#speaking from the breadbox

[webslingingslasher]

i’m not posting the full ask because oomf literally guessed what i had planned for the trouble/peter breakup and make up so i feel a little gagged but you deserve a gold star for that one so if this is you, congrats!! ⭐️⭐️

[beigetiger]

So I know I made an entire post saying I don't think Breadhead would just be fine with Mel being human (and I still think some people are babifying him over this), but I may have thought too hard and I'm now coming to realize that the theory that he knows already and is choosing to remain quiet actually has quite a bit of credence. So I'm gonna swallow my words a bit and go over the evidence.

We have this very nifty image (taken from @pandathug, sorry for the tag) that shows a comic summarizing how the Smiling Dead got into this situation, placed specifically around Breadhead looking at his sister. Remember that all details in this pilot were placed there intentionally, and so there's got to be a reason they put it around Breadhead instead of Mel or Ken (who might otherwise make more sense).

He's also literally in the room when Mel gets revealed as human. He's sleeping in an open breadbox. It makes sense that he would wake up from Jack's yelling and Mel panicked and trying to talk him down, and Mel definitely spilled enough blood for it to get on the ground. He could have easily just woken up and walked out, seen the blood and the chaos that was going down, and put two and two together.

And he kiiiiiind of tells Mud to shut up when Mud asks why they're hunting Jack. "If we get paid, who cares why we do it" even though it is made VERY clear later that Breadhead does not get paid. He's just trying to focus Mud's attention elsewhere, which Mel and Ken almost immediately join in on.

Although less consequential, he also carries Mel at the end while she's bleeding black blood and says nothing about it. I give this less credence because he can guess that she just fought an angel, an unassuming Breadhead could easily just say that the blood belongs to the angel (a lot of it does) and leave it at that. He also immediately crushes Jack so that he cannot speak properly after Jack says to listen to him.

So, yeah. That's a theory. We'll see if it goes literally anywhere.

[ceyanabbiolo]

CONTRACT // C.S [18]

Summary: Christopher Sturniolo, a 26-year-old billionaire CEO, agrees to a strategic marriage with Aurora Devereaux, the 21-year-old daughter of his rival, to save his company during a crisis. Raised in a cold, arrogant environment, Chris is used to control and detachment. Aurora, a final-year fashion student, is forced into the arrangement by her powerful father and struggles with the fear of losing herself. As the two navigate their unexpected marriage, they begin to confront emotional walls and develop a connection that challenges everything they thought they knew about love and trust. But with their families’ influence looming, will their bond be strong enough to survive—or will it fall apart?

Warnings: drunk driving. mourning. pure angst

wc: 6281

Chapter 18: Right Where You Left Me

It had been almost a month. 

Four weeks of waking up in a place that didn’t feel like home anymore. A place that used to be filled with warmth, with life, with her, but now felt like a hollow museum of everything I’d lost.

The penthouse was spotless. Too spotless. The kitchen was back to how it had been before she moved in—cold, minimal, functional.

No more pastel mugs in the sink. 

No trail of flour on the counter from when she’d try to bake muffins and forget the damn timer. The fridge was organized again. 

No more mint coffee creamer sitting on the middle shelf—the one she always reached for first thing in the morning, even before speaking. She used to hum softly while she poured it into her mug, like she was still half-dreaming. 

The bagels she used to toast? Always untouched now. Back to sitting in the breadbox until they went stale.

Even her clutter was gone. 

No more random sweaters thrown over the back of the dining chairs. No bobby pins on the coffee table. No sketchbooks left open with messy notes in the margins and fabric swatches tucked between the pages.

It was all… sterile again. Back to having no life, the way I kept before she moved in. 

Everywhere I looked, she was there. 

The spot on the kitchen counter where she used to sit cross-legged, sipping her coffee while talking about colors and lighting, and which scarf pattern worked better in the fall. 

The window she used to stand by in the morning, the light catching the auburn strands in her hair like fire. 

The damn hallway where I caught her once twirling in one of her dresses, laughing when she realized I was watching her.

It wasn’t just a memory. It was haunting.

I couldn’t walk three feet without feeling like I was walking through a ghost. Her ghost.

I had been sleeping in her bed every night.

It started with one bad night, then became a habit I couldn’t break. I told myself it was because her mattress was softer. That was a lie. I just wanted to be where she was last. To bury my face in her pillow. To pretend I could still smell that soft, rosy scent she always wore, even though it had long faded. 

Now there was nothing left but air. Cold, clean, unforgiving air.

I had been drinking more. Not enough to forget her—nothing could do that—but just enough to make the nights pass quicker. To make the silence bearable.

I hadn’t smoked, though; I hadn’t touched a cigarette since the day she left. Not once, because she hated it.

Even if she wasn’t here to wrinkle her nose or steal the pack from my jacket and toss it in the trash, the idea of doing something she loathed felt like a betrayal. Like I was failing her again.

Even when the urge clawed at me, I couldn’t do it, because she hated it. Said it would ruin me before anything else ever could. She used to steal my packs, toss them in the trash, scold me like I was a damn teenager.  I’d just smirk at her, kiss her cheek, and promise I’d try harder.

Now?

Lighting a cigarette felt like betrayal. Like if I did it, it would mean she really wasn’t coming back. Like I’d given up on her completely.

Either way, she was gone.

Everywhere I turned, I saw the absence of her. In the couch that no longer had her curled up in it. In the mirror, that didn’t reflect her arms sliding around my waist from behind. In the bed that was too big. Too quiet.

And all I could think, all I could feel, was that I’d let her go. I let her walk away.

Now all I had left was silence and the sound of my own damn heart breaking over and over again.

The office had kept me later than usual.

Lately, I stayed until the city went quiet, until the halls emptied, and even the cleaning staff turned in for the night. It was easier that way—drowning in work than facing this place alone.

The penthouse was dim when I walked in. Just the soft hum of the fridge, the echo of my keys hitting the kitchen counter. I didn’t bother turning the lights on. I didn’t need to. Every step, I could navigate blindfolded—because she used to fill this place with so much light, I still remembered how it looked when she was in it.

I peeled off my jacket, tossed it carelessly over a chair. The silence wrapped around me like a noose.

A quick shower and walked over to the living room. 

I drank a few. I felt like I had to consume something bitter every night. I let it burn. I wanted it to burn.

Then I stumbled down the hallway toward her room. My body moved on autopilot. Like it did every night now. I wasn’t even thinking—just trying to catch some trace of her. A perfume, a blanket, a memory.

But when I opened the door… I stopped cold.

The room was empty.

Fully empty.

The soft pink sheets were gone. Her pillows, her bedside books, the scarf she used to hang from the lamp—everything… gone. The closet doors were slightly ajar, and even in the low light, I could see the hangers swinging quietly.

Everything that was left, gone.

It looked like a guest suite again. Sterile. Vacant. Like she’d never lived here at all.

My stomach twisted.

Panic clawed at my chest as I turned and made my way to her studio, my steps uneven, breath tightening with every second.

But when I pushed the door open—

It was worse.

The mannequins were gone. What was left of her fabrics…gone.

The room had been stripped of her.

All that was left was the large table she used to cut fabric on, her sewing machine pushed into a corner, and a mirror leaning against the wall, crooked, like someone moved it in a rush.

I stood in the middle of the room, not moving, not breathing. I couldn’t even blink.

The alcohol buzz had long faded. What was left was this hollow, dizzy ache spiraling through me, sinking in deep like a second skin.

She was really gone.

Not just emotionally. Not just from our bed. Gone.

I stumbled out into the hallway, desperate for answers. For a reason. That’s when I saw Ana, the housekeeper, standing near the laundry room, folding towels like it was just another night in this broken universe.

“Ana,” I said, my voice hoarse.

She looked up, startled. “Yes?”

I didn’t care how wrecked I looked. “What happened to her room?”

Her face softened instantly, the corners of her mouth twitching in sympathy. She placed the towels down slowly.

“She came by earlier this evening,” Ana said gently. “Around six. She had a car waiting. Took the rest of her things. Said she wouldn’t be long.”

I couldn’t speak.

“She didn’t leave a note,” Ana added, almost hesitating. “But she… she looked sad.” 

My throat felt like it was closing.

“I didn’t know she hadn’t told you.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t, because whatever was holding me up inside snapped right then, quietly, violently. 

I couldn’t stand being in that place any longer. The silence was pressing in again, thick and suffocating. Every room felt like a memory I didn’t want to face.

I pulled out my phone and scrolled to Matt’s name.

Chris: Where are you at? It took a moment before the typing dots appeared.

Matt: Noah’s. Why? Chris: I’m coming over. Matt: alright

I just grabbed my keys, shrugged on the first jacket I could find, and headed to the elevator. My head was spinning a little—I had poured myself more than a few drinks tonight.

Still, I got behind the wheel.

I knew Noah’s place like the back of my hand. He was closer to Matt than he was to me and Nick, but we’d always still been tight. My family had stepped in a lot after he lost his parents, and ever since high school, his place had been our usual crash spot. Back when life was simpler, and girls weren’t something that could tear me apart. 

I didn’t know what I was going there for, maybe just to forget for a while. Or maybe I just didn’t want to be alone.

The ride over was a blur—red lights, green lights, honking cars. I don’t remember parking or locking the car behind me. All I remember is the cold night air against my skin and the dull buzz in my head as I stumbled up the steps to Noah’s place.

I knocked once. Loud.

The door swung open a few seconds later.

Noah stood there, eyebrows furrowed, the second he saw me. “Chris?”

His voice was low, cautious.

I shoved my hands into my pockets, rocking slightly on my heels. “What, you're not gonna invite me in?”

Noah blinked, eyes scanning me from head to toe—rumpled jacket, messy hair, tired eyes, and the scent of whatever I’d poured into my glass a few hours ago still clinging to me. “Are you… drunk?” 

I didn’t answer.

Before he could say anything else, Matt appeared behind him. His expression shifted from curiosity to immediate concern.

“Dude,” Matt said, stepping around Noah. “What the hell—Chris, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fucking great,” I muttered sarcastically, brushing past them both as I walked inside.

Nick’s voice followed a second later. “Man, you look like shit.”

I turned around slowly to face them, unbothered by their stares. 

“Thanks, Nick.” I glared at him.

Noah shut the door behind us, his jaw tight. “You shouldn’t be driving like this.”

I shrugged off my jacket and let it fall to the floor. “Didn’t realize I had anyone left to disappoint.”

The room went quiet. Thick with tension.

Matt stepped forward. “Chris… what’s going on?”

I didn’t answer right away. I just stared at the floor, like maybe if I focused hard enough, it would swallow me whole.

“She’s gone,” I finally said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Man, we know that…It's been a while,” Matt said, dragging me over to the couch. 

For the first time in a long time, I felt it crack through me—grief, guilt, and something worse.

“She came back and took the last of her stuff tonight,” I added, throat tightening. “Even her scent is gone.”

Matt looked at Nick, who looked at Noah, all of them exchanging silent glances. Like they didn’t know what to say. Like they’d never seen me like this before. 

That was because they hadn’t.

I rubbed my eyes, feeling the sting of exhaustion and something heavier clawing at me. “You got any drinks here?” I asked, voice rough, barely steady. 

Noah glanced toward the kitchen. “We don’t have any booze, Chris.”

I caught a glimpse of cans stacked by the fridge and smirked bitterly. “Come on, I see those. Just one, please.”

Matt stepped forward, eyes hard. “Fuck no. You need to stop before you become a damn addict.”

Nick crossed his arms, voice low but sharp. “You need to stop Chris.. Drinking won’t fix a damn thing.”

I shook my head, frustration bubbling up like poison. “You don’t get it. It’s not about fixing anything.”

Matt’s jaw clenched. “That’s exactly the problem. You’re letting this shit ruin you.”

My vision started to blur, the edges of the room melting as the weight of everything pressed down harder. Through the haze, I saw a brunette slip past us into the kitchen.

I blinked, trying to focus. “Who was that?” I slurred, nodding toward the kitchen.

Noah glanced over, then shook his head. “My sister. She moved in a few months ago.”

I let out a quiet chuckle, the faintest smile tugging at my lips. “Right…I forgot.”

I looked over at Matt, I saw his gaze follow her over to the kitchen. When he looked back, we made eye contact—I knew about him and Noah’s sister, or whatever was going on between them. Noah, however, was clueless and would probably kill Matt if he found out. Meh…that was Matt's problem.  

Nick’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and unfiltered. “Chris, seven months ago you’d laugh in your face if you saw the mess you are now,” he said, shaking his head. “Ruined over a girl and drowning in booze like some sad drunk. That’s not the guy we know.”

I swallowed hard, the words hitting deeper than I wanted to admit. Nick was right. The man I was now barely felt like me anymore. 

If we never speak again… the silence might bury me. It won’t be anger or guilt that lingers—it’ll be the ache of everything unsaid. Everything I should’ve done differently. She wasn’t just a passing chapter. She was the calm in all my noise, the rare moment when I felt understood without needing to explain a thing. Losing that...it feels like losing the only part of myself that ever felt real.

