#thread: a fish hook. an open eye

[in--nagas--name]

Gaius' prayer is homespun and beautiful, like a quilt worn soft over the years. Libra blinks away emotion, magnified a thousandfold with the tender touch of Gaius' fingers.

Libra tried teaching his friend to pray... but this is all Gaius. And oh, how dearly Libra has missed him.

It is his turn to pray, he knows. Still, for this moment... there can only be silence. There can only be this warm, safe company, like a full breath of summer morning air.

But time yet passes, and... to leave Naga waiting would be blasphemous.

"O Gods," he murmurs, evening out the waver in his voice, "I pray for the children of the world, that they may be warm and fed and safe. And I pray for peace, and... yes. As Gaius said, I pray for Your guidance."

These times are trying.

"And I pray for Gaius as well."

His fingers twitch against Gaius' own. He smiles--genuinely, now, like a small raw gem pulled from the earth.

Prayer has always been a salve to his soul.

"Amen," he says.

And then--turns back to meet his dear friend's eye. "However," he says, "I... doubt that They will intervene in the matter of your upcoming exam..."

There is a glimmer in Libra's eye.

He feels... something like comfort, here. Something like safety.

a fish hook. an open eye.

[ckret2]

Chapter 78 of human Bill Cipher pretending he's not the Mystery Shack's captive for ten minutes:

This happens!

Whoops, sorry, zoomed too far in.

This happens!

Way more important and exciting.

####

Bill lasted—based on the sun's position—about a couple of hours before this body's needs knocked him out of his meditative mindset. He sat up with a sigh, checked his tanlines—the stripes he'd drawn across his abdomen were already darkening into a nice, angry burn—and glanced over at the lake to see what the Pines were up to.

At the moment, Mabel was holding a foot-long wiggling, glittery, gold-scaled trout in a net and grinning proudly. Stan wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pointed at her in excitement as Dipper snapped a picture of them. Stan opened a cooler for her to drop the fish in. Mabel's face fell, and she hugged the fish protectively. Stan's shoulders sagged; but after half a minute of unsuccessful negotiations, he relented and pointed at the lake. She dumped the trout back in the water.

Bill clicked his tongue in disappointment and muttered, "If I'd thought they'd catch the golden trout, I would've told 'em that thing's like the holy grail to the Fishmasons." Stan probably would have insisted they keep it just so they could get something on Eugene. Bill wasn't emotionally invested in their feud; but the trout did grant three wishes. Bill could use that kind of power.

Oh well, he could tell them later. Maybe they'd get lucky and hook it again. Bill got to his feet. "Hey, old lady. I need to stretch my legs." Stretch his legs, look for entertainment, and forage for food—they were planning to be out here all day, but there hadn't yet been a grocery trip to properly stock his new fridge chest and he didn't trust Ford's nutrition pills, so he'd only brought along a bottle of hot sauce and a bottle of sprinkles and hoped he'd manage to find some food once he was here. (And if he didn't find any—well, at least he had hot sauce and sprinkles.)

"Okay," Abuelita said. She turned a page.

He put his slippers back on, dug his condiments and eye patch out of Abuelita's bag—his eyes were getting tired—put on the patch, and scanned the beach. "Hey. Looks like somebody's grilling hot dogs over there."

Abuelita made a noncommital sound of minimal interest.

"Hot dog might be nice," he said. "Looks like the grill's a biiit over thirty feet away, though..."

"Okay," Abuelita said again.

"So." He waved his braceleted hand demonstratively. "Shall we?"

"Eh. I don't want a hot dog." She slid the enchanted bracelet off and dropped it in the sand.

Bill stared at the bracelet, then stared at her. "What, that—really? You're just... really?"

"What am I, a cop?"

Good enough for him. "You're all right, lady." He wrapped the extra thread around his wrist, put on the second bracelet, and glanced at the Stanowar again to make sure the Pines weren't about to catch him off his leash.

The family was crowded around watching as Ford reeled in something heavy. He grinned excitedly as the hook dragged up a patch of soggy khaki fabric; and his smile vanished when his coat grabbed the boat with a furry hand. As the family scrambled to the far end of the boat, Bigfoot—wearing Ford's lost coat and a full set of scuba gear—climbed aboard the boat.

Ford punched Bigfoot in the face.

"Oh," Bill said. "Bigflipper. That'll keep 'em distracted for a while." Satisfied, he meandered up the beach.

He plastered on a bright smile as he approached the family with the hot dogs, veered around the husband working the grill, and walked right up to the wife sitting on a beach towel, eating a hot dog, and watching her kids play in the water. "Heeey, Wanda! What are you doing here! Look at you, you look terrific!"

The woman looked up at Bill from under her sunhat in bafflement. "I—hi? Sorry, do I...?"

"Sure, it's Goldie! Washington State! Fifteen years ago! We were in the same study group, remember? East Asian history? Honestly all I remember about the class is the other girls and that fifty percent of it was about Confucianism."

Wanda's eyes lit up, and then un-lit as she realized she still didn't recognize Bill. "Oh—heeey! Wow—sorry, guess I've slept since then."

"Don't worry about it, I'm just good with faces. Anyway, from what I remember," he jabbed a thumb toward the man at the grill, "at the time most of your attention was on Danny."

Wanda laughed again, a little more easily. "Right, god. I can't believe I made it through that semester with passing grades."

"Hey, you were still the only one in the group who could remember what order all those dynasties came in..."

Bill kept Wanda distracted for another couple of minutes with small talk about the study sessions he'd spied on out of boredom from a library stained glass window; and then, when he saw one hot dog had been set aside fully grilled and mustarded but as-yet unclaimed, he said, "But hey, I won't distract you anymore! Those kids look like a handful." While both parents turned to look at the kids, Bill snatched up the unclaimed hot dog, strolled down the beach, and called back, "It was good catching up!" That whole performance probably hadn't been necessary, he might've been able to time his loitering to swing by just as the hot dog was left unguarded; but it had been more fun this way. He didn't get to have a lot of conversations these days. Less where he felt like he was the one in control of the conversation.

He soaked the bun in hot sauce, dumped some sprinkles on the mustard, and took a bite while he glanced out at the lake again to see how the Pines were doing.

At the moment, Ford had Bigfoot in a chokehold from behind. Stan hit him with a right hook. Bigfoot kicked Stan in the chest with one immense flippered foot, and he tumbled backward into the lake.

Looked like none of them would be paying attention to anything on the beach any time soon. No need to go straight back to his cell. He scanned the rows of beachgoers sitting out by the lake, looking for fresh entertainment.

Bill's gaze fixed on one of the humans. One of these things is not like the others, one of these things doesn't belong. Amongst all the tourists in their swimsuits, one man—standing ramrod straight, dressed in a black suit, holding a heavy black device with an antenna—stuck out like a sore pale thumb in a pitch black bandaid.

An agent from the Bureau of Covert Investigations. The "eagles." The same guys that had covered up President Quentin Trembley's existence, a brief sightseeing trip Bill had taken to Roswell via nuclear testing-induced dimensional rip, and the miraculous and disgusting resurrection of cult leader/possession puppet Silas Birchtree; and, the guys that had been trying to find Bill's portal in Gravity Falls since they'd detected it in the '80s. Bill wasn't the eagles' biggest fan.

But they'd never been a big enough potential threat or a big enough potential help for him to intervene in their operations. In the mid '80s, when the lead investigator in Gravity Falls had been putting together his case, Bill had considered pulling some strings and manipulating them into taking over the portal from Stanley, before concluding they'd be more likely to disassemble the portal than activate it and it was better off in Stan's clumsy care. But all the same, he'd kept watch over their operations. 

And this, if he wasn't mistaken, was the lead investigator himself. Agent Powers. What was he doing here? Bill had thought the case was closed last year after Ford wiped their memories and sent them packing. Maybe Powers was here about Trembley? Depending on what the Pines had entered into the memory gun, the eagles might still remember that part of their operations in town.

Bill would kinda like to know where Trembley was these days. He studied the agent as he slowly finished his hot dog; and then he moved in.

"Hey there, agent!" Bill clapped a hand on his shoulder, making him start, and beamed brightly. "Welcome to town! What brings you to Gravity Falls?"

"Pardon?" Agent Powers gave Bill an appraising up-and-down look—threat assessment, probably—caught sight of his bikini top, and quickly looked him in the eye. "How did you know I'm an agent?"

"Oh, that's easy! I'm psychic."

Powers opened his mouth, paused, and then squinted skeptically at Bill.

"Just kidding. You've got an earpiece, a business suit at the beach, and the government's favorite car."

"Oh." Powers turned to glance toward where he'd parked. "Yes. I suppose so."

"Say! If you want a more covert vehicle, you oughta go to Gleeful Auto in town. You'll blend right in. Just tell 'em Mr. Locke sent you."

"Who's Mr. Locke?"

Right, Bill supposed he didn't look like much of a "Mr." at the moment. Humans didn't consider bikinis gender neutral for some reason. He took a split second to decide whether he'd get any practical benefits from trying to push past the agent's initial perception of his gender, and couldn't think of any. "Friend of mine!"

"Ah." Powers nervously looked Bill up and down again; then cleared his throat and glanced away, cheeks flushed faintly pink in the heat. "Right. Thank you, uh, citizen."

"No problem!" If Bill remembered his suits right, this agent was an easy target. Believed in "collaborating" with "local informants"; wasn't very good at the covert part of the Bureau of Covert Investigations. "You don't look like you're in town on vacation! Investigating anything interesting at the lake?"

"Well..." Powers flashed Bill a quick sideways glance before nodding vaguely toward a couple of people in dive suits further up the beach. "If you must know, we've picked up some evidence of the lake recently flooding its banks. Which is strange, because the amount of rain this area's received can't account for how high the water climbed..."

Not here about Trembley, then? "Flooding? Think there's any danger, agent? In our quiet, harmless little town?"

"No, no. Nothing like that," Powers said quickly. "But, I've said too much. I should go." He shifted his footing anxiously. He did not go.

What was that about? Bill glanced down at himself; he still looked perfectly human, didn't see anything that should make a government agent nervous. Was it the lack of shaving? Was that too Seventies Feminist for Mr. Government Suit? Was the eyepatch setting off his secret agent "Soviet supervillain in a spy movie" instincts? He couldn't have noticed Bill stealing a hot dog.

Should Bill press his luck? (Stupid question—of course he should.) "Say, you keep giving me these odd looks, agent! Anything you wanna say?"

His pink cheeks flushed darker. "Er, no, no ma'am. It's just, I uh..." He gestured vaguely toward Bill, "I... couldn't help but notice that your... sunscreen is a bit streaky."

Bill glanced down at his tan lines. Streaky? He thought the burn lines were coming out pretty crisp.

The agent went on, "I was wondering if you needed help applying it more evenly." It took a split second for him to realize what he'd just said; and then he went even redder.

Bill raised his brows. Huh. "Nooo, I'm great, thanks. It's supposed to look like that."

"Oh." Powers's brow furrowed in confusion. "All right." He nodded. "In that case, I really should be going, then."

"All right!"

But Powers hesitated again for a moment before finally moving up the beach away from Bill.

Well. Interesting. Interesting reaction.

He checked on the Stanowar again to make sure the Pines hadn't seen anything. At the moment—he squinted—they seemed to be playing poker with Bigfoot. He must not have liked Mabel's playing (unsurprising; she was an incorrigible cheat), because he picked her up and chucked her in the lake.

"She's fine," Bill muttered. "She's got her life jacket." They were good about that in this town.

He watched as Powers met up with the divers farther along the beach; and then he headed back to his towel.

####

Bill had decided his front was sufficiently roasted and was struggling to apply new sunscreen stripes to his back so he could flip over, when he overheard somebody say, "Oh hey, Toga Lady?"

Bill twisted around, already grinning in greeting before he'd even seen who was talking to him. "Heya!" It was Broken Heart and two of the others. Wendy's gang. Robbie, Tambry, and Nate. "What are you guys doing out here! You don't look like the beach types!" (In deference to the environment, all three of them had donned swim trunks and sandals; but that was as beachy as they'd gotten. Nate and Tambry were in black t-shirts advertising metal bands. Robbie was still in his hoodie. Robbie's legs nearly glowed white.)

"Hanging," Tambry said, one arm around Robbie's back and face glued to her phone.

Nate elbowed Robbie. "Dude, he's Toga Guy, remember?"

"Toga 'Lad' would be better," Tambry said.

"You sure?" Robbie asked. "Sh—he's kinda..." He gestured vaguely toward his own chest, realized that probably wasn't the best way to make his point, and finished, "uh... bikini."

"I don't want to spend my day arguing about whether I've got the right to go topless!" Bill got to his feet and planted his hands on his hips. "I could talk my way out of trouble with the police—it's the tourist parents I'm worried about." He pulled up one strap to examine his shoulder. "It's gonna ruin my tan, though."

They took in his tan in progress: several horizontal lines across his lower torso and upper thighs, a few disconnects vertical lines stretched between the horizontal ones. Tambry glanced up from her phone, snorted, and started typing faster; Nate said, "Dude, are you trying to make bricks like the triangle guy?"

Bill froze, mouth open. "Uhhh..." Sure, that was the objective—he just hadn't really expected humans to find it that obvious. Nosy little pattern-seekers. "I mean—"

"That's cool," Tambry said. "Stick it to the man."

Robbie had screwed up his face a bit, but at Tambry's reaction, he shrug-nodded and conceded, "Yeah, it's kinda punk, I guess."

Nate said, "Praise Bill or whatever, right?" He laughed. "Yeah, I thought about getting a tattoo of him. Up here or something?" He pushed a sleeve up above the snake tattoo wrapped around his left bicep to show the blank spot on his shoulder. "But my parents would flip if they ever found out. Maybe I should do the brick thing too, it's way subtler." Nate turned to the other two, lifted up his shirt, and said, "Hey Tambers, do you think I'd look cool with bricks around my waist?"

She didn't look up. "No."

"What if I got an eye on my chest too?"

"Let me think. No."

Bill watched this back and forth with wide-eyed stunned silence. Hold on. What? Praise Bill?

"Pfff, whatever!" Robbie rolled his eyes. "Hey, you're gonna regret getting a Bill tattoo once I get my sick symbol off the anti-Bill circle. It's like... giving me a permanent rock-paper-scissors win against you. For the rest of time."

Nate laughed. "Shut up, whatever man! The circle didn't even do anything."

"It would have! It was, like, glowing!"

"Heeey!" Bill stepped into the trio's line of sight again. "Right, yeah, praise Bill, by the way any of you wanna help me get my back?" He turned around to gesture over his shoulder. "Little favor between punk weirdos?"

"Yeah, sure." Tambry tucked her phone into Robbie's hoodie pocket and held out her hand for the tube of sunscreen. "Just continue the lines around your back?"

"You got it." Bill lifted his arms. "And try to keep the bricks evenly spaced."

"What is this stuff? Some kind of suntan lotion?"

"It's more like anti-sunscreen," Bill said. "By the way, you probably wanna wash your hands after this unless you want sunburned fingers." He wiggled his own fingers, which were faintly flushed from applying the first layer of sunscreen that morning.

"Hey, anti-sunscreen," Nate said, "you could call that, uh... sun-beam." He paused. "No wait, that's already a word."

Robbie laughed. "You're an idiot."

"Sooo," Bill said. "Is the triangle guy cool now? Not—not asking for any particular reason. Just curious."

"Oh, yeah," Tambry said. "Like half the school's decided he's our crazy anti-authoritarian counterculture chaos god now?" (Bill was adding that to his business card.)

Robbie said, "Somebody set up a shrine to him in a hollow tree stump behind the school. People started making animal sacrifices to him during finals week."

Nate said, "It's chicken nuggets and cafeteria tacos, but. Y'know. We didn't say live animals."

"Huh! Interesting!" Bill tried, unsuccessfully, not to sound too excited. He was hip with the youth. Who'd imagined! This was what he got for hanging out with the town's cops and politicans, he could've been exploiting this for a month. "But I think he prefers receiving gold!"

Nate laughed. "Dude, I'd prefer receiving gold, too. What we have is chicken nuggets and tacos."

"Fair enough," Bill shrugged. "By the way—if you want a Bill tattoo? The traditional style is to shave your hair and get his eye above your forehead, right here!" He tapped his skull over his brain's frontal eye fields. "It tells him right where to enter."

"Oh, sweet! That's perfect," Nate said. "I can shave, get a tattoo, and just keep my hat on until my hair grows back. No one will ever know!" (Bill tried to imagine hair growing out of his eyeball, and wished he hadn't.)

Robbie said, "Hey, weren't the Pines like... not letting you go outside because you knew him or something? That's what Wendy said."

