut it!”

You tilt your head. “Didn’t cut it?”

“Nope! Didn’t fucking make tryouts. But thank god my dad was there to buy my way in, right?”

“You couldn’t say no?” You ask, even though you already know the answer. The picture he’d painted of his father was growing clearer by the second. 

“I said no probably a thousand times. Still joined.”

Your heart falls for him, sinks into your stomach as his walls visibly come down around him. He’s bare, vulnerable. 

“My mom always made me enter beauty pageants as a kid.” You blurt with a dry throat. “I uh-... I remember being up on stage with a face full of makeup feeling uglier than sin. Bunch of grown ass adults judging every micro movement I made. Really did a number on how I see myself now.”

“You ever win?” He asks. 

You stare into the ever burning cigarette. “No.”

“Never?”

You shake your head. “Never. My mom stopped enrolling me after I almost threw up on stage.” He raises a brow, and you sigh. “I had the flu and she made me go up anyway. Show had to go on. But… She was done after that. Never even really wanted to talk about it anymore, either. I feel like I really disappointed her but at least it was over, I guess.”

Nathan stares into his lap. After a beat of silence, he says, “My sister used to be into all that Little Miss America shit.”

Your view of him and his world grows a little wider. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

He nods dully. “Yeah. She’s out in Brazil. Got sick of my dad and went to go find herself or some shit.” His voice is tense, sarcastic with just a hint of something deeper. Hurt.

“Do you still talk to her?” 

“Sometimes.” He bites at his lip. “She talks to me, but-... I don’t know. She always wants me to get into her self-help crap and it’s just a bunch of bullshit.”

You shift your weight. “Not even interested in trying?”

He scoffs. “If my shrink can’t even figure my shit out, what the fuck is Brazil gonna’ do for me?”

“Getting away from your dad.” You answer bluntly, and he grimaces like he knew that’s what was coming. “Getting away from all this pointless shit.”

“Well if I was gonna’ bounce it wouldn’t be there.”

“Where would you go?” 

Nathan looks at you. Though it’s quick, fleeting, you see something in his eyes. Reflection. Wonder, even. Then he’s back to stone and shoving your question away with a half-assed shrug.

Before you can open your mouth to press a little harder, keep that same energy he’d been so kind to offer, he’s knitting his brows and staring at the cigarette you’d kept so safe and unsmoked in your fingers. He sighs. “You gonna’ smoke that or just let it burn?”

You jump a little. For a moment, you’d entirely forgotten it was there. For such a little stick of paper and herb, it felt awfully intimidating in your grasp. The smoke teased your senses, made your eyes water just a little. With a small, anxious swallow, you let out a soft breath.

Fuck it, you think to yourself.

You suck at the end and watch the red halo burn into a rush of red as thick smoke fills your mouth. Blowing the smoke out into the cramped room, you cock your head. No coughing, no ache in your chest. Just the rough taste of tobacco. Not what you’d been expecting in the slightest.

Nathan laughs at you.

“What?” You ask, knitting your brows together. 

“You have to actually smoke it, you know.” He snickers. “Like, breathe it in.”

You frown, cheeks reddening. “I just did.”

“No, you have to breathe it. Into your lungs.”

So, you try again. A little less nervy this time. You drag the cigarette up to your lips and suck, feeling the same flood of smoke fill your mouth. But, this time, you breathe into your waiting lungs, expecting it to be just the same as before. Oh, how wrong you were.

The very instant you heave in that breath, the smoke assaults your lungs and you’re sent into an instant coughing fit. It burns, it feels like it shreds your chest and throat, heaving coughs striking you as you struggle to get in another breath of air. Bursts of gray sputter from your lips like a broken tail pipe. Every breath hurts and your eyes water, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. For a moment, it feels as though you’d never get your breath back.

A flash of white blinds you for a second, another sense grabbing your attention. The mechanical sound of his camera reaches you as he prints a picture and shakes it to develop. 

“You fucker-” You struggle to speak, gasping for air. “T-Throw it Away-!”

Nathan just plucks the cigarette from your fingers, pockets the picture and laughs even as you shake your head. “Gotta make sure we keep the memory!”

“I feel like this is a blackmail moment.” You manage. You could only imagine what the picture looked like- you in all your virgin-lunged glory, red faced, puffy cheeks with billows of smoke entombing you. 

You’re still steadying your breath when Nathan plucks the cigarette from your fingers and draws in an effortless hit. It’s like he’s doing it to tease you- straight faced and lax meanwhile you were pawing away the tears in your eyes with heavy lungs. The settling never comes, your breath never fully returns from its shaky state, and you can’t help but wonder if it’s due to the hide-out being now chock full of thick, swirling gray. It takes a lot to ignore his snickering when you’re bounding off your ass and heading for the door. 

Cold air hits you like a bolt and slices through the assault in your chest. Finally, finally you suck in a full breath of precious air. The door swings open, then shut, and Nathan’s beside you once more. 

“Gonna’ make it?” He asks without bothering to hide the snark in his tone. 

“I think so.”

“How’s it feel to lose your cig virginity?” He asks, grinning slyly.

“It feels like lung cancer.” You answer flatly. 

Nathan shrugs. “It gets easier.”

You’re about to answer, but you’re stopped at the sudden bellowing song of a train's horn. It echoes from the distance, grabs both of your attention. A train barrels past through the valley of the trash, only mere yards away. It scares you for only a moment before you’re enamored in the colossal machine. Rocks and pebbles bounce to life as it hauls past. 

“Sweet,” You say breathlessly, watching metal and graffiti blur by. “I knew the tracks were close, but I didn’t realize it cuts right through here.”

Something draws you closer, and you follow it like a moth to flame. Eventually you’re so close, daring to inch a few feet away, the colossal beast howling in your ears. 

The wind picks your hair and clothes up, flutters it around you and has you closing your eyes as it rips past. It’s like nothing you’d ever felt before- a certain ring of adrenaline. You don’t notice it when Nathan snaps yet another unsuspecting photo of you, but you do notice the bullseye of the camera staring right back at you when you open your eyes. You also notice the expression on Nathan- one you hadn’t seen yet. Focused, and yet, softer than that. Fondness, almost. All aimed directly at you. It’s when he realizes you’re looking that you physically see his edges reharden. He straightens his back and blinks at you. 

“Another picture?” You shout over the deafening noise.

“Can’t waste a good opportunity.” He calls back, very of matter of factly, but you see the way he swipes the picture from his camera and drinks the sight in. You can tell the shot must have been a good one with the satisfied nod he gives subconsciously. 

The train is gone just as quickly as it came. It bellows in the distance as it disappears, taking the serene moment with it. Suddenly, once more, the world grows silent. 

“How do I look?” You reach out to grab the picture but he’s quick to swipe it from your grasp, rears back and crams it in his pocket. A frown draws over your lips. 

“Like shit,” He snarks. “That’s going on a christmas card for sure.”

You’d hoped he’d give you a passing glance given you were the subject but clearly he had no intentions of that, the photo long since disappearing in his jacket with the ongoing collection of pictures he’d snapped so far. It eats at you, in a way. Worries you. You knew his snark- surely you couldn’t look that bad. But…

What if you truly did look awful? You were never a fan of having your photo taken- always felt so awkward and out of place. So forced. You hated the idea of existing there in his pocket, or potentially in some binder, forever ugly and immortalized.

But then you remind yourself how he’d gazed at the picture with such softness, like it was perfect from top to bottom. A certain passing glance of appreciation you never knew you craved. 

Birds sing overheard, the clouds lazily draft by the sun just enough for a chill to creep up your spine. For a lingering moment, the two of you just stare off into the endless blue. But then that moment too, passes. You grow cold- you clutch your arms and goosebumps ride a shiver that tingles its way up your spine.

“I’m going back in.” You say. Nathan perks up, haloed by his cigarette’s trail of smoke. 

Despite the brick walls, the hide-out offers little warmth, but it’s enough. While you linger, he finds his spot once more wordlessly, languidly falls back against the wall and slides down until he’s nestled in his spot like he’d done it a million times before. He probably has, now that you think about it. He’d probably spent years in that exact spot, drawing on gritty walls and smoking the whole plot out. It makes you think about him and his past, what was once a blank canvas in your mind slowly adorning strokes of color and painting the picture that was Nathan Prescott.  He draws in a hit of his cigarette and tips his head back to sigh it back out. You wished, in that moment, you had a camera of your own. You want this version of him to stay. 

It sort of does, in a way. For that day at least. 

Because time drew on just like that- tossing bottles at the rubbly ground to see if they’d break or bounce, Nathan burning through his sticks of tobacco and you refusing with every passing offer. The sun hangs heavy on invisible strings and lowers to the treeline, peaks through the splintered roof and stripes gold along his pale skin. You both talk about nothing and everything. At one point, you make a joke, and he laughs. Not a snarky, bitter laugh. Real, deep in his chest. A hearty sound that lanced through you like lightning and settled in your gut with a truly pitted realization: you’d give anything to hear more of that.

You’re both so enthralled in each other's presence that you barely register the way the sky had melted from a bright blue, into a purple and red haze glowing hot over the horizon. Crickets sing in place of the birds, a crisp breeze picks up once more, reminds you that it’s getting late. Though it pains you, you’re the first to call it a day by standing up and stretching your arms high overhead. You don’t miss the way Nathan’s shoulders slump just a little- just enough when you grab the bat and hoist it over your shoulders. He’s reluctant, doesn’t move until you nudge his foot with your own, and even then he moves so slowly you can’t help but wonder if he’s stalling. 

“Got places to be?” He grunts, standing and grabbing his camera. 

“Sure do.” You follow his saunter out of the hide-out. “In my room, in bed.”

“Seriously? It’s barely even 8.”

“Gives me more time to think of why I ditched class today.”

Nathan gives you a sideways glance, guiding you through the junkyard. “I got one. It’s called not giving a shit.”

Easy to say when you don’t have to worry about your future. You think. But then, you kick yourself mentally, because you know that’s not true. You know he worries- now more than ever. You press your lips into a tight line all the way to Nathan’s truck. Always the gentleman, the boy opens the door for you and motions for you to hop in. 

His driving is just as reckless back as it is on the way to the junkyard, giving you the urge to grab the handle on the door to brace yourself. The camera in your lap is heavy and you can’t help but want to fidget with it. So, naturally, you do. You can’t help picking it up and pawing at it like an uncultured beast. 

“Break it, you buy it.” He says nonchalantly, and you cringe. Thing probably costs more than your life was worth. 