One day, someone else might get to sit across from her at breakfast. He’ll get to hear her laugh, see her half-asleep in the morning light, hold her hand like it’s nothing, and brush strands of her beautiful ginger hair, and I’ll be forever envious of that man. I’ll want to spend the rest of my life hating him, wanting to kill him, for getting the version of her I destroyed. He won’t know the weight she carried or how much it took for her to let someone in. 

He’ll just get the result of everything I ruined. Then I’ll be stuck here, haunted by the memory of what I couldn’t hold on to. 

I’ll be stuck thinking about that hallway at the police station. 

Right where she left me.

AURORA

It had been a month.

A month since everything fell apart.

I only stayed with Jen for a few days after it happened—long enough to remember how to breathe again, long enough to cry myself dry. She wanted me to stay longer, but I couldn’t. I needed to be somewhere that felt like home. So I packed up what little I had brought and went back to my mother’s house.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was safe. She had welcomed me without question—just pulled me into a hug and let me fall apart in her arms. She made space for me in the guest room. My old room had been turned into a file room by my father. I couldn’t bring myself to fully settle in, though. 

I remember being so upset to move out of this house, but now I felt so foreign inside it. 

We’d been working on the divorce paperwork together. Quiet afternoons filled with legal forms and old bank statements. She tried to hide how nervous she was, but I could see it in the way her hands trembled when she signed her name. My father had left more than just hurt behind—he left a mess. A fortune tainted by control and manipulation.

Once it was finalized, everything that was left of him would be hers.

We didn't talk much about him—only when necessary. I think she knew I was grieving, in my own way. Not just the end of an engagement… but the collapse of so many illusions. Of the father I thought I had. The man I hoped Chris could be.

I submitted my fashion catalog last week. The runway show was just two weeks away now. My name was printed in bold on the announcement flyer along with some other graduates. “Aurora Devereaux – Closing Designer.”

It should’ve felt like a dream come true. Instead, it just felt like a reminder of how much had changed.

The past two weeks had felt like hell. I kept moving so I wouldn’t think. I filled every hour with sketches, with fittings, with long walks that made my feet ache and my chest a little quieter. I told myself I was okay. I told myself I was surviving.

Last night…I went back.

To the penthouse.

Just to take the last of my things.

It was late when I arrived. The place was dark, quiet. Chris wasn’t there. I didn’t know if I hoped he would be.

My studio… It was already halfway dismantled. Like a ghost town version of everything I had built. I packed up the last few things quietly: a bundle of sketches, a few unused fabrics, a silver pin cushion shaped like a cat that Chris once teased me for buying. 

I had never seen it so empty, only the full colorful version I saw when Chris first gifted it to me. 

Ana found me as I was zipping the final suitcase.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at me the way someone looks at a fading photograph.

Then, finally, she spoke.

“You’ll be alright, hunny,” she said softly. Her voice was warm, steady. “You are stronger than you think. He knows it, too.”

I blinked, holding her gaze. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

“It never does. Not until you’re on the other side of it.”

I hugged her before I left. I didn’t know if I’d ever come back. But that night, as I stood outside waiting for my Uber, I realized something.

The ache was still there. The grief, the guilt, the loss of something that could’ve been beautiful.

I was still breathing, though. Still moving. I was going to be okay. Eventually. I hope so, at least.  

I hadn’t planned on going out tonight.

The catalog was done. The show was two weeks away. My mother was slowly piecing together the remnants of a broken marriage while I kept myself busy in silence, pretending I didn’t still wake up reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

It had been over a month since everything fell apart. Since the night I walked out of that penthouse and left behind the version of myself who still believed love was enough.

I didn’t want to see anyone. I didn’t want to talk. But when Jen called and said, “You need to get out of the house before you start collecting dust, Rory. I’m picking you up in twenty minutes. No arguments,” I didn’t fight her.

She always had a way of knowing when I was sinking.

I chose a short denim skirt, and paired it with a fitted black Skims short-sleeved top. I slipped on my black heeled boots, the ones that clicked with every step. My hair was down, straightened smooth, and tucked behind one ear, and I slung a simple black shoulder bag over my arm. A jacket because the outside still had a slight chill to it. 

The sound of a car horn outside broke the quiet hum of my thoughts. I took one last glance in the mirror — the short denim skirt hugging my hips, the black Skims tee fitting snug against my frame, my straightened hair falling sleek past my shoulders. The heeled boots added just enough height to feel like armor.

I took a breath and grabbed my little shoulder bag, locking the door behind me. 

Jen’s car was already parked by the curb, headlights slicing through the dusk. I opened the passenger door and slid in quickly, the leather cool against the backs of my legs.

She blinked at me. And then again, slowly, like she was trying to recalibrate what she was seeing.

“Oh my...Rory?” she said, nearly dropping her phone in her lap. “Okay, what did you do with my shy little best friend?”

I glanced at her, half amused and half self-conscious. “Too much?”

Jen’s jaw was still somewhere near the floor. “No! You look—like, damn, girl. I’m just not used to seeing you like this. I was expecting...still something you’d wear to a gala.”

I laughed, soft and unsure. “I wasn’t gonna wear a Celine dress, Jen.”

Jen put the car in drive, eyes still flicking to me with admiration. “Whatever it is? Let it stay. Tonight, we’re having fun. If any guy tries to talk to you—”

“I’m not interested,” I cut in quickly.

She grinned. “I know. But still. You deserve to feel good again. No wrong in talking to someone. Or you can take my route and kiss them and take them home for the night.”

“Jen,” I shot her a playful look. I loved her freakiness. 

As we pulled into the city, lights beginning to shimmer against the windshield, I let myself rest back in the seat.

The lounge was already buzzing — warm lights, low music, clusters of bodies weaving in and out of each other like they were all part of some shared, unspoken rhythm. Jen disappeared into a hug with a group of friends near the entrance, leaving me to navigate toward the bar on my own.

I didn’t belong here. Not really. Not with the heavy ache still living under my ribs like a second heartbeat.

I slid onto a stool at the bar, trying to look comfortable as I tucked my hair behind one ear.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked, flashing a polite smile over the counter.

“Just a Sprite,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t question it. The glass was cold in my hands a moment later, condensation slipping across my fingers as I brought it to my lips.

I sipped slowly.

The music faded into the background as my mind wandered. Back to the party, months ago. When Chris was in Milan. 

The night I saw Mason after a while, the night I met Chris’s ex-fling or whatever. 

Then Chris…

I hadn’t even known he was watching me back then. That just one photo of me at that party made him get on a flight from Milan. The possessiveness in that act used to make me feel chosen. Wanted. Protected.

Now? Now it just felt ironic.

That the same man who once flew halfway across the world at the thought of me with someone else… was the one who treated me like I was disposable. Like I was a burden. Like caring for me had been too much for him to carry.

I stared into my drink, my throat tightening.

People said you only understood someone’s true character after the high wore off. Maybe that’s what this was. Maybe Chris had just worn a mask better than most.

Or maybe…Maybe I had just been too easy to fool.

“Are you here alone?”

The voice came again, closer now, more persistent than the music thudding through the bar. I turned just slightly, catching sight of a guy standing beside me. Tall. Buzzed hair. Clean jawline. He wasn’t bad looking, and he knew it by the way he smiled.

“No,” I said calmly, taking another sip of Sprite.

He nodded, undeterred. “Can I get you a drink?”

I lifted my glass just slightly. “I’ve already got one.”

He peered at it, confused. “Sprite?”

“I don’t drink,” I said, not offering anything more.

That caught him off guard, but only for a second. He shrugged and leaned his elbow against the bar. “Fair enough. You don’t look like the typical crowd here anyway.”

I didn’t know what that meant, and I didn’t care to ask.

“What do you do?” he asked casually, clearly fishing for something interesting.

I stared ahead at the shelf of dusty liquor bottles behind the bar, debating if I even wanted to answer. But politeness was second nature.

“I’m a fashion design student,” I said simply.

He perked up, like I had said, I worked for NASA. “Oh really? That’s pretty cool. Like, you design clothes and stuff?”

“Yes,” I said, giving him a glance. “I have a show in two weeks.”

“No way. You must be really good, then.”

I didn’t respond to that.

He tried again. “So what’s a designer like you doing here alone, sipping Sprite?”

I turned slightly on the stool, facing him now, but keeping my distance. “Just getting out of the house.”

He chuckled. “Rough week?”

“Rough month,” I said before I could stop myself.

He nodded slowly, like he understood something deep. “Heartbreak?”

I didn’t answer. But my silence was loud enough.

“Yeah,” he said, offering a small, knowing smile. “That’ll do it.”

I didn’t know this man, and I didn’t care to know him—but I found myself slightly grateful he wasn’t pushing too far. Not yet, anyway.

“Look,” he said, suddenly reaching for his wallet, “I know you said no, but—just let me get you a drink. Doesn’t have to be alcohol. You’ve had a long month, right? Least I can do.”

“I’m fine,” I replied, still calm but firmer this time. “Thanks, though.”

There was a moment of quiet tension—just a second too long.

Then he raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Just trying to be nice.”

Just as I turned back to my drink, I felt his presence settle beside me again. Persistent.

“I’m Darren, by the way.” His voice was smoother now, like he was trying harder. Trying to be charming. I glanced at him briefly, offering a faint nod. “Aurora.”

“Aurora,” he repeated with a slow smile, like he was tasting the name. “Pretty name. Matches you.”

I gave a polite smile, said nothing. I was used to that kind of flattery. It didn’t reach me anymore.

There was a pause before he leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice like we were suddenly sharing something private. “So, Aurora…” he started, “you seem cool. Quiet. But I gotta ask…” His eyes flicked down to my legs and then back up, something about his grin turning cocky. “You in the mood to have a little fun tonight?”

I froze for a second—not shocked, but disappointed. Of course, that’s where this was going.

I turned to face him fully, my voice calm but sharp enough to cut through the music. “I don’t do hookups.”

His eyebrows shot up, like he didn’t expect that to be said so directly. 

“No judgment,” he said quickly, hands raised in innocence.

A few minutes passed. I thought Darren was gone for good, but then he circled back.

“Hey,” he said, a little softer this time. “Listen—sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to come off like a creep.”

I turned slightly, meeting his eyes. He looked a bit embarrassed now, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, leaning against the counter like he was trying to dial it back.

“It’s fine,” I said simply. “Just…not my thing.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he nodded quickly. “I get it. I just—I don’t usually see girls like you alone at parties.”

I lifted a brow. “Girls like me?”

He grinned, but it was less cocky now. “The quiet ones. The ones who don’t drink. The ones who look like they’ve got a hundred better places to be.”

I couldn’t help it—I smiled a little. “That’s… oddly accurate.”

Darren took that as encouragement and leaned in slightly again, but without the earlier edge. “So, if you’re not here to hook up or drink, what are you into?”

“Fashion,” I said, pausing for a beat. “Work, mostly.” 

“You mentioned you had a show soon>?” His tone perked up. “That seems dope.”

I shook my head. “I’m showcasing my collection in two weeks.”

His eyebrows raised. “Like, a legit show?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Catalog’s done. Final show’s being prepped.”

He gave a low whistle. “Alright, then. You’re impressive.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.

There was a little silence before he asked, almost shyly this time, “So… would you wanna maybe go out sometime?”

I blinked, surprised he was still trying.

“I’m…kinda busy,” I said, a little apologetic.

He nodded, clearly trying not to look too disappointed. “Ah. Right. That makes sense.”

I thought that was the end of it—until he added, “I mean, I could come to your show. You know, support you. Cheer you on or whatever.”

That caught me off guard.

“You want to come to a fashion show?” I asked, unsure if he was being serious or just trying to impress me.

He shrugged, grinning again. “Why not? Might be cool. And who knows? Maybe seeing your world helps me get to know you.”

I looked at him for a long moment, unsure of what to say. Part of me wanted to shut it down, keep the wall up.

But another part… the tired, curious part of me… wanted to see what would happen if I let someone new in—even just a little.

“Fine,” I said, sipping my Sprite. “If you actually show up, I’ll be impressed.”

Darren laughed. “Challenge accepted.”

I turned back to the bar, still not sure if I meant it. But for now, it didn’t matter. 

Darren glanced toward the back door, where a few people were going in and out. Beyond it, I saw the faint glow of string lights draped over a small patio and a few benches lined up near the fence. People were out there too—talking, laughing, smoking—but it was calmer. Less chaotic than the music and bass vibrating through the walls inside.

“You wanna maybe step outside for a bit?” Darren asked, voice raised slightly over the music. “It’s loud as hell in here.”

I hesitated. Not because I was nervous, but because I kind of did want to get out of the noise. The party was starting to wear on me. The crowd. The energy. The smell of alcohol on people’s breath.

“Just to talk,” he added quickly, sensing my pause. “There are people around. I’m not shady.”

That made me smirk a little. “Okay. Sure.”

I grabbed my bag and followed him out the back door. The air hit my skin like a breath of relief. Cooler. Cleaner. The buzz of voices was still there, but it didn’t feel suffocating like it did inside.