That wasn't the story he'd told her. He'd have to find out where she'd picked that up. "Or something. It was more because of dumb academic ego-measuring contests than anything to do with that."

"So, they finally letting you outside alone now?"

"Only for group trips." Bill pointed out at the lake.

The three teens squinted toward the boat. "Whoa," Tambry said. "Are they arm-wrestling Bigfoot?"

"Oh, yeah. It was poker earlier."

For a moment, all activity ceased as the teens watched the battle out on the lake. Nate sat in the sand and propped his chin in his hand. Figuring Tambry was done with his stripes, Bill plopped onto his beach towel to watch as well.

Bigfoot defeated Stan, and Soos switched places with him to try next. Soos lasted five seconds before Bigfoot flipped him into the water. Melody scrambled to help pull him back aboard as Bigfoot pumped his fists in the air victoriously. Bill snorted.

"Bad luck," Robbie said. 

"I could beat him," Nate said. "Hey Robbie, think I could beat him?"

"Pfff, no."

"Bet Wendy could," Tambry said, recording through her phone as Bigfoot generously indulged Dipper and Mabel's attempt to take him on as a team. The guys murmured vague agreement with Tambry.

"Buuut anyway," Bill said, reluctant to let the conversation get too far away from himself, "yeah, I might've talked to the triangle guy a couple, several times."

"That's pretty cool," Nate said. "Hey, we oughta hang sometime, I bet Lee'd wanna hear about that. It'd probably drive Wendy crazy, but..."

Tambry let out a dismissive pff. "The triangle stuff's been driving Wendy crazy all year. She can take it."

"Not a fan?" Bill asked.

"Nah, she thinks the whole thing's creepy. Her and Thompson both."

"I think the whole cult thing's fine," Robbie said magnanimously. "As, y'know, one of the people prophesied to defeat him. If he ever really came back and caused trouble, we could handle it."

Bill tried not to roll his eye. Bold words out of a guy who, a couple of years ago, had left a plate of spaghetti in the woods to see if an "evil triangle" urban legend was true, and had thrown up when Bill dragged him into a dream state to show him just how true it was.

On Earth, urban legends about Bill tended to pop up and wither away in waves around the epicenter of his latest area of influence—like mushroom rings spreading away from a patch of ground they'd depleted of useful nutrients and left to die. Bill suspected the local urban legend Robbie had stumbled upon had been passed down in Gravity Falls for thirty years by teens misinterpreting Old Man McGucket's crazy ramblings about a "demon triangle" and "spaghettification."

He was always torn on whether to encourage or quash such urban legends: on the one hand, it was handy for humans to know he existed and was available for deals; but much less handy when they warned each other away from him. More than once, knowledge of him had nearly broken into the mainstream, and he'd had to put all his other plans on hold to focus on deflecting the whistleblowers' information into obscurity.

Apparently encouraging the spaghetti one had been the right move, if a year after his brief conquest of Gravity Falls the teens were offering him sacrifices rather than cursing his name.

Nate punched Robbie's arm. "Why would he cause us trouble? He's our chaos god, remember? We've given him offerings!"

"I like that attitude," Bill said. "Hanging out sounds fun! We'll... figure something out sometime." As soon as he found a way to make the Pines let him go outside without being surrounded by babysitters. Wouldn't that be humiliating, a full adult hanging out with teenagers and it's the adult who isn't allowed outside without a chaperone. No, that wasn't an option. If he came with an adult attached, they'd ditch him in a heartbeat for being too much of a drag.

The teens made their farewells and headed down the beach, Tambry and Robbie with their arms around each other again. Tambry wiped the anti-sunscreen off her hand onto the back of Robbie's hoodie.

As they went, they walked past Agent Powers—who was looking right at Bill.

Bill stared. The agent quickly looked away.

He didn't like that one bit. As he adjusted his position to lay face down on his towel, he said, "Hey, Dolores. You get the feeling we're being watched?"

"Hm?" Abuelita glanced up from her book toward Bill, then looked where he was looking. "Government." She made a disapproving noise and turned back to her book. "Nothing but trouble."

"You said it." Why was Powers so focused on Bill. He couldn't possibly be in any kind of trouble, he hadn't even existed until a month ago. And the eagles probably didn't know that, did they?

Nothing Bill could do about it in the middle of a beach trip. He propped his chin in his hand and checked on the fishing crew again.

In a fury, Bigfoot had ripped the motor off the back of the boat and lifted it over his head. The Pines family huddled together at the other end of the boat, trying to shield their heads.

A golden trout jumped out of the water, arced majestically through the air, and smacked Bigfoot in the face. Bigfoot stumbled backward and tripped out of the boat.

Hm. Maybe letting the trout go had been the right move. Bill shut his eyes and lay back down.

####

The sun was low and most of the beachgoers had gone home when the Stanowar chugged back to shore, battle-weary, disheveled, and dissatisfied. Except for Ford, who was wearing his sopping wet coat over his waders, holding one boot, and pleased as punch.

"Hey!" Bill shouted. "How'd it go!" He surreptitiously tossed half the bracelet over to Abuelita. She quietly slid it on.

Crankily, Stan yelled from the dock, "You didn't mention Bigfoot in a scuba tank!"

Bill shouted back, "Bigflipper wasn't there when I looked! What, did you expect me to check the entire spacetime continuum to find you the perfect fishing?!"

Faintly, he could hear Ford say, "See, I told you his proper name is Bigflipper."

Mabel repeatedly poked Dipper in the arm as they crossed the beach. Dipper flinched each time. "Ow, ow—Mabel. Cut it out."

"That's what you get for forgetting your sunscreen, bro-bro!"

Dipper's arms and face were bright red with a sunburn. "I didn't forget! I put it on at the beach, right before we left!"

Bill grabbed up Abuelita's empty water bottles and tossed them in the nearest trash can, along with the rest of his tube of anti-sunscreen before anyone could get a good look at it. He ignored the kids and said to Stan, "But it was a good fishing spot, right?"

Stan grumbled, but grudgingly admitted, "Yeah. Until tall, brown, and hairy showed up. We caught four fish! That's gotta be at least as good as the guys from the lodge, right?"

Bill winced. "Ooh. Sorry, they went by an hour ago with eleven fish."

Stan let out a roar of outrage and threw his fishing rod in the sand.

"Grunkle Stan, you don't go fishing to catch fish," Mabel said. "You go fishing to catch memories! Look at this!" She held up a bunch of photos. "This is a whole scrapbook spread right here! We caught sooo many memories."

"And my coat," Ford said. He was admiring his #1 Grunkle pen, which he'd taken from the coat pocket.

"I'd rather have fish," Stan grumbled. "All right, c'mon. Let's get..." He trailed off, looking past Bill. "Hey, is that...?"

Bill glanced back over his shoulder, and grimaced. Agent Powers and his protégé were watching them from the far end of the beach. Bill quickly turned back around. "Yep. Your old friends from last summer," he said. "They've been scoping out the beach all day. I don't know what they're here for—but you probably wanna get out of here." More importantly, Bill wanted to get out of here—but he didn't see any benefit to letting them know he was nervous.

"He's right," Ford said. "If they see us long enough to recognize us—and his memories start coming back..."

"Who are they?" Melody asked.

Soos whispered loudly, "I'll explain it in the car." Bill bit back the need to point out that whispering didn't make a difference as far away as the agents were.

"I don't get it," Stan said. "What are they doing back here?"

"You wanna go ask him?" Bill asked. Stan grimaced.

The Pines and Ramirez families piled back in their vehicles and headed out. Bill had the uneasy feeling that Agent Powers was focused on the Ramirez's truck as they left.

####

(How long have I been promising the Agent Powers plot, since like the May before last or something? Here it is!!

Next week, either we launch straight into the Powers plot, or I finally have the Axolotl chapters (it's chapters plural now) sufficiently edited and we do that first, because once we start the Powers plot there's no place for a break until it's over. Hopefully the Axolotl chapters will finally be ready by next Friday, but if they're not...... tough. It's fine though, you'll live.)

[dollwrites]

ʜᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇs ᴍᴇ ʜᴏᴡ ʜᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇs ʜɪs sᴛᴇᴀᴋ ! ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ᴋᴜʀᴇ ʀᴀɪᴀɴ

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ), fem!kure!reader, incest ( big brother / little sister ), noncon, reader cries but it’s not really dacryphilia, raian’s a meanie : (, extortion / blackmail, forced ( in ) breeding, the word rape is used. all characters featured are aged 18+

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘁𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟰 ∣ act eleven [ incest ]

“Oi, oi, oi, oi, the fuck are you cryin’ for?” Raian taunts against the shell of your ear, even though you knew that he already knew the reason. it was because he was, before anything else, a bully. whether it be to his own family or randos off the street, he liked to torment everyone, and you— his darling little sister, was no exception. “Thought you liked when your big, bad brother took care a’ya. You’re always begging me to, aintcha?” the pads of his thick fingers were irreparably calloused and rough as they creep up from behind your hair and trace your jaw, before diving down to coil around the smaller column of your neck, using the firm grip to pluck your wet face from the pillows where you’d been trying to bury it. “Look here.”

but it was difficult to keep your eyes from squinting with each, deep thrust, as your brother buried his thick cock into you from behind. “R—Raian—“ all you could manage through broken moans and labored breath were the syllables that formed his name, eyelids fluttering as he pulls your head back, angling it up towards the ceiling— towards he who mounted you. “This… is wrong…”

but Raian didn’t seem the least bit offended. in fact, a cocky grin tickled his lips, urging them back to reveal sharp teeth. “Boo hoo,” he boasted his strength by holding you in place with his hand on your throat, the sheer length of his fingers enough to cover your lower mandible so the tips slid into your open mouth when you panted and mewled. you could taste old blood under his nails, and you knew it wasn’t his. “Don’t cry about it, I’ll lose my hardon.” but that seemed impossible, because he was as solid as stone, driving himself into your depths with relentless, ravenous rutting. the tips of his fingers anchor themselves beneath your lolling tongue, pressing against the floor of your jaw as he plowed you, grunting like a wild boar. “Besides, what can you do? Beg me to stop destroying your little pussy? After all big brother does for you?”

your more delicate fingers clench weak fistfuls of the sheets on Raian’s bed, your sharp nails leaving broken threads and pin-prick sized holes when he seizes inside of you, pushing all of his weight down against your sweaty back, filling you to the brim with cock. more tears welled up in your eyes, mourning for your poor pussy, but the way Raian controlled the lower half of your face, pulling it around as if you were a fish on a hook, you knew better than to let them break surface. so, you sniffled, squirmed under the heat and weight of his body, and shook your head no to his question. you knew this was wrong— hell, it was a disgusting feeling, to get so wet that you squelched every time your brother pushed into you, but you wouldn’t beg him to stop.

no, you couldn’t.

“That’s what I thought!” Raian bellowed, the glorious victor, as he fucked you with reckless abandon. his free hand giving your round ass a stinging slap. you hissed, the sound coming out gurgled and helpless, drooling on his fingers as you did so. “After all, you stop givin’ up your tight fuckmeat to me, and Pops just might find out about our little arrangement. Might just tell him all about how you can’t make a kill…” his voice is ragged, trailing off as his shoulders hunch and he lays his broad chest to your back. you felt as if you were being crushed by his sticky, sweaty body. you couldn’t breathe, and the deep, hard fucking he was giving you only made it that much harder, so you gasped and swallowed as much air as you could, braying, but in your own mind, you hated how it sounded. you sounded like a bitch that was eager and happy to be bred when you made those noises. Raian pressed his open mouth to your cheek, and when he spoke, his tongue undulated, slurping up stray tears. “You’ve been asking your big brother to do all your assignments so you don’t get exiled… or worse. Come to think of it, Pops probably wouldn’t even want you walkin’ around, giving the Kure Clan a weak rep, he’d most likely just have one of us kill ya. Isn’t that right?”

you didn’t have to answer that, Raian was using the grip on your mouth to nod your head for you. “Worst part is, the old bastard would most likely make me do it, and the idea of slaughtering my favorite, little fucktoy— my baby sister, it pisses me off. So, I’ll keep being a good big brother, and I’ll take all your assignments, so long as you keep being the best little sister, and spreading your legs whenever I need to drain my balls.”

you groan, eyes wide, at his words and stare up at him. you could feel the way his cock throbbed in your guts, twitching with imminent release, and you offer a pathetic, half-assed plea, “N—not inside this time, p—please?”

but Raian cackled at that. “What? You scared of getting knocked up?” his smile was wide and toothy, his free hand running up to pin your shoulders down, smashing your front into the mattress as he gets in a better position to fill you up. “Doesn’t Pops always preach about ‘keeping the Kure bloodline pure’ and all that shit? What’s purer than my load filling up your guts, little sis?”

it was a cruel, cruel way to reject your request, and before you know it, you could feel rope after rope of warmth, splattering your insides. you whine in defeat, burying your face in the pillows, but this time Raian lets you. in fact, he helps, releasing your mouth to palm the back of your head like a basketball and force it down so he could completely dominate you from this angle. “Whiny, little brat.” he grunted with a heavy sigh, wide chest heaving wildly. “But you’ve always liked sleepovers with me. I can tell you still do.” Raian leans back on his haunches, releasing you from your weighted cage, to admire the puddle of girlcum you also left on his sheets. he knew they’d smell just like your sweet pussy, and the urge to bury his nose in them and drink in the aroma was almost overwhelming. he restrains himself for now, scoffing as your thighs quiver— the vibration from your muscle spasms pushing webs of his spunk from your clenching cunt, and he gives the underside of your thigh a rough smack for good measure. “And you still cum when I rape you, huh? That’s a good sign. Means you know where you belong.” he chuckles in a raspy, breathy croak before adding, “Hangin’ off my cock like a little sex doll.”

[slut4smokemoore09]

Virginia

   (The picture up top is Virginia Jenkins lol)

The room still smelled like sweat and sin. Beverly sat on the edge of the table, dress bunched around her waist, her breath still catching in little spurts. Smoke stood in front of her, shirt unbuttoned, pants halfway done up. But he wasn't in any rush. He just stared at her like he ain't never seen anything so fine.

"C'mon, baby," he muttered, voice all thick and low. "Let's get you put back together."

He bent down, picked up her dress from the floor, and gave it a little shake. Then, slow and careful, he helped her step into it. His hands were gentle, like she was made of sugar glass, and he zipped it up like he ain't wanna snag a thread. His fingers lingered on her back, warm against her skin.

"You straight?" he asked, eyes searching hers.

She nodded, lips still swollen from the kissing. "Mhm. You?"

He cracked a rare smile, the kind that sat lazily on his lips but was heavy in his eyes. "I'm better'n I been in a minute."

He reached over, grabbed her coat and slid it onto her shoulders like a damn gentleman. "Go on ahead. I'll step out after."

She looked at him like she ain't wanna leave. Like she ain't wanna lose the way he was lookin' at her—like she was some kinda star hangin' low just for him. Then she leaned in, pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He blinked slowly. "Ain't nothin' to thank me for, baby."

She slipped out, the click of her heels echoing down the hallway.

Smoke stayed behind, lit a cigarette with one hand, the other still hanging by his side like he could still feel her there. He looked like a man stuck halfway between dreaming and waking up. Smoked slow, deep, thinkin' on her like she was a song stuck in his head.

Then the door swung open.

"Well I'll be damned," Stack said, strolling in like he owned the joint. "Boy, you in here actin' like you ain't just blew her back out. Helpin' her get dressed? What's next—makin' her a plate?"

Smoke glanced over, unbothered. "She deserved it."

Stack blinked, mock shocked. "Oh hell, now you got feelings?"

Smoke let out a chuckle, flicking ash on the floor. "Ain't no crime in likin' who you layin' up with."

Stack leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. "Naw, but it's somethin' different seein' you all soft. Usually, you just smash and vanish like a ghost. But this one? She got you hangin' 'round like a schoolboy with a crush."

Smoke didn't argue. Just took another drag, eyes still pointed toward the door she walked out of.

Stack kept on, eyes gleaming with mischief. "What she do to you, huh? Put that sugar on you? Had you sayin' yes ma'am?"

Smoke smirked. "Might be."

"Might be? Boy, she got you hooked like a fish with no line. You in here lightin' smokes like you mournin' her or somethin'. You fall in love in fifteen minutes?"

"Wasn't fifteen," Smoke said, deadpan. "Closer to thirty."

"Damn!" Stack burst out laughing. "You countin' now? You out here savin' memories like postcards!"

Smoke just shook his head, the grin on his lips too soft for someone who usually showed nothing. "She different, Stack. Got that somethin' on her. She don't just walk in a room—she take it."

Stack squinted, mock serious. "Boy, if I didn't know better, I'd say you was halfway ready to go pick out rings."

Smoke laughed, for real this time, low and gravelly. "Shut the hell up."