Upclose, you can see just how many buttons and dials cover all the settings. It feels more like a computer than a camera, the high technology of it making you worry the slightest mistake would have it glitching out in your hands. It makes sense- of course Sean Prescott would ensure Nathan had nothing but the best. Or maybe, Nathan had bought it himself with his old, old money. It probably wasn’t even a splurge, just a simple staple of their lifestyle. 

You glance over at him, the pompous heir. He’s drawn another cigarette and it rests between his lips, left arm slung out the window. Your eyes follow the shape of him, his broad shoulders down to his right hand wrapped around the steering wheel. The way the sun graces the outline of him captivates you. This time, you do have a camera.

“How do you work this?” You ask, pressing a random button. The camera lights to life in your hands. 

Nathan, without looking over at you, says, “You press the button, that’s how.”

“Awesome.” You can see him through the little digital screen. He looked beautiful, picture perfect. The ocean makes a wonderful landscape. Your finger dances over the countless buttons, and then, click. The camera shutters and in the blink of an eye Nathan glares at you so sharply you wonder if it gave him whiplash. All his attention is ripped from the road and funnels onto you and that damned camera. It spits out a photo and drops into your lap. 

“What the fuck,” He huffs, swipes hands on the steering wheel and swipes at the picture. “Don’t fuck around with that thing!”

You pull the picture away from his grabbing hand, grinning. “Nope! This one’s all mine!”

“It’s my camera, dipshit.”

“Too bad. Wanna trade? You can give up the one of me smoking.”

“That one’s mine, too. Now hand it over. 

You pretend to give it some thought. Let him marinade while you hold the picture just barely out of his wiry grasp. 

“I’ve given it some thought, and, well…” You sigh dramatically. “No.”

“You fucking bitch.” He shakes his head and grits his teeth. “What for? Huh? Gonna show it off to all your little friends?”

You open your mouth to retort, but then you stop for a beat. 

Friends.

“First of all, what friends?” You scoff. “Second of all, it’s a good photo! You should be thanking me. I even got Arcadia Bay in the background. It’s gorgeous.”

“Gorgeous.” Nathan rolls his eyes. “Where? Behind all the drug dealers and phony ass hipsters? 

“Nathan, you’re a drug dealer.”

He eyes you. “Still stands.”

Your eyes fall, voice softening. “Arcadia Bay is pretty.”

You don’t see it, but he tosses his attention to the water spanning broad over the evening horizon. “I guess the water’s not too bad.” He admits. It’s enough to perk you up, a faint smile tugging at your lips. 

By the time he turns off the coastal road to something more winding, it’s well past curfew. In the forefront you see the looming building of Blackwell return to your vision. Your stomach sinks just a little realizing the day truly was coming to an end. He turns off to the dorms and nearly whips into the parking lot before he slams the breaks, white knuckling the steering wheel. You lurch forward in your seat at the sudden stop- grabbing hard onto the camera so it can’t go plundering to your feet.

“Dude! What?” You huff. 

“Madison- that fucking freak!” Nathan sneers with narrowed eyes. You glance over the stretching parking lot and feel a pit settle in your gut at the sight of Madison standing at the boys dorm entrance, arms crossed and standing tall as ever. You knew exactly what he was looking for, and it was sitting right beside you. 

“Fuck, we’re way past curfew. He’s gonna ream us.” You murmur.

Nathan chews at his lip, drills his foot onto the gas and speeds past the boys dorm and towards the girls. “If he’s gonna stalk my ass, at least be subtle about it. Fuck it. I’ll just drop you off and crash at some friends.”

“Stay at mine.” You’re blurting out the words before you can even stop yourself. So quick it shocks you. 

“What now?” He turns his entire body to you, seemingly just as surprised. 

You nervously fidget with your fingers, swallowing hard and scrambling for a way to explain yourself that didn’t show your obvious desperation. “What, do I not fit the ‘some friend’ criteria?” 

“You’re inviting me in?” He raises a brow. “Last time you couldn’t get me out fast enough.”

Last time. You remember it in flashes- being backed into the corner of your own dorm and witnessing first hand Nathan’s flashes of raging emotions. Feeling the full brunt of him box you in, nowhere to go. You remembered how terrifying he has been. 

And how exhilarating it had felt. 

You swipe your tongue over your lips. “I’ve slept in your room how many times now? I’d feel like kind of a piece of shit if I didn’t offer you this solid.” 

Nathan eyes you suspiciously, a look you’ve come quite familiar with. But then it softens. “I mean, if you insist. Better not get all weird on me, though. No drinks, and minute I start feeling dizzy it’s over.”

“Jesus christ.” You grunt with a sharp eye roll, masking your relief. “Now why the hell would I need to do all that?”

“I dunno. I don’t know what weird shit you’ve got going on there.”

“Homework and self loathing.”

Nathan snickers. “Then honestly, I think I prefer the roofies.”

You shove his arm and he laughs again, pulls into a parking space in the far corner of the lot and rolls the windows shut. Quick thoughts pester at you, poke at your brain and bounce off your thick dome of a skull. 

What if someone sees him? There were already so many rumors floating through the narrow half of Blackwell, your name echoed and drug through the mud with every passing day. It was new to you- a strange form of popularity. It made you want to bury your head, go back to the days before college where you were a proper nobody with nothing to offer to anyone except a few sarcastic zingers here and there from the back of the class. It was easier back than. 

You chew at your lip in thought. 

It was strange to have your own name tossed back at you from total strangers. Back in highschool you worked hard to withhold a reputation that was held deep below the radar. Quiet, unintrusive. Nothing to see or hear. The lack of attention was lonely, sure, but it was worth it when you saw what happened to the few friends you had with louder prescenses. There was safety in the isolation. You’d witnessed vulgar names scribbled on their lockers, their papers smacked from their hands in the hallways. Always had to watch over their backs simply because they had a voice and the heart to do something with it. Despite the raging seas behind your eyes, you kept yourself so at bay that you lacked any depth at all to the observing eye. 

But, from your very core, you were nothing if not a bitter, repressed spectator. 

So now you had no idea how to navigate these murky waters. If not for Nathan, you’d be lost floating in the void that was the first stages of social suicide. Outcast from your friend group, a vicious sexual rumor. To know it was all founded on lies made you want to tear out your hair. 

But, you didn’t. You barely even barked let alone bit and then you let Nathan handle it- and he did it with ease. Vindictive, impulsive and brazen ease. You knew it the day you saw him fighting out in the school's parking lot, and you still knew it now: He was a force to be reckoned with. 

And you were sitting in his truck, inviting him into your room. And he accepted. 

So maybe, truly, nothing else mattered but that. 

You watch Nathan mindlessly as he pulls his keys from the ignition and leans on the steering wheel before he grabs a small shoulder bag from his back seat. After fishing the pictures out from his pocket, he tosses them in the bag alongside his camera. 

The trip to your dorm went smoother than you’d thought. You’d guided him to the far side of the building where your trusty window remained open, barely open enough to notice but the perfect amount of room for you to wiggle your fingers into the opening and haul it up. You crawled in, dragged Nathan and his lanky limbs through, and made your way to your room. To your shock. Nathan took the lead. Led the path to your own room and leaned on the frame waiting for you like he’d done it a million times before. 

The moment you unlocked the door, he was shoving inside with no hesitation as if he owned the place. He takes in the state of your room, immediately judging you. There was an unmade bed, and a few posters on the wall. A TV mounted on a shitty little coffee table against the wall across from your bed and a small computer desk that held your cheap laptop in its wooden hands. A pile of clothes rests in a tipped over hamper, a cluster of papers scatter over a nightstand, some laying discarded on the floor. You own a single stuffed animal and it sits in proud display among your crumpled blankets- a little brown teddy.  

What a mess.

“Wow.” He says flatly. You swallow.

“I haven't had a lot of time to clean.” You say quickly. “And to be honest, I’ve been fucking exhausted.”

“It’s better than last time. Less crackden and more of a… Slightly better crackden.” He grins. “A crack home.”

The scoff that leaves you doesn't go unnoticed by him.

Nathan makes quick work to start sorting through nearly everything you owned after he sets his bag down at the edge of your bed. The first victim was your nightstand, to which he rudely ripped the drawer open and began pawing through the random items you'd tossed in. Half empty packs of gum and crumpled receipts were swiped to the side to reveal even more junk. Next was your computer- the mouse being jostled to spring your screen to life. 

Luckily there wasn’t anything too tantalizing- just the home screen of Blackwell's online site and a few youtube tabs. In that moment you realized this was simply a taste of your own medicine- payback for you dragging his glove box open and sorting through his shit like you didn’t have a care in the word. Turns out, he was right. It is pretty violating. 

There’s a moment where you almost stop him when he plucks the stuffed bear from your bed. Your hand moves at your side just barely, just enough for him to see.

“What are you, five?” He snorts. 

You frown.

“It’s, uh… My grandpa’s. He gave it to me before he died, and I didn’t feel right tossing it.”

It’s shocking when Nathan pauses at that. You fully expected him to laugh at you, toss it to the floor, do something just so painfully and evilly him, but… He doesn’t. He looks at you with a blank expression and then eyes the bear, gives it a subtle squeeze before he’s tossing it back on the blankets without a word. The mental image of his definitely existing heart grows larger in your mind. The canvas in your mind earns another stroke of vibrant color.

“Well now, what do we have here?” A stack of movies by the tv catches his eyes. He fingers through the stack, which is comprised of a few horror movies and early 2000’s comfort shows. “Didn’t know you were into slashers.”

You shrug. “You never asked.”

Before you know it, he’s standing and tossing a DVD case onto the bed. Scream 2. 

“Put it on.” He damn near demands, and if you weren’t already a little excited at getting some movie-time in, you’d have wanted to smack him upside the head. But, alas. Scream 2 is too good of a movie to pick a fight over, and you also don’t know if you’ll get this chance with him again. You’re almost positive that watching a movie with Nathan isn’t exactly a commonplace in Aracdia Bay.  

While you’re getting the movie started on the tv, he’s busy behind you making sure to get nice and comfortable in your bed. He even takes his shoes off and tucks himself under the blankets, and you try to not zero-in on the fact that he’s getting his outside clothes all over your washed sheets. He probably wouldn't even give a shit if you did fuss. The animal.

But you can’t deny the buzzing thrill you feel under your skin when you settle in beside him, keeping plenty of room for jesus. This was different then the other times you’d slept side by side. This was something… Softer. Something more intimate in a way that almost made you so nervous your stomach was churning. This time, relaxing together, enjoying a nice movie and warm blankets, it was all intentional and wanted. No anger, no bitterness. 