We sat on the bench closest to the string lights. The wood was worn, the metal frame creaking slightly when we settled in. I folded my arms, my gaze flicking between the people nearby and the gravel under my boots.

“You good?” Darren asked, watching me.

I nodded slowly. “Just… not a party girl. Never have been.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I kinda picked up on that. But you came anyway.”

“My friend made me,” I said, half-smiling. “Said I needed to get out of the house.”

“Guess I should thank her, then,” he said. “I wouldn’t have met you otherwise.”

I didn’t respond right away. My fingers brushed the edge of my denim skirt, the fabric unfamiliar, bolder than what I’d usually wear.

“So…is your fashion show in Boston?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yeah. Local showcase.”

“That’s sick,” he said genuinely. “Can I be honest? You look like you have your life together.”

That made me let out a soft, dry laugh. “That’s funny. Because it feels like it’s falling apart.”

He glanced at me, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”

I didn’t elaborate. I just stared out at the fence, letting the breeze lift the ends of my straightened hair. I wasn’t about to unload everything onto some guy I barely knew. But for now, sitting here, out of the noise, sipping Sprite, talking to a stranger who didn’t know who I was or what I was going through—it didn’t feel so heavy.

It didn’t feel like Chris.

Maybe that was why I stayed.

I let the silence hang for a moment, watching a couple across the patio share a cigarette and talk like the world had slowed just for them. My cup of Sprite sat between my palms, the condensation trailing down my fingers.

Out of courtesy more than curiosity, I glanced at Darren and asked, “What about you? What do you do?”

He shifted, stretching his arms out along the back of the bench casually. “Tech stuff. Kinda boring, honestly. I work for a startup downtown—software solutions, all that jazz.”

“Sounds smarter than it is?” I teased gently.

He laughed. “Exactly. It’s mostly emails and pretending I know what I’m doing during meetings.”

That made me smile faintly. It was easy to talk to him. Easy in the kind of way that didn’t mean anything but didn’t demand anything either. He didn’t know my name was Aurora Devereaux or what that meant. He didn’t look at me like he already knew me.

It was… strangely nice.

“I’m guessing fashion’s always been your thing?” he asked, his tone lighter now.

I nodded slowly. “Yeah. Since I was a kid. I used to sketch dresses on napkins and ruin my mom’s tablecloths trying to sew.”

Darren grinned. “That’s kind of adorable.”

I rolled my eyes playfully, then looked down at my drink. 

The night lingered like a slow-burning candle—dim, comfortable, almost too calm for a party. Darren and I sat on the bench outside for what felt like hours, talking about the most random things.

Music tastes, favourite movies, and embarrassing childhood stories. I didn’t expect to laugh as much as I did, and even though I wasn’t fully present, I appreciated the way he kept the conversation light.

“…and then I tripped over my skateboard and knocked out my two front teeth in front of half the school,” Darren said, chuckling, rubbing the back of his neck.

I laughed softly. “You might’ve peaked in high school with that one.”

“Hey, I survived the humiliation. That’s character development,” he said with a grin.

A breeze swept through, cool against my bare legs, and I crossed them, hugging my drink in my hands. The music from inside was still booming, but out here, it was just muffled enough to feel distant.

Darren leaned his head back against the bench, eyes half-lidded. “You know, you smell like roses.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Oh?”

He turned to look at me again, smiling. “Yeah… I don’t know. It’s subtle, but it’s there. You kind of remind me of a rose. A little mysterious. Pretty, obviously, but also sharp. Like if someone got too close too fast, they might get hurt.”

I laughed, but it came out a bit breathless.

Rose.

That word did something to me.

I remembered the way Chris used to pull me close after long days, his nose nuzzling against my neck, telling me how I smelled like roses, cherries, and clean warmth. As he once said, I reminded him of a rose garden in bloom—elegant, but guarded.

It also reminded me of the rose necklace I no longer own. 

My smile faded just a bit, but I forced it to stay.

“Thanks,” I said, my voice soft.

He didn’t know the weight of what he’d said. Obviously, but I felt it was heavy. 

My phone buzzed in my shoulder bag, the faint vibration pulling me out of the moment. I reached in and saw Jen’s name flash across the screen.

Jen: Hey, I’m ready to dip soon—u good?

I glanced at the time. It was later than I thought. The party had blurred into something muted and slow, and suddenly, I felt the weight of exhaustion pressing on my shoulders.

I looked up at Darren, offering a small, polite smile. “I should head out. My friend’s wrapping up.”

He nodded, sitting up straighter. “Yeah, of course. It was cool talking to you.”

“Yeah, it was,” I said honestly. For a random conversation at a party I hadn’t even wanted to be at, it hadn’t been terrible. He’d been…decent. Not pushy. Kind of funny. He’s just not someone else, though. 

He hesitated, then pulled his phone from his pocket. “Would it be okay if we exchanged numbers? I mean, if you ever wanted to talk again—or if you want someone to hype you up at that fashion show.”

I let out a small laugh, already unlocking my phone. “Sure. Just…no creepy texts at 2 a.m.”

He grinned. “No promises.”

We exchanged numbers quickly, his name showing up on my screen: Darren from the party.

I put my bag over my shoulder and stood, brushing my skirt down. “Have a good night, Darren.”

“You too, Aurora.”

As I walked back into the noise to find Jen, I could still feel his words trailing behind me.

You smell like roses.

But all I could think about was the last person who said that, and how much it still hurt.

It started as a contract—just ink on paper, expectations, and roles we were meant to play. I told myself it didn’t matter, that none of it was real. But somewhere in the middle of pretending, I started meaning it. I chose him. I wanted to stay. I let it become something real, something I was willing to fight for.

For him, though, it always felt temporary. Like he was already halfway out the door, even when he said all the right things. I wonder if it ever meant anything to him at all, or if I was just a convenient pause in a life too full for someone like me.

Maybe he’ll even meet someone. No contract, no force, just his own choice. Maybe he’ll fall for her. He’ll say the things he once said to me, only this time, he’ll mean them. She’ll get the version of him I only ever dreamed of—the one who stays.

Now I’m stuck mourning something he probably never saw the same way. Haunted by the memory of his cold stare in that police station. 

Right where he left me.

READ ALL RELEASED CHAPTERS HERE!

[a/n: I know you guys don't like cliffhangers, but I'm writing chapter 19 and it's looking like were getting a cliffhanger. like and reblog!] – Ceyana

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[mekatrio]

i really dont like a lot of those english vocaloid cover artists on youtube bc they build a following from other peoples work but just put into another language so its accessible to english speakers, but like the creativity did not came from them and most of the time the translyrics are only kinda good like sure its singable but like, these guys are not translators and more often than not massive parts of the original song get butchered entirely. and theyre not that great of a singer sometimes too but just bc its in english ppl will praise it its very.. 😭 and then with breadbox particularly like its one thing to build a following from so-so translyrics but then to speak about vocaloid with like a laughable amount of research is so ughhhh like just any old dumbass having wrong takes is whatever but his wrong takes actually have a reach on people and its ugh. Ugh

[insomniac-dot-ink]

By the Morning Light

Rory chased off two junkyard dogs on his way into the salvage yard that morning. He called one of them Pesto (short for Pest) and the other Barnaby because Rory thought it a hateful name. “Serves you right, Barnaby,” he groused. The creature always stuck his nose in Rory’s crotch and nosed his pockets for food. None here, Pesto. It was early and the only sounds came from squawking birds and snuffling animals.

This scrap yard had been abandoned decades before Rory was alive. The only things left were the carcasses of 90’s computers and the plastic frames of microwaves. Metal and filaments and anything smaller than a breadbox had already been scooped up. There weren't even flies left. But Rory was small and if he went alone, he figured he might have better luck.

Rory swung his stick back forth, poking stray office chairs and wilted carboard boxes. He made it halfway across the fenced area. Then the air filled with charms. The corner of his eyes prickled and his throat closed. Something sang out. Maybe because the scrap yard was empty. Maybe because spring began in earnest. Maybe because he was the unlucky sort.

There was a glow like sun off fresh snow and the scent of rain. She asked for blood.

“Hello?” His voice sounded brittle to his own ears. Rory clenched down and called louder, “You want something?” He wiped away the stray tears and squared his shoulders. Too damn early for this. Following the noise, he rounded a mossy refrigerator.

Time seemed to draw to a halt. His eyes went wide. It was like something out of the bible or a fairy tale–though Rory hadn’t read much of either. He tilted his head all the way back. She was long and twisty like inverted smoke, glowing white instead of charcoal. Her form zigzagged across the space, stark against the piles of junk and drab trees. Dogs yapped in the distance and birds took flight behind her head.

She spoke again. Rory winced.

“Excuse me?” he asked, voice shaking only a little. His hearing wasn’t very good and a part of him was hoping he’d blink and she would be gone. That it wouldn’t speak again. That angel’s asking for blood was a onetime thing and she’d lose interest.

The thing looked like a headache brewing in your frontal lobe. He tried not to look too closely. Two pairs of eyes became twenty. Snaky arms became branches that became trees. Wings stretched so big you forget the sky.

She spoke again. Her voice was chimes and gongs and things that reverberated through your bones. Not words at all but you knew what they meant. She asked for blood.

“Right now?” Rory rubbed his arm. The thing should know that he wasn’t a bible man. Even if this was normal from biblical times, but he didn’t go around losing his mind or asking for favors. He squinted into the angel's face. “I'm kind of busy. Find a priest maybe? I’m not one of yours.”

He bowed his head slightly, trying not to offend her. It was one of those ugly-beautiful things. Like how people describe Abraham Lincoln in their journals. Rory’s dad had a thing about old Abe, but he supposed you have to be about something.

Rory wasn’t interested in finding his thing right then– such as feeding Angel’s blood.

She said something and the sentence took a whole minute to form. An offering. Rory narrowed his eyes, gripping the stick in his hand tighter. “What would I want your blood for?” Blood for blood. That didn’t seem like much of a deal for someone who didn’t drink the stuff. He took a step back. “You one of those demons they go on about? Like, a disguised one?” The angel’s entire form rippled. She reached out a long and splintering hand, fracturing in light like bolts of lightning. He covered his eyes to stop white spots from filling his vision. She said her name and he doubled over. A real headache thumped behind his eyes.

“Alright, alright!” he called out, covering his ears and gasping for air. “You’re an angel. I hear you.” Luckily, she didn’t say her name again. Though she asked for blood.

“And what if I don’t get it for you?” he griped. He he didn’t visit junkyards to adopt stray dogs or feed holy animals. The whole damn world wants something.

The smoke rippled and the angel’s form seemed to shudder. She pulled back and Rory drew closer, yielding his stick like a shield. The angel seemed to be springing from an old truck. A terrible rusty beast with the tires popped, the front half crushed, and hood sprouting grass.

The angel appeared to grow from the inside like a plant as something silvery coated the seats. She repeated her plea.

Rory wrinkled his nose. “Tell me what you want it for.” Unbelievable. Bargaining with the devil. His dad would love this one if he didn’t interrogate him about being alone out here. Because that’s how you get the good stuff, dad.

He kind of wished his dad was there now. The angel cocked her head to the side and there was something deeply human about the movement. A sickness washed over him and Rory shuddered. The chimes clamored inside his skull.

“Okay, okay! You're not a demon!” He put up his hands. “I don’t need your name again, jeez.”

Rory huffed, studying the creature. He wondered if it was here because of a shrine built on the hill once upon a time or if because of the remoteness. Scavengers and nature alike had stripped it of most things. Trees growing up through stray tires and vines growing up through the bones of bicycles. He jutted his chin out.

“This isn’t really angel country.” The thing had to know that the people who prayed to angels were in the cities. Single mothers and television personalities and Los Vegas gamblers on a hot streak. He wanted to tell the angel to go find them, but instead he asked, “Do you really grant miracles? Is that how this works?”

The smoke of the angel rippled and the voice coursed through him. The ugly-beautifulness of it like rain slick days where puddles filled with oily rainbows. Or how his father cried at the TV show MASH every night for a week.

Rory looked up. “Promise?”

The angel promised. He searched his pockets and rounded the truck, keeping the creature in view. Fourteen and he’d have to add “encounters” to his bullshit stories no one would believe. His neighbor Florence would love that– she’d been abducted in ‘93 she swore. Right before her husband passed away in the crash.

Rory held out his hand. “Only a little.” The angel twisted in place, looming overhead like the sun. Rory held his breath. Time seemed to slow, and he studied the headache of her face. He held the knife to his palm. “Just a little . . .” he repeated.

She opened her maw. There were teeth somewhere and a light so immense that itched down your throat and into your palms. Something twinkled within and collapsed within a blink. Glittering and cold, the mouth opened wide.

A bird called from somewhere and Rory paused. He was lucky.

A junkyard dog jumped on the roof of the car. Rory barely had time to react. “Don’t!”

The smoke cleared and he knew then, he knew. Rory fell to his knees. Tears sprang to his eyes and fell freely. "Wait!"