But he ain't deny it.

And Stack? He just kept grinnin'. "Look at you," he said, heading for the door. "Soft as peach cobbler and twice as sweet. She gon' have you out here singin' blues on the porch."

Smoke followed, cool as ever, but that smile? It stayed.

He was smitten, and Stack damn sure saw it.

Stack was posted up by the bar, talkin' mess with some bootlegger from across the tracks, when the room shifted.

He felt it before he saw it — like somethin' sacred just walked in and made the floorboards hold their breath.

Then he turned.

And there she was.

Virginia Jenkins.

She hadn't changed... not really. Still had that same fire tucked behind her eyes, the kind that made you feel like you were standing too close to the sun. But now it was different — grown. Sharp in all the right places. She had on a blue dress that fit her like the night itself, dark and endless and dangerous. Lips painted blood-red. Hair pinned up with gold clips that caught the light every time she turned her head.

Stack blinked. His jaw slackened for half a second, then he caught himself and whistled low.

"Lawdamercy..."

He handed his drink off without even looking, making his way through the crowd with that same swagger he always had — loud, proud, and bulletproof.

"Well I'll be damned," he grinned, comin' up behind her. "Lil Ginny Jenkins, walkin' in here like she owns the place."

Virginia turned slowly, sippin' her drink like he hadn't just popped outta her past like a bad habit. "Stack Montgomery. You still got that mouth on you, huh?"

He chuckled, looking her up and down real slow. "And you still lookin' like trouble dipped in honey."

She rolled her eyes, but there was a flash of something in her face — recognition, ache, maybe even a little heat.

"You finally learned how to dress," she said, cool and casual. "That's new."

Stack tugged on his suspenders, playin' it up. "Told the tailor to gimme somethin' sharp enough to knock Ginny Jenkins off her feet. Guess it worked."

Virginia smirked, not giving him the satisfaction. "You always was full of yourself."

"And you always was full of somethin', too," he shot back. Then, quieter, "But I missed seein' you."

A beat passed. Her eyes narrowed just a hair. "Seven years, Stack."

His smile faltered. He scratched the back of his neck, trying to laugh it off, but it came out thin. "Yeah... been a minute."

She looked away, eyes scanning the room. "A long one."

Stack stepped in closer, heart thumping a little louder than he liked. "Dance with me."

Virginia's gaze slid back to him, slow and unreadable. "You serious?"

"As a heart attack."

She studied him. "You still dancin' like a fool?"

"I'm still dancin' better than any man in this room."

Virginia shook her head, but handed him her glass. "Alright then, Moore. Show me somethin'."

He led her onto the floor, the band slidin' into a slow, sultry rhythm — somethin' that made you wanna pull somebody close and forget the world.

He put his hands on her waist, easy and light, but she felt tense beneath him. Not cold... just tight. Like a storm was sitting just under her skin.

"Ain't like you to be shy, Ginny," he teased, leaning in. "You used to move like your feet had fire on 'em."

She looked him dead in the eye. "That was before you left."

That one landed. Stack's smile slipped again, hands still on her but less sure now.

"That's how we startin' this off?" he asked low. "I just seen you again after all this time and you already bringin' up ghosts?"

Virginia's voice stayed even, but sharp. "You act like they ain't been hauntin' me since the day you walked out."

They kept dancin', but now every step felt like a conversation neither of them knew how to have.

Stack looked away, then back. "It wasn't like that, Ginny. We had to go. Smoke and I both did."

"You left without a word."

"I know."

"You took somethin' from me that night, Stack," she said, her voice like glass cracking. "Somethin' I ain't ever gave nobody else. And you vanished."

He swallowed hard, trying to keep his grip steady. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

Virginia laughed once, bitterly. "Intent don't mean shit when you leave a girl cryin' in her mama's bed wonderin' if she meant nothin'."

That ripped right through him.

"Ginny..."

She looked away. "Don't."

"I thought about you," he said, softer now. "Every damn day."

She turned back to him, eyes wet but fierce. "Then why didn't you write?"

"I didn't know what to say."

"Try the truth."

Stack stared at her, voice barely above a whisper. "Truth is, I was scared. Scared I'd already messed up too bad to make it right."

She blinked, and the tears didn't fall, but they were close. "You probably did."

He nodded once, no excuse in sight. "Still glad you're here."

Virginia stepped back, letting go of his hands. "Don't think I'm fallin' back into your arms just 'cause you still talk slick. I ain't that girl no more."

Stack watched her walk off, the dance floor spinning around him like the whole damn room was tilted sideways.

He rubbed a hand down his face.

Same ol' Virginia. And he still ain't had the words for her.

[burekforsatoru]

divenire

sebastian (stardew valley)/ghost f reader | read it on ao3 you're sick of being summoned and of your ghostly figure being expelled back into nothingness as soon as you're perceived. it's exhausting, draining you for decades. that is until you come across a person that doesn't seem to give a fuck that you're dead. wc: 9.7k tags: past murder, past mr qi/reader, referencing suicidal thoughts, eventual smut, drowning (who's surprised) 𓇼 ⋆.˚ masterlist

there it is again.

that tugging sensation behind your navel. like a fishing hook or a threaded needle is stuck in your body, like an excited child pulled at a rope to open a bag filled with toys, you have no choice but to float after it. it’s become normal by now, being summoned. never lasting long, the summoner sends you back as soon as they realize their mistake, throwing the amulet into the wall as they scream and run away. you sigh, accepting your fate and once more relax as the thread carries you forward.

your destination is close, you can feel the presence of the amulet, that dark crystal made into a pendant that used to hang around your neck, the pendant that dragged you down under the lake as you fought for your last breaths while they laughed above the surface. right before you closed your eyes one final time and felt your lungs collapse. now it’s almost like you feel the absence of the crystal against your skin, being dragged towards it by a string of… fate? curse? who’s to say, whatever it is, it’s getting old now.

twenty years of hearing people scream when your ghostly form appeared, twenty years of seeing them run, seeing the panic in their eyes as you only appeared… after years of crying silvery tears into the material of your white, grass-stained dress, wiping your pale white cheeks into it as you dissipate into the air once more, into nothing, like nothing happened, you’re almost completely over it. 

the thread is taking you to pelican town again. you grit your teeth, of course, the moment you resign yourself to fate, it comes to smack you on the ass and send you to the place where it all started in the first place. steeling yourself for what may happen, for how much emotion this place might awaken, you glide towards a nice looking house, down into the ground through the walls of the basement. 

it’s there. in the hands of a dark-haired man who flipped the crystal along his knuckles as if it’s a simple toy, a fidgeting instrument instead of a cursed item tied to the essence of your soul. you pass through his wall silently, already counting down the seconds until he looks up, sees you, and runs away, throwing the amulet onto the ground as he goes. but his head only lifts to see you floating a few inches from the ground. he doesn’t move, only tilts his head to the side slightly. you’re not used to being observed this way, haven’t been for twenty years. he squints a little, focusing on your faint form, blurry around the edges. but he doesn’t scream. he doesn’t open his mouth as you slowly glide towards him, your white dress floating behind you even with no wind. this is new, this is… unprecedented. you almost feel the need to fix your hair or pull the hem of your dress down. being perceived so calmly, being looked at… it would be enough to make you blush.

“who are you?” the feeling of your voice scraping the inside of your throat makes you wince a little.

“who am i? you showed up in my room. i should be the one asking you.” his voice is pleasant, not at all what you’ve got used to when the first shriek would start, sending a chill down your form as you would start dissolving.

“i think i have the right to know who’s summoning me, don’t you think?” you cross your arms at his cheeky tone, like a ghost appearing in his bedroom is a slight inconvenience at most. 

“summoning you? i don’t even know your name.”

but once he says it, you realize you don’t know it either. it’s like your own name is just out of grasp and no matter how much you may flail your barely visible hands, you can never reach it. 

“i… don’t know either.” if you could feel physical pain, if there was anything to feel it on, you’re certain it would hurt like a bitch. but emotional distress? it’s your breakfast, lunch, and dinner. “i can’t remember.” your brows furrow and he sighs, disappointed.

“yeah,” he scoffs, “okay. i’m sebastian.” he flips the crystal in his hands again, playing with it right in front of your eyes. he must catch your gaze following its every move, because he pauses and lifts it up. “it’s pretty, right?” 

with a slow nod, you agree. of course it’s pretty. a dark purple crystal that turns transparent in sunlight. it’s got some sort of symbol engraved in gold and a leather strap pulled through a loop making it into a necklace. it looks almost brand-new, just like on the day when it was so lovingly placed around your neck by those nimble blue fingers, promising eternal love and happiness as he twirled you in the grass. your dress was all white then, perfectly bright for your own version of the flower dance, the one under the bright moon looking down at you, reaching through his dark blue hair as you danced. a mere year before you repeated the dance. before he twirled you again, only this time when he was supposed to dip you and kiss your rosy face, he pushed you into the lake. he let you struggle as others came closer, but no one reached out to help. they just watched as the crystal pulled you down, down, to the bottom while the air bubbles grew smaller and further between. until they stopped. until you stopped.

“yeah. pretty, where did you get it?” your feet still don’t touch the ground, but you try to feel the smooth wood of his desk under your fingertips, cursing yourself for believing it would work.

“the fair.” he flips the pendant again, catches it, and carefully places it on the desk. “some guy sold a bunch of crystals and cool occult stuff, this one was fairly cheap.”

fairly cheap. you grit your teeth, but it doesn’t make a sound. it used to be your prized possession, a token of love, a curse, a death sentence. now it’s just a cheap, pretty trinket bound to your soul, useful only to keep summoning you until you either fully disappear or lose your mind, whichever comes first. 

“just…” you inhale deeply, about to make a request that you never had the chance to ask for, “... don’t drop it.” he lifts his eyes off the purple pendant on the desk before him, as if seeing you for the first time since you appeared in his bedroom. he looks down at the space between your dangling feet and the firm surface of his floor. 

“you always float like that?” it’s almost offensive how he’s seeing your ghostly presence as more of an interesting occurrence than a freak incident. 

“yeah.” you answer after a moment, still trying to will your immaterial fingers to at least tap the wood. what you wouldn’t give for even a splinter in your skin. “though i haven’t been in one place for this long before.”

“right.” sebastian is staring like he’s reading you, like your white dress is made out of the most interesting pages of a book. 

his bedroom is… interesting, you think. there are posters stuck to walls, a few framed photos of a group that seems to be his friends. the shelves are full of books, comics, trinkets that look like figurines from some fantasy world. it’s loud, his personality shouts from every corner through music instruments, a pile of stacked vinyl records, the moody wallpaper, seeing him sit in his chair so casually while a literal ghost hovers over his rug… it makes sense. it may have been a while since you talked to anyone, but the way he looks at you with those droopy eyes, all moody with his eyebrows set into a permanent frown, his attitude matches the aesthetic of the bedroom.

“why aren’t you scared?” you prompt him, tilting your head to the side like a curious puppy.

“of what, of you?” he all but scoffs at the idea. you frown, but being so pale, still so see-through, it barely registers. “why?” his question almost seems normal. why would he be afraid of a ghost? well, maybe because he’s human? maybe because ghosts are an unknown being, an apparition not everyone even believes in, something eerie, magical and ominous at the same time. just like all the others before him thought. right before their shrill shrieks ripped through your being, sending you away, back from whence you came. you’ve got used to the fear and the banishing, but sebastian here is taking this maybe a little too well.

“because i’m a ghost? because i literally showed up walking through your wall? why are you acting like i’m– like this is normal?” there is exasperation in your voice you don’t mean to reveal. it shouldn’t be getting to you so much, shouldn’t be bothering you that there’s someone out there who might not run away at the briefest trace of goosebumps crawling up their arms. it shouldn’t give you hope. hope and anticipation, because what will be the line he won’t be able to cross? how comfortable will you get before he realizes it’s unnatural, it’s abnormal for you to be there, and he throws the pendant into the floor. maybe even smashing it, taking away any chance of you coming back. because no matter how much it hurts coming back only to disappear within seconds, thinking about an eternity without it hurts more. 

“and? are you here to hurt me?” he raises a brow, picking up that damn pendant once more to fidget with it while he twists a black ring on his thumb.

“well… no, but i might be lying.” you swipe your hand over his desk again, as if trying to feel something, anything, trying to see if anything is real. 

“well then, i’m pretty sure i could defend myself against a being that can’t even touch wood.” he sees you wince at his words, and the self-satisfied smirk on his face drops. “shit… sorry.”

you shake your head, pulling hands from the flat surface and forcing them to stay against your lap. sebastian stretches to scratch the back of his head awkwardly, groaning a little once he realizes his mistake. “sorry… that was a shit thing to say,” he starts, but you’re already turning away, floating to his bookshelf to try and swipe a finger through a thin layer of dust, almost instinctively, “what i meant was… i think you would’ve hurt me already. if you wanted to, that is.” he turns in his chair and gets up. the few steps he takes to reach you echo against the wooden floor where it’s not covered by a rug. it almost mocks you. must be nice, being able to walk, to touch a surface, to sit, get up, stand, reach out, and grab one of the books from the shelf. 

“you don’t have to try and get on my good side.” you murmur, pushing your finger through the full wood of the shelving unit, almost as if trying to see how far into it you can get before the universe admits it’s just pranking you, apologizes, and gives you your body back. “it’s like you said. i can’t do anything to you.” at least you assume so. you can’t stand or touch, but you haven’t tried it all. you haven’t had the time to test out the limitations of your state, and now that you can, you chicken out of even attempting to take the book from his hand. 

“okay. well i’m going to do it just because it’s a decent thing to do then.” sebastian looks right at you then, not through you. the lamp on his bedside table illuminates you in gold, making you look a little more vibrant as you stand closer to it. and it looks like he can see it, like he can tell the shape of your mouth under this light. there’s no color yet, but he could imagine it. he can see the outline of your eyes, the length of your lashes framing them. and he is looking. taking a moment to remember the shape of your ghostly nose before looking down at the book he picked up. 

the beginner’s guide for the recently deceased.

he quickly puts it away. 

“why weren’t you in one place for long then?” he leans against the shelf, narrowing his eyes in curiosity.

“because they get scared,” you sigh, it’s still painful, no matter how many times it’s happened, no matter how many places you’ve glimpsed, “and then maybe that pendant is dropped, i don’t know.” there’s a habit you’re now realizing has stayed with you from your life. you try to touch your own fingertips with your thumb, as if anxiously playing an invisible piano on your fingers.

“does it bother you?” he softens his voice. “that you just get… pulled out like that?”

“more than i care to admit.” breathing is just a reflex, taking deep breaths hasn't served you a purpose in just over twenty years, but somehow your brain feels it might be necessary. so you puff up your chest and release the air through your parted lips. “it's weird. it's… like there are only a few seconds of this cursed existence that i can remember, but at the same time i feel every year that's passed.” once again, you turn your back on him, floating to the desk again. there's a comfortable looking couch there, a kind you'd probably be tempted to lie down on if you could. it's inviting, like changing the perspective of your vision might help you put the pieces of this grand, complicated puzzle together. “i wish i could understand it better, i wish i could–” you bump into the arm of his couch, making you nearly curse as you float slightly away, “wish i could just be visible for once. perceived, noticed… as myself, not as a fucking ghost.”

and you've grown sick of the word. it has been screamed at you too many times to count. it's been thrown in your face, almost spat out with panic and with something close to disgust. you hate it, but it's true. you have no choice but to accept it, even if it hurts. even if your face will never stay remembered, even if you won't turn heads anymore. even if your hand won't be held or your hair played with or your waist gripped so tightly that you feel the indents of their fingertips in your flesh. with another pretend deep breath, you start the motion of touching your fingertips again, playing the keys of your own hand. 

“i know what you mean.” his voice breaks through the screams you let out in your own head, poking a hole through them as it demands to be heard.

“you do?” with a dose of incredulity, you pick up your gaze and look at him, still somewhat casually leaning on that shelf even though with every second you realize that it's all a practiced front. that he's so far from relaxed, so on edge that it's easier talking to someone dead than anyone else.

“i don't… oh fuck this is embarrassing.” sebastian pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a few moments, looking like he's about to rip his skin off and not just share something personal. “i don't usually get along with people. yeah, don't look too shocked at that.” he exhales a laugh, turning to face you. “and even though i'm here in the flesh, i don't depend on something to keep me visible, i’m still nothing. i'm sick of it, but i can't move past the fact that it's so easy pretending i don't exist. my stepdad does it, most people in this fucking town do it, sometimes i think my own mother forgets she has an entire son down here.”

you blink a few times, slowly coming to understand his attitude, noticing the connecting thread between him and you. a desire to be seen for who you are. a want for closeness, for understanding. a loneliness embedded in your bones that calls to him and the cracks in his cockiness that pull you in. 