But then you remember how, even with all that, you’d woken up with him wrapped so tightly around you that one morning it was hard to breathe. His fingers pressed into your skin, his face nuzzled so perfectly in the crook of your neck. The morning sun warmed your skin. It felt like how a painting looked- so perfect in every little detail. It almost felt like a dream. 

With each passing adventure, you grew to accept that somehow life was determined to draw you two together, even despite the different worlds you lived in. Though the battle was hard, you felt like you were winning, worlds bleeding into each other just right. 

You’d made it out of the woods and into that beautiful, scorching sun. 

The movie starts, and you both seem to let yourself melt into it. 

-----

You hadn’t realized you fell asleep until a loud, shrill scream rips you from your slumber. 

Your stomach plummets into your guts, heart thrashing in your chest, damn sure that someone must be getting sliced and diced somewhere in the halls. But instead of a gruesome blood bath seeping under the crack of your door, you’re instead met with your TV screen. The color floods the room, basking it in disorienting waves of red as some poor woman on screen chopped to bits. You rub at your eyes and wipe away the dreariness before you start rummaging through the blankets to find the remote. You don’t find the remote, but you do find Nathan. 

He’s out cold, passed the hell out on his back with his arm thrown over his face and everything. The steady rise and fall of his chest helps your heart rate fall back down to where it belongs, your nerves beginning to settle. You peek around the edge of the bed, wondering if maybe it’d toppled onto the floor. Once again you find something else- this time in the shape of a bag. It lays on its side, items scattered about haphazardly. You realize you must have kicked his bag off during your minor fit, so begrudgingly you drag the warm blankets from your legs and let yourself sink to the floor. 

The thought of rummaging through Nathan’s personal goods doesn’t even strike you until you pick up a plastic bottle, bright orange with a little white label. Diazepam. Another little bottle catches your eye and you grab it, too, without shame. Risperidone. You hadn’t heard of the second, but you had heard of the first. A sedative, you were pretty sure. Your heart falls just a little even though you knew you shouldn’t be shocked. This was Nathan, afterall. Dude has problems. You knew he was seeing a psychiatrist, but for some reason you hadn’t considered him medicating himself. You wondered if it was his choice or his dad’s, a desperate attempt to regain control over his son.

You tuck the bottles into his bag and try to ignore the heavy feeling in your chest. The rest of the contents were to be expected- his keys, some receipts, a little baggy with a few unlabeled pills and then of course his trusty cigarettes. You’re about to zip the bag back up when something slightly under the bed catches your eyes. 

Photos. Quite a few of them too- a small pile of outside shots. The first few were shattered glass and the unfortunate remains of the day you two had had. And then two more.

The first polaroid is exactly what you were afraid of: you, wrapped in a veil of smoke, eyes squeezed shut all red-faced and sputtering. It was everything you had been afraid of since the moment you saw the flash go off. You’re so tempted to tear it to shreds but you refrain- long enough to take note of the other picture. It’s heavy in your fingers, eyes scanning over the image before you. 

It punches the air from your lungs. 

It’s you, again. But it was different this time. Your hair flows around your head like a crown, the train blurring by grabbing leaves and wind. Your clothes ruffle as it drags by. The photo he’d taken at the junkyard. It was perfect, the composition just right and the timing impeccable. And you. You never considered yourself on the pretty side of the scale, but you couldn’t stop the wonder that struck you staring down at that picture. 

You never looked so beautiful. You looked so alive. 

Your eyes travel up the side of the bed, where you peek at Nathan, this man you let into your room and welcomed into your bed. The stark contrasts of him between things not exactly inherently good or bad. His eye for perfection, his urges to destroy. Between the drugs and the outlandish ability to make you see yourself as something worth photographing for the first time in your life. How he cursed at you with every other word but insisted on keeping this little laminated version of you close to him. 

The garrish, raging fire inside of him with a soft, blue core. 

Quickly, you tuck the photos back into the bag. Even the ugly one, that suddenly doesn't seem so ugly anymore. You pick the bag up and set it on the nightstand, revealing the remote. You can’t help but laugh. It really did feel like the world was aligning to draw you closer to him- like not falling in love with him wasn’t an option anymore. 

The bed is more than welcoming when you crawl back in. He’s so warm beside you, and even warmer when he subconsciously wraps himself around you. Your heart stutters, breath caught in your throat. It’s just like the other morning in his dorm, caged against him like a willing bird. He hums breaths onto your neck. His heart beats rhythmically against your back. It’s perfect, and you sink into him like you were meant for it. Like two little puzzle pieces with frayed edges planted into the wrong sets.

Like even if the words hadn’t been said, you were his lover. His girl.

[bloodismymedium]

🫀UrbanSpook Valentine’s Day Headcanons🫀

❤️ Mona is quite the craftsman and homemaker, she’s made an assortment of utensils out of human bones, such as skulls fashioned into bowls and she loves making decorations out of human bodies and flesh, animal bones and whatever random materials she can find, she’s always rearranging things in her many hideouts and likes “prettying” up her hovels and squalors the same way a house wife would. Her and Bill’s equivalent to hanging tinsel during the holidays is a bundle of barbwire with knives, saws and other sharp implements strung along it.

❤️ Mona has difficulties expressing affection towards Bill and she hates herself because of it. She just wants to say “I love you” but can’t and she doesn’t know why (trauma) and she often doesn’t want to be touched unless she makes the first move most of the time but she still finds other ways to express her love to Bill. She will often write poems for him, draw or paint things for him and give him gifts.

❤️ Mona doesn’t know how to kiss, like genuinely doesn’t know how, she never did it before and it’s far too gentle of an expression of love for her. Mona’s equivalent to kissing is licking, Bill thought for years that Mona did that because she’s a perverted freak (which she is) but he was genuinely surprised when he kissed her for the first time and she gave him this really confused look and asked him what that was.

❤️ Mona also tends to show affection through physical gestures such as rubbing Bill’s shoulders or flat out nuzzling her face up against his like a dog would. Mona always preferred solitude before meeting Bill but now she can hardly stand not being in the same room with him for extended periods of time. She can’t help but feel utterly pitiful and weak for feeling this way since she associates emotions with weakness, but she will often rationalize these feelings in a “Bill is different” sort’ve way.

❤️ Bill also has a tendency to give Mona gifts fairly frequently. He knows Mona’s favorite food is hearts (animal and human) so he once gave Mona a heart-shaped box that had a whole human heart in it for Valentine’s Day, Mona was confused at first since she never even heard of the holiday up until that point but she appreciated the gesture regardless since she liked the irony of a heart being inside a heart-shaped box and she got a snack out of it too.

❤️ Mona often asks Bill to brush her hair because she says he does it better than her but she just likes the attention and physical contact, she considers her hair to be the only truly beautiful thing about herself and she loves it when Bill brushes or touches it and it’s the only part of her that she lets anyone touch without consent first. Bill finds everything about Mona perfect and beautiful but her hair is otherworldly to him.

❤️ Bill was never the romantic type until he met Mona, he always had to force himself to act romantic and loving towards Mia since he never truly understood the point of expressing love. He pulled a complete one-eighty with Mona however, he practically worships the ground she walks on and is always expressing his love in ways he never thought he could. The two really do have a Gomez and Morticia dynamic going on.

❤️ Mona is completely obsessed with Tina and is under the delusion that she feels the same way, taking her “once you’ve been to hell, you never come back” quote as a declaration of love towards Mona and she often fantasizes about Tina and doing horrible romantic stuff to her, she wanted so badly to take Tina with her and Bill before Nathan stopped them. Sometimes she’ll stay awake at night tossing and turning in her bloodied mattress wondering “why does someone so perfect want to be with a creature like me?”.

❤️ If they met under different circumstances, Tina would’ve fell HARD for Mona, being a closeted bisexual with a taste for bad girls and a soft Christian girl who would’ve made Mona her next project, having a tendency to “rehabilitate people with love and understanding” like she did with Jack. Ironically, Mona would’ve been really put off by Tina and believe she’s some kind of psycho stalker who wants to kill her because empathy is such an alien concept to her that she genuinely would not understand why someone would want to be nice to her for any reason.

❤️ Mona has pretty rudimentary knowledge in Greek mythology but she is practically obsessed with Medusa and relates to her a lot, believing they are one and the same as she finds Medusa’s story to be very similar to her own (i.e. they are both beautiful, talented and under appreciated women who are seen as monsters and have a forbidden love dynamic). She loved the character of Medusa ever since she was a child and once even made an actually really beautiful painting of her when she was twelve.🐍

❤️ Nathan Cole is the town heartthrob, practically every girlie wants to get into his pants because of how handsome and kind he is and his admirers would go absolutely nuts for him after he started to be hailed as a hero for apprehending the infamous serial killer, “The Painter”. Nathan himself is a hopeless romantic who has a tendency to be kind of shy around women, especially those who are very forthright about finding him attractive.

❤️ Tina absolutely loves Valentine’s Day, it’s one of her favorite holidays, second only to Christmas and she loves spoiling both Jack her sister with gifts and cards, these gifts usually consists of a bouquet of flowers from her personal garden and homemade baked goods. Tina’s love for the holiday would end up getting soured a bit once she started getting disturbing poems, drawings and gifts consisting of dead animals tied up with pretty ribbons for the past two or three Valentine’s Days up until she was attacked by Mona and Bill again. Mona admitted to being her “secret admirer” when she was questioned about it while in custody.

❤️ Despite the fact that she loves dirty, decrepit and rundown places and thrives off of death and decay, Mona has a lot of refined tastes and a desire to be a part of high society due to her NPD and upbringing. Mona often has narcissistic fantasies about being revered as a great artist and attending extravagant balls and art shows almost always centered around her. She deems the media talking about her horrific murders and calling her a monster as being recognized as an artist while the underground fandom she has developed are her true fans and admirers.

❤️ Mona has some surprisingly expensive tastes as she loves wine and champagne, has cravings for certain high-end things sometimes like this spiced apple cake she loved as a child and she still has some habits that were ingrained into her during etiquette lessons such as sticking her pinky out when she drinks something. These qualities and a lot of her impressive talents would’ve resulted in Mona becoming quite the refined and well-rounded lady that a lot of people actually would want to be around if things turned out differently…

❤️ Ironically, Mona is extremely introverted despite these narcissistic fantasies of her’s. She fucking hates people due to her abuse and trauma combined with years of living in solitude, she genuinely believes that everyone hates her by default and that their first instinct to seeing her will be to mock or hurt her like when she was a child. Bill is truly the one exception to this as she has developed a connection with him that she could never have with anyone, he is the only person on the planet who truly understands and capable of loving her.