The angel caught the dog in both hands and the mouth that wasn’t a mouth bit down. The dog didn’t bleed. It was reduced to a tiny whining ball of fur. The puppy kicked its feet to the air. The angel twisted its splintering hands. A grown ancient hound bayed to the heavens.

Elderly dog to puppy and back again, expanding and collapsing all at once. The air burned a silvery-white. Rory's ears rang. Singing and roaring and weeping in a way that was singing. And then nothing.

He wiped at his eyes, pressing his palms into the sockets. He found the spots wouldn’t disappear. The minutes slowly sank back in. Grass imprinted against his cheek. A stray cicada called. His muscles ached and he realized he was curled up on the ground. An earthy smell and something a bit rotted reminded him to breath.

A lone car passed in the distance. Rory flexed his hands over and over and unlocked his knees. He turned onto his side, inhaling in and out.

The ancient truck had disappeared. A broken stove and several keyboards were stacked in place of the angel. Dogs barked from somewhere and the sun warmed Rory’s face. His ears rang and when he got to his feet, his knees shook.

He ran all the way home. His dad grabbed his shoulders on the way in and studied his face. Rory never found the words to explain the shaking or why he might not stop. Instead, he sat on the couch drinking warm milk and watched MASH for a fourth time. Watching his father from the corner of eye. What if I hadn't come home? He stopped going to the junkyard alone.

Several weeks passed before he found out. A family had died in a car crash in ‘93. The fact burned like a sunburn in his head. That’s what Florence had said about the crash–his Florence. This Florence said they got lucky. Everyone gets lucky sometimes, she said.

Rory’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth at that.

He didn’t start going to church even if he should have. Fear and belief wrapping into one.

Rory started adopting dogs from off the street. Wrapping them in his arms and carrying them all the way home even as they kicked and nipped. Pesto was first. She shook as he untangled her long fur, wrapping the sores on her paws and shaving off the mats. He asked her if she remembered. If there were two of them. God, he murmured. He hoped so. Little creatures have to stick together.

—————-

Thanks for reading!! If you enjoyed the story please consider buying me a coffee, and check out my Sapphic urban fantasy book 🌸

[alolanrain]

Can I

PLEASE

Have more stoner ash headcanons pls

absolutely you can!! stoner Ash is my shit. I'm also adding my Ta!Au to this because thats my og stoner Ash.

Cilan is the first one to introduce Ash after he fucks around in a very muddy pond and finds out that he shouldn't do that after getting his ass kicked by a Seismitoad.

it's one of the most comfortable experiences Ash has ever had. his brain was quite, he didn't feel the need to run everywhere or be the first in anything, and he could ignore the pain from the multitude of bruises.

Cilan made an extra big dinner that night, as he didn't know if Ash would get the munchies or not

spoiler: he did and asked for snacks directly after dinner.

Ash is of age for Unova's marijuana laws so he follows after Cilan to a dispensary where the older boy imparts some hella wisdom onto him.

they take like a full hour of just looking around before they even considering buying anything. the guy a the cashier register kinda hates them but understands that Ash is new to this whole thing

"why do you know all about this?" "I'm the youngest child of triplets and we run a gym and a restaurant together at the same time." "... fair enough"

Cilan is a lot more open and sassy in general when he's not sober so it was fun going to a restaurant and just letting Cilan mutter some hot shit about the cutlery, the other customers, how the building isn't up to code. you name it.

edibles also quickly become Ash's favorite thing after he gets the best night of sleep he's had in a very long time.

Kalos was a fun time.

not really.

it was weird to heart Bonnie and Clemont almost... idolize him as he's smoking a blunt around the corner before they head into the Pokémon center or the hotel for the night.

it got even harder for him to get into the Kalosian dispensary's because Bonnnie was eager to stick by Ash's side and Clemont wasn't going to let his little sister out of his sight.

he managed, somehow.

Serena as a whole was a very touch and go situation for a while.

she grew up in a very purist type home so she was shocked and disgusted that Ash would even consider smoking in general.

let alone the devil lettuces

Ash couldn't give a Rattata's ass but stayed respectful to Serena's wishes on not wanting to see Ash do it while she's around him

the problem? she very rarely seemed to leave his side.

Professor Sycamore hooked him up with some homemade edibles that he made at his own personal lab, not the one he uses for actual regional professor shit.

it's actually funny because a lot of Kalosian officials smoke or do edibles and it takes everything in Ash not to cackle violently when he finds out.

it was really weird to be in a group passing a blunt between him, Professor Sycamore, Steven, and Alain.

it is still, to this day, the most chaotic group of stoners Ash has ever been in.

Kukui is very open about being a stoner towards Ash after he finds out that he does it as well. using the breadbox as his stash location that Ash totally doesn't steal an edible from time to time.

it quickly becomes a ritual that they get high together at least once per weekend.

it was an experience and a heart attack at once when Burnet walked in on them mid bowl. Kukui ended up cooking until he was about to pass out and Ash nocked his head against the doorway from just how high he jumped. He’s around 6’-ish or a little less.

She asked if she could join them next time.

It was just the trio for a while before Olivia would randomly pop up.

It was HELLA weird the first few times, as Ash and her didn’t along for a while. Eventually they agreed not to speak about what happened on her island and to not be so pissed at each other as well.

True neutrality between those two.

There has not been one day on Alola that Ash has actually felt at peace. The kids torment him on and off the clock, so a lot of times he’s forced out into public by them while fucking gone.

Ash doesn’t know how he survives but it feels like a heart attack the entire fucking time.

He’s grumpy and hangery and Ash has Lillie, Mallow, and Lana pulling him around young teen jewelry and clothe shops.

His style of clothing is completely different from the girls. They got their color and the teenage girl charm but Ash is a mix of streatwear and pajama’s.

meeting Viren while costing off the high from the night before was Weird.

10/10 would beat his ass without hesitation, this is’t really a stoner one but just principle.

[yikesharringrove]

hi heres me projecting a sad thingy on steve. he secretly has a BIG thing for being called annoying, throughout his entire childhood his parents werent afraid of saying he was annoying or a bother, his friends growing up didnt hold back either, nancy said it too, even when she meant it in a cute way it still hurt. then the first time billy said it, except Billy was the only one who was able to catch the sudden switch, the switch from happy loud steve to quiet and dull.

“-and that’s when Tommy H. tried to pass the ball to George, but he wasn’t looking at it hit him in the head, and George started crying, and Tommy had to write him a note and now he can’t play outside during recess all week.” Steve was swinging his legs under the dinner table, sitting with his parents as they ate quietly.

He was recounting the daily second grade stories, pushing mushy vegetables around his plate.

His parents kept passing looks back and forth, looks Steve didn’t quite understand.

“And George doesn’t like Tommy, so I think that he-”

“Steven, I would like to enjoy my meal in peace, please.” His dad didn’t even look over at him.

“Uh, okay. Sorry, Dad.” He set his fork down, suddenly didn’t want to bother pretending eating his veggies. “May I be excused?” It was easier to simply retreat, go play in his room for the rest of the night.

Steve doesn’t like the way his dad looks at him sometimes.

It makes him feel bad inside. His dad simply waved a hand.

Steve took his plate into the kitchen, carefully placing it on the counter.

“He’s such a bother sometimes. Going on about the other children like it matters.”

“Richard, he’s a child.”

“And I don’t want him to grow into an adult that thinks it’s okay to annoy me people to death.”

Steve didn’t know what annoy means.

He asks his teacher the next day.

“To annoy someone means to irritate them. To bother them and make them angry.”

So, he irritated his father. He bothered him to the point where he was angry.

Steve didn’t speak the next night.

Or the next.

-

“Tommy, come on.”

Steve was not above whining.

“I wanna try it.”

Tommy had snuck a beer out of his dad’s stash in the fridge in the garage.

Tommy and Carol had each tried a sip, grimacing at the taste.

“I don’t thin you’re ready for it, Stevie. Still acting like a baby.”

They were fourteen, going into high school at the end of summer.

“Man, I am not. Just let me try it. I gotta get used tot he taste before we start going to parties.”

“No one’s gonna invite you to parties if you’re this annoying.”

The words stung, but Tommy passed him the beer while he said them, grinning lazily.

The beer tasted like shit.

Steve couldn’t discern it from the sour taste in his mouth that word left.

Annoying.

-

“Nancy,” Steve sang.

He was laying on her bed, his head flopped over the side, looking at her upside down. “Nancy.”

“Steve, I’ve gotta finish this.”

“Nancy, that essay’s due in like, a week.”

“I’ve got to finish this draft. Mrs. Lorraine said she’d read over it tomorrow and give me any pointers.” Steve rolled his eyes.

“You don’t need any pointers. You know she’s just gonna tell you it’s perfect.”

She was quiet.

“C’mon, Nance. Just lay with me for a little while. It’s been such a shitty week. Did I tell you my parents came home?”

“Yes. A few times.”

“I just always ask them to call first. If’ they called before going to the airport, I’d have like, a day or so, or at least a few hours before they get here depending on where they are. But they never do and they get on me about the house being a mess when it’s not, I’ve just left like, a pair of shoes out or something and-”

“Steve, I have to finish this. God, you can be so annoying sometimes.”

The words hit Steve like ice.

He sat up quickly, tugging on his shoes from next to the bed, yanking his sweater back on.

“I’m just gonna go then. Annoy my parents at home.” She didn’t say anything.

He rolled his eyes.

-

“Bill, where are you goin’?”

Billy was trying to get himself out of bed, gonna go make them both some coffee.

“I need some fuckin’ caffeine. Don’t know if you realized this, I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Steve stretched lazily, finally letting Billy slid out from under the covers and pull on a pair of shorts from the floor.

He was smiling lazily, looked so perfect in the soft light of morning.

“Bring me a cup?”

“Yeah, Baby.”

“With a little bit of cream, and two scoops of sugar and-”

“I know how you take it, Pretty Boy.”

“And would you do some toast, too? I’ve got the good jam in the fridge, that fresh raspberry stuff from the old couple down the street. Will you do sourdough? It’s in he pantry, not the breadbox, and just a little bit of that Amish butter and then a layer of jam-” Billy flopped onto the bed, letting his weight press into Steve.

“I got an idea. You could come make yourself your high maintenance toast before I get annoyed to death.”

Billy meant it cute.

As cute as he can mean things while still making fun of Steve.

His idea was to get Steve in the kitchen with him. They could turn on the little radio down there and make breakfast together. It would be nice.

But it was alarming.

He was watching Steve’s face as he said it, and the second he let slip annoyed to death, Steve’s eyes went blank.

He stopped talking, smiling benignly up at Billy.

“What’s up?” Steve just shook his head. “No, something’s wrong, I can tell.”

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.”

Steve’s words were clipped.

“You’re not fine. Tell me what’s wrong? What’d I do?”

“You didn’t do anything. I just-” he sighed. “I know I can be annoying sometimes. I’m working on it.”

“Why?”

“Because, because,” Steve wasn’t looking at him, “because it sucks, being around someone that just makes you mad because they won’t shut up.”

“Baby, you never make me mad. I’m sorry I said that, it was a joke. I don’t actually think you’re annoying. I just, I thought maybe we could make breakfast together.” His cheeks were hot, admitting that to Steve.

Billy doesn’t think it’ll matter how long they’re together, he’ll always get flustered admitting his feelings, or even getting close to doing so.

“No, Billy. It’s fine. I’ll try to keep it in mind. When to shut my mouth.”

“Steve, I fucking never want you to shut your mouth. I want you to talk to me forever and ever. I wanna hear about your fucking toast every single morning. I wanna hear about your day every night, and I wanna hear what pisses you off, and what makes you sad, and what makes you happy. Never stop talking to me, okay? Just love hearing your voice.”

“I, alright.” Steve’s eyes were bright again, but he still looked unsure.

“Come downstairs. Tell me about the fuckin’ Amish butter and why in the hell you have it.”

“It’s hand churned.”

“Yeah? Why’s that make it special?”

Steve appraised Billy.

He tried to keep his face open, tried to make sure Steve knew he wanted to know.

“It just makes it taste better. I think it’s because they use really fresh butter milk. I get it at the farmer’s market and the woman that sells it says they have a farm. They have goat cheese, too, and I’ve always wanted to try it because they have ones made with different herbs, and they all look so good.”

Billy was still on top of Steve, watching him intently as he spoke.

It made Steve warm. Washed out that sour feeling in his throat.

Because Billy wanted to hear him.

And Steve doesn’t know anybody that’s ever wanted that.

[sapnxps]

(WTL) Chapter One: Greg the Neighbor- Georgenotfound x Reader

If I knew that when I moved to London, I'd have two weird neighbors, I'd laugh in your face. Now I'm friends with an old cat lady. Now I'm enemies with my cute neighbor that's definitely not single, who also screams too much.

Even though he's a dick, why can't I stop thinking about him?

My parents told me I’d regret moving to London from the state before I left because I’d miss them and the US too much.

They were half right.