“i’m–” you pause, stopping yourself before you can say you’re sorry. it’s clear he doesn’t want sympathy, pity or empty words that anyone could say. “they sound like they suck.” you hope that people still say suck.

“yeah… it’s a little sad that this is the most meaningful conversation i’ve had in months.” he looks up from the edge of the rug, flashing that self-satisfied smirk tugging the corner of his lips once more. “no offence.”

it catches you off-guard, how easy the smirk is back on his face, how the front is almost pulled all the way over him so quickly. but it also makes you crack a laugh, the light jab in his words just the perfect amount of humor for you. hearing you laugh seems to make him relax a little, though. and this time for real. his shoulders aren’t as tense, he even stops turning the black ring on his thumb. 

“none taken. i think.” sebastian steps a little closer, narrowing his eyes for a moment as if noticing something interesting on you, but soon he lowers his gaze. 

“can i ask you something?” he starts, sitting on the couch once he reaches it, looking up at you with curious eyes.

“can i stop you?” you smile, floating to the side, making it easier to face him.

“guess not. where do you go when you… you know,” he makes a vague movement with his hand, “leave?”

you let out a groan. it’s such a normal question, one that seems only logical to be interested in, but another one you don’t know the answer to.

“fuck… you really know how to ask the most annoying things, huh?” you chuckle and shake your head, reaching over to the desk and tracing a few scratches on its surface, keeping your finger an inch above it as if to pretend you could touch it if you wanted to. “i don’t know. seriously, i have no clue. it just feels… empty. like i’m there and not at the same time, it’s not even dark, it’s nothing, no time passes, and yet i can feel it go by as it taunts and tortures me.”

a sigh you let out is the accumulation of sadness and hopelessness you’ve felt ever since that day at the lake. ever since the moment when you realized that your love was a farce, that his words had meant nothing, that you had meant nothing to him, despite the flowery words and the gifts and the whispers deep into the nights that you spent with him. ever since he let you die. sebastian looks away for a moment, as if the sound that came from you is something too private for him to witness, but when his gaze returns, those dark eyes sparkle. 

they look like deep, dark water that’s inviting you to dive in, like the answers to everything are in the centers of his pupils so far down that it might be worth the fall. he looks a little different, wears a different defiance on his face. where once was almost resignation at being tossed aside and forgotten, now he looks at you with a desire to be seen.

“must be rough,” his voice is lower than before, he's so close, so close he doesn't have to speak louder than a whisper, “tasting the air only to be pushed back into that box of nothingness again.”

“honestly? sort of used to that by now…” you shrug. it still hurts, still makes you want to grip the hem of white, grass-stained dress and run away from the thread that pulls you back, into the nothingness where all you have are your own thoughts echoing in the void, echoing and beating you into submission, trying to break you. but you can’t outrun it, it’s tied to your very essence, and the only thing that saves you from it sits on sebastian’s desk. cold and unmoving, as physical as you’ll never be again, reflecting the light from his desk lamp.

“liar.” he calls you out, so sure of his words that even your scoff doesn’t sway him.

“how would you know? you got any experience being dead?” you wish so hard, wish you could just stomp your foot and throw a tantrum. you wish you could knock that stupid lamp off the desk, make it smash into a hundred pieces. you wish you could slam the door shut and crawl under a blanket, feel the comfort of something you’d taken for granted before you died, something you wished you could feel one more time.

“no but i wished it more times than i could remember.” his fists close tightly, making you look down and lower your guard slightly. a wish for death, yeah, you could imagine it. you felt it in that moment as the pressure of the lake squeezed your lungs, you wished you could just end it all already, wished you could erase the sneering faces gathered at the edge watching you struggle to keep the thread of life around you, but ultimately lose the fight. you wished it was over sooner, but he wouldn’t let you get off easy, the sadistic bastard.

“why?” you shake your head, moving to the edge of the couch where he’s sitting when you feel the overwhelming need to reach out and touch him. you want to put your hand on his shoulder, to make him feel that someone might be out here that sees him. someone that sees through his stupid front, sees the soft heart inside. his body heat radiates so much you can feel it. it’s like a magnet for your hand, and it shoots out before you can stop it. there’s a faint humming in between you, a field of power that you can’t touch, and so with great disappointment and embarrassment at thinking you could finally achieve something, you lower your hand, closing it into a fist.

“to escape. i know it sounds ungrateful. i’m alive and you’re not. i can choose what to do and you can’t. but i feel like my life isn’t mine. i feel like someone else was supposed to get it, but i got lucky instead.” he curses, gripping the edge of the couch so hard that his knuckles turn white and you swear you see a small tear drop down onto his knee. “i’m so sorry, in the bigger picture it’s such a stupid complaint, but i feel like nobody would even care if i died.” he looks up, those dark eyes glossy, so shiny you can see your white reflection in them clear as day.

“oh…” you softly whisper, lowering your voice as you see the pain in his eyes. “i’m…” you’re not saying sorry, he doesn’t need that, he needs to be seen, needs to be accepted. “i know it won’t mean much, coming from me, but there’s more to enjoy in life than you think.” you glide away, reaching his wall and looking at the band posters taped to the surface. “something simple like this, don’t you think it would be nice seeing them in person, hearing their music go through your entire body?” you smile a little, remembering what it felt like, standing in the field with people singing all around you, music vibrating from your head to your toes.

“they’re all dead.” he responds coldly, but there’s a tiny shade of smile on his lips.

“fuck, seriously?” you groan, feeling what would be anger or even disappointment when you hear him chuckle.

“yeah, seriously. but honestly,” he stands up, making the distance between you smaller as he walks over to stand next to you, “it is nice feeling the music in your body. feels… alive i guess, however corny that sounds.” his head lowers slightly, and you can tell he’s looking at the curve of your lips. you feel the weight of his eyes, the intensity of his thoughts, the warmth of his body. “do you feel… different?” he whispers, and his voice vibrates through your form.

looking up at him, you feel the light buzzing in the air, and the floor under your feet. floor. you gasp, looking down immediately.

“what the–” your feet are still somewhat transparent, but not floating anymore. there’s a slight blue hue on the surface of your toes, the nail polish you always wore contrasting with the pale white of your form. pale white that is slightly less so. stunned, you feel at a loss for words. your toes wiggle on the sturdy hardwood floor to make sure it’s real. you exhale an attempt at a laugh, too shocked to care if you sound like a wheezing corpse or not. there’s just too much going through your head to care. tentatively, you reach out and brush your finger over the surface of that beautiful desk. not much happens, to your disappointment, but there’s a tiny bit of resistance you feel as your ghostly finger glides over the wood. not much, but something. you dare keep a sliver of hope in your eyes, a crumb of something you’d call yourself a fool for cradling in your soul. a fool. a chump that is risking the biggest heartbreak since her death. but despite the part of you sneering at any sort of wish for a better eternity, you don’t let go of it. looking up at sebastian’s face, at his eyes wide and lips parted in surprise mirroring yours, you manage a smile. a genuine one this time, so when you brave a step to the side to finally face him, he can’t help but do the same.

“holy shit…” he laughs incredulously, taking the words right out of your mouth, “you’re… you’re standing!”

“my thoughts precisely,” you look down at your feet again, amazed at something as simple as standing firm on the floor. testing yourself, you lift one foot up and bring it back down, stomping to hear a faint thud that is like music to your ears. lifting yourself up on your toes and standing on your full feet, once more, again, swinging your body back and forth, hands following the movements almost whimsically. sebastian chuckles quietly at the sight, a dead girl smiling her dead ghostly smile, looking so endearing while swaying on her feet and giggling to herself, jumping to see if she can still float, but each time her feet leave the floor, they come back down with a soft thud.

thud.

his hand closes into a fist before reaching up to scratch the back of his head, thinking you haven’t noticed, but you have. stopping your motions, now looking down at your hands to see if anything is different, you sigh with relief. things are happening, things are changing, maybe you’ll be able to avoid going back into nothing now that you can touch–

“that’s never happened before?” he can’t stop smiling, and you can tell he tries, but those stubborn corners of his lips stay up, the traitors.

you shake your head, rolling your eyes. so bold now, like you own the ground you walk on, you click your tongue at him like he should know better than to ask this.

“never had the chance, did i, smarty-pants?” you laugh, still a little out of breath as you flip your hands to examine them, like seeing them for the first time in your afterlife.

“okay yeah, sorry.” he steps back, giving you space to do your acrobatics if you so desire. “sorry… i’m just… wow,” his hand brushes the strands of his fringe aside, letting you catch a glimpse of the side of his face it usually hides, “first time meeting a ghost and all, cut a guy some slack.” crossing his arms, he pinches his bottom lip with his thumb and index finger, as if deep in thought as he observes you twirl in the corner of his bedroom. “so are you, like, a poltergeist now?”

“wha– i don’t know…” you frown, but it doesn’t stick, as soon as your hand touches the wall beside you, well, hovers over it while sensing resistance from the surface, your smile widens. “i don’t know and… right now i don’t care. i didn’t think i’d–”

you’re cut off as sebastian steps forward again, standing so close to you. if you had lungs, your breath would hitch, but you stop nonetheless, a creature of habit even after your life fizzled out.

“incredible…” he speaks so low you think you might have imagined it, “how does it feel?”

“i–” you turn to face him, looking up at him, now tilting your head a little higher since your feet are flat on the floor, “i don’t know, weird?” the hem of your dress tickles your knees now, you’re aware of the slightly torn up and grass stained fabric as it hangs from your body. you feel the cold in the air around you, the slight tickle it leaves on your form, almost goosebumps on your arms.

“weird?” he echoes, lowering his voice like he’s pondering your words. “how is this happening…” sebastian trails off, not lifting his eyes off you.

“no idea,” you feel it more and more, the longer you talk, the longer his gaze weighs on you, the heat inside your being grows, “but i feel like i–” you turn your head to the side and stand in the ray of golden sun that spills through the tiny window high up on the wall of his bedroom. instead of passing through you completely, it only slightly pierces the top of your head. you nearly choke on your laughter when you see a shadow in the shape of you.

a shadow, tracing the sides of your head, the curve of your shoulders projected on the solid desk. you wonder if this is what you could’ve had all those times that you appeared for all of two seconds before being thrown back and rejected, before the shrieks rang through your soul and sent you into the void to hang in between the worlds. it’s back… the hope that clung to your smile when you were alive, the joy that used to make your heart jump, the laughter that echoed in the forest whenever you'd venture in there with your friends. it returns more powerful than before, fueled by spite and the pain of knowing what it was that you lost. so young, so damn young and dreaming of a world bigger than yourself. your thumb starts touching over each of your fingertips again, almost creating a melody of this moment to follow along your exhilaration.

“music,” sebastian whispers, looking down at where you play the gentle melody that only exists in your soul. you nod, lifting your hand, laying it palm down and going through the motions again. it feels like childhood, like the glittering dust in the sun that rose above the piano in your living room, like the stern teacher’s voice that you heard every time you messed up the tempo, all the way until you did it perfectly. until you got it perfect every time and he patted you on the back instead of clicking his tongue. until you grinned like a damn fool, just like now.

“you play?” lifting your gaze up to him, you see his hand mimicking your movements, a few times over until he turns around and walks over to the synthesizer in the corner of his room. hunched over, he doesn't sit, just caresses the keys with his long fingers a few times, settling on a place and presses down. he repeats the movements you did, making the air feel alive with the tune. you walk over, giddy at the feeling of the wooden floor under your feet, until you stand next to him, taking in the scent of his skin in your nose. there are so many sensations you can feel now, you feel the tickle of the slight breeze coming through the window, the light on your face, making you slightly squint your eyes. your hand finds his, and he stills.

warmth.

warmth of his skin against your palm. warmth of his breath as he turns his head to the side. warmth of your own existence under the sun.

his pale face betrays a slight hint of pink, spreading up to the tips of his ears as he looks into your rapidly clearing eyes. he can see the shape of them now, and himself reflected in the darkness of your pupil. you're so close he can count your eyelashes, he can finally trace the shape of your lips with his gaze. you feel the weight of it, the intensity of his attention, burning into your cheeks, seeing the essence of your being.

you press down onto the keyboard, leading his fingers where they need to go. the tempo is perfect, you smile a little wider just knowing that it's the one thing your old teacher wouldn't be able to disapprove of you for. you add the other hand, the richness of your melody almost making your right hand tingle with the increased warmth you feel from him. closing your eyes, you imagine dancing again. you imagine the grass under your feet, your dress once again white and bright, the flowers above your brow a pale purple, carrying the scent of spring, filling your lungs with life after a long winter. it’s so vivid you can almost feel the soft ground as you dance. but the only thing dancing are your fingers, gliding across the keys with sebastian’s until he stops and you take over, feeling the smoothness under your fingertips.

it’s solid.

solid like the door of your house that greeted you every evening after a sweet rendezvous, the seat you’d take at the table, the sturdy walls that protected you from harm. it’s comforting, but absolutely wild to feel something solid at this point. you could cry, you could choke on the salt of your tears in this moment as you continue playing, pressing the keys passionately, loving them with your entire heart as you sob, feeling the first tear roll down your warming cheek and fall onto the white key.

the music stops.

you lift your head and brush a few more tears from the corner of your eye, looking at them in the sun for a moment before popping the thumb into your mouth. your tongue darts over the pad of your finger, collecting the saltiness of the drops and craving more. they’re yours. nobody else’s. emboldened by your gaze that searches for sebastian’s eyes again, he holds your arm and gently turns you to face him. the perfect angle, he can see the shine in your hair. his fingers almost reverently touch your cheek, and as the soft skin warms under his touch, he smiles.

another gentle caress on your face, another soft breath from his lips, and he cups your cheek to tilt your head up. he looks at you like he’s known you his entire life. like he recognizes the shape of your soul and it speaks to him. like you’re what he’s been searching for while not knowing, like he’s been incomplete until you floated into his life, translucent and unassuming. losing the floor under your heels, you lift yourself up to your tip-toes, closing your eyes and taking the leap.

his lips are soft.

they taste like new beginnings. they part and take your bottom lip in between them like it’s what they’ve been hungry for all his life. his other hand quickly finds its place on your other cheek, savoring the feeling of them solid in his hands. he touches you so gently, but holds you close as if he’s scared of losing himself without you. his breath is stuck in between your throat and his, unsure if he should even attempt to breathe while he has you kissing him. sebastian’s body presses against yours, closing the distance rapidly before he pulls away from your lips. he watches as your eyelashes flutter open, so slowly as if worried that you’ll end the moment too soon. and everything is too soon, because it feels too good to be true. you don’t want to trust the feeling of his hands on your cheeks, the warmth of his breath on your lips, the closeness of his torso against your chest, because if you trust them and they fool you then you may as well just die all over again, newfound hope and all, disappearing into the wind.