[phant0mh34rt]

Rip nwtb radio, the universe really doesn’t like you apparently 😭

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Can we get headcannons of the NWTB egos with a reader who’s the embodiment of a child’s fear pretty pretty please 🥺

Oh, fine. But only because you added two "pretties" to your request, lol.

(Side note: I really only write for Phantom, Bones, and Natemare on occasion, so these will just be headcanons for them. I know Nate has more egos than these three, but these are the ones I have an actual attachment to.)

Since fear is such a complex thing, and since there are literally hundreds of phobias out there, we'll just assume that the reader is the embodiment of fear in general, just. . .specifically for kids, I guess.

___

Phantom

If you've read my stories about Phantom, then you know that I personally see him as an eldritch abomination. He wears a glamour to blend in with humans most of the time, but underneath said glamour, he's got all the qualifications. Body horror cranked up to eleven, mind-melting vibes, the whole shebang.

That being said, to compare an embodiment of fear to a creature like him is. . .interesting. Very, very interesting. On the one hand, you're partially the reason Phantom has his status as such a horrific monstrosity. Without fear, he might not have the amount of respect and power he's earned throughout the years.

On the other hand. . .well, he's the kind of thing that adults (humans and lesser-monsters alike) learn to fear one way or another. Although children are always more intelligent and observant than they're given credit for, they just can't exactly process things like Phantom. They can process fear itself, as well as nightmares/terrors, but they can't really grasp something so raw. Interacting with an eldritch creature means having to accept the unacceptable, to confront the fact that the universe is much more fluid and indifferent and wrong than it was already thought to be. And, thankfully, young minds that are so busy developing themselves can't face that stuff for a matter of time.

Anyway, on top of all the outer monstrosity stuff, Phantom is nothing if not a smug bastard. So, he'd definitely use the supernatural/cosmic hierarchy to poke some fun at you. Remember, a lot of his work focuses on stuff like greed or desperation and the like. Oftentimes, a lack of fear is what leads his clients to sign his contracts.

Even so, he'd still hold respect for you. Fear is a completely natural thing for humans; in fact, it's necessary for survival (see the previous passage). Children can use their fears to grow, to discover things about themselves. They can work hard to overcome their fears, and then feel proud and strong once they reach that goal. Even if they don't overcome their fears, they can still find ways to coexist with them. They can learn all sorts of things from their fears. They might draw inspiration from their fears to create art, or use their fears to try and protect others. The possibilities are endless.

___

Bones

As a revenant, Bones is all-too familiar with fear. It was one of the things to overwhelm him as he died, as well as when he entered the process of becoming undead. So, he'd admittedly act hostile toward you at first. (Not like that's too different from how he acts with pretty much everyone.) He may be supernaturally strong and technically immortal, but he's not invulnerable. Nowadays, fear is like a syringe to his pain. It makes his spasms worse, makes his heart and lungs burn, makes his brain swim.

Though he can't remember the majority of his past life, he can remember feeling fear in his childhood. And the lack of memories makes those feelings even worse, because he doesn't know what they were about, or what caused them, or, or, or. . .

Still, in a strange way, a child's fear can hold some portion of a child's innocence. (Keep in mind, this very much depends on circumstance.) And innocence is something Bones hasn't seen or felt for a very, very long time. Interacting with children's fears personified just might provide a brief window to it. That wouldn't really alleviate any of his pain, but it might make him feel calm for a few minutes.

If he were to form a legitimate friendship with you, he could potentially see you as a way to keep kids away from him. Which, in turn, would ensure that no children experience the pain he emits as a revenant. Yeah, Bones is spiteful and negative (and definitely sadistic in certain scenarios), but he's not enough of a monster to want to harm kids.

___

Natemare

If we're keeping the FNAF lore in mind, Natemare is something of a guardian to children, thanks to his ties with the Marionette. Due to that, he'd probably be wary of you at first. The ghostly kids he's cared for in the past were all most certainly scared in the last moments of their lives, and even more so during their afterlives.

Then again, part of Mare's care and guidance for those ghost-children was helping them terrify any living adults who could've been connected to their deaths. And since that's somewhat justified. . .well, it's complicated, but he can still sort of understand your role in the grand scheme of things.

Plus, like I said before with Phantom: fear has a positive side. It's the thing that can prepare kids for the world, help them grow, push them to be careful with the decisions they make. So, with that in mind, Mare would have some genuine respect for you. Perhaps there could be some kind of weird yin-yang scenario between the two of you.

___

(I'm so sorry for all the waxing eloquent here 😅)

@that-bat @th3w00ds @nwtbobsessedemo

[yxtubers]

𝐛𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐝𝐬

nathan doe x reader (fluff)

summary: in an attempt to bake at a sleepover, you and nate forget to check your baked goods in your sleep-deprived state

warnings/notes: none! lmk if i missed anything

requested?: yes! number 18 “failed cooking/baking attempt” from my actions prompt list

> > >

You and Nate always found a way to make your casual dates more interesting. Whether it be making up random games to play, or watching shitty movies to make fun of them, you guys always ended up having fun.

Today, it was baking. At 1 AM.

You should’ve been sleeping, but upon rolling around and thrashing in the covers uncomfortably, you decided sleep wouldn’t come easy tonight.

Nate knew that too. Which is why he suggested baking in the first place.

Flour covered the entire countertop as you and Nate desperately rolled balls of cookie dough onto a baking tray. The mess in the kitchen was too much to bear, but you tried to ignore it.

“I really hope these turn out good,” he said excitedly, jumping on the balls of his feet.

You had never really baked from scratch before, but you didn’t want to rain on his parade.

“Of course they will. Trust the process, Nathaniel,” you said mockingly.

You grabbed the tray and placed it into the preheated oven, turning the timer on for 10 minutes. You didn’t have high hopes but seeing how eager Nate was, you couldn’t help but hold out for his sake. Maybe they’d turn out alright.

Nate crouched down as he stared through the glass of the oven. You giggled at the sight. His eyes were wide and glossy as he stared into the warm light, watching the cookies rise slowly.

“They won’t bake any faster if you watch them, babe,” you said, ruffling his hair from where you stood above him.

He caught your hand in his as he held onto it, using it as leverage to help him stand up. He swayed your arms side to side as he smiled giddily at you. The white light of the kitchen illuminated his features beautifully. His insane bone structure looked sharper than usual.

“Thanks for this,” you said, your head leaning on his shoulder.

His arm came to wrap around you as he leaned his head on top of yours.

“Any time. Plus it was an excuse to get free cookies.”

You both chuckled as you leaned against the island, letting the seconds tick by in silence. In all honesty making the batter had tired you out, and your eyelids seemed to be drooping already.

“Hey sleepy-head,” said Nate, shaking you gently. His hand caressed your hair out of the way as he watched you groggily open your eyes.

“Hm?” you said.

“Do you smell that?”

Your eyes widened as you realized you had left them in too long. 10 minutes was set as a precaution, but you had meant to take them out earlier to check on them.

Of course you never ended up doing that because your boyfriend’s shoulder was just so comfortable. You could fall asleep on him every single time without fail. He always said he enjoyed the fact that you felt safe enough to fall asleep so easily around him.

“Shit!” you exclaimed as you grabbed some oven mitts and dragged the tray out of the oven.

The smoke billowed out as you dropped it onto the hob. They weren’t burnt, but they were as hard as rocks.

Nate knocked on them with his knuckles, wincing at the sharpness and heat of them.

“Wow those are bad,” he said. His shoulders slumped slightly as he rubbed your back.

“I really wanted cookies,” he mumbled.

You wrapped an arm around his waist as you rested your head on him once again.

“How about for now we go cuddle and sleep - we can try again tomorrow?”

Nate hummed in agreement, his head nodding quickly.

You had started to walk towards his bedroom, holding his hand as you pulled him along. Nate, however, picked you up bridal style as he made his way to the bed.

“Could hardly call those baked goods - they were more like baked bads,” he said as he grimaced at the image of them.

You giggled as you rested your head on his shoulder as he carried you down the hallway.

“Nate, what the fuck does that even mean.”

- - -

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭:

@lollibumblebee

@dwntwn-strnlo

@gracietaylorsversions

@20nugs

@thetriplets3

@sunshinewwx

@gwenlore

@gabbylovesreading

@ssturniolo

@opheliaofficial07

@stargirlv0id

[ifitmeanslosingyouthenno]

neon gravestones try to call for my bones

day 14 whumptober prompt: left for dead

(sequel to day 13's prompt. tw: graphic desc of violence, non con elements, torture, blood and injury, implied MCD) (sorry lol)

nathaniel doesn’t remember much about the last few days

he remembers not even getting to practice the next day after tetsuji found out that he’d helped jean escape, remembers the pain of his punishment, remembers not being able to stand up for more than a few seconds and not being able to join practice and the worse punishment he got for that

remembers how tetsuji questioned him using questionable methods afterwards, remembers the water and the fear, remembers how tetsuji himself set his ravens lose on him for them to use him as they pleased

remembers the pain and humiliation and fear and how it all fault so unfair

over all he remembers his silence, his refusal to tell them about jean’s whereabouts

apparently ichirou moriyama did not appreciate property being set lose by property

apparently the lord thought that nathaniel deserved a worst punishment for his actions

nathaniel remembers his father being called in

that’s when things get foggy

he has faint glimpses of the… days? weeks? months? 

it felt like eternity to him

it felt like no time at all

he sees the glint of a cleaver whenever he closes his eyes, feels fire travel up his arms and scars being reopened, feels the sharp pain so deep inside him he’s not sure nathan just up and carved up his organs out 

most of all he remembers the feeling of blood and raw skin and raw nerves fried and visceral pain unlike anything else 

he remembers wishing he wasn’t alive

he feels movement beneath his trembling body, he thinks he sees light beyond his closed eyes 

he thinks he has a fever

he doesn’t have enough energy to care about it

he doesn’t think he’s going to survive enough time for it to matter

he wishes he wasn’t alive

he isn’t sure he is 

he feels half dead anyway

he feels the movement stop 

wonders if he’s finally dead 

there’s the sound of something slamming closed, but he doesn’t have enough energy to flinch

he can’t even make his fingers move anymore 

he can’t force his eyes open

there’s another slam, and then he’s being yanked by the arms and being dropped into the hard ground, head too stuffed full of cotton for him to feel the hit on his too injured body

“he dead, rome?”