I’m sitting on a box messily labeled ‘kitchen’ in the hallway of my new apartment complex. I huff, wiping the sticky sweat from my forehead. The moving bill is almost 4 thousand dollars. If I knew moving would be this expensive, I wouldn’t have moved out from my parent’s house until I was 40. Sure, I moved a lot of my belongings across the Atlantic ocean, but 4 thousand dollars? Who do I look like, Jeff Bezos?

Today has been hectic, to say the least. Three of my boxes somehow drifted away to Spain. Don’t ask me how that happened, I don’t even know. I’ve been unpacking by myself all day. A box of my kitchenware got shattered upon arrival. I should’ve listened to my Mom on that one, she told me to just buy plates and glasses here instead of shipping them here. Big mistake I’m never making again. Finally, the biggest chunk of my problems: My apartment is full of boxes and I don’t feel like unpacking. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve been sleeping on an air mattress for two days, maybe not, but I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. If one more thing goes wrong, I think I might lose it.

Begrudgingly, I lift myself up from the box I was sitting on. It’s a bit dented now, but the way it felt on my ass, it’s just pots and pans. I open the door, pulling this box into my apartment. I weakly push it into the kitchen. It collides with one of the boxes filled with shattered plates. The sound of the broken glass sliding across the box sounded like nails on a chalkboard. I need to make a note to properly dispose of that. Turning my head to look around my new home, I feel my brain's short circuit. All these boxes unpacked, I’ve barely made a dent. This is going to take for-fucking-ever. Moving is modern-day torture. Oh, that’s funny. Remember to tweet that later.

The next three hours of my life are taken up by filling up my kitchen cabinets and drawers with cutlery and various kitchen utensils. The counter was now less bare, housing my toaster and breadbox. My Tupperware containers sat in a special place in the far-right cabinet by the sink. It looked like this home was lived in, as long as you didn’t glance anywhere else besides the kitchen.

I soon after tackled the bathroom, which was the less intimidating room compared to the living room and bedroom. I got the shower curtain hung up, which made it look nice. The rug found its way to the floor, protecting my feet from the cold, cream tile. The shelves were now stocked with a few fluffy peach towels and soaps. Underneath the sink had cleaning supplies as well as spare toilet paper. Living alone meant having nobody to give you another roll if you finish the other one. Kinda sucks. I had a boyfriend during high school, and two years into college. I dreamed of living with him, we planned it all out. I’d finish college, we’d move to a city and rent out the tiniest apartment we could find. We’d live it out until eventually we made ends meet and the rest would be. Dreams cut short though, he cheated. It’s part of why I left in the first place. Needed a change of scenery, new people.

That’s where I am now. New people. Stuck on that part. Haven’t gotten a chance to meet any, which is oh so tragic. I can’t decide if I want to introduce myself to the neighbors or let them come to me? I’m stuck pondering on the thought until I hear a knock at the door. I wonder if my lost boxes have mysteriously arrived.

Opening the door, I’m greeted with an older woman, holding out a small cake into my space.

“Hi dear, I’m your neighbor to the right. Heard all the commotion, saw all the boxes. I had to see for myself the fresh meat in the complex,” She paused before lightly tapping my arm with her free hand. “Just teasing! It’s great to have another lady on this level. The young man to your left, handsome fella, never comes out much though. Hopefully, we can have a girl posse or something,” Her posh accent made her much different than me. Is it wrong to already feel isolated?

I grin at her, moving out of the way to invite her in. “Nice to meet you, feel free to come in. I apologize for all the boxes scattered around, moving has been proven to not be quite my talent,”

The woman smiles brightly at me, shock plastered on her face. “You’re American!”

“That I am,” I chuckle. She hands me the cake, which I gladly accept. My diet has consisted of soggy hash browns from the complex lobby. She makes her way to what is settled in the living room, politely setting herself on my suede blue couch across from the large wall in the room. I place the cake on my counter by the stove, making a mental note to grab a slice once the woman leaves.

The shock never leaves her aged face, “Oh goodness! How amazing. I have a foreigner as my neighbor. You’ll find London quite lovely. I know how it feels to be isolated and removed from what you’re used to, but I promise you’ll fit right in,” She says as I settle myself on the loveseat a bit away from the couch.

“Where are you from?” I ask. She obviously isn’t American.

She smiles, “Just a bit east of Surrey. South of London. Beautiful area, grew up on a small cottage,” The woman was glowing as she spoke of her hometown. She was obviously proud of where she grew up. Compared to my southern Arizona town, this place seemed like heaven. A cottage? Sign me up.

“Sounds lovely,” I speak truthfully.

“Welp,” The woman slaps her laps, a way of signaling it’s time to end the conversation. Despite only speaking for a small amount of time, she seems like someone I can come to if I ever have questions about London or the terminology that I hear around the city. I’ll need to remember that she’s the neighbor to the right. As she began to see herself out, I remembered the other neighbor she mentioned. The young man to the left. I believe she used the term ‘handsome fella’ to describe him. Once she was out in the hall, I felt the need to find out more information.

“Oh!” I shout, hanging myself out into the hallway. She pauses her steps, turning back to me. “By the way, who’s my other neighbor? The guy you were telling me about. Does he have a name?” I ask.

“Greg,” She nods, resuming her short walk back to her apartment.

Greg. Ugly name.

I completely forgot about the conversation by dinner time. As I was munching down on my cake, delicious by the way, I heard loud yelling from my right side. I wouldn’t even call it yelling, more like high-pitched screaming. Who was my neighbor over there again? Greg? Greg. He was causing a ruckus and a mere heart attack at that. He was screaming so loud I nearly jumped out of my skin the first time I heard it. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he’s facing a very, very gruesome murder right now. Well, I guess I don’t know any better. I’m just wishing for the very best.

Another hour passes. The yelling never stops. It’s only 8, but my body is as awake as ever. I still have yet to get used to the new time zone. At times it was difficult, but I’m using it to my advantage now. I have some extra time to unpack and get my actual bed ready. My bed frame was put together professionally during lunch, so that was one thing checked off my list. The mattress I ordered was delivered yesterday. Now it was just the matter of putting the sheets on and preparing my duvet.

Fitted sheets fucking suck to put on a bed. I was currently struggling to put it on my nice mattress. It was edging close to 10 pm. The sky was dark, and I was stuck in some odd mixture of a starfish and the downward dog position. If this moment was a picture, it could be used for blackmail. The closer I got to finally getting the top right corner on my bed, the more stretched out I became. I was like one of those sticky hands you’d get in those toy dispensers at the grocery store. I was just about to get it, when another loud shriek could be heard. In shock, I slammed my head on the bed frame and lost grip of all four corners of the sheet.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mumbled underneath my breath.

Whatever. He probably has a greater reason to be screaming like this, right? Justified shouting, whatever you want to call it. My bedroom is closer to his apartment than the kitchen was. Is it nosey to try to figure out what he’s saying? I don’t want to be that type of neighbor. I’ll continue minding my business because I don’t want to find out some weird shit about Greg that I don’t want to know.

The screaming never stopped.

In fact, if anything, it got louder. And louder. And louder. Is it okay to call the cops here?

It’s midnight now. The next fucking day. And Greg is still screaming at the top of his lungs as if everyone else isn’t asleep. If I saw some normal citizen just trying to get some rest, I’d be fed up. Well, I’m still fed up. I’m also running on a messed-up sleep schedule, so it’s not like I was trying to sleep anyways. My bed is made now, and comfy as hell. I built a shelf to house some of my small decorations, with the entertainment of my noisy neighbor’s yells to accompany me. For some odd reason, it made me feel less lonely.

At about 2, I began to reject the company. I felt irritation grow in my chest as I heard the same high-pitched shrieks that I heard at 8. The annoyance that bubbled in me overtook my politeness. Before I knew it, I was up and in the hallway banging on his door. I didn’t have the time to care about my Daffy Duck pajamas sticking to my legs due to the heatwave hitting England right now. Before I even realize it, my fist is slamming on his door. I never knew I had the power to knock that hard, but my anger and blossoming resentment overpowered me. I continued banging until the door pulled away from its frame. Now I’m face to face with Greg.

Boy was he handsome.

I was met with a man, about 5 foot 9. His dark brown hair was disheveled. Strands of hair laid across his forehead messily. If he wasn’t screaming, I would’ve thought he was sleeping. He was wearing a fluorescent green hoodie with an odd smile plastered on the front. It was a bit large for his skinny frame, that’s unimportant though. His grey sweatpants were twisted on his legs. What the fuck was he doing? His face was delicately shaped. This jawline looks sharp yet fragile like it was constructed of the most fragile rose crystal I’d ever seen. His brown eyes reminded me of caramel, thick and way too easy to get lost in.

“Hi, uh Greg-” I start. I’m just realizing now how close I am to him. The scent of his spearmint gum floods my nostrils. It’s a bit powerful, crinkling my nose at the smell. It wasn’t gross, just very shocking.

“George,” He spat. That’s fucking embarrassing. I’m meeting him for the first time and I got his name wrong. I’m not taken aback for long though, because his attitude oozing from his simple correction was enough to disgust me. I’ve done nothing wrong to him, except maybe get his name wrong. Was my moving too much of a nuisance to him? Poor little British thing, he can deal with it.

I cringe, “Oh, um, sorry.”

He leans into the door frame, sweatshirt adjusting to the movement. Forget a tiny bit large, he was swimming in this thing. “Yeah, no problem. Can I help you or are you selling girl scout cookies at,” George checks his watch. “2 in the morning. If you are, I’m not interested, sorry ‘bout that,” His outfit makes me feel a lot less aware of mine. Despite his face being rather attractive, the outfit makes him look like he just rolled out of bed.

“Oh, yeah. I was wondering if you could lower the volume a bit, please. Or just stop screaming entirely, if possible. I don’t know if you have some weird shouting fetish, but I certainly don’t,” I chuckle. George, however, doesn’t chuckle. Actually, he looks rather unamused. If a human was an art museum, it would be George. Curling into a ball and falling into an endless void doesn’t sound too awful right now. I think I’ll add that to my itinerary. I’ll do it in my bed so I’m at least comfortable while I’m drowning in my own self-pity.

He grimaces, “Yeah. Sure.”

He’s blunt. Got it.

The second I turn my back to the door, it slams. Wow. What a cunt. Shaking the interaction off, I begin to feel the wear and tear of the day beginning to hit me. Moving all those boxes made my muscles ache. The solution to all my problems today seems to be going to bed. Not that I’m not okay with that, just funny. The day before I left for London, you’d think I was shocked by lightning. The electricity that was running through my veins was no match for any ADHD medicine the FDA had ever approved. Now, my body is beginning to fall victim to the earlier time zone. Not that it was a big deal, it was going to happen eventually. These next few days would just entail a difficult sleeping schedule. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.

I quickly find my way back to my own bedroom. The yelling was quieter, but I could still hear George through the thin walls. He was murmuring to someone softly. This apartment complex was all 1 bedroom apartments. He didn’t live alone. How lovely! I made a fool of myself to him, and he was most definitely telling his partner right now. Talk about dignity, am I right?

I scrolled through my phone for an hour, before the screaming returned to its original volume. Would it be overdramatic to say I felt my face go red with anger? I don’t think so. I think I handled the situation as politely as I could. Hell, I even cracked a joke so he could know I wasn’t that upset over the situation! If I knew he was going to resume his disruptive noises, I wouldn’t have been so nice or absolutely hilarious. Nobody that douchey gets my amazing humor. He didn’t even laugh! I hear another shout followed by a slam to a desk. What the fuck is wrong with this guy?

Welp. Welcome to London!

[3xm-draconic]

jjbla part 3

Chapter 3: Discovery.

Valentine had several bad habits, one of which was sneaking out to have a midnight snack. After the others had turned in for the night, Funny silently got out of bed, he didn’t worry about being quiet for his footsteps made no sound.

As he walked to the kitchen Funny remembered a rather comical time his quietness had gotten him in trouble, when Funny had still been president and living in the whitehouse, his wife Scarlet loved to walk around the halls and chat with visitors. He remembers accidentally scaring poor Scarlet when he had walked around a corner and bumped right into her, of course he found the whole ordeal rather hilarious… Scarlet however did not.

Funny stopped at the end of the bedroom hallway and suppressed a chuckle, since that day Scarlet had never let him live it down and even tried to bell him like a cat.

It was memories like this that started off sweet only to turn bitter in the end… he missed Scarlet.

Finally entering the kitchen, Funny turned on the light and immediately saw something small scurry out of his sight, “what was that?” he pondered “I hope it’s not a mouse or else Kira will go ballistic”, he carefully crept over to the breadbox where he had last seen it.

Peaking out of the breadbox he could see a bit of silvery-white fur, “better capture and get rid of it before anyone else sees” Funny quietly grabbed an empty poptart box and waited to capture the mouse, soon enough he saw the tiny intruder and when it had left the safety of the breadbox…SLAM! Funny caught it with the poptart box. “HA caught you, you little vermin” Funny growled proudly, “AHH! No no no please, please don’t kill me!”, Funny heard a small frightened child-like voice cry from within the box.