“beautiful…” sebastian whispers, and you feel the words on the bridge of your nose. you lift your hands, finding a good place to rest on his sides, and relish the texture of his soft hoodie under your fingers. you grip it tightly, bunching up the fabric until you feel him gasp and your eyes fly open, looking up to see him watch you so carefully.

he leans in again, so quickly as his hands abandon the gentle hold on your face, sliding down your body like he’s making sure you’re really there, in the flesh, in this moment, fully you, tangible under his nimble digits. you’re practically vibrating, the scent of desire between you is raising the thrum of electricity in the air. you can still feel the music as his lips connect with yours, feel it in every inch of your body that finds the strength to move, to step forward in between his feet and mold yourself into him. tilting your head up, gliding your hands up into his hair, tugging on it gently, you’re testing out the limitations of reality. if you can do this, then what else is within your grasp?

a gentle hum from your lips passes into his, vibrating his bottom lip. it reverberates through his entire body, it moves him with so much need and rush that his hands drop lower, picking you up by the undersides of your thighs, and hold you up against him. after all this time, it’s so comforting to be held. to feel someone’s desire for you burn as they touch you. to feel them never get enough as their fingers try to leave marks in your skin. sebastian’s hands grip you so tightly, pressing into your thighs as your dress is lifted, bunched up around your hips. you’re giggling into the kiss, taken by surprise as he takes you to that dark couch and sits down, letting you settle on his lap.

with so many sensations, old and familiar, but completely new, you take a moment to hold his face in between your palms, pulling away from the kiss to just– look. there’s a soft pink tint flowing over his pale skin, the bridge of his nose bearing a few light freckles you can see now that you’re so damn close. it’s almost funny how he’s trying to keep his eyes closed, trying not to break the moment, trying to keep the image of your face so full of color in front of his eyes, fearing that he’ll open them again and you’ll be barely there, a shadow of your beauty, a memory, a ghost.

you use one finger to brush hair out of his face, tickling his nose with the end of it in the process. he scrunches it for a moment, making little creases appear on the bridge, looking too cute for their own good. you feel yourself drawn to them, your lips simply gravitate to his face, pressing a little kiss to those creases, making him sigh so sweetly.

pulling away again, you reluctantly leave the softness of his skin to once more take in his features. there’s blood rushing into your cheeks so loudly you can hear it pumping inside your head. how long has it been since you’ve kissed? do your lips still feel the same as they did back then? do they taste the same, like coffee and fruit you used to get from the store every morning? or do they taste like nothing now, poisoned by death and the lake that took you away…

sebastian inhales deeply and brings a hand to the back of your head, pulling you closer again, drowning in your lips, planting kiss after wet kiss onto them, gliding his tongue along the seam of your lips and taking every inch he can as you part them to let him in. you taste him, the familiar flavor of coffee fresh on his tongue, life bursting from his every pore as he needs you. to prove to him that life is worth living, to tell him that there is hope in the darker moments. and you give in, letting go of the shore to float in the wave that’s threatening to take you under, into his scent that fills your nostrils, that shows you there’s another side to death, to make you believe you can still feel like before. you don’t see blue anymore, when your lashes flutter open for a few brief moments, as if to make sure it’s not a trick. you don’t see the magical suit that shimmers in the dark, but pale skin and a comfortable hoodie that bears tiny holes where ash burned through the soft fabric. it’s dark, but the light in your heart is so bright. you squeeze your thighs together, getting used to feeling them again, getting used to the texture against your skin so rough, the seams of sebastian’s jeans digging into your soft flesh. he groans, sliding the hand from the back of your head down to grab your hips, pulling you against him firmly.

like a rumble of thunder in the distance, pleasure growls in the back of your throat. it shoots up your spine and shakes you to your very core. your cold toes curl against the slippery surface of the couch, but sebastian is quick. he lifts you up and makes quick work of his jeans, desperately trying to unbutton them before you can disappear on him, he lets out frustrated huffs, breathing out against your lips in between the tugs of his teeth on your bottom lip. your cold hands join his, the difference in temperature almost shocking, but he doesn’t let it sidetrack him. he needs you, needs to feel if you’re warm like he feels inside. needs to find the reason to keep going within you even if it’s the last thing he does. even if it ends him, he’s rushing to join you on the other side.

the unceremonious sound of his jeans landing on the floor would make you laugh if it wasn’t for the heat spreading through your entire body, reaching even your fingertips as they carefully tug his boxers off, synchronizing the movements of your hands with the ragged breaths that spill from his lips. you kiss them again, slowly this time to savor the taste of this living boy, giving you his everything for a chance to feel. there’s hardly any point in bunching up your dress again, but you do it just to make this action feel more familiar, to conserve any fragment of normalcy, to forget the fact that this should not even be possible. but you’re here, warm and soft like the day that you left this world. gentle and giving like in the life that you led, so damn pretty as you straddle sebastian’s lap and lean forward, resting your shaky hands on his shoulders for a moment, then sliding them down to grab the hem of that soft material and pull it off.

“so fucking pretty–” his whispered words are muffled by the hoodie, cut off by your heated kiss once you lay your eyes on his pale torso. if he speaks you have to listen, if you listen you start thinking, if you think… there’s no turning back once the memories start flooding, so you lower your hand, taking his hardened cock into it and swiping it along your soft folds until you’re ready to face the possibility that nothing can happen, until you’ve steeled yourself for the ultimate test of what this afterlife can give you… or take away from you.

sinking has never felt this good, the thought flashes through your mind. every vein on his cock makes its way into your warm cunt, sebastian throws his head back and lets out a high pitched groan. you see his adam’s apple bob up and down, so inviting that you have to attach your soft lips to it and kiss. a wet, sloppy kiss against his neck while you lower your hips down, until the plump flesh of your ass meets his thighs again, until he’s buried inside you so deeply that there’s no questioning if this is meant to be or not. if it wasn’t meant to be, would it feel so warm in your chest? if it wasn’t meant to be, would you feel the texture of his stomach under your fingertips? if it wasn’t meant to be, would his sweet moans be like honey in your ear?

you lean in, sitting on him like you’ve done this countless times before, tilting his head to look at you as his dark lashes slowly flutter open, revealing his glassy eyes, those slightly pink parted lips leaking your new favorite sounds, the gentle sighs he cannot hold inside. the sugary moans that you pick up with your lips and press against his again, like a royal stamp on hot wax, like a key to a lock.

his hands are shaking too, so overcome with sensations, itching to grab more of you, to toe the line with how far fate will let you go, playing chicken with the universe which can decide to take it all away from him. now, settled on your waist, gripping the tattered fabric of your once-white dress, he curses under his breath and lifts his hips up, pushing the tip of his cock against your soft, pliant walls as his eyes roll back.

“fuck…” sebastian groans, interrupting the pretty melody of your hips meeting in a gentle tap of skin against skin. your knees dig into the couch cushion, and you can still hardly believe this is happening, your knee isn’t simply passing through the soft, full material, but offering resistance. you can touch, press, push, feel the smooth surface under your palm while his body heat warms you and makes you lift your hips up only to bring them down again. his moan is like the most beautiful chord your fingers could ever produce against the smooth keys of the piano. it spurs you on, you need it repeated in your head over and over again until the end of time, until whatever is left in your soul is crumbling into dust and scattering with the winds across the endless world, across the waves of the universe where you could hear them again, at the center of a new world you’d create. the slow pace your hips move in is torturous, but you can’t speed up if you tried, landing on his lap is where you’re supposed to be, enveloping his cock with your cunt is what you didn’t even realize you were craving until he sank into your heat, until he became the only thing on your mind.

balancing yourself on his lean body, you keep the movements of your hips, the ones that have him rolling his eyes back and resting his head against the back of the couch. he’s melting into the cushion, completely under your spell, under your command as your wrists threaten to give out under you. kissing his jaw is the only thing your lips can do, hungrily possessing his skin trying not to let out so many desperate whimpers as you ride him slowly. you drag out the pace, savoring the feeling of his cock dragging in and out of your weeping pussy, gliding along your velvety warm walls as your mind spins. 

has it always felt this good? you don’t remember ever feeling the sheer ecstasy that sebastian is bringing you. maybe it’s the fact that you’re overjoyed since you can finally feel again, since you’re touching him when it shouldn’t be possible. maybe it’s the fact that he’s draped so prettily over the couch and how he lets you bounce yourself on his cock just how you want to. maybe it’s the fact that he’s not the one that killed you, but in a way resurrected you, gave you a chance, gave you time. maybe it really was meant to be, maybe the fates were pushing you two together until something snapped and you could finally give in to each other. 

whatever it is, you welcome it with open arms and head thrown back, moaning in pleasure into the air as sebastian’s hands desperately search for more of you, grip your waist tightly so his fingertips nearly poke holes in your tattered dress to reach your skin, and start moving you faster. like he’s awoken from a deep slumber, desperate and hungry, he pants as your thighs repeatedly meet his lap, your tight cunt swallowing everything he has to give you. your toes curl again, no longer cold but feeling the static travel through your body as he squeezes your waist tightly and dips his head down to plant messy, wet kisses along your exposed collar bones. so attentive, speeding up as soon as you start breathing quicker, as soon as you whimper out a syllable of his name, as soon as you start looking for a place for your hands. you need to grab more, you need to feel stability, so it’s only natural to lock them into his dark hair, tugging gently if only to hear the slight groan that slips from his mouth and vibrates against your throat.

oh how you want to bottle up that sound and keep it in a vial against your heart for eternity. he’s holding onto you like you’re the one who’s alive and keeping him tethered to you. he’s holding you like if he ever let go he’d be lost in the darkness like you have been. like if he lost contact with your skin he’d turn into a non corporeal apparition cursed to hang in between this world and the next. so he holds on, fingers almost cramping with the intensity of his grip on your waist as he pulls you against him, bounces your soft body on his aching, leaking cock that begs to be buried inside you if only for today, if only while you’ll have him. 

he looks up at you from the drooling mess he’s made of your collar bones, the skin so glossy with his saliva and reddened from his teeth that marked you desperately. his eyes… his glassy, pleading eyes that almost have you lean down to kiss his pretty face, press little pecks of gratitude to his eyelids so gently, but he’s looking up at you and it’s clear from the gasp that dies in your throat that you’ve never seen something so beautiful in your existence. his devotion is painted so clearly in the dark pupils swallowing the irises of his widened eyes.

reverence so profound, now that he’s holding his own personal deity in his lap, fucking into you desperately, lifting his hips to meet you closer, to sink into you deeper, to make you do that thing you did when he first pushed his tip inside you and clenched around his worshiping cock. he needs it again, needs to feel the extent of pleasure he can bring you while trying to hold on. he needs to know he’s useful, wanted, that he matters, even if it’s just to make you roll your eyes back into your skull just like you’re doing just now. tugging on the dark strands of his hair, whimpering out syllables of his name, throwing your head back so he can see your throat bob as you swallow hard, groaning out while his cramping hands bring you down against him harder, stuffing you so full of his cock that he may as well be fusing with your body. the body that’s so warm to his touch now that he can finally feel you, the body that fits so perfectly against him that it has to be a joke played on him, to make him see someone so right for him and kill them before he had the chance to experience this utter bliss. 

so now you two trick the fates, indulging in each other so sweetly as his hips lift from the couch, cock diving deep into you to hear you whine out for him again, the noise seducing him to fall harder for you than he could have ever imagined himself doing. pressing against that sweet spot that is like a button making you slip those honeyed sounds from your parted lips, the sounds that make him lower his head in a bow, breathing heavily against the swell of your breasts, moaning and struggling as he feels the tight coil of tension about to break on him. 

you feel it, too, that tightness inside your abdomen threatening to make you spasm and shake. like a long build-up for the earthquake of the century, the magnitude of which would shake the ground under your bare feet, the ground that sebastian’s clothes lie on thrown away carelessly just to let you feel him. he must see it in your face, in the string of saliva that connects your lips, that he leans in to kiss as you moan into his mouth. he must see it in your eyelids that refuse to stay open, the lashes that flutter desperately like the wings of a dragonfly caught in a web, sweeping the tops of your flushed cheeks as you try to hold on to the sanity you still have left. he must see it in the squeeze of your soft thighs against him because he groans at the sensation, his panting becomes quicker, higher in pitch, the tempo uneven as he struggles.

“you’re…” he swallows, pulling his lips from yours albeit reluctantly, “so good i–”

you tug on his hair a little harder, dipping your head down to bite the pale skin of his neck just under his ear, dying to leave a mark behind, needing to see the definitive proof that you’re real and that he’s got you.

“please…” you whine, “please, please i need it…”

he can’t know what you mean, surely he can’t. but his hands leave your waist to hug around you, gliding against the small of your back before settling on the sides of your hips and gripping you more desperately, holding you closer than you’ve been held in your life. safe and secured against his relentless hips, now lifting to slot against you faster than ever, so resolute to have you until the very end, until the sun that’s on the horizon explodes inside both of you, he groans again, a frantic little noise that makes you go to the very source of it, sloppily kissing his bitten lips, already feeling the swell of that warmth about to consume you.

“i can’t–” you whine against his lips, murmuring in between the messy, wet kisses, “i’m so–”

it’s a supernova.

a blinding flash so bright that if your eyes weren’t closed already, you would’ve ended up blind. sebastian’s skin is hot to touch, and as your saccharine moans disappear and melt on his tongue, so his eager groans stick to your mouth. in an instant, in a moment so fragile, you feel your entire body shudder and your warm cunt contracts around him. he stutters, his hips so unyielding until then falter and it takes unprecedented strength to keep him going, but he doesn’t quit. he resumes the tempo, so perfect, so fitting as you suck him into your warmth, letting him spill his release into you. it unravels you, undoes your stitching, and reforms the atoms that make you. you cling to him like he’s the only constant in this world, and he clings to you because you just might be his salvation.

seconds, minutes, maybe even lifetimes pass while you sit on his bare lap like this, unwilling to move a single muscle for fear you’ll lose yourself, but he lifts his head up to look at you again. the sun is setting, there’s an orange ray that still goes through his window and lands on your cheek. sebastian smiles, letting go of your hips to lift a hand up and gently brush his finger over the patch of light that shines on you, barely holding a candle to the intensity of light that glows within you. you lean into the touch, seeking more as his palm turns to cup your cheek, soft gesture melting him as he looks into your slowly opening eyes. the other hand reaches to the side, to the soft blanket folded on the edge of the dark couch which he pulls over both of you, cocooning you into a safe little bubble.

“you’re still here.” he murmurs, smiling as you move your hands down to touch his body again, leaving the mess of his hair behind with little memories of your fingers interlocked in the dark strands.

“i’m still here.” you echo, voice sounding broken, but your heart finally feeling whole again.

“now what?” he asks, gently coaxing you to dip your head lower and place those gentle lips so needy for attention to his hungry ones.

you sigh, melting into him as you, for the first time in a long while, truly ask yourself… now what? now that you’re not floating back into the void, that you’re not screaming in silence to be let out, now that you’re… whatever you are in this moment. now that you can wonder what you could become…

“we’ll figure it out,” you speak softly, whispering against his lips with eyes blissfully closed, “one step at a time.”

♡ if you enjoyed this, consider leaving a like, reblog, or a comment. interaction helps keep your writers motivated! also if you don't agree with any aspect of this that's okay, this is just my opinion and it's hella self-indulgent!

[tinyundercover]

How do you think Pepper and Felix would react if the rolls were reversed. Ex. Human and burrower switch. Either in their current state of already knowing each other or If Human!Pepper found Burrower!Felix in his apartment.

teehee i've been saving this ask for a couple days ...

pepper & felix (size swap au)

human!pepper meets borrower!felix word count: 1.8k

It took everything in Felix’s being not to panic.

Tight thread wrapped around his torso, constricting his breath, pinning his arms against himself. Pinches of pain flared up every time he struggled. The world swayed around him, a wide open space leaving him vulnerable and visible, dangling uselessly from his fishing hook.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

The blood was beginning to rush to his head from how he was hanging at an angle. With a twist of the shoulders, he took the deepest breath he could, his gaze frantically searching for a solution. His heart threatened to pound out of his chest. 

Felix’s fishing hook stretched above him, latched onto the edge of a shelf. In a clumsy mishap Felix had gotten tangled in his thread and fallen, only to be left stranded in the air, one arm pinned to his side while the other twisted near his face.

The kitchen of the bakery was fairly small, meaning that the very moment the owner entered the kitchen, Felix would be right in his line of sight. The borrower cursed at the realization, writhing.

He supposed he should be lucky that the owner of the bakery— a sturdy, reserved, dark-haired human who was ironically rather surly for someone who baked cookies all day— was the only person working, and that he was currently behind the front counter, haggling with a customer. Felix prayed that the customer would keep their argument going long enough for him to escape.

One of Felix’s hands was twisted against his collarbone. With a surge of desperation he yanked his hand away, but he only served to tighten the thread around his shoulders, sending a pinch of pain through his body. He groaned, slumping his shoulders and staring uselessly at the underside of the shelf.

“Fuck.” Felix glanced anxiously at the kitchen door when he heard the owner’s voice rise, indicating that he was approaching. Heart pounding, he jerked, attempting to knock his hook free. If he was lucky, he’d possibly be able to survive the fall to the counter with minor injuries.

The door swung open, and Felix cursed again, panic rising. In the corner of his eye he could see the human enter the kitchen, appearing much larger than he remembered, grumbling under his breath.

“What an asshole… thinking she can just get a discount for complaining…”

For half of a second, Felix thought that maybe he would go unnoticed— then, of course, he remembered that he was currently hanging from a shelf in plain view.

Sharp gray eyes rounded on Felix, and the borrower bit back a noise of panic, uselessly jerking away. 

Only a few feet away, the human positively towered over Felix, sending cold fear rocketing through the borrower’s body. A stained black apron barely concealed the broadness of the human’s torso and shoulders. Two enormous hands twitched in surprise upon spotting Felix, both undoubtedly possessing the strength to snatch up the borrower with ease… oh god, even one of those fingers could do unbelievable damage to Felix without even trying.

Felix knew that he was trembling, the adrenaline in his body having vanished completely. He squeezed his eyes shut as the human let out a low noise, confused, hearing the telltale footsteps that he was about to be grabbed up against his will.

“Holy fuck.”

It didn’t matter what the human said— Felix would’ve flinched back regardless. The borrower swallowed, peeking his eyes open just long enough to see a tan face, brow furrowed in utter disbelief, before he gasped and turned away again, heart pounding wildly.

“Jesus, what are you?” The voice grew louder as the human inched closer, and Felix’s breath shook, instincts going haywire.