it sounds like the voice is coming from underwater, or maybe nathaniel is 

he thinks he recognizes the voice speaking but he can’t make himself think

he feels hands on his wrist, or at least he thinks he does

“i can’t find a pulse”

someone clicks their tongue, “we don’t have space for errors, be sure there isn’t any”

that voice he would recognize anywhere, and if he could, nathaniel would shiver at the mere thought of his father being so close 

he doesn’t have the strength to move away or flinch or anything

“there isn’t a pulse, boss”

“good, make sure of it and let’s get out of here”

nathaniel doesn’t hear a reply

instead he hears more than feels the sound of a gun firing, feels the pop of his ears, the low pressure in his belly

“now i’m sure”

nathan hums, “let’s get the fuck out of this shit town, i can’t believe ichirou made me come down to fucking palmetto myself just to dispose of the trash”

 he hears doors slamming closed, hears the screech of tires on asphalt

he thinks he’s still breathing

the pain creeping in is what makes him believe he’s still alive 

it starts as a tingle in his belly, but soon enough it’s like fire engulfing his entire abdomen and sooner it’s fire engulfing his entire body

a guttural gasp tears out of his throatm something close to a keen if it was any stronger escaping shortly behind

the shaking comes back, and he’s gasping, tears leaving cool trails as they fell down his heated skin 

god he’s truly dying isn’t he? this is it isn’t it? 

his luck has finally run out

at least… at least andrew and jean should be safe

if… if they knew where jean was, if they knew where he had gone, then surely both jean and andrew would be dead by now wouldn’t they? 

but wait– 

nathan mentioned palmetto, didn’t he?

nathan said they were at palmetto, neil was sure

why would– if they didn’t know where jean was, if him and andrew had survived this, why was he at palmetto?

forcing his eyes open takes so much effort it takes his breath away, and for a moment all he can see is white

but sure enough, he sees the ugly orange stadium when he looks up

he was at palmetto

he was at the foxhole court

he couldn’t make his neck move to the left to search the parking lot, and moving his eyes alone barely lets him see the fence around the stadium

he’s gasping and whining and crying as he forces his body to roll to his side and his vision whites out as pressure is placed upon the gunshot wound in his abdomen

a sob rips out of his throat against his will when he catches sight of what he knows to be wymack’s truck

he can barely fucking breathe, he can feel his heart beat an irregular rhythm, can feel nothing but burning agony as he forces himself into a crawling position that just makes everything ache even worse

it’s only the thought of andrew and jean and andrew and jean that makes him push forward, literally feeling himself bleed out until he’s by the car

what the fuck does he do now?

he can’t– he can’t make himself stand up, not with how much he’s wheezing, and with how the world around him blurs and spins and falls

maybe–

with all his strength left, he pushes himself up to his elbows, manages to get one hand on the ground and push hard enough that with the help of his shoulder he’s sitting down against the side of the car, tilting sideways just enough that his body weight is held up by the car

his arms are tingling, he doesn’t quite feel his legs anymore, and the pain finally feels like it’s receding

that isn’t– that’s not good, is it?

with weak fingers, he grabs a rock by his side, and he throws it as hard as he can, which isn’t much to say, in the direction of the side window

the rock just bounces off the side of the car, not quite managing the window, and nathaniel has to stretch in order to reach it again

he’s– he can feel himself fading, knows that this is probably his last chance

you need to make sure andrew and jean are alive and safe

for them, you need to do this for them

he twists his body in a way that has his chest constricting, and he’s throwing the rock with all his fucking might, with all his fight, with all his strength 

he tumbles to the harsh gravel to the sound of glass breaking and the blare of the car alarm

the high pitched noise sounds too far, sounds too faint, and nathaniel can’t see anything but the sky and the side of the car in front of him

faintly, he thinks he can taste blood

oh– oh wait

he doesn’t feel it, doesn’t feel much besides the pressure in his chest and his abdomen and– 

he’s choking, he’s choking on his own fucking blood and he can’t do anything to stop it, can’t do anything but mourn the way everything in his life fell apart because of riko fucking moriyama and his weak fucking self value and the moriyama’s fucking branches and nathan fucking wesninski and–

he can’t believe he’s dying simply because he dared to love someone 

can’t believe in his world it’s fair and okay for him to die simply because he loves someone who isn’t a moriyama

can’t believe the end comes because of a secret revealed to a person who could never and should never have known 

he grieves a life where he could have been with andrew freely, happily, without having to hide, without having to fear the consequences of people finding out 

he grieves a life where he was not a raven

he grieves a life where he didn’t belong to the moriyamas

he grieves a life where his father was long dead

he grieves a life that didn’t happen

he can feel his own blood slipping over the sides of his face, but he can’t move sideways to stop it from clogging his airway 

he can feel his blood mixing with his tears

he hopes andrew doesn’t have to see his body

he hopes andrew is alive, he hopes jean is alive

the world is turning dark, and for a moment he feels at peace 

he thinks he sees a figure above him

maybe it’s his mom, maybe it’s an angel

maybe it’s his tired brain playing tricks on him

he grieves a life where he wins

maybe, in another life, or in another universe, he gets to have a happy ending

he thinks he feels hands on his shoulders

he welcomes the embrace of darkness, thinking that maybe, this is his freedom

maybe this is as happy as it gets

first off im sorry lol secondly a fun fact! when someone is close to dying, checking for peripheral pulses (aka the wrist) isn’t quite good enough, you have to take central pulses (aka the carotid or even right on top of the heart), bc the body is smart enough to preserve blood flow to vital organs, and the limbs aren’t it i might continue this, whether with another prompt during the month, or after whumptober is done, but i kinda really like this little au i'm building askjf

[mrcaffeinatedisopod]

Statistical Improbability ♡ DonBot x Reader 《 Part 2 》

Oh mi gosh it's been so many months... hahah

I promise I'm still alive! And I'm still working on these parts, slowly but surely

Anyway here's part 2

Summary: Reader has a nightmare, Donnie and Reader have some cute moments, there's a fight, a kid gets kicked somewhere during it, Bertha is sassy.

Warnings: There is a ghost of proofreading somewhere in between drafts, read at your own risk. Mixed POVs. Slowburn? Mentions of blood, swearing, strangers to reluctant friends trope, mentions of reader's mysterious backstory, some semblance of an action scene, this chapter is filled with some general trauma, self deprecation and angst on reader's part, she also gets shot. Reader is really going through it today™. The whole shebang.

Word Count: Around 7.5k words. Trying to keep these parts roughly the same size

Dumb.

Stupid.

Fucking idiot.

The words ricochet inside your skull, each new one made your heart throb. Breathing felt like a chore, almost as if a heavy anvil was pressing down onto your chest, suffocating you, killing you slowly.

The air felt like lead, thick and unyielding. Your head spun as the words echoed with each unsteady step you took down the cold, empty hall. Just a little further, you told yourself, but the hallway stretched on endlessly, twisting in impossible directions, a nightmarish labyrinth. The generator, the exit—it’s just there around the corner, I know it is.

But no matter how many doors you passed, no matter how many corners you rounded, you were trapped. The silence was deafening, only broken by the agony of his voice—raging, desperate, each yell like a blade scraping against your nerves. He was getting closer. He was almost right behind you.

"Come back here!" His screams of agony hurt your ears, but each new insult, each new threat, it was loud and clear.

The sound of metal crashing, doors ripped from their hinges— Nathan's fury echoed through the labyrinth of this forsaken place. You couldn't run fast enough. You shouldn't have been so foolish, to think you could find a solution, to think you could find a cure? What a sick joke, and now you've only made everything worse.

Holding back sobs and sniffs you try to make it through the twisting nightmarish halls of the abandoned laboratory, you had to make it to the generator. Your hands shake as you press them against the walls to stop yourself from tumbling over.

Stumbling close to the generator you grab your laptop. Focus, you tell yourself as your sweaty hands struggle to work. All you need is to divert the power, lift the lockdown. Just one more click, and you'll be out in no time.

But the generator sputters and dies, and the lights flicker, plunging you in an inky darkness that almost sticks to your skin, thick and heavy like oil. Your fingers tremble, sliding over the cold keyboard, too slippery with sweat to type correctly. You can feel your grip slipping, losing control as the reality of your situation closes in.

The laptop crashes to the floor, a dull thud followed by the sound of cracking glass as the screen shatters and the glitches. No, no, no... Panic quickly sets in as you take it back and try to get it to work, you groan in frustration and punch the screen, the glass digs into your knuckles and the laptop dies completely. The weight of the world presses down, suffocating, it's over.

You hold your breath, placing your hands over your mouth to keep yourself as silent as possible as you can hear his heavy footsteps running through the halls. *Maybe he won't find me.* Your heart races, and then you hear it—the claws, the scraping sound growing closer, more predatory. *He found me.*

A heavy weight slams into you from behind, throwing you to the floor with bone-cracking force, you can feel a sharp pain shoot through the entirety of your side as you hit the ground. You cry out and gasp for air, but the world spins wildly around you as dagger sharp claws sink into your skin, tearing, ripping through your flesh. Your scream echo through the lab, but there's nobody to hear them.

A flicker of light reflects in his claws, glinting sickly red in the darkness. You can see your own terrified reflection in his crooked glasses. You try to apologize, to beg, but your voice is lost in the storm of pain shooting up from your arm. His claws rise above you, poised to strike.

You shut your eyes, bracing for the end, raising your hands in front of your face as if you could prevent the final, fatal blow.

---

You shoot up in bed, gasping for air, your heart hammering in your chest. You could almost feel the taste of blood still in your mouth, the ghost of a metallic, sickly tang that doesn't leave.

Your hand fumbles for the gun beside you, gripping it so hard that the cold metal leaves imprints in your palm. Bloodshot eyes dart wildly around the room, the pitch black suffocating you in its oppressive silence. The sound of your own ragged breathing fills the room.

"Anybody there?" You say it no louder than a shaky whisper, barely audible in your dark room.

Nothing.

Your gun slips from your grasp, clattering against the floor. You raise your trembling hands in front of your face and grasp your prosthetic pulse, cold, shivering. You close your eyes, your heart beats against your chest so hard you can feel it against your ears. You slow down your beating, attempting to calm yourself down.

It's gone, he's gone, it was just a nightmare. I'm in Bertha, I'm safe.

But even as you repeat the words like a mantra, like a prayer in your mind, a chill runs through you that makes your stomach sink.

I'm not safe. I'm never leaving this hell.