Funny stood there for a moment perplexed by what he had just heard “did… did the mouse just speak?” Funny carefully scooped up the talking creature into the poptart box and… from what he saw… it was no mouse, it was a small dirty child with pointy bunny-like ears and a thin pink tail with a tuffit of silvery-white fur on the end.

“THIS IS IT, I- I AM GOING TO DIE!” Mirtillo’s heart thudded in her chest, “their going to crush me into past or chop me into little bits for stew or…or…th-their going to eat me whole!” Mirtillo began to cry, hiccuping sobs racked her little body.

The top of her cardboard cage opened letting in the almost blinding light and she saw him, the monster who would ultimately bring her untimely demise, a tallfolk.

Among the many bizarre things Valentine has experienced in his life, finding a tiny rabbit-mouse-child in a breadbox was strangely not one of them, well until now anyway.

Honestly Valentine felt a little bad for scaring her, “h-hey now it’s ok I won't hurt you” Funny said trying to seem less threatening as possible, sadly it did not work.

She was just inconsolably sobbing at the bottom of the box and pleading with him to not eat her, why the hell would she think that? “It’s alright, I'm going to let you out now so we can talk ok?”, there was no answer and if there was one Valentine couldn’t hear it over all the crying.

Mirtillo felt the monster put her down back onto the counter, “this is my chance to run!”She ran from the box as fast as she could and attempted to get in the space between the counter and the fridge, “hey wait!” she heard the tallfolk’s voice boom behind her.

In her hast Mirtillo didn’t see the larger gap between the counters, she tripped and got her leg jammed in the gap the sharp edges cut her fiercely, she screamed and tried desperately to get out but she only succeeded in injuring her leg further.

“Stop it, you're hurting yourself!” Valentine said as he gently grabbed hold of the tiny child and carefully lifted her out of her painful predicament, he delicately held her between his first finger and his thumb “now will you calm down and let me see how badly you’ve hurt yourself? otherwise I can’t help you”.

She quieted down and seemed to watch him intently, as he examined her leg he saw it was not too badly injured altho the bleeding did concern him, “I'm sorry I scared you, can you tell me your name?”, she didn’t answer and just stared at him shaking and crying.

“My name is Funny Valentine, what is yours little one?”

“My name, why would he ask me my name?” Mirtillo wondered, “do all tallfolk ask us our names before eating us, is it some kind of ritual?” she kept quiet as he examined her leg “if I don’t tell him my name then… maybe he can’t eat me?”

Mirtillo shuttered as he held her tightly and began to walk out of the kitchen and towards the hallway, “wh-where is he taking me?!” she sobbed as he brought her into a strange room. It was decorated with old pictures, beer cans stacked into a pyramid in one corner, little green toy soldiers littered about the place and a strange tapestry hanging over the bed, it had red and white stripes and stars in one corner over a blue background, she had never seen anything like it. “So this is where tallfolk sleep… it’s a mess ”

“I know I have some bandages somewhere in here” he grumbled as he ransact through his nightstand drawer, he proceeded to take out several objects which included sticks with cotton on each end, a small bottle labeled ‘hand sanitizer’ and a few small bandaids.

“Oh no” Mirtillo whimpered “what is he going to do to me now?”

Valentine took the small bottle of hand sanitizer and coated a few q tips with it “now this is going to sting a little but trust me it helps clean your wounds, ok little mouse” but trying to clean the cuts on her leg were easier said than done, she screamed nonstop and eventually Valentine had to stick a cotton ball in her mouth to keep her from waking his roommate, Diego.

Once he had cleaned up her leg he took out the smallest bandages he had in his travel first aid kit and bandaged up the wound, “see? all better little mouse” he smiled. The mouse-rabbit-child seemed calmer now, she inspected his work and seemed perplexed as to why he had helped her, “it’s getting late now kid why don’t you get some shut eye hmm?”

Valentine gently placed her in a small empty shoe box he kept under his bed, this would keep her safe and hidden from the others, “night little one” he said gently as he hid the box back under his bed and behind a box of MREs. “Now” Valentine thought “what the FUCK do I tell the others?”

[webslingingslasher]

break your fingeEeeEErssss anon i just listened to it over and over and figured out the lyrics. the reason you couldn't understand them is because they don't make sense 😭😭😭

send me an anon if you want me to tell you them 😭😭😭😭

[fuckyeahscienceparty]

Recovery

Medic's not exactly having a great day. Engie tries to negate that.

-

platonic followup to smth i wrote a lil bit ago B') but i don't have to read the other thing to get the jist.

[also on ao3!]

-

Medic bumbled into the kitchen that afternoon, still upset at himself over BLU's narrow loss earlier that day that had almost definitely been exacerbated by his absence in the time it took the cart to go from the second to fourth checkpoint.

While the rest of his team were only mildly troubled by their failings, insisting that without a doubt they'd get RED good next time, he was honestly more than prepared to throw himself a pity party for 1, having already abandoned his uniform for an old tshirt and pajama shorts even though it was currently only about 5 pm.

As Medic rummaged through the cupboard to find their rather banged up kettle, BLU's Engineer whistled his way in, opening the fridge to grab the half empty pitchers of sweet tea and lemonade he'd prepared earlier that week.

"Callin' it in early tonight?" Engie chuckled as Medic shuffled past him to open the breadbox and see what teas (rather than baked goods) they still had, Engie himself reaching for one of the recently dried cups lingering on the counter from breakfast that morning.

"Mm," was all that came from Medic in reply, Engie giving him a slightly concerned glance as he flipped through the different tea bags they had available.

When he'd decided that lavender flavored earl grey would do, he went over to the sink to fill the kettle with enough water for a decently sized cup, neither of them speaking as Medic put it on to boil and Engie poured equal parts lemonade and tea into his glass.

After adding a few ice cubes and a straw to fill it to the top, Engie cleared his throat to get Medic's attention, the good doctor himself seemingly displeased by the fact that his staring contest with the stove had been interrupted.

"You doin' alright, Doc?" He hedged, Medic merely letting out a curt "fine" before going back to staring at his barely warmed up water. Engie pouted slightly before taking a sip of his Arnold Palmer.

"You sure? I didn't see you for a while during battle earlier, what happened?" He asked, leaning against the table behind him. Medic blinked.

"You... you noticed?"

"Shuck, course I did. Hard not to notice that your buddy's gone missing when he's normally playing lord and savior for your gaggle of teammates who have a tendency to face death with a devil may care attitude," He chuckled, Medic's cold expression thawed slightly by the fact that Engie had called him his... buddy.

"It's fine, don't worry about it," He sighed, going into another cupboard to look for a mug once he'd heard a faint bubbling sound.

"No, really, what happened? I got a little worried for you," Engie insisted gingerly. Medic paused, almost taken aback by his sincerity.

"Well if you must know, it was purely out of my own idiocy," He said as he pulled out a mug with a rather cute image of a dove on it.

"Uhuh?..."

"...I was trying to get a health kit for myself. I insisted that Soldier go on without me because I'm more than capable of catching up and I rather moronically assumed all the REDs were already ahead of us and that if there was anyone there, I could handle myself just fine. To what should not have been my surprise, their Heavy had been lagging behind and shot me a few times before leaving me to bleed out and wait for respawn."

"Jeez Doc, I'm sorry," Engie winced, Medic scoffing in response.

"Don't be. It was completely my fault. If I hadn't been such a dumbass and either sucked up my injuries or asked Soldier to come with me, I wouldn't have gotten myself killed. I still can't believe I'd been so stupid."

"Hey now, don't talk about yourself like that," Engie frowned as Medic began to avoid his gaze. "You got caught off guard. It happens to the best of us."

"But that's the thing- I'm supposed to be the best of us. I'm not supposed to get caught off guard. Like you said, I'm the 'lord and savior' of this team, if I can't even keep myself alive then what kind of useless Medic am I?" Medic carped bitterly, internally grimacing when he realized he was really leaning into the whole pity party ordeal now.

He frankly expected Engie to get annoyed with him, to leave him to wallow in his own bitchiness and self pity as he took the kettle off of the stove when it began to whistle and poured all the water into his cup. He wouldn't have blamed him if he was honest, he was getting pretty annoyed with himself right now.

...But he didn't. He stayed put, his voice going into that gentle tone that made Medic feel guilty he would even think such a thing of his best friend.

"You're not useless. You're human. And humans make mistakes, Feathers, whether we like it or not. Best thing you can do is try and learn from 'em and move on. Best any of us can do, really."

Engie paused to give Medic time to absorb what he'd said, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I'm gonna head to the workshop, I gotta get my sentry repaired and prepped for tomorrow. If you wanna drop by and chat or just sit with me while I work, my doors are always open. But if not, that's fine too. Whatever makes you feel better. And you're always welcome to come 'round my dispenser if you ever need a pick me up during battle, ok?" Engie said as he gently pulled Medic in for a hug.

Medic felt his chest tighten in a way he wasn't exactly used to. Kind as his teammates were once you got to know them, it wasn't often he'd been offered palpable generosity like this. He hugged back, silently relishing the feeling of Engie's arms being wrapped around him.

When he eventually (and reluctantly) pulled away, he took a breath, his next words coming out in more of a whisper than he intended them to.

"...Ok. Thank you, Herr Engineer. I will most likely come by."

"Any time, hun. I'll put up a chair for you, you come by whenever you want," Engie said, giving his shoulder a final pat before grabbing his drink and heading out of the kitchen to leave Medic alone with his tea and his thoughts.

After washing the kettle and mixing in a bit of milk and sugar into his cup, he found himself standing in front of the workshop door, peering in to see its usual inhabitant singing softly under his breath as he opened one of the compartments and poured out all the collected empty bullet casings into a larger bucket of various brass scraps so he could use them for something else later.

As promised, there was an empty chair next to him, that tightening feeling coming back to Medic's chest as he made his way in.

Engie looked up at him as he did so, giving him a warm smile as he reached for his screwdriver so he could pop open the top and put in new rounds.

Medic, meanwhile sat down in his spot, leaning over momentarily to bonk his head against Engie's before taking a sip out of his still scalding cup.

Engie chuckled, moving his own chair a little closer to Medic's so that he could bump his shoulder before continuing his handiwork, the two of them enjoying each others' company in relative silence in a way that best friends often did.

After a while, Engie started singing to himself again, tapping his tools and fingers against his sentry in place of beats or actual instruments. Watching him be so content and enthusiastic about his work, Medic couldn't help but relax, continuing to sip at his tea and occasionally humming back at him, much to Engie's delight.

Eventually, when Engie had moved on to other weapon maintenance, they started talking and joking around with each other instead, Engie smiling whenever he managed to make Medic laugh and Medic resting his chin on Engie's shoulder every time he leaned over to get a better look at his progress.

And sure, the two of them would have to part eventually and Medic would inevitably have another bad day (or several) on the battlefield, but in that moment where it was just they two of them and Medic's self doubts temporarily healed, they were all that mattered to each other.

And what a wonderful thing that was.

[cablesscutie]

ZKDD Day 11: Falling With You

The wind howls in her ears, chills her to the bone.  Katara has to scream to be heard as she asks, “Is this really how I die?  At terminal velocity, strapped to a stranger’s crotch?”  

The skydiving instructor, Zuko, simply says, “No,” and turns her around so he can clip the carabiner on the front of his harness onto the back of hers.  Katara has climbed enough glaciers back home with Sokka to know that this should be a very secure hold.  Belaying each other up and down sheer faces of rock and ice, the ropes and clips had always held, but something about this particular death-defying endeavor has her questioning it.

“Well, you can’t guarantee we’re not about to die - you made me sign a whole bunch of forms just in case we do!”  She digs in her heels a little when he starts walking her towards the open door of the plane.

“Katara, I’ve been doing this for years and I’ve been perfectly fine every time.  We have a parachute, and if that fails - which I’d like to point out has never happened to me - there is a backup parachute.  You’re going to be fine, unless you continue to refuse to let me do my job, because I can promise you that is precisely how accidents happen.”  Katara gulps and relaxes her legs a little, letting herself be pushed onward when he tries again.

“I still feel like I’m gonna die!” she shouts as Zuko flashes his sister and her dour-faced co-pilot a thumbs up and starts counting down.

“Three!  That’s normal. It’ll stop soon.  Two!”

“Well yeah, everything stops when you’re dead.”  

He doesn’t have a reply to that, and instead yells, “One!” He hoists her up by the harness like she’s in a baby bjorn, and steps over the edge of the plane and into nothing.

For perhaps the first ten seconds of the fall, Katara maintains that she is right, and this is the end.  Curiosity killed the Kat and all - spirits, Sokka better not make that joke at my funeral.

But after that, something strange happens.  The racing of her heart no longer feels like fear.  It feels like the familiar rush of exhilaration she gets staring down at the ground far below her on a climb, but magnified by the extremity of the height and the breathtaking speed.  They’re going too fast for her to even scream, the air ripped right out of her lungs the moment she opened her mouth, so she snaps it shut again.  She doesn’t know at what elevation you start swallowing bugs, but she doesn’t want to find out.  It’s an indescribable feeling, plummeting through midair like this, and she finds herself grateful for Zuko’s presence at that moment if for no other reason than she thinks had she been alone, she might’ve been too overwhelmed to remember to pull the cord on the parachute.