“Please don’t hurt me,” Felix whispered, barely audible, more to himself than to the human. Through his watery gaze he caught sight of the human removing his gloves and setting them aside, which could only mean one thing. Felix choked on his breath.

The human didn’t seem to have heard him. Features sharp and furrowed, as if he was incredibly focused, the human reached towards Felix.

The borrower cried out in shock at the sudden approach of two hands, long fingers just as threatening as ten sharp daggers. The panic in his body sent him thrashing again, and he managed to kick one finger before the human jerked his hands back, scowling.

“Jesus Christ, man, I’m trying to help you. Relax.”

Felix wasn’t sure how to explain that being suspended from a shelf for the rest of time was preferable to being held in either one of those massive, grabby hands.

“No, please—!” The words escaped Felix’s mouth in a startled shout as the hands approached again. They jerked to a stop, and Felix caught sight of the human’s bewildered expression.

“You can talk?”

“Please, please— I’ll get down, I’ll leave, just don’t touch me, please—”

Felix’s begging didn’t seem to appease the human at all. Disturbed, the human lowered his hands, gray eyes flickering. “Dude, I’m not gonna hurt you. Alright?” He sent a wary glance over his shoulder, as if a customer might come barging into the kitchen, before fixating back on the trembling, teary borrower. 

Seeming to decide that Felix’s terrified silence was a good enough answer, the human reached forward again.

Felix’s rush of desperate pleading fell on deaf ears. The moment those enormous fingers made contact with his torso, Felix gasped and fell silent, choking on his breath.

The human remained incredibly quiet as he closed a hand around the borrower, considerate of the thread wrapped painfully around his body and limbs. Felix attempted to jerk away from the imposing fingers, but they were unrelenting— although surprisingly gentle.

Felix’s hook was unlodged quickly by the human’s second hand. When Felix weakly opened his eyes (not quite realizing that he had squeezed them shut to begin with) he found himself sitting in the human’s large palm, arms still pinned awkwardly to his sides, chest heaving with short, constricted breaths.

“There.” The human spoke bluntly, searching absentmindedly through a drawer with his other hand. “Let’s get that string off of you.”

Felix didn’t quite process what that meant until the human presented him with the largest pair of scissors he had ever seen in his life.

At the sight of the gleaming blades, Felix whimpered, twitching back as much as he could. The ability to form words seemed to have left his body completely.

Gray eyes searched the borrower’s shaky form, and softened. As oblivious as the human was to how much his own presence terrified the borrower, the human clearly had enough common sense to understand how threatening a sharp blade might appear to someone the size of his finger. “It’s okay. Seriously, it’ll only take a second, alright?”

The assurance did not help. Felix cringed away as the scissors approached, a sob threatening to escape his body. When the cold tip of the scissors brushed against his stomach he froze, eyes screwed shut, terrified to even take a breath.

Admittedly, the human had been right— it took less than a second. With the snip of the scissors, Felix’s shoulders slumped, feeling the thread loosen instantly. Gasping for the deepest breath he could take, Felix jerked back, slapping a hand to his chest.

The scissors were gone in an instant, replaced by inquisitive gray eyes, searching Felix’s form. “There. Are you okay?” 

It took a long moment for Felix to steady his breathing. Wiping at the tears that had dampened his face, the borrower squirmed free of the thread, body shuddering in relief. He had never appreciated fresh air more in his entire life.

“I—” he flushed under the human’s intense gaze, crawling back until he bumped into the enormous fingers. “Thank— thank you.”

The human only raised an eyebrow. “Don’t mention it. What the hell are you doing in my kitchen? What are you?”

Felix should have expected the interrogation earlier, honestly. Wincing and rubbing at the indents in his arms, his gaze flickered away. “Can you— can you put— me down, first? Please?”

It was difficult enough to get the question out, let alone meet the gaze of the human who currently held Felix’s life in his hand. Fortunately, the human seemed willing to comply, making Felix want to sob with relief.

“Uh— yeah. Here.” Brow furrowed, the human lowered his hand to the counter, where Felix used the last of his depleted energy to throw himself off onto the silver surface. Broken threads held in his trembling hands, Felix stumbled back, dragging his hook along with him. His heart continued to race.

There’s an exit behind those bags of flour. It’s so close. 

The human peered down at him expectantly, large hands now braced against the edge of the counter. He loomed over the borrower, shoulders wide and towering, causing Felix’s breath to shorten as if he was still trapped in thread.

Felix could barely take in all of the human. He filled Felix’s entire vision.

“So, again— what are you?” The human pressed again, leaning closer. 

By some miracle, the tense silence in the air was broken by the pleasant twinkling of the doorbell up front.

Felix could have sobbed. The human cursed, gaze flickering to the kitchen door before switching back to the borrower in front of him. “Ugh— okay, stay right there.”

The human stepped back, momentarily scanning the counter. Once he seemed sure that there was no place for Felix to escape to (a pleasantly incorrect guess) he turned away, walking briskly towards the door. Felix was met with one last glowering glance before the human left the kitchen.

Oh my god.

The adrenaline came rushing back in an instant, and Felix snatched up his hook and thread, bolting towards the wall. 

The relief that hit his body the moment he was safely nestled in the walls was unbelievable. With a shuddering gasp, he slid to the ground, hugging himself. His heart pounded.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, blinking away tears of elation. “Holy shit.”

He spent several minutes on the ground, steadying his breathing, trying to calm his shaking hands. Vaguely, he heard the footsteps of the human reentering the kitchen, and the reverberating voice searching for him. Felix dropped onto his back, staring at the dusty wood around him, chest heaving.

He couldn’t believe his luck. The human had not only freed him, but had been distracted just long enough for Felix to escape harm-free. Felix could have cheered if it hadn’t been such a harrowing experience.

It sucks that I’ll have to move now.

His gaze slid towards the crack in the wall, and feeling lightheaded he scrambled over, peering out.

Through a gap between two towering bags of flour, Felix could see the human. His arms were crossed, drumming his fingers over his tan forearm, clearly bewildered. The uneasy expression on his face told Felix that he was doubting if their short interaction had actually happened.

Felix released a tense breath. There was no evidence that he had been caught at all— so maybe this human would chalk him up to imagination? Could he be that lucky?

The human’s broad shoulders slumped, giving up, before he turned away to check on the wedding cake currently baking in the oven. Felix chewed his lip, spirits rising.

Maybe this will be okay.

--

silly pepper doesnt realize just how scary he looks

this probably won't be continued aside from occasional one-shots, if I get the inspiration. this was fun!! thanks for the size swap suggestion anon!

TAGLIST: @smallsday @compact-katrina @satethesatelite @taters169 @entomolog-t @gtzel @gt-newbie @da3dm @clumsiergiantess @vee-normous @fee-hunter @torakan @mabelisthebatman @andithewhumper @mothsintherain @violetlight @heroofthe13thday @phoenix-on-the-run

[hedwig221b]

hiii hope you're doing well ! can we be gifted with a sneak peek of what you're working on right now ? love ya !

Hi, anon! The Midsommar au stubbornly doesn't want to be written, so here's a piece of an Outsider POV au (yes, again, yes, it's gonna be amazing) on a weird hermit witch Stiles (partially inspired by this post and also a very old bloody witchy plot bunny).

Her eyelashes stuck together as she blinked. Bit by bit, the haze lifted off her fever-stricken mind enough for her to take in the surroundings. She lay on an overly warm but surprisingly soft bed, soaking the covers under her with her sweat. The flames that danced upon the ceiling turned out to be just shadows from the roaring fireplace.

She stared at her clothes drying on the racks not far from it. Slowly, with her stomach sinking, she glanced at the man again.

He was no older than her, his pale skin splattered with moles and four ugly scars going down his cheek to his neck. Deep honey eyes and eyebrows hunched together.

He stood in front of the large dinner table, casting sharp shadows on the walls, and was busy grinding something in a mortar. The table was heavy with jars, vials, and sacks upon sacks of dried herbs. The reflection of the flames tinkled upon the glass. Everything inside seemed dark of a color.

Allison swallowed thickly.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

The man didn’t answer. He flipped pages of a book without any care and muttered something under his breath before hurrying to the right corner of the room. There, multiple feathers hung in a tight bundle; behind it, swung a single thick thread with a row of claws strapped to it by the fishing hooks.

Allison shifted her gaze, dread filling her stomach along with nausea.

Claws, feathers, eyeballs stuck together in a jar like pickled tomatoes. A deer skull in the corner with mittens hanging from its horns to dry. Jars upon jars of sealed violet flowers and a couple of cauldrons stacked together near the fireplace.

This cozy house lit with warmth and the cloying scent of drying herbs, belonged to a witch.

It would’ve been better if she died.

Allison didn’t have time to scream as the man leaned over her again.

Now that he had shed his winter coat, he looked slender but strong. He had to be fit to keep a house like this going, of course, but he also had to eat well. Was she his next meal? Was that fire for her?

A cry left her lips when the stranger grabbed her hand wrist up. She yanked it back with every bit of strength she had in her, only to yelp as his fingers gripped her wrist.

The man harrumphed as if her struggle for life was so annoying, and, to Allison’s horror, pulled out a dagger.

The diamonds glinted in the low light for a second before the blade pressed to her cheek, stilling her to death.

“We can do it two ways,” the man said quietly. “You can either stop wiggling and lose a bit of blood, or you can fight and lose it all. The choice is in your hands.”

A pearl of tear rolled off her eyes and onto the glinting blade.

The man smiled. His scars scrunched together.

God, how atrocious he was.

“Some brain left in you, heh?” he chuckled and swiped across her cheek.

Sharp pain burst through it, but then, all pressure was off her.

“See?” the man took the mortar off the floor and shook the droplet of her blood off the dagger’s tip into the mixture. “Nothing bad happened. Again, if you hadn’t fought, the cut would’ve been on your arm and not right there on your face, but…” he shrugged.

“Why?” Allison asked.

Why did you save me? Why are you doing this?

The man pretended to not hear her. He stuck his finger in the mixture, scooped up the gloopy bit, and put it in his mouth. With his eyes shut tightly, he hummed at the taste.

If only Allison wasn’t so weak, she would’ve disarmed him right there. Naked and with nothing but her hands for weapons, she would’ve won the fight, she was sure of it. Her father taught her to kill, and she learned it well.

The man’s eyes opened slowly. He swallowed and looked down at Allison, his gaze cold and calculating.

“Want soup?” he asked and jumped from the bed.

What?..

“I’ve just finished making it when I sensed you wandering around.” The man puttered around the table, closing the vials and screwing the jars shut. “I’m not giving you any meat, but the stock is delicious. Delicious!” He grinned to himself, though his smile wilted as he noticed her wide terrified eyes. “You get to live, okay? Don’t look at me like that. God!” He rolled his eyes and took out a bowl, which he promptly filled with a ladle-worth of steaming broth. “You are not a heroine in a romance novel, stop suffering.”

“I was ready to meet my death in the forest,” Allison insisted hoarsely, lifting herself on trembling elbows only to quickly fall back onto the pillows. Even that tiny bit of anger took everything from her.

“I’m not your chaperone!” the man bit out as he sat on the bed. He glanced at her weak body and, with a huff, put the bowl on the floor. Then, he took her under the armpits and pushed her into a sitting position.

Even with her head spinning, Allison tried to cover her suddenly naked breasts. A moment later, hands pushed covers up her shoulders and tucked them behind her back.

“Don’t try that with me,” the man grumbled, unfazed, and picked up the bowl from the floor. He swirled the spoon in the rich broth. “I have a mate.”

What a weird man. A mate? Like the one animals had?

She glanced at the lone pair of boots near the heavy door. One fur coat drying on the stand. One hat.

The man didn’t have anyone, did he?

Either he drove himself mad from loneliness, or his “mate” wasn’t… human.

Her gaze fell on his scars all by itself. It was the first thing one would notice about him, and then would stare at it forever, unable to tear their eyes away. They barely missed his eye, but that was a small consolation, considering how deep and white they were, how the skin pulled together and froze in place for the rest of his life.

Perhaps, Allison would’ve considered him handsome if it weren’t for the scars. His eyes were striking even with their coldness, and his nose was pushed slightly up. Despite living alone in the woods, he kept himself clean and shaven, although a beard would’ve hidden some of the scars.

“Say ‘aah’,” the man opened his mouth in example and pressed a spoonful of oily broth to her lips.

It was surprisingly nice, though very gamey. She didn’t dare purse her nose, though, as the liquid coated her tongue and soother her parched throat. By the end of the meal, her stomach was full, though unpleasantly warm, and her lips shined with the thin layer of fat.

“Who are you?” Allison tried again, her blinks slow.

“Stiles.”

She frowned. “What?”

“What?” the man mocked her in a high-pitched voice. “That’s my name, you idiot. I’m gonna call you Idiot.”

“I’m Allison.”

“And I don’t care.” With an inexistent grace of a newborn fawn, the man rose from the edge of the bed, glanced at it wistfully, and went to the kitchen area to stack up her bowl on top of the others. “Why are there always dishes?”

With her eyes closing more and more, Allison watched as the man loaded the dirty dishes into the basin, lifted it up, and walked to the door.

At the last moment, as if he just remembered Allison was there, Stiles stopped and glanced at her.

“Oh, yeah, stay here,” he said. “If you try to run, I am going to break your legs. If I break your legs, my mate is going to think I am giving him a prey to chase.” He cringed his nose in thought. “Nice idea, by the way. Nice, nice, nice…” he shoved his feet in the boots and shuffled outside, cursing at the cold.

Yes, thought Allison as the sleep forced her eyes closed, death would’ve been a mercy.

[divider source]

[nonnieapple]

Afk journey, Sinbad, trans male/gender neutral reader, nsfw fanfiction. (I love this man very much)🤍

⛈️☂️Hook, Line, and Sinker☂️⛈️

• (Sinbad x trans!male!Reader)

• r a t i n g: e x p l i c i t • 4 1 4 0 w o r d s

• p o s t e d: 01.11.2024🌧️ navigation

n o t e: sinbad is so hot, i wish men were real :( s u m m a r y: sinbad walks in at the worst possible time, and the following events complicate your relationship further.

It was nearing night, and the hamsters were fast asleep as well as most guests of the inn. 

  When Sinbad walked into your room, you were staring out of the window with a wistful look, like the look his mothers had when they gazed out at the sea, remembering their husbands, lost forever to the fog and unrelenting waves. He wondered who you longed after, if anyone. Maybe you longed for home. Or for something he couldn't possibly imagine. 

  Before he closed the door, you broke the silence. 

  "You dare disturb my rest?"

  Even turned away, you heard him. Your voice sent tingles up his leg. The room veered towards cold, the windows open, making the curtains flutter like sails. 

  "You're really living it up in here," Sinbad remarked, inviting himself to sit down on the fancy armchair flanked by another and a couch in the west of your room. 

  He hadn't ever been in it yet, and he was sure you wouldn't mind if he just sprawled out a little, he stretched, his boots hitting the leg of the short table. Lit candles sitting upon golden thrones flickered on it. Two glasses and a bottle were there as well. 

  "As I should, I was to have a vacation, and I'm still getting it, Cedartown or not." You made your way to the couch, your visage somewhat blurry from all the glamour swallowing up your form, the air around you swaying. 

  If he looked at you too long, he could see something was terribly wrong. It was not something anyone could notice at first, or at second sight, only those looking for it might begin to pull at the thread. He stopped examining you. He wasn't sure what he'd find. 

  You were like the fog that had almost killed him- leading him in mental circles until he went mad trying to get himself out of it. 

  Sinbad's leg jerked when you approached. You stood, close, your robe made of small, black, and knitted net. It should've revealed everything you wore under it- instead, everything around your chest and hips darkened and blurred. 

  The magic that wafted off you made his head spin. Or maybe it was that he drank too much. Sinbad sighed shakily as you ghosted your touch over his face, your eyes sharp and inhuman. The next second, they turned warm. 

  "Did you drink that swill again? Here, drink something good for once." 

  He barely caught the bottle you threw into his arms, and he thought, somewhat incredulously, You're too kind.

  But, really, Magister- I don't know what to think of you. One second you wanna kill me and the next you're my savior. 

  I'll never know who you are, will I?

  His eyes skimmed over the label. Dark liquid sloshed within darker green walls. "Woah! Fancy stuff. It's actually red."

  The wine he was used to at most establishments was pale, watered down to save costs. You shrugged. You must've been used to good wine, good food, good people. He envied you. 

  "It's from an... old friend."

  The way you said that with so much hesitance made his heart drop. 

  "They must be rich."

  Sinbad popped open the bottle and poured himself some. He might as well indulge, and your room was a good place to do that. Upon second thought it might be questionable. 

  He had to hold back on drinking. He couldn't afford to do something stupid.