You feel your breath hitch, and for a moment, you almost laugh at the absurdity of it all. What am I doing? You push the hair sticking to your face back, your hand slick with sweat. The day’s events replay like a cruel joke, from barely escaping savages to stumbling across a mutant turtle in a robot’s body—what was this, some kind of twisted science fiction book?

Every breath feels like it’s pulling you deeper, suffocating you with the weight of everything. The guilt spirals through you like a whirlpool, drowning you. Mistakes, regrets, all of it leaves you empty, and the cascading of silent tears starts to stream down your face.

The sheets, once comforting, now feel like needles, the fabric scratching at your skin, irritating. The symbol of comfort that used to be your refuge is now just another reminder of everything you’ve lost, everything you can’t escape.

You sit there, breathing raggedly, unsure if you’re trembling from fear, guilt, or something far worse. Maybe it’s all of it.

You're not sure how long you stayed like that for, the same thoughts spiralling through your head like a tornado of guilt, eating you up inside as each new mistake leads to a new wave of shame, and each regret you remember just fills you with despair.

You push the sheets aside, letting them fall to the floor.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing does anymore.

You get up from the bed before you could go over those dark thoughts any longer. You roll your shoulders and pop stiff joints as you shuffle toward the window. The blinds creak as you pull them open, and sunlight spills into the trailer in a soft golden flood. It’s warm on your face—gentle, like the world hasn’t gone to shit —and for a moment, it almost feels normal. Outside, the sand has settled. The storm’s over. You survived another night.

You linger there longer than you should, blinking into the light like it might make you forget of the darkness inside of your heart. But then your mind drifts— Donatello, he’s still here, somewhere in your trailer. That strange, unexpected guest. The memory of the nightmare loosens its grip just enough to let curiosity take its place. You drag your fingers through your hair and wipe at your face, muttering a quiet curse.

You make a half-hearted attempt to look presentable—just enough to avoid pity or prodding questions—then open your bedroom door and step into the main cabin.

Empty.

The trailer’s still. Quiet.

Your brow lifts slightly, suspicious. No heavy footfalls, no mechanical humming. Just silence.

Did he leave?

Your stomach tightens. You stride over to the cabinets and start checking—drawers, toolboxes, storage crates. The essentials are still there, mostly. A few tools missing. Not much else. No signs of a scuffle, no busted locks.

If he looted me, he did it politely.

Still, you frown. He wouldn’t have just wandered off with a toolbox in his hand—not into this wasteland. Not without wheels. Even someone like him wouldn’t last long alone in the open desert. And he didn't strike you as stupid.

You glance toward the door, heart beating a little faster now— Where the hell did you go, Donnie?

The low sharp hiss of something sizzling snaps you out of your thoughts.

You pause with your hand resting on the trailer door, thumb brushing the worn edge of your gun. Carefully, you step outside, blinking against the dry glare of morning sun. The storm had scrubbed the sky clean, and now it hung cloudless, a sickly pale blue. You follow the faint sound of whistling, trailing it to the front of the trailer.

He’s under it. Of course he is.

Metal legs jut out from beneath the frame, kicking slightly as he hums a tuneless melody. Your eyes drift to the open toolbox by his side—your toolbox—and your brows knit together. Unbelievable.

You cross your arms, tilt your head, watching in silence. He mutters to himself, something about rust patterns and heat damage and "whoever welded this should be arrested."

"Hey," you say, flat but firm.

THUNK.

A hollow metallic crack rings out, followed by a yelp. You cringe at the sound.

"Gah—desert apples!" Donatello slides out from under the trailer with one hand pressed to his forehead, a faint scuff marking the metal. The light of his visor slightly brightens, adjusting to the sun as he looks up at you, then he does a small head tilt. "Good morning. Didn’t think you’d be up so early."

You arch an eyebrow. "Didn’t think I’d wake up to someone crawling under my home."

He shrugs, unapologetic. "Thought I’d pitch in. You saved my shell, after all."

Donnie gestures toward the frame and taps it with a knuckle. "Figured your girl here could use some TLC. Judging by the way this thing's rattling, I’m guessing you mistook a cliff for a speed bump?"

You stare at him, arms still crossed, lips twitching.

"Something like that. What are you doing, exactly?"

He sits up and casually gestures toward the undercarriage. "Your girl’s suspension was practically crying. I figured I’d take a look."

You frown. "You could’ve asked me before tinkering with it."

He shrugs. "Didn’t want to wake you."

Your gaze lingers on the toolbox—how neatly he’s laid everything out. You walk closer to him and crouch near your tools: "What did you touch?"

"Only what was already broken." He raises his hands slightly. "Scout’s honor."

You glance at him sideways. "You don’t look like the scout type."

"And yet here I am. Fixing your suspension."

You press your lips together, trying not to let the hint of amusement show. You grab a wrench and nod toward the trailer.

"Fine. Let me make sure you didn't rig anything up to explode, and if anything else breaks after this, I’m blaming you."

Donatello chuckles. "Deal."

You both spent the next half hour working in near silence, the occasional scrape of tools and muttered commentary filling the air. You kept your distance, arms crossed, throwing sideways glances when he wasn't looking—or at least, when you thought he wasn't. He didn't say much, focused on his repairs, but there was something oddly calming about watching him work. Mechanical precision mixed with something more... thoughtful.

"You sure that’s the right bolt?" you asked, crouching nearby, arms crossed.

He slid out slightly and stared at you. "You're gonna have to be more specific. There's like… fifty bolts under here."

You arched an eyebrow. "The one you just dropped, again, for the third time. You sure you know what you’re doing under there?”

His voice floated back, smug. “Of course I do! I’m not just a pretty shell, you know.”

Before you could answer him, Bertha’s dashboard lights flickered to life, and her voice croaked online, dry and annoyed.

"System diagnostics: 74% operational. Suspension barely hanging on. Probably because someone thinks duct tape is an acceptable structural solution."

"Bertha,” you sighed, "It's good to hear from you again."

"Yes, well. Hard not to wake up when I’m being ‘repaired’ with the finesse of two raccoons in a toolbox."

"Oh, excuse you." You answer her back. "Sorry if we have to make do in the middle of an apocalypse, not professional enough for ya."

Bertha ignored you, voice feigning weariness. "Honestly. I’ve survived mutant raiders, electrical storms, and a sand vulture infestation. But this? This is the real test."

Donatello stifles a laugh as he wipes oil from his hands. "She’s... charming."

"She’s mouthy," you mutter, though there’s an edge of affection in your tone.

"Oh please, I'm starting to think you enjoy it."

Donatello looked at you, his voice clearly amused. "Is she always like this?”

"Built-in personality chip," Bertha said. "Came with ‘advanced diagnostics’ and ‘unfiltered sarcasm. At this rate, I’ll be road-ready in... oh, a week. Maybe two."

"Oh please, spare me the drama. We're almost done, you'll be fine." You answered her sass with some of your own.

Bertha sighed dramatically. "I’ll start drafting my will just in case."

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head with a grin and patting the trailer on it's hull. "Glad to have you back, Bertha."

"Of course you are," she said. "Who else is going to keep you two from turning me into a glorified tin can?"

After the light banter with Bertha it didn't take you and Donatello too long to get the trailer fixed up. Once everything was ready, Donatello helped you take the tools back to your trailer and you told him you could take him wherever he needed, he seemed satisfied to be left at the nearest village, so that's where you two were headed to.

He climbed in beside you on the trailer, you grinned as Bertha’s systems powered up completely and the engine hummed back to life.

----

You toss a scratched-up CD into the player. An old rock tune crackles to life as the trailer rolls out into the wide-open wasteland, tires kicking up dust as your home-on-wheels trudges forward.

The silence between you is thick. Not hostile—just awkward. Like two strangers stuck in an elevator, except the elevator is a solar-powered survival trailer in the middle of a sun-scorched desert filled with feral mutants, and one of you is a six-foot tall turtle in a robot body.

You keep your eyes on the road. What do you even say to someone like him? Nice weather for the apocalypse? It’s easier to just focus on the path ahead. Still, you steal the occasional glance. He hasn’t said much since you left.

Meanwhile, Donatello was stuck in a similar predicament, he sat stiffly in the passenger seat, fingers twitching in thought. He wanted to ask her a hundred questions—about her, what was her life like before, what she liked, how she built Bertha —but every time his voice threatened to start, the words got caught in his voice modulator. She didn’t seem like the type who liked being pried into, and he didn’t want to ruin whatever fragile peace was forming between them.

He let out a soft, synthetic sigh. You caught it, glancing over with a raised brow, but said nothing.

His mind drifted back to Raph. He tried not to let the concern take root, but he just couldn't shake the feeling. Where are you, big guy?

"So." A sweet voice derailed his train of thought and he looked at the human. He tilted his head in curiosity, "you said you're good with car repairs, right? Why's that, were you a mechanic before all of this?"

Donatello blinked and looked at you. The question surprised him.

"Not exactly," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I used to build some things before this... There was the Party Wagon, the Shellraiser…" He started counting on his three-fingered hand, and you had to stiffle a laugh at the names.

You quirked a brow. "The Shellraiser?"

He could hear the amusement in your voice, even if you were trying to hide it. “Hey! What's wrong with the name?"

You fought back a smirk. "Nothing! It's actually perfect, it's just, is everything you make turtle themed?"

"Hey, it's a great theme."

You gave a small chuckle, but quickly looked away, fingers tightening on the wheel. "Right. Speaking of which, you said you were a mutant before this. Was that before or after the mutagen bomb?"

"Always been a mutant." He replies flatly, but that peaks your curiosity.

"Really? Were you never human?"

"Nope." He shakes his head, "I started out as a baby turtle, me and my brothers got hit with the ooze and here I am."

"Huh, that's, interesting." So he was always a mutant, you wagered it wasn't much different from some of the younger desert folk, but it was still something curious. "So if you were a mutant before all of this— what was your life like?"

“Oh, it was the best. My father— Master Splinter, he taught me and my brothers everything we knew. Ninjutsu, discipline, philosophy... how to fight, how to think.” He gave a soft chuckle.

He leaned back on his elbows, exhaling. “Back before all this... before everybody went crazy and the sand swallowed everything... we fought to save the world from these things called the Kraang. Nasty alien brain-things. They tried to take over the Earth. We stopped them. Barely.”

You watched his body language shift—shoulders slumped, nostalgia softening into sorrow.

“I had a lab. Gadgets. Friends. Pizza. And my brothers—Raph, Mikey, Leo. We fought, we joked, we looked out for each other.”

"Seems like you all were quite close." You comment and he nods.