Just as he’d promised, the first chute unfurls without a hitch.  Katara’s body jerks against the harness, and the carabiner holds, just like it has on all of Zuko’s past jumps and Katara’s climbs.  Relief washes through her as their descent slows, and is able to focus on more than just her body in the air.  Spread out below them are rolling green hills, the snow-capped mountains in the distance blue and misty, roads criss-crossing.  She can feel Zuko pulling at the parachute to help them drift towards a flat field that must be their landing target.  Katara just catalogs the details of the scenery as they appear - one of the roads revealing itself to be a river sparkling in the sun, the sight of rooftops in towns emerging from smatterings of tree canopies.  

She does not even realize there had been such an absence of sound until she finds the static of the moving world fading back in like a lost radio station, and she finds that this whole time there has been no sound but wind and the beating of her heart.  Despite the loudness, it is perhaps the closest thing to true silence she has ever experienced.  The thought of having hurtled through all that nothing entirely alone sends a shudder through her, and she is grateful for Zuko’s presence in an entirely different way.  Of course, that is when he has to ruin it by saying,

“I told you so.”

“Don’t say that yet, we haven’t cleared the power lines.”

“You do realize that in order to win this argument, we’d have to die?”

“You really know how to ruin a moment, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”  He keeps his mouth shut after that though, dutifully steering them.  When he speaks next, it’s just to tell her to “Soften your knees,” as they skim just above the grass in the landing field.

Her feet hit first, his just a second behind, which is another good thing, because it has apparently taken all of five minutes for Katara’s legs to forget how to hold her upright.  When her knees buckle, rather than letting the harness catch her, Zuko grabs her elbows and holds her steady as she gets her feet under herself.  It somehow seems a more difficult task now that she can feel his warm body pressed all along her back and feels the firm grip of his fingers.

The touch is gone just as fast as it had come.  The next thing she knows, there’s the clink of the carabiner being released, and the subtle tension that had been binding them makes itself known just as it vanishes.  She blames the urge to pull him back on the euphoria washing over her as the adrenaline catches up.  Later, she may blame that same rush for why she blurts, “We never bet anything.”  Zuko looks up from where he’s gathering the chute into a ball against his chest.

“What?” he asks.

“On whether we were going to die or not.”  She shrugs.  “Kind of feels like the sort of thing people bet on.”

“Well, that’s sort of settled now, I guess,” he says, flashing her a smile through his helmet.

“Still, I feel like you should win something besides ‘not death’.”  He pulls his helmet off then, tucking it under his arm and ruffling a hand through his hair.  She does the same so they can see each other’s faces properly as he approaches her.

“Doesn’t seem fair that I get to be the winner and decide my own prize, so.  What did I win?”  Katara makes a show of thinking about it.  Her heart is hammering like she’s falling again, and she suddenly doesn’t know if she should do what her over-hyped brain is trying to tell her to do.  When she takes too long, Zuko gets a nervous but hopeful expression on his face.  He’s stuttering a bit when he asks, “Is - uh - is it bigger than a, um, breadbox?”  Katara laughs at him, because he’s terrible at whatever he’s trying to do here, but she hopes what he’s trying to do is flirt.  It seems likely, given the shy smile and pink start of a blush.

“I guess it depends on what part you consider the prize,” she says, feeling like she’s finally got some of her own back.  “Let me buy you a drink.”

@zkdrabbledecember

[justjessame]

Starting Over Chapter 33

Waking up in Bucky’s arms was something that I truly wanted to get used to - And the way he was grabbing me a little tighter as he woke up, snuggling deeper into my neck and shoulder, kissing his way to full wakefulness, I had a feeling he was all in.  

“Morning,” I murmured as his kisses grew less drowsy and more hungry.  Biting my lip, my back arched so I met his heat, and then I was rolling over my hands searching for his neck as our lips were meeting - magnets, tongues tasting one another and I really liked our new normal. 

Bucky’s teeth nipped at my lower lip as he slid into my warmth, giving me the freedom to make those noises that he’d told me he loved hearing.  He didn’t need to help my legs find purchase around his hips, his left hand was planted on the mattress beside my head while his right was sliding through my hair.  

“I won’t break,” I promised, reminding him that he could control it, that he had before - that the bruises that came weren’t unwanted or unmanageable.  

A small shift and his left hand was on my hip, holding me steady as the tempo took on a less leisurely pace.  His mouth returned to mine, and then he rolled, putting me above him - his idea of a compromise, but I rocked against him and he growled, making me smile against his lips.  Both of his hands slid up my body, along my sides and then, skin and metal, both were cupping my breasts and I broke our kiss as I gasped at the duality of it.  Our eyes met and I watched as he finally seemed to grasp it - that I loved ALL of him.  He shifted and my back met our mattress and our lips were pressed together as his hands, both of them, slid down my body to move my legs back into place around his hips.  And then they rose along my body again, and I felt certain, as we moved together - that Bucky understood that I wanted ALL of him all the time.  

Breakfast was - different.  When we were in Louisiana we ate at the diner, well we did when we managed to get out of bed in time.  We’d only had breakfast once before he’d gone off to be a hero before that - So this was a different situation for us.

“Sit,” he pushed me toward my kitchen table and I raised an eyebrow.  “Please?” He softened it with a kiss on my nose and holding out my chair.  

“Are you actually planning on cooking breakfast or are you just going to hand me leftovers from Romeo’s?”  I asked, watching as he walked back to the fridge in his t-shirt and boxers.  “I’m fine with either, by the way, I just want to know what to expect.”  I didn’t want to give Bucky a complex, hell half the time I ate leftover whatever for breakfast.  

“Hush,” he shot me a look over his shoulder and I contemplated telling him to forget breakfast, I’d rather just have another order of him, heavy on the protein. Dear GOD, what was he MADE of?  I watched as he took stock of my fridge’s contents.  “I think you have everything I need -” He started pulling out stuff, carton of eggs, milk, cheese, some veggies that I fucking hoped were still edible - “Where do you keep your bread?”  

“If it’s still good?”  I pointed to the breadbox.  He nodded.  “There should be some English muffins in the pull out drawer in the -” he went back to the fridge and gave a little woot of excitement.  “The butter is in there too.” I added helpfully.  I watched him pull both out.  “I’m guessing we’re having an omelet?”  

He hummed, moving with more confidence through OUR kitchen now that he saw that I was at ease with him using it.  He found a frying pan, a spatula, a whisk, a knife - which he did a flip with that made my clean panties grow slightly damp doing - a bowl.  I watched as he worked, thinking that he moved like a dancer, silent, but also effortlessly.  He had the omelet going to almost finished before he popped our English muffins in the toaster.  He knew what he was doing, I’d give him that.  

“Should I ask how you know how to do this?”  I asked, moving over to wrap my arms around him from the back and pressing my cheek against his spine.  

His hands covered mine and I heard his contented sigh because my ear was so close to his skin.  “It’s not really classified information, Brooke.”  I chuckled.  “Omelets, toast?”  He shrugged.  “Everyone’s gotta eat, right?”  

I nodded, snuggling into him, breathing him in.  “Yeah, but it’s not fair if you’re good at EVERYTHING, Bucky Barnes.”  That got him laughing.  “I’m sure you’re going to say Steve would tell me ALL the things you’re NOT good at, but he’s not here, and Sam is not really unbiased.”  

“Guess not,” his hands moved and I knew he was flipping our breakfast.  “Gonna let me go so we can eat?”

“No,” I murmured.  “But I’ll unwrap my arms while we eat.”  

First of all, Bucky Barnes can freaking COOK.  Who knew? Well I do NOW.  That omelet was amazing and I seriously considered forcing the cooking duties on him from that moment on, but then I thought that would be a shitty thing to do - so breakfast was his from that moment on when he was home - because I think we both knew that he’d eventually be called back to duty.

Second of all, we had a reprieve from Connie, but that wasn’t gonna last forever. In fact, it barely lasted a full 24 hours once I got to our house.  We finished breakfast and my cell phone gave the alert that I had a text, then it rang because she has all the chill of a house on fire.  

“Hello, Connie,” I had her on speaker and I knew she knew it.  “I haven’t read your text yet, so let’s hear it.”

“Just checking to see if you two are doing -” she sounded like she wanted gory details of how the two of us were doing, had done, would be doing soon, and if there was a video just in case my memory was lacking.  “Oh -” I heard Joey’s voice in the background, squinting I wondered what fucking time it was.  “Joey wanted me to ask, before he runs out to work, do you guys wanna come over tonight for a tiny get together?”  

“Tiny?” My eyes were narrowed at the phone and Bucky’s were wide.  “How tiny, Connie?”  

“Oh, you know, just some of the old crowd.” She was being a little too vague for me.  “We’re so excited that you’re being more social that we wanted to celebrate.”  I looked up at Bucky and he was grinning. 

“And I’m sure it has NOTHING to do with one Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes moving in with me, right?”  Bucky looked like he might end up cracking a rib soon from holding back his mirth, go figure.  “Why don’t you ask HIM if he wants to attend this ‘tiny get together’, Connie?” 

The phone went so silent I had to check to see if Connie had disconnected our little chat.  I could see the seconds ticking by that proved she was still on the call - biting my lip I shared a look with Bucky.  

“Do I get an invite?”  Bucky had joined me at the counter, having loaded the dishwasher with our breakfast dishes, and clearly wanting to poke at my best friend as much as I did.  “Or is this an ‘old gang only’ kind of shindig?”  

His arms went around me and he was staring down at me, lips quirked in a grin that I mirrored as we waited for Connie to regain her ability to speak.  “No,” I snorted and Connie groaned.  “I mean, it’s not just an old gang thing - fu-” I heard her cover the phone with her hand and I knew she was promising her little mafia shakedown princess to put some cash in the swear jar after nearly dropping the f-bomb.  “Yeah, Bucky, of course you’re invited.” Connie came back on the line and ALMOST sounded normal - almost.  “I mean, if you’re not busy - doing Avenger type things.” Her voice faded toward the end and I swear both Bucky and I could FEEL her burning blush from her house.  

“Wow, yeah,” Bucky’s laugh lines were in full force around his eyes and his teeth gleamed in a full grin.  “Sounds great, Connie.”  I shook my head, I’d rather eat paint.  “We’ll be there.”  

I rolled my eyes, but he convinced me with a soft kiss.  Fine, I’d give in graciously - for HIM.  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I murmured when I pulled back.  “I guess we’ll be there.”  

Connie gave an ungodly squeal and I considered a pitstop by the church to ask if the priest would come with - just in case she needed an exorcism.  “Awesome!  You’re gonna have so much fun seeing everyone - AND meeting everyone, Bucky!” She started talking a mile a minute and I felt my head spinning while I tried to keep up.  Jesus.  I finally cut in to remind her that Bucky still had to unpack and I had to - well I had to do THINGS.  “Right, of course - Just come around 6, ok?”  I assured her we would and then told her I loved her, while doubting the force of my affection as I hung up.  

“She’s excited to have you back,” Bucky soothed, seeing how exhausted I felt after the call.  “Steve was like that too - sort of.”  He squinted, thinking back.  

“Yeah, I have a feeling that he was a little less bouncy while he had you locked down in that vise, Buck.”  He chuckled.  “But, since we are now being forced to spend the evening with my -” I swallowed hard.  “There is something I want to show you BEFORE you unpack.”  

He looked down at me with curiosity, but also trust.  Good, because what I was going to show him wasn’t BAD.  Grabbing the keys to the shed, I pulled him out the backdoor.  “You got something creepy in your shed, Brooke?”  He was teasing, but I wanted to show him the car - and I also wanted to offer him something else.