  "Beyond that, and a massive drunkard I could never deny, but as I don't drink I have no use for his gifts." You took up the whole couch, propping up your head with a hand, the other playing idly with the belt of your delicate robe. 

  If he was to be mean, he'd liken you to a fish caught in a net, but he couldn't lie, you were more of a siren. 

  You hummed.

  "I guess I could have a glass."

  You poured yourself nearly half the bottle, and swallowed a third of the glass, drinking like a fish. He struggled not to gawk at you. 

  "Old friend... bet you have plenty of those. Not like it bothers me," he tacked on at the end, scratching at his scalp lightly. 

  The fireplace crackled and sputtered red. Strange, it gave off no warmth. Was it magic? Sheesh, what about you wasn't magic? 

  The rug beneath his boots was sure real, and a real good rug, too. If he were to get piss drunk he'd choose the rug over the street to pass out on. Oh, there were even pillows on the floor. Perfect. 

  "I mean it. We were friends, he isn't an old flame- as far as I know."

  As far as you knew?

  "You sure about that?" He raised a brow. 

  "Quite. Though one actual old flame, I wonder how she's doing. It's been a while, I last saw her in Holistone, it has been months since then. Damn Hogan for sending me on this "vacation", now I'm stuck in the middle of the sea with no idea when I'll see him or Valen. He should've gone with me."

  Pushing aside his slight offense at the Rustport slander, you had mentioned General Hogan and Valen a few times. One was a Magistrate and, guess what, General of Holistone, the other some swashbuckling knight who, as he understood it, was hitting on you. 

  "Well, I'm glad he didn't."

  "Hm? Why is that?" You smirked, your eyes glimmering like the wine you swished in your hand.

  If Sinbad was pale, you would've seen his face lose color in an instant. 

  "I mean- I meant- he would've drowned in his armor, is all! It would've been worse than what happened to Chippy." 

  He drank quickly so he couldn't see your gloating expression.

  "You're holding your glass like you're throttling a neck." 

  Even if he drank and drank, he still heard your voice, and if he plugged his ears, you'd get into his mind, too. 

  He couldn't tell if that was a way to hint at his discomfort or point out his terrible manners. 

  "I'm not much of a wine drinker."

  You, on the other hand, held your glass between your thumb and forefinger ever so lightly. That fucking hand was calling him poor just at a glance. 

  "This better?" He emulated the way you did it, though it was nowhere near as graceful. 

  "Much better. The wine compliments your shirt." 

  The red, satin shirt, an illusion you cast, felt good nonetheless, and the wine was divine. It was bright, just sweet enough, and with a hint of berries and zest. It tasted more like the few fruits he had tried than the usual- as you put it- "swill" he drank. 

  It settled warmly in his chest, with the occasional sour tingle in his cheeks. 

  Sinbad didn't want to leave your room. It was fancy, and more importantly, it had wine AND you. 

  "How've you been?" You said between sips, your expression softening. 

  "Good. I've been spending a lot of time poking around the ship, avoiding going to Brineville so I don't have to explain myself. Things are better than before I met ya, anyway, I can finally do what I want, and... everything's so calm." 

  It was strange to not have to think about every little expense anymore for the village now that no one threatened its safety, and he was essentially a "hero". Sure, he still had to make money somehow and Rustport was as rusty as ever, but so much had been lifted off his shoulders. 

  By you, no less. 

  He'd said he'd repay you. That nagged at his mind sometimes. What could you possibly want? 

  It was nothing to worry about. It wouldn't be worse than what he had gone through. 

  "Planning on leaving soon?" 

  If he wasn't mistaken, he saw you frown ever so slightly. 

  "Not yet. I've got a lot to do here before I leave. What about you?" 

  You threw back your head and let your hair spill over the edge of the couch. 

  "You know, been here and there, helping people as I do, went fishing with my familiars. I like helping people and spending time with them but I do need alone time." 

  That was why the hamsters were in another room. Sinbad had to admit, they were cute and had grown on him. You truly were the most precious thing he had ever found washed up on the beach. He'd be no one without you. 

  "Are you leaving soon?" 

  You shook your head. "I want to stay a bit longer, until you leave, I suppose. I won't have much to do then. I'm dealing with people's problems rather quickly." 

  Of course, you weren't staying only for him. You were busy. 

  "I'm glad you're staying a bit longer." He couldn't imagine being without you now. You were the closest friend he'd had. Everyone wanted something from him, and you had asked for the least, always generous, if quirky. 

  You smiled, returning his giddy expression, which he hadn't noticed himself pull. 

  He felt his face get warmer. Must've been all the wine. 

  He and you listened to the crackling of the fire, finishing your glasses. You lounged like a cat. You were the image of peace when you closed your eyes. He rolled up his sleeves, feeling somewhat hot all of a sudden. He waited for you to kick him out, it'd happen sooner or later.

  You watched from under your lashes. 

  "I was surprised that you had tattoos, though they are common here," you said. 

  He had helm tattoos on each forearm. "Funny story, I got them when I was drunk, like, extremely. I don't remember where or how exactly I got them." At least they healed fine and he had not felt much pain. He hadn't felt much at all.

  "They suit you well." Your eyes lingered for a while. 

  "I have more that you haven't seen." He smirked, putting on that smooth-talking persona again. 

  "Although tempting, you won't smooth-talk me, Sinbad," you said sternly. 

  He sighed. A guy had to try. You were so damn hard to scam and trick, it was annoying. You were one of the only people immune to his charms. You were looking at him like he was a helpless animal. Again. 

  Instead of words of pity, he was hit with: 

  "You look upset. Mope in another room, I'm exhausted," you said, yawning and turning away from him unceremoniously. 

  He left with a huff. 

  "Good night to you too, Magister Merlin." 

  ...

  "Good night." 

  He should've been asleep.

  Sinbad crept across the hall towards your newly luxurious room, careful not to make a sound, like he was escaping from a dungeon (like he had many times). 

  Sinbad cracked open your door. Strange, he left it unlocked, he thought. The room was dark and silent except for the sounds of the breeze coming in through the windows, like breaths.

  You seemed to be asleep, as far as he could tell. He was sure he had heard something from your room. Maybe it had been the wind.

  "Magister?" he said into the black, closing the door behind himself. It was not entirely dark, he noticed as he moved towards your canopy bed, as there was a lone candle burning close to the window. 

  The fireplace had no remains of smoldering wood. 

  The windows- they were closed shut. The sound was not from there. Had it been the draft instead? If this was how noisy the good rooms were, he'd go complain to Bols later. 

  Sinbad pushed past the closed curtains of the canopy bed, the fabric heavy and lush, a velvet he hadn't even dreamed of touching before, with much trepidation, his heart tense, ready for a beast to lunge at him any moment. 

  He didn't see what happened, it happened swiftly, the shape in the bed shifting loudly. The sound of the breeze halted. 

  "Ah, Sinbad. I was just thinking of you," you said, and it was undeniably you, your voice quiet yet clear, a little exasperated, your breathing so shallow he would've believed you if you said you had run around the whole of Rustport in a minute. 

  He would've believed you if you hadn't been in your bed all this time.

  "Why aren't you asleep?" he stammered with wide eyes, gaze lost as he adjusted, making out your fuzzy shape. It was leaner than usual. He sensed none of your usual glamours on you.

  "I could ask the same of you." 

  He leaned his knee on the bed, and you moved away. 

  "Some noise woke me up, and I thought it came from your room. Was I right?" He rubbed the back of his neck nervously, seeing that you lay rigid and didn't want him to come near you. To him, it seemed that something had happened, and you were uncooperative as to what. 

  One of his jobs was to get information. Clearly, he wasn't much good at it with you around. 

  "Did something happen, Magister? You're worrying me." His brows lowered over his honey-brown eyes. 

  "You didn't knock. You should leave my room." The light brightened against your face. Your skin was dewy and your hair was disheveled, the bedsheets in disarray. You were a mess. 

  The Merlin, a mess? 

  "I did know- and- you can't kick me out again!" He leaned over you as you leaned against cushiony pillows.

  You pushed on his chest to get him away, your hand hot and humid. 

  "... Are you dense or what?" you snapped. "What do you think I'm doing in a dark room, alone, in my bed, gasping for air?" 

  His face transitioned from bewilderment to horror. 

  Oooh.

  Embarrassment hit him like a wave. Holy Tritonus, he had heard you moaning. In this case, he was dense beyond belief. And the reason you were recoiling wasn't because something was wrong, it was, because, well. He chose the worst possible time to intrude. 

  And the reason your frame seemed leaner now was because you had no glamours concealing your body indeed, and no clothes besides that robe. He could see your bare skin between the fabric you held together with a tense hand. 

  He had trouble not looking. And it wasn't the wine, that had long left his system. 

  "Shit, I... I didn't..."

  He had no excuse, and so close to you, caging you in, neither of you could escape, captured in the world's most awkward stalemate. The words drowned in the depths of his mind.

  "You said you were thinking about me earlier. Do you mean...?" he trailed off, his voice mumbling and strained. Everything felt like a dream. He'd pinch himself if he wasn't frozen. 

  "I left the door open for you. I didn't expect you to come." 

  Sinbad's breathing had accelerated. He had already had thoughts about you. He couldn't possibly resist anything you asked him to do. That hint of servitude remained in him, and he was all eager to please. 

  "I'm here." He tried to smile, but it came out rather strained. 

  You pulled him in by tangling your hands in his freshly dried hair. Your lips were one push away. 

  He had already gotten ready for bed- his skin infused with whatever fancy soaps he managed to snatch this time. It mixed with that woody scent of a faraway home that clung to you no matter how many times you got drenched with rain or seawater. 

  "So?" 

  He felt your every breath. Berries. 

  "So..."

  You kissed him first. 

  You were far from a reserved, shy mage. You nipped at his lip and broke the kiss just to piss him off. 

  He cursed like the sailor he was. Next thing he knew, his boots were lost in the dark along with his scarf (it felt like sacrilege to wear it during this), his shirt untucked and partially unbuttoned by your nimble fingers. You traced over the anchor tattoo between his collarbone and shoulder. 

  That wasn't how he expected you to find it. 

  Your hips were fuller than they appeared, filling him with thoughts he couldn't possibly speak, and your waist was small, perfect for holding when he-

  Your chest wasn't quite... flat. That made him stop. His silent question hung in the air. 

  "I'm trans," you said, amused at how he was surprised by you again and again. You had hidden your chest to a point where he couldn't have guessed. 

  He had never been with someone like you (in any sense), but he didn't mind. 

  Your chest was soft, each breast perfectly fitting into his hand. At each caress and pull you reacted accordingly. It was his turn to be amused, and he was enjoying it immensely. 

  Your face and voice did not falter, the only thing betraying your feelings being your shallow breathing. Would your breaking point be easy to reach, or would he reach his first? 

  Goosebumps raised on your thighs when he felt them up with his calloused fingers. Only the richest of the rich could have pristine hands in Rustport. Sinbad spread your legs with little resistance from you, his hand wrapping around most of your thighs' circumference. 

  His hand dipped between your legs. You were wet, the wetness covering parts of your inner thighs. The hotness ignited a fever in him, a fever he hadn't felt in a long time, and never so strongly. Most of his prior fucks were hookups, and sometimes, to get out of uncomfortable situations in his jobs. They didn't happen often and he hardly looked forward to them. With you, he could hardly stop his hands and other body parts of his from thrusting right into you. You were by far the hottest guy he'd been with.

  At the rough touch on your clit you jolted with a soft sigh, your legs closing on instinct, but they were stopped by Sinbad being in the way. 

  The thought crossed his mind that you were surrounded by others from all sides, and at any second, anyone could walk in. He didn't mind- he liked a bit of danger. 

  "How are you feeling?" he whispered close to your ear, hand exploring all the places that could feel best for you. He would make sure you'd remember this as a positive memory, and even if you left and never saw him again, the scene would stick in your mind.

  "I've been better," you said with a shortness of breath, but impressively coherently.

  "Don't you think this is a bad time for jokes?" Would you still talk like that if he filled you up? Would your face still be so serene? 

  "It's a perfect time for-" he interrupted you as he slid his finger over your clit over and over again, making your legs tremble and your brows lower. He might've not been experienced, but he was a quick learner.

  After he got you to a point where you were panting and your pulse hammered relentlessly, he lowered his finger to your entrance, teasing it. You covered your mouth. A thin string, like fishing line, followed his hand as he withdrew. 

  Sinbad began with one finger, your tight walls even hotter than your wetness. Fuck. It felt amazing on his fingers. It might've made him cum instantly if he tried fucking you like that. 

  "Relax your muscles, there's no need to be tense," he said soothingly. 

  You visibly stopped straining and let him push his finger in fully. It circled your smooth cervix. You were pretty shallow inside. 

  He was clueless at that point, unsure of what to do for you. 

  "Curl your finger towards yourself."

  Now you were the one close to his ear, leaning on his shoulders so he could have better access and less lewd sounds would be heard. 

  When he curled it as you said, he felt a spongy tissue that gave way under his prodding. You bit into his shoulder with little regard for how much that shit hurt. It would leave a mark, or even better, a scar. Yay. One more to the arsenal. He would have a hard time explaining that one, as it was in a visible place between his neck and shoulder muscles. 

  He groaned at the pain, pulling you halfway onto him. One hand of his rubbed your clit, and the other, inside you. You must've been leaving a hickey judging by the slight tingle on his neck. It made him harder than he already was. 

  Feeling every little groove inside and outside you couldn't be replicated by just ramming his dick in, and he thanked you that you had made the choice, since he was unwise- in general. 

  "What would your love-struck Knight think, Magister?" He pressed his lips into your shoulder. Slim, but surprisingly muscled from carrying every situation you got into on your shoulders. 

  You'd look good on top of him. With other people, his mind veered into nonsense and mundane thoughts of what he'd have for breakfast. Right now all he could think about was you, you in every way, in every angle, his. Everyone was right- he was greedy. Just not about money. 

  "Getting fingered by someone you met, what, a month ago? If even that?" Sinbad smirked, making sure you saw his expression. You bit your lip and gazed at him like you were oh so woeful. Would you tell the Knight what you'd done tonight? He didn't care if you did or not, but if you did, Sinbad would've loved like to see his face. 

  "He'd be jealous, I bet," you stuttered out with each thrust and curl of his finger, and when he added a second, you were reduced to adorable huffs and sighs, far from the virtuous Magister Merlin out in Rustport streets, a man of class and poise. A man who was now gasping for air with Sinbad's fingers deep in his cunt.

  He kissed from the swell of your chest, up to your collarbones and neck. You were not a man, not a human, you were a dream, a fog a foolish sailor like him would lose himself in.

  Screw him trying to make you never forget him. He'd never forget you, as he fell for you hook, line, and sinker, a fish falling for bait. He would never find someone like you. Someone who so easily saw through his tricks and had him willingly serve. 

  He could do it every night, sneaking in, fucking you whichever way you wanted him to, and acting like nothing was afoot. 

  You got him. 

  He kept gently fingering you as you gasped in an orgasm, one quite notable, your body going soft against his, your skin sticky and heart pounding. 

   What he had done felt automatic, like his body wasn't entirely his, his rhythm mechanical in nature, following your every whim and whine. He had just gotten you off, willingly, giddily, even, and enjoyed it. 

  That had been a first for him. 

  The first thing you said to him once you regained your breath and composure was: "Go wash your hands." 

  What a sweet way to snap him out of it. 

  It was fortunate that you had a bathroom attached to your bedroom. He didn't feel keen on doing a walk of shame through the halls. 

  The mirror revealed to him how hard you'd bitten him, leaving not only a hefty tooth mark, but even a hickey, too high for his scarf to hide. He cursed you inside his mind. All things considered, it was expected to have him do whatever he wanted to you, not the other way around. If you told him to jump into the sea right this second he probably would've done it. A flush was blooming across his face, not too obvious, but there. 

  You were next in the bathroom, and when you returned, Sinbad was on your bed, grinning. He did not budge a muscle.

  "You're not kicking me out again, Magister. This handsome face needs its beauty sleep." 

  "I'll allow it," you said, tucking yourself in on the other side. Sinbad lay curled to take up as little space as possible. It wasn't exactly comfortable. You neared him, tugging his arms around your back, and you entwined under the thick blanket. 

  Hook, line, and sinker. 

  He didn't want the morning to arrive and so cruelly take you away. He'd savor every moment he had with you. For once in his life, he did not feel bound to you by duty, but by the call of his heart, similar to how he felt about the sea. Like the sea, you'd pull him in, and keep him wallowing in feelings so alien. 

  Did you know what you did to him? He didn't need you to. He just needed you close. 

  "Good night," he said. 

  "Seriously this time?" 

  "Seriously, I promise." 