"We didn't always get along, but, we cared about each other." He shifted in his chair and left out a soft, glitchy sigh. "Raph and I had a big fight before the fall. Stupid stuff. Then we were ambushed. I lost him.”

Donatello looked over at you, a quiet fire in his visor. “I have to find him."

You nodded slowly. “If he's out there, we’ll find him, Donnie.”

His antenna shifted and with the way he tilted his head, it almost seemed like he was smiling, for a moment you both fell quiet again.

"And what about you?" Ah, of course he'd ask you.

"What about me?" You stole a glance at him, before looking back at the desert.

"What was your life like before all of this?"

You sigh.

"Well, I asked you about your life, only fair you ask about mine, I guess." You shift in your seat. "My dad worked at TCRI," you said, almost surprised by your own voice.

"He was a chemical engineer. Smart, kinda goofy, loved soccer and puzzles. He used to bring home all kinds of weird samples—crystals, spores, little things in jars that glowed when you shook them." You smiled faintly at the memory. "Said his research was going to 'change the world.'"

Donatello looked up, attentive but silent.

"I was just finishing my engineering degree when he sat me down one night. Looked pale like death. Said there was something wrong. Said the guys he was working for weren't who they said they were, that they were actually something called the Kraang, sound familiar?" She looks at Donnie for a brief second. "That he thought they were aliens from another dimension. I thought he had lost it. But then… he made me promise I’d run if anything happened to him."

Donatello's voice softened. “They took him?”

You swallowed and nodded.

"He was taken the next morning. By men in suits, in black vans. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. That was the last time I ever saw him."

Donatello didn’t speak, just listened.

"So I ran. Hid out. But I couldn’t let it go. I needed to know what happened to my dad," You gave a bitter laugh. "I thought maybe if I, I don't know, solved the mystery of my dad's disappearance I could stop whatever was coming. Maybe even find him."

She glanced over at him.

"Then the bomb hit. Just like that, all of it, gone. And, well, I was the only survivor, in a way."

"I lost my home that day too," he said. "My friends, my brothers. All of it."

Your brows knit together and you shake your head, voice low. "It sucks, right? Funny thing is, even after everything that's happened, I never stopped thinking about him. Even now, I wonder what happened."

"I'm so sorry that happened to you." He whispered your name at the end.

You looked at Donatello then—really looked. Even though he didn't even have any facial muscles to speak of, you could swear you saw a hint of something behind his visor. Different stories. Same pain.

"Yeah, well." You shrug, "Me too."

Donatello didn’t reply right away. But he reached out and gently placed a hand over yours. The metal was cold, but the gesture itself felt warm. He gave you a good squeeze and then took away his hand, he didn't say anything afterwards, but the silence didn’t feel as awkward anymore.

------

You’re cruising the desert highway, dust curling in your wake when something catches your eye—a cluster of suspicious movement in the distance. You squint. A little girl, strung up in the air, restrained and apparently asking for help by the way she was flaining wildly.

Donatello almost jumps in his seat and grabs the panel of the trailer, clearly having noticed the scene and wanting to do something about it.

Your stomach knots, you're almost driving over. Fingers tighten around the steering wheel. But then you see it—light glinting off something at her hip. Too shiny. Too deliberate.

You slam your foot on the pedal and jerk the wheel hard, veering away.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Donatello shouts, twisting in his seat. "It's a kid!"

"Might be bait," you mutter, eyes fixed ahead. "Savages pull this trick all the time. You stop to save the helpless kid, and suddenly your tires are gone, your supplies too—and if you're lucky, you walk away."

"You don’t know it’s a trap!" He protests.

"I know enough," you snap, offended. "And I’m not dying over a decoy."

Donatello stares at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. "Seriously? That’s it? Just keep driving?"

You glance at him, jaw tight. "It's not our problem."

His voice is sharp, angry now. "Not our—? Wow. I thought you were better than this."

You laugh, dry and bitter. "Better than what, exactly? You don’t know me."

"You're right," he says, quieter now. "Just... I thought you were better than someone who turns their back on a kid."

You look over, ready to fire something back—but the passenger door’s wide open, and Donatello is nowhere to be seen.

“Donnie?" you call, blinking in disbelief.

"He jumped. If that wasn't obvious enough." Bertha chimes in.

“Oh for—goddamn it. You want to die? Fine by me. Stupid, fucking, robot, ugh." You slam your fist on the steering wheel, cursing under your breath. His words echo in your skull.

"I spent whoever knows how long oiling that jerk's joints and now he wants to go out into this scorching heat and die over some, scavenger ambush, that's fine." You shrug and monologue loudly, biting the inside of your cheek in frustration and pushing your foot deeper into the pedal. "Totally cool. Cool, cool, chill. Awesome sauce."

Your grip tightens and on the side of your eye you catch a glimpse of the photo you keep close to the panel. It's a photo of you and your Dad, the only one you had left. You pick it up and look at him, a bittersweet feeling washes over you and you look outside of your window, Donatello's figure becoming smaller and smaller in the distance.

You think back to the last day you saw your Dad, the last time you saw Nathan, how both of those times you ran off, and never saw them again. You sigh in frustration, then whip the wheel around.

"Hey—uh, what’s happening?" Bertha chimes in, voice dry. "Because if this is another one of your spontaneous heroic breakdowns, I would like to register a formal complaint."

"It's not a heroic moment, it's a me doing something stupid moment," you mutter, flooring it toward the kid.

"Stupid, confirmed," Bertha replies. "Shall I ready the medbay? Or the flamethrowers?"

"Both, and ready the guns."

The trailer roars forward, kicking up dust and fury. When you're getting closer your see, the spikes they throw on the ground and the savages that ride in on their motorcycles when they notice you approaching rapidly, shouts rising and weapons fumbling in surprise as Bertha readies her own.

Your front tire burst with a deafening pop, the whole rig lurching sideways. You lose control as the trailer fishtails wildly across the cracked asphalt.

"Shit—!" you yank the wheel, but it’s too late.

Metal screeches. The trailer slams into the wall, the crunch of impact ringing through your bones.

Smoke hisses from the hood. You cough, blinking through the haze. Your fingers scrabble at the jammed seatbelt, adrenaline still spiking.

So much for this morning’s repairs.

You can hear the sound of gunshots and fighting outside, but you couldn't see Donatello through the clouds of dust.

You kick the door open and rip your seatbelt. Bertha’s guns whir to life, spitting fire at the circling savages as you bolt into the chaos. Sand and smoke sting your eyes. You pull a knife from your boot, heart hammering and cut the rope that was keeping the girl strung up in the air.

"Hey—easy," you call, crouching low as you reach the little girl on the ground. "I’m just here to get you out, okay?"

The little rat mutant hisses at you, feral but as you tell her your intent, she slowly stops flailing. She hesitates and seems to consider your words. Then she nods.

You slash through the ropes around her wrists, the tension in her limbs easing—but the second you cut the binds on her legs, she bites.

"OW—what the hell?!"

Her sharp teeth sink into your hand. You hope she doesn't have rabies. Before you can shake her off, she grabs your knife—and your gun. Fast hands for someone so small.

You spot a glint on her hip—another weapon—and realize too late: she’s pulling something. You kick her off instinctively, and she tumbles back with a growl.

"What the hell, kid?! Give me that back!"

"No way, you filthy human!" she snarls, scrambling up.

Called it. Your gut churns.

She kicks sand straight into your eyes. You scream, blinded—then a shot grazes your ribs. Pain flares sharp and hot. You hit the ground, groaning, crawling backward as a dust cloud swallows the fight. You can’t see a damn thing.

As you try to find your footing, sharp claws grab at your hair. You shriek, kicking, thrashing, but it’s no use. You’re yanked through the sand like a rag doll, away from Bertha—whose wheels now spin, shot to hell, her guns silent.

The savage drags you up by the roots of your hair, forcing you to your knees. Blood trickles down your scalp. He presses a rusted machete to your throat—close enough that when you swallow, your skin kisses the edge.

"It’s over now, girl," he growls, breath hot and rancid. "You and your friend thought you could steal from us and live?"

You glare at him. But the fear? Yeah, you're not hiding it as well as you'd like. He laughs when he sees it.

"Any last words?"

You eyes dart around the place, where did Donatello go? He was there for a second, and now he was gone.

He ditched me. Your heart tightened. *Of course he did, maybe he was with them, and this was all an elaborate ruse for me to let my guard down. Well, shit, joke's on me for having a bleeding heart.

You turn your gaze to the ground, and then look up with teary eyes, looking at the savage with what seems to be a regretful look behind your long lashes.

"Yeah, but I'm shy, come closer..."

The savagemoves closer, ever filled with malice, you almost vomit in your mouth from their stench, but you wait for him to get close enough until you land a heavy ball of spit right between his eyes.

Asshole.

"Go to hell."

Laughter rings around you. The savage wipes the spit off his face with the back of his mutated hand.

And then, everything goes back for a second—punctuated by the dull crack of the butt of the weapon slamming into your skull. You could feel the metallic taste of blood in your mouth.

This was it. You’d finally run out of luck.

You clenched your teeth, eyes screwed shut, bracing for the killing blow—bullet, blade, didn’t matter.

But nothing came.

No sharp pain. No final breath. Just... silence.

Tentatively, you cracked one eye open, expecting to see the afterlife—or nothing at all.

Instead, you saw Donatello.

He struck like lightning, his bo staff slicing through the dust with terrifying precision. One savage dropped. Then another. A third went flying into the wreckage. Every hit was calculated, every movement deliberate—fluid, graceful, lethal.

You stared, jaw slack. “What the hell…”

Bertha’s voice crackled through the static, distant but urgent. “Are you just gonna sit there drooling or maybe fight back sometime today?”

Snapped out of your daze, you scrambled for a weapon— anything, the savages flew around you as you crawled through the sand in search of something, there! An old pipe club half-buried in the sand. You kicked one of the scavengers in the gut, then swung hard, knocking another across the face.

The mutant kid—the one you tried to save—still had your gun, and she was trying to make a run for it. “Give it back!” you barked.

"No way! Die, human scum!" she shrieked, firing. The bullet grazed your prosthetic arm. You growled and smacked the weapon out of her hands with the club.

She dove for it, but you were quicker this time. You caught it and turned it on her. She froze, wide-eyed.

You hesitated.

She was just a kid. A snarling, weapon-stealing mutant brat—but still a kid. Maybe in another dimension, if she hadn't been cursed by being born in this apocaliptic hellspace, maybe she could have been a regular kid, laughing with her friends, talking about makeup and boys or whatever kids would have been into, rather than trying to kill you.