[mekatrio]

Have you watched this?

https://youtu.be/AF8KGdV92ag?si=ccE042UR1LbURuZV

no i have not... but i did just for you anon. usually i avoid will stetson vids cuz his translyrics often piss me off LOL. im aware the translyrics from this vid are written by breadbox rather than him, but his remind blue vid w translyrics by breadbox also pissed me off so....

also u didnt ask for my opinions but i love to blabber so im putting down my opinions 😋 it also ended up long af woops so sticking it under a read more

first off, wow will stetson has rly improved his vocals. ive listened to a few of his recent covers and hes way better nowadays than in this one. the high notes are kinda kicking his ass here, but thats fair. LTM is not an easy song to sing.

that aside this concept is very interesting.. since the lyrics are by breadbox, its very illuminating to see how he interprets the manga and ayano's character in general. which is important to me bc i am aware that he's like the only? kagepro youtuber out there i think.. or at least the most popular. meaning his content and interpretations have shaped recent english-speaking public opinion of kgpr's narrative whether for better or worse. and i care abt that kind of shit

OK ENOUGH NITPICKING THE CREATORS LOL um my thoughts on this entire video: most of it is very standard bread and butter ayano interpretation (sacrificing herself for her everyone etc etc), but its pretty interesting to me that they chose to expand on route m konoha's and ayano's relationship, which was something that was very, very barely touched on in the manga. like konoha gets fucking possessed and ayano doesnt say a word abt that like LOL this manga is.... yeah. its interesting that they wrote their relationship as konoha worrying about ayano, but ayano feeling like he is unable to relate to her. i dont necessarily agree or disagree with that interpretation cuz its something i hvnt really thought about, but i find that to be an interesting interpretive choice.

also the second verse + chorus is pretty confusing bc the verse references konoha and ayano, but then the chorus jumps back to ayano from two years ago cuz the chorus is "Girl, 16" (ayano is 18 in the present day of route m). tho i guess the manga never really specifies how long konoha and ayano had known each other??? so maybe they met when ayano was 16??? god this vid is making me very confused abt the manga LOLLL

i will say tho that the last chorus was very confusing to me. bc it showed LTM ayano, i was under the impression that it was about a route 1 ayano? but i was confused, cuz the lyrics were "Girl, 18", and no route 1 ayano ever makes it to 18 (also when i say route 1 ayano i just mean any ayano whose part of the yuukei quartet + jumps off the roof etc etc). but after a few rewatchs, im pretty sure the last chorus is about yakitsu. i really wish they didnt use a pic of LTM ayano then, theres plenty of good pics of yakitsu from the last chapter of the manga they couldve used instead.

i get why they would believe that LTM ayano is yakitsu tho. thats cuz this is something that still isnt fully agreed on among fans, cuz even after 10 fucking years no one actually understands what LTM's mv is about LMAO. personally i think white dress ayano = yakitsu. and i think the ayano in LTM is just.... ayano from that route, not from route m. why she disappears tho.. um... hm......

but yeah interesting video, gave me much to think about... a bit too much to think about. cuz now im thinking about LTM and how that like.... makes no sense....... kinda..

[hannigramficrecs]

AU

The Long Con by harleygirl2648 [words: 19,039]

Con Artist/Thieves AU: Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter are both interested in acquiring a Botticelli, but both of them are quite fond of each other's short games. For both of them, it's the deception and thrill of the game that's worth more than the payout. And well, after all, aren't the easiest people to scam are those who think they are smart enough to not get scammed?

Only If For a Night by Wiggitywackwriter [words: 5,323]

Will hires a male escort for a FBI formal function in order to get out of a possible blind date, but mostly to show up the Science Bros.

And This One is Just Right by Sabi [words: 20,910]

When an injured BSHCI escapee breaks into Dr. Graham's vet clinic, it doesn't end cleanly. Surely it couldn't happen again? Or again??

In Sickness and in Health by BonesAndScales [words: 67,450]

Everyone knows that Will and Hannibal are married. Not everyone knows that they are married to each other.

Hidden by Creed Cascade (creedcascade) [words: 7,606]

Will Graham never graduated high school and now that his father is dead, he has nothing. Jack Crawford got Will a dead end job working at the university as a night janitor. Will likes to sneak into to listen to the lectures of Dr. Hannibal Lecter, who definitely notices he is there.

An Engagement by mokuyoubi [words: 4,608]

New Orleans, 2003, a chance meeting between Officer Graham and Doctor Lecter in the emergency room leaves Will curious about what's going on beneath that placid mask of his.

Spare Change, Coffee and Temporary Boyfriends by xyrilyn [words: 4,790]

It all began with Will agreeing to go out drinking with Alana and her friends. Throw in a creepy stalker following him in the pouring rain, a mobile phone with zero battery left, enough spare change for just one public phone call and Will ends up with the shittiest situation he has ever landed himself in. Fearing for his life, Will stumbles into the first phone booth he sees and uses all the coins he has on his person to call Jack for help. And of course, as Fate will have it, Will dials the wrong number and ends up with Hannibal on the other side of the line instead.

This Match Made In Blood by TheSilverQueen [words: 3,680]

Hannibal needs a new secretary, because she was very rude. Will needs a new job, because his boss just turned up as the Chesapeake Ripper’s newest kill. It’s a match made in blood.

Where The Snakes Get Born by coloredink [words: 2,805]

"You've been very honest with me," said Hannibal. "Since our first meeting. Moreso, perhaps, than is wise for an escort." Will shrugged. "You're the one who's paying an obscene amount of money for exclusivity." "I wonder why, that's all," said Hannibal. "How it is that you feel you can speak so freely in my presence."

The New Arrangement by viaorel [words:6,123]

Will and Mischa are best buddies at the FBI Academy and are quite satisfied with being weird together, but one day Will gets a gift lunch from Mischa's older brother, whom he considers to be a strange guy with even stranger tastes. Will is intrigued, Mischa hates the idea of them meeting.

Change of Plans by surrenderdammit for EclecticRegard [words: 1,827]

Mischa would have given her arm to have been there for whatever went down after her brother left their house in an enraged, murderous mood only to return hours later with a dazed look on his face.

A Criminal's Best Asset is His Lie Ability by amoralagent [words: 24,981]

"There's no reason to hurt me, is there?" He spoke again, not expecting an answer, "Do you want to hurt me?" Will quelled a smile, thinking of the night's events. Thieves AU! Will breaks into an apparently empty house, and things don't go according to plan.

What Doesn't Kill You... Will Probably Try Again by amoralagent [words: 30,834]

"I take it introductions aren't your forte." "I take it you get threatened with knives often." Will countered, and Hannibal's mouth did the strange little quirk again that implied a smile, but didn't answer. Serial Killer AU! Will gets into someone's car with a plan to kill them. That plan gets utterly ruined.

That Wilderness So Savage by Winter_of_our_Discontent [words: 6,847]

The professor— Will would bet money he was tenured faculty somewhere— glanced down at Will’s badge, hanging from his neck like a millstone on a lanyard. “Doctor Graham.” “Just Will. I’m, ah, I’m actually just about to defend.” “Hannibal Lecter. Please, call me Hannibal.” Will risked a glance at the man’s eyes as they shook hands. They were deep, and in the fluorescent lighting looked almost burgundy. He looked away before he could see any further. “And what do you study, Will?” “Death,” Will said.

Of a Foreigner's God by saintsavage [words: 2,947]

An AU first meeting leads to some very interesting changes in the lives of Will and Hannibal. Jack isn’t thrilled.

The Back Foot by spqr [words: 8,468]

When Hannibal finds out that the hooker he’s spent the last month romancing up and down the isle of Manhattan is also the author of the NYT’s monthly Dark Minds column, he reacts much the same way Will expects a normal man would react upon finding out his new girlfriend could deep throat.

You Asshole by Devereauxs_Disease [words: 1,219]

After a complication from being stabbed leaves Will deaf, he leaves the New Orleans Police Department and takes a job working at a library. He's gotten used to his new life when a new patron shows up and asks for some lessons in ASL. Will decides to be a tutor for the charming doctor, but did he get more than he bargained for?

The Business of Pleasure by Magnetism_bind [words: 23,888]

Hannibal hires a hooker with the intention of eating him after he’s done fucking him. His plans change when he sees the hooker.

An Amendment to Dinner Plans by GoldenUsagi [words:1,541]

Hannibal is planning to kill someone from his Rolodex, and has made arrangements for them to have car trouble. Except there’s a mix-up, and the man he meets on the roadside is Will Graham—not the man he was planning to kill, and also the most stunning man he’s ever seen.

Ball Toss by raiast [words: 22,307]

The carnival AU no one asked for. Hannibal accompanies Alana to a carnival and meets one Will Graham, whose game booth is less than above board. Hannibal does not approve.

The Birth of Anteros by harleygirl2648 [words: 5,724]

AU: Will Graham takes a leave of absence after an incident in New Orleans, and accepts a position as a profiler for Rinaldo Pazzi on the Il Monstro case.

Every Day a Dying Day by lovetincture [words: 8,210]

Will Graham is a professional mourner. He attends strangers' funerals and grieves their loss, for a fee. Hannibal is a serial killer. He visits the funerals of people he's killed. They notice each other immediately. Like recognizes like, and neither of them truly belong at the funerals they attend. Hannibal is fascinated by Will's terrible empathy, and Will knows immediately that Hannibal is a serial killer. None of that stops them from wanting to get closer.

Going My Way by fragile-teacup (Mrs_Gene_Hunt) [words: 2,746]

Imagine, if you will, a sunny café terrace on a warm autumn morning, where Will Graham is grabbing breakfast ahead of a rather important meeting with his boss and some psychiatrist or other. He looks up and notices that someone is staring at him from a few tables away...

Bigger than a Breadbox by KatherineKrawl [words: 4,083]

Every day at work, Will's lunchbox is filled with decadent creations, prompting questions from curious coworkers. Hoping to solve the matter, he asks Hannibal for a 'simple' sandwich, but quickly learns Hannibal doesn't quite grasp the meaning of this. Or does his boyfriend have an ulterior motive for his lavish lunches?

Tips by luvkurai [words: 1,018]

Hannibal must deal with a few unhappy customers.

2 (25/25)

[insomniac-dot-ink]

Exodus of Suns

My mother has 26 terrariums with glass walls and thick iron covers.

There are 14 plant terrariums with long brown sticks and leafy greens inside, a few with stark white pansy flowers and others with toadstools the color of burnt marshmallows. The things inside float off the ground and bob through the air like tiny suns dancing to some unheard music.

Bright and blinking and kept off the ground by some otherworldly force. I used to stick my face up against the windows in the lab walkways and watch them hide behind the big green leaves. There weren’t any other kids to play with at the labs where we lived and my mom didn’t believe in television. I longed so badly to see what the grown ups were doing in those underground rooms.

I longed so badly to meet those tiny suns.

My mom would tear me away from the glass though and tell me to do my school work. There was never any shortage of school work. Eventually, on my long walks through our home, I would count the things inside the cages.

There are around 9 water terrariums. Most of them had little islands in the middle or a sandy bank off to the side. They don’t like swimming as much as flying I suspected, but these ones would dive underwater all the same and kick around like otters. Their lights go out when they go under and for a moment you can see their tiny forms.

I saw one dive for the first time when I was sneaking in to meet one of the ladies who works for my mom. She promised to play with me if I was good. I had been good. I passed a terrarium the size of a breadbox and just as I passed the little sun dove into the chlorine-blue waters.

We looked at each other through the glass.

Eyes like ink drops. Noses like hacksaws. Grins like anything that’s ever wanted to eat you. It was beautiful. A tiny human with fleshy wings and a chest that glowed from the inside out. It had on a threadbare dress and shows the size of the nail on your pinky toe. I gawked at it as it began to say something.

I didn’t think they could talk.

“What are you doing?” My mom’s worker pushed me. “Go back to your playroom.”

“Wait.” I protested.

“You can’t be in here.” Her face was hard with no entrances in sight.

My mother’s assistants stopped talking to me after that, but I knew something now. I knew what the things inside the terrariums were. The little suns, the lights that blinked, the dancing wisps. 

Fairies. They had to be fairies like from the books. Fairies in dresses and sharp teeth and dancing to music you couldn’t hear.

And I knew, without having to speak with them, that they were hungry.

There was one type of terrarium I never got to see. Those ones you had to handle with thick gloves and entire silver suits. The fairies in those cages make you sick my mom relented to me once after I badgered her. They give off an energy that crawls under your skin and twists up your insides.

I never went looking for those fairies. Earth, water, sky, and the last ones.

I was nine when I met them, those last ones. They sat in the biggest terrariums with only one enormous fat candle in the middle. The candle dripped golden wax like runny egg yolk and had a thick milky wick that never seemed to go out.

Sitting at the very top, cross-legged, and burning, were the fire fairies. We only had three of them. They sat burning, alight, and with their smiles larger and hungrier than any of the others.

I knew they were all ravenous-- like a pit in your stomach that rumbles and thunders and never lets you rest.

My mom didn’t notice when I was gone from my study room that day. No one noticed because I was meant to be doing workbook after workbook. I had a feeling they didn’t really care what I did though. They didn’t care if I walked off without saying anything as long as I didn’t get in the way.

I let my feet lead me unthinkingly toward the locked doors that opened and closed with a type of angry clanking fury. I put in the codes I had seen my mother write in her notebook and I knew that room would be empty that day.

I knew I might have someone to play with.

The fire fairies had no lids on their cages, but still couldn't fly out. I slid to my knees against the glass and stared into their depthless black eyes. They begin to whisper to me, such terrible things that filled me with wonder.

They began to whisper in language without words and I listened.

I listened to their story of time unwinding and weaving back together, of capsizing ships made of metal and bone, of sleepless armies rising and failing with bloody fields and black birds in their wake. I heard them speak of ages of rust, of ages of ruin, ages that leave gaps between its teeth and twisting vines sprouting from the rot. They told me of new orders that rearrange the world into blooming shapes and new seeds grasping for the sun again and again.

They told me how to sink ships. They told me how to take down those armies. They told me how to darken the world and reshape it with stars and fire at my back. If only I would act, if only I would give into our hunger.

After hours or a lifetime, I stood. I grabbed a hammer. I got to work.

My mother now has no more terrariums left and there are stars and fire at my back.