  The lone candle flickered out.

[rimatsu]

WIP Word Game

rules: you will be given a word. then you share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that starts with each letter of your word

tagged by my idol @newtkelly for the word DAWN thank you muahhhh <3

i went with longer excerpts because i'm a yapper

-

D: “[D]on’t you dare,” Evan hisses, shoulders going tense with something akin to indignation, and Tommy recoils in a reflexive flinch at the sharp tone, unfamiliar and stinging like a zap of electricity.

There’s a muscle twitching in his jaw, Evan’s expression hardened into something firm and foreign and angry, an emotion that doesn’t quite suit his face, usually sweet and plump like a berry.

That familiar weight settles over Tommy’s chest again, adrenaline flooding his system, instinctive and self-preservative. His lizard brain demands that he turns around and gets the fuck out of here — a simple animal urge to run — but his feet stay rooted to the ground like a tree grown in well-drained soil, exposed to Evan’s ire with no protective gear to reduce the impact.

Suddenly the air is thinner, deoxygenated and harder to breathe, and Tommy feels mildly hypoxic the way he does in high altitude with his hand wrapped around a cyclic.

“Don’t insult me by implying I fell for some illusion like an idiot,” Evan continues, merciless. “I wanted the guy who fought a wildfire all night and still showed up to my sister’s wedding. I wanted the guy who took care of me when I busted my shoulder and the guy who humored me when I planned a funeral for a centuries old skeleton. Don’t you dare tell me that guy doesn’t exist.”

A: [A] breeze rustles the branches overhead. The sunlight that filters through the leaves casts a dappled pattern on Evan’s face. It makes his hair shimmer like threads of gold, painting him over in warm tones. It’s nearly enough to conceal the worrying pallor of his flesh. Under this lighting, his eyes are the blue of a frozen lake, fragile and cracked, unfocused and utterly terrified.

Another wet, gurgling sound escapes Evan’s mouth as he struggles to draw air into his lungs, lips parted wide open like a hooked fish.

Tommy’s hand is trembling where it’s clamped tight around his throat, his own vision getting narrow and kaleidoscopic, two decades of professional calm melting into blank panic. The bleeding is so profuse his palm can't stem the flow, fluid of life staining their skins and their clothes and the pavement bright red. Fear strikes Tommy’s heart like a spear. There’s no forgetting what EMT training has imparted upon him: a fatal hemorrhage is a matter of minutes following a ruptured carotid artery.

W: [W]ith a few long strides, he closes the distance between them to peer at Tommy through the fine brush of his pale lashes, lips pursed just so, sweet and enticing. That's his let's-butter-up-this-poor-sucker look, tried and true.

Tommy scowls at him in defiance. Not discouraged one bit, Evan shuffles even closer, winding both arms around his neck.

"Well? What do you think?" he prompts, eager for an answer.

"I think this is very sudden," Tommy says with a pointed look, one he hopes telegraphs ‘have you learned nothing from the past’, but he supposes what is bred in the bone will always come out in the flesh. "Most people ease into the topic over time."

"I’m not most people," Evan dismisses. "And I think I've been admirably patient."

N: “[N]o. He’s like herpes,” Tommy laments into his drink. “No matter what I do to get rid of him, he keeps showing up.”

Beside him, Benson snorts. “You got a real way with words, Kinard.”

“Yeah, I’m a poet alright. That’s how I get all the boys,” he says miserably.

-

no pressure tags: @trombonechurchill @sad-girl-hours23 @harmless-variety-of-garden-snake @beefcakekinard @bisexualbrainrots @rcmclachlan @setmeatopthepyre if you feel so inclined, my word is EDGE 🫶

[palyena]

༊*·˚ WHITE WINGED DOVE | johnny slaughter x fem!reader

summary: shackled by confines of love, there’s little room for escape. not from the slaughter family, definitely not from johnny. your johnny.

content: dead dove do not eat, just don’t, religious themes, gore, blood, bodily mutilation, grievous harm, cannibalism, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, average johnny gameplay, reader is implied catholic but can be seen as any religion that uses necklaces

word count: 1.2k

a/n: thank you to my darling anon who made me feel like this wasn’t all as bad as i thought it was, thank you darling 🫶🏼

There’s a sickening crack – the cold blade slicing through the stomach of what was once a wholly sentient being. Like a fishing line swallowed by a fish, the twine is taught and the barbed hook has sunk into flesh and muscle, blood pooling and floating in the water as a predator catches a scent. No way back. No way forward.

Fingers curl and knuckles crack as the man inflicting this torture tightens his grip on the handle. The sack of bones —and blood and thought— is pulled along with the motion of the forlorn hand that wields the blade. Muscles constricting too tightly and it feels like blood’s leaking from open pores. The girl bound and begging before you, before him, her jaw clenching so tightly her teeth crack and the white of her eyes burst with red.

Blood vessels flooded with too much as her body can only follow the whim of the hands that hold so much over her head. The will of something other than her nervous system, the impulsion of a horror, or a death worse than at her own hands.

Her throat warbles as she’s ripped downwards, suspended by barbed wire that cuts up her forearms and leaves valleys of white. This is not right, but there is nothing that can be done. Blood beads in the deep valleys, like pearls in an oyster.

No way she can escape.

No way you can.

There’s a numbness in the way all the hairs stand on end around the raised pink scars streaking along your skin. You were her once. Once.

His grip on her shoulder tightens, threads of steel creaking as she finally struggles against it. Their barbs digs deeper and she can feel her arteries stay motionless as she flails, as her body thrashes with aching bones and triggered muscles. You can see them tighten to the point her legs are useless and her fingers curl unnaturally. She might die, she will, there is no escape.

Your fingers curl just that bit harder around your necklace, around the 59 beads that decorate it.

“How’s it feel?” The boy, no man, leans down to get in the girl's face. It’s a sight that makes your insides churn and reef, these violent delights in this basement are nothing more than a violation done by the man you’re bound to since a chance meeting. A hollow face, no more than a mask, devoid of emotion as wide frenzied eyes bore into the eyes of a body that no longer belongs to this girl. There’s a sadistic gleam in the pearly top row of teeth that peek out from behind his pink lips.

She can’t speak, nor can she answer. Not when her jaw is held in a gloved iron grip and the pressure building on her teeth releases in a quick shattering. It drips down her chin, rivulets of it soaking the front of her once pristine dress shirt. Shards of them—her teeth—scatter on the floor below her feet.

“No words?” The man’s hands curve, fingers curling into her matted hair. “Lemme help.”

Where would she have been if she hadn’t picked you up on the dirty roadside this morning?

A job interview in the county over? A date with an upstanding man?

Your eyes track from the writhing girl to Johnny. He had been upstanding when you met him. A little rough around the edges and mottled in freckles from the Texan sun. But he had been upstanding.

With a beaten up pick-up that had pulled up next to your broke down Chevy. You’d expected some old creep, not a boy your age with the type of charm you’d see on movie star posters. He’d popped your hood and made small chat, asked what model your car was, why such a pretty lady drove such a manly car, where you were from, how you managed to end up on some backwater highway, he’d told you your motor had overheated, asked where you were heading, and why you were, if you’d wanted him to take a proper look, back at his house.

In hindsight, answering all those questions had been something you shouldn’t have done. Let alone saying that forbidden three letter word, ‘yes’. That one word had led you to an inescapable position in the slaughter shed, his axe poised right at your jugular as he murmured pretty nothings down at your swooned self. You splayed yourself out for the executioner thinking it was genuine care. How wrong you had been.

A year and six months you had been a missing person in Muerto County. A year and two months you had been an obedient extension of the Family. Nine months you had been both the bait and hook. Eight months you had been a cannibalistic freak, and the worst part? You enjoyed it. You loved the way the blood dripped down your arms as you carved meat from flailing victims. You enjoyed the give of it, the juices. You loved the way you were loved.

There’s a pinch of pain as your hand twitches, blood smearing across your ring finger.

Johnny grabs ahold of your wrist, glove slick with blood that clings to your skin and starts drying as soon as his fingers skate up your arm. Something heavy is pressed into your palm and your fingers grip instinctively, curling around the textured handle of the skinner blade Johnny always carries at his hip. You hadn’t noticed it when you’d first met him, hadn’t seen the deadly glint in his eyes or along the edge of the blade. One and the same.

He presses a rough kiss to the curve of your throat, another to your jaw. His bloody hand cradling the side of your face as those eyes bore into yours. Puffs of hot breath blow strands of hair into your face, there’s a stench of death that clings to him that makes your hand shake. Your fingers tighten around the handle to stave it off as you look up at him with all you think you’ve ever felt.

“Youse gonna skin that girl like you did last time, yeah?” It’s throaty, low enough that it feels like a secret between you both. But the girl behind his back jerks, yanking at the barbed wire as if it’ll give. It won’t. You tied it. You had been at that very hook once before.

His other hand trails up the front of your shirt, blood catching on the pink fabric as his hand finally splays at your collarbone. Gloved fingers hooking beneath the askew chain at your clavicle and dragging it up until a shiny silver metal glints in the lowlights of the basement.

Your rosary, your Saviour. Oh, how long ago you’d since abandoned those mornings among the pews. Beneath the stare of the one who cast the sins of humans upon himself. To die for the wrongdoings, and the hatred and pain of us.

You nod, a small delicate thing. Prim and proper. Nearly like he’d asked you to cook dinner. He had, this girl was going to be.

“Thatta girl.” Those words stirred something deep in you, a heady type of feeling you once would’ve heaved up at. But now—now—you embrace it. In a sick way that you don’t even realise you are. It’s you. Maybe it always has been.

You drag him into a kiss by the hair at the back of his neck, mouth full of spit and teeth gleaming as you smile something darling. He sinks his teeth into your lip so harshly, blood pools in your mouths as he moans.

[shivunin]

The Rose 'Round the Briar

For a belated day 5 of @veilguard-appreciation-week (Arlathan Forest), here is a short piece about Rook meeting an oddly familiar stranger at the Veil Jumper camp.

(No pairing | 1,181 Words | No Warnings)

“They grew and grew in the old churchyard Till they could grow no higher At the end they formed a true lover's knot And the rose grew 'round the briar.” —Joan Baez, “Barbara Allen”

“Excuse me—are you the one who found our friends in the forest?”

Rook had been sorting through the various trinkets, samples, and sundries she’d collected on this trip through the wood. She paused now, turning toward the voice while her hands went on untangling several lengths of thread. 

“That’s me. Can I help you with something?” 

“Aniud,” the Veil Jumper offered, bowing slightly with a hand pressed to his chest. “And you are Rook? One of the two was out looking for something I’d dropped, but she can’t find it in her pockets now. I don’t suppose you saw a locket in that cave where you found her? I will need to go back for it if you did not.”

Lenore looked at him fully for the first time and was struck by an uncomfortably strong sense of familiarity. She would have sworn she’d never met him before, and yet…

“Are you—” he began, face going abruptly flat. “I don’t suppose you are…Nevarran?”

“I am,” she said, frowning. “I’m sorry, but have we met before?”

“I hadn’t thought so,” he said slowly. “Perhaps—you only resemble someone I knew a very long time ago. I—forgive me. I came to ask you about the locket.”

For a moment, she did not answer. She searched his face instead: deep wrinkles gathered at either side of brown eyes, silver clung to the dark brown hair at his temples, and he had a nose with a noticeable bump just after the bridge. One of his ears had been badly burned; scar tissue climbed the point of it in angry red swirls. He could have been any of the Veil Jumpers she hadn’t met yet, for he wore the same orange-brown and tan that any of the rest of them did. 

Why did she feel like she knew him?

“The locket. Right. Yes, there was a locket. Here.” 

Slowly, Rook looked down at the pile of things she’d emptied from her pack. Gold winked from the pile, buried under a series of clothing hooks and scraps of cloth. She fished it out with care, grateful that it hadn’t gotten tangled in the mass of thread she still hadn’t finished untangling. She’d recognized it as soon as she’d seen it in the cave, of course. Nevarran love tokens had a particular look to them. It had made her sad to see it there, discarded beside a pile of trail rations, ancient elven trinkets, and a shredded pack. 

“This one?” she asked, holding it out to him. 

Aniud’s shoulders slumped and he reached for it at once, slipping the cool metal from her palm. It was oval-shaped, green glass on the front etched with a symbol Lenore hadn’t recognized. When he smiled down at it, the sense of familiarity struck her again. She had to have seen this man somewhere before; if only she could recall where. 

“Ma serannas,” Aniud said, his voice thick. He ran the chain over his fingers, then flicked the locket open. Inside, there was a tiny coil of dark hair. Lenore saw it for only a moment before he clicked the locket shut again and drew it over his head. 

“The one who gave me this is long since gone,” he said, hand pressed over his chest where the locket rested. “It would have been a painful thing to lose it; I cannot tell you how grateful I am to see it returned. I’ve no gold to share, I fear, but perhaps you might return tomorrow evening. I’m meant to play for the evening meal. It is small thanks, I know, but if you come I will gladly dedicate a song to you.”

“Oh—thank you. What do you play?” she asked. 

“You would call it the elven bass, but I play many instruments when there is time—when the world is not falling apart,” he said, not without humor, and took a step back. “Apologies—I have told my friend I would inform her if this had been found. Perhaps I will see you tomorrow.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said, and frowned after him when he hurried away. 

The threads before her, though they remained tangled, barely held her attention. She ought to give up on them and just sell the lot of it to Amylia. The merchant would sort it all out if she saw the value in it; surely there was no sense in toiling over it now. 

“Rook, hi!” Bellara said as Lenore pondered the tangled mass before her. “Are you ready to go? I found something I want to test back at the Lighthouse. I think it’ll help with some of the energy fluctuations we’ve been seeing. Look!”

She held up some unfamiliar bit of metal, sharply reflective in the sunlight. Rook caught sight of her own puzzled reflection, dark hair over sharp ears, a nose with a pronounced bump just after the bridge, before she winced and squeezed her eyes shut. 

“Sorry!” Bellara said. When Rook squinted up at her again, light danced in the afterimages. “I wasn’t thinking about the sun. Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Rook said, bundling the lot of it up again. “Give me a moment to sell this and we can go.” 

Later, as they reached the eluvian to leave, a faint strain of music rose from the camp behind them. It was an oddly familiar tune, rising in three-quarter time, wistful and slow. Bellara stepped through the eluvian, still explaining what she needed this new component for, but Lenore lingered a moment longer to listen to the music. It wasn’t until hours later, lying sleepless on the couch in her room that she placed where she’d heard the song before.

For much of her childhood, Grief had been the one to sing her lullabies until she slept. She had been the one who’d found Lenore abandoned in the tomb and it had always seemed like she carried a fondness for Rook because of it. One of those lullabies, Rook’s very favorite, had been a sweet thing in three-quarter time. It is a very old love song, Grief had told her the only time she’d asked what it was, I do not know its name. 

Now, against the silence of her room, Rook hummed the melody again. She hadn’t heard that song in years. How odd that she would hear it in the Veil Jumper camp of all places. Could she replicate it on the violin later? Maybe she would try in the morning, if she could ever fall asleep.  

She did not remember her dreams later, but in them she heard the sad lilting of an old love song while a chainless locket fell through the air, tilting end over end. A rose growing through the eye of a skull was etched into the glass face and it caught the light over and over again, flashing as it fell.

[neonblessing]

1.

The cats were fighting, and Maggie was singing to them. It was Tater's birthday, apparently. How wonderful.

Shiv cracked her eyes open. The ceiling looked like shit: the paint was peeling, and there was some sort of stain spreading from one corner. The harsh morning light of the street lamps streamed into the room through the busted shade, casting crooked bars of shadow across the room.

The rest of the house looked worse than the ceiling. The cats had left scratches on everything they could reach, and time and neglect had left their marks on anything the cats couldn't. The furniture all looked out of place, collected over decades and haphazardly repaired.

From somewhere in the mismatched house, Maggie was babbling to her cats. "Come on, Candy. Share the fish with your brother. It's his birthday. Share the fish with the birthday baby!" Potato Chip's mournful wail filled the air, accompanied by the sound of chewing and a wary hiss.

Shiv sat up, wincing. She wrenched her head from side to side experimentally, to no avail. Rubbing her neck, she awkwardly swung her legs off the couch and stood up. Shiv picked her way over to the kitchen, for once managing not to stub her toe on the cabinet that protruded into the door frame.

"Morning, Mags."

Maggie jumped as Shiv spoke. "Oh, good morning! I made coffee." Maggie was fucking old. Her eyes were older than Shiv: they were some vintage shit, with protruding lenses that stopped her eyelids from properly closing. An awful little part of Shiv figured their value was somewhere in the neighborhood of 10 grand from an avid collector.

"Where'd you get the fish?" Shiv took a mug off