You pointed vaguely to the horizon. "Go."

She hissed at you, then bolted, sand kicking up in her wake, you could see her one of the motorcycles from the savages and drive off into the distance.

Breathing heavily, you turned toward the wreckage. The savages were either unconscious or fleeing. Donatello stood in the center, bo staff resting on his shoulder, breathing steady.

"I didn't think you were coming back. What, did you have a sudden change of heart?" He asked sarcastically, but underneath it you could feel a hint of something else. You weren't sure, and you didn't feel like asking.

"Yeah. Yeah, whatever you pulled at my heartstrings and I couldn't watch you die to an obvious trap. You sure took your sweet time saving my ass though," you muttered, brushing sand off your shirt as Donatello came closer.

He smirked. "I think you meant to say ‘thank you." And then he looked at the way you stumbled over your feet and the way your held your side. "Are you okay? Did you get hurt?"

"That damn kid tried to kill me." You touched your side and groaned. "But that happens twice a week, I'll be fine."

"Can I take a look?" He seemed regretful, even if he hadn't apologized for the ordeal. You sighed and rolled your eyes. "I'm fine. Really."

Donatello took a step backwards, he almost seemed ashamed as he lowered his bo-staff.

You squinted at the mess around you.

"What the hell did you do to them anyway?"

“Let’s just say... being a robot ninja turtle in a desert full of psychos comes with certain advantages.”

You stared. “Show-off.”

He shrugged and you both started gathering gear, with Donnie tugging one of the savages' motorcycles upright. Donatello checked the engine, nodding. “This one’s salvageable. I guess I'll take it and uhm, get out of your hair.”

You raised an eyebrow “Wait,” you said.

He paused.

You kicked a rock and looked up at him. "Look. You may have gotten me to drive into this... whole situation, but you saved my ass. And I don’t exactly have a five-year plan... so if you wanna find your brother, I'll help you, if you want.”

His body language shifted—just a subtle lean forward. “Really? That’d be amazing!”

"Yeah, and it's gonna give you time to male up for almost getting me killed." You gave him a crooked smile.

Together, you patched up Bertha quickly before any back-ups could arive, you replaced the tires, and Donnie hooked his brother’s tracker to your radar. The signal was weak—but it was there.

Soon enough, you were both riding out across the open desert.

----

"Just let me take a look at it!" He protested, following you around the trailer with a clean rag and a half empty antiseptic in the other.

"I've got stabbed more times than I can count, I'll be fine!"

He crossed the short distance between you. His metal joints whirred softly as he followed, as you tried to leave he walked into your path, everytime you stepped away, he was there. You groaned in frustration. "Come on, it's my fault. Let me help you. You got bit and you got shot, I swear I'm a decent medic."

"Oh my god." You threw your hands in defeat at the air. "Fine, I give up."

You groaned and relented, pulling your jacket off and unwrapping the crusty bandage you had put together earlier. He leaned in, his visor narrowing in concentration as he inspected the wound. His fingers were careful—gentle, despite the cold metal.

“Bullet just grazed you,” he said quietly. “Could’ve been worse.”

You winced as he sprayed the last of your antiseptic. "Could’ve not been at all."

"You did save a kid—even if she tried to kill you afterward."

"She tried to kill me before I saved her," you muttered through gritted teeth.

He chuckled softly, then carefully wrapped your side with clean gauze. "You didn’t have to come back. But you did."

"I wasn't gonna let you get killed after I put so much effort into saving you." You retorted, and he let out a soft laugh.

His hand moved to your bitten palm, and you flinched as he wiped the wound clean.

“She got you good,” he said. “I’m starting to think she was half piranha.”

You smirked. “I think she was mostly brat.”

He got some needle and thread that you kept in your medkit and started to stitch the wound together, you both remained silent while he patched you up, once he was done he sat back with a satisfied hum. "There. Not perfect, but it’ll hold. And you won’t die of infection, so… win-win."

"What about mutant rabies, hm?" You look at your bandaged hand, you had to admit he really was good at this. It made you wonder how much 'practice' he had. "Did you think about that?"

"She didn't look like she had mutant rabies to me, I think you're gonna be fine."

"I wouldn't bet on those odds."

You flexed your fingers, looking at the clean bandages. "Thanks," you said, a little softer than usual.

He tilted his head slightly. "Anytime."

You pulled your jacket back on, trying not to look flustered. "That doesn’t mean you get to play nurse every time I scrape my knee."

"No promises," he said, leaning back with a smirk. "You’re kinda accident-prone."

You snorted, tossing a pebble at him. He caught it mid-air, just to show off.

You rolled your eyes and returned to the driver's seat, Bertha had been driving while you were away and apparently nothing interesting had happened so far, so you settled into place and Donatello followed suit, sitting in the passenger's seat.

-----

"I got it! His phone's signal is close by." Donatello almost chirped when the little dot on the radar became stronger. You two had been driving the entire day, the sun was almost setting when you finally reached Raphael's signal.

"It leads right into those ruins." He pointed at what was left of an old road town, now beaten and battered by constant storms, desert raiders and sandworms.

"Let's be careful. It could be another trap."

You park close enough to the town that you and Donatello could bolt to Bertha if things turned south, but not to close she would be vulnerable to any sneak attacks.

You keep your gun drawn as you and Donatello make your way through the ruins, your finger just barely grazing the trigger as you round the corners, the sand crunching beneath your heels. Everytime you heard somethint louder than a whisper you would instinctively hold your gun tighter and feel the back of your hand burn.

You and Donatello were quiet as you cleared the town, the only residents left were bone and dust, if anybody ever lived here, they were long gone by now.

You made your way around a particularly tall wall, ready to shoot at anything that seemed like a threat, but instead you saw a big graffiti on the wall, it looked recent.

Coming closer your eye caught a glimpse of a reflection from the ground, it seemed like a small phone half buried in the sand, it's screen black. You made your way over the phone and picked it up with your metal hand, swiping away the dust and the sand— the tiny phone had a rounded backside, resembling a turtle's shell. Yep, definitely Raphael's phone.

"Hey I think I found something." You call out to Donatello.

He rounds the corner, you place the phone in his oversized three fingered hand and he looks it over carefully.

"This is Raph's phone." He confirms your suspicions and turns it on, the screen flickers for a second before a glitchy voice comes from the tiny phone.

He stares at the screen for a moment longer, then tilts it slightly so you can see. The video file flickers to life—grainy, damaged, but it plays.

You can barely see anything through the damaged screen, but through the parts that are still semi-functional, you can see the loose shape of a large green man. His face is covered with dirt, blood crusting his temple, eyes red-rimmed. He looks angry. But underneath that... he looked tired.

"Don… if you’re seeing this, I guess you're going through my stuff again." He let out a chuckle that turned into a strained cough. "Look, I know we don't always agree on how to go about things, I guess you'd say that's always been on brand for me."

"But listen… things got messy after our fight. I don't even know if you're out there still, but if you ever come across this, I shouldn’t have walked out, but I needed space. You were right, we should’ve—"

The phone glitches out, the sounds unintelligible before it sputters back to working, but the video gets more and more glitchy as it keeps going.

"If you come looking—" The video cuts and you can barely understand the next words coming out, "The old radio tower—" it cuts again "I'm waiting, little brother—" and it dies.

Donatello tries to turn it on, but finds no success. He let out a frustrated sigh.

"Is it broken?"

He shakes his head, "I don’t know."

"I have some tools back in Bertha, maybe you can fix it in there." You try to be a bit optimistic, noticing the shift in Donatello's mood. "You might find more clues."

He doesn't answer you at first, staring at the black screen in his hand before turning his attention to the wall, which had been forgotten by both of you until now.

"That's the symbol of the muskrats." Donatello points out.

"What?"

"They're a bunch of thugs me and Raph ran into a couple of months ago. They almost trashed my truck." He touches the wall and then rubs his neck. "If they took him, oh boy..."

You hesitate, but put your hand on his shoulder and pat him awkwardly at first, but then give him a good squeeze.

"He looks tough, I'm sure he's fine. Look, he said something about an old radio tower. I have some old maps, and maybe we'll find something on that phone. Do you think you can fix it?"

"Maybe. If I can turn it on, I might be able to find something else."

You watch the emotions shift through him — relief, guilt, hope — all tangled in silence.

"Let's hunker down for tonight, Donnie."

---

The fire had died down to low embers, casting long, flickering shadows across the sand. The desert wind had quieted for the night, save for the occasional rustle of grit brushing against Bertha’s worn hull.

You tried to pass the time fiddling with Bertha's panels, but Donatello insisted — insisted! — that you get some rest so as to not ruin your new stitches.

It was funny, in a way, you barely knew each other but he seemed so protective of you, in his own way. Fixing your trailer, patching you up, so even though having someone telling you not to tinker with your own trailer was annoying, you begrudingly complied— for now.

You leaned back on your elbows, legs stretched toward the dim glow, a mutant cockroach and a fat beetle on a stick barely caught your attention.

Donatello sat a few feet away, one knee drawn up. He was quiet. You watched him for a moment before speaking.

“Is something on your mind?"

He looked over. "Just thinking about Raph."

"I get it." You nod. "But we'll find him."

He nodded.

Silence followed. You grabbed a stick and started poking the fire, stirring up sparks.

“This… whatever it is between us. It’s weird,” you muttered, not looking at him.

Donnie looked up at you. "Because I’m a mutant turtle in a robot body, and you’re a grumpy desert scavenger with a death wish?"

You smirked. "I'm not that grumpy."

You could hear Bertha's mock laugh coming from behind you, and you threw a pebble at her, which earned you a fake 'augh, the pain—it's unbearable!' from her. You rolled your eyes and ignored her theatrics.

"I haven’t talked to anyone like this in a good while, unless you count Bertha. It's....odd."

Donnie chuckled softly. “I dunno. I think it works. You’re tough, resourceful. A little intense.” He tilted his head. “In a good way.”

You let out a 'psst' sound. Not letting yourself believe the compliments entirely. Your gaze dropped to your hands, fingers tightening unconsciously. There was a long pause. You could feel his eyes on you but didn’t look up.

"I’m glad we ran into each other," he said softly.

You didn’t answer right away. Finally, you muttered, "I’ve had worse company."

"You’re terrible at this, y’know that?"

The corner of your mouth twitched, almost a smile. You both turned back to the fire, saying nothing. The beetle popped, spitting juice into the coals.

Eventually, you said, "Get some rest, Donatello. Big day tomorrow."

He nodded but didn’t move. "Yeah. You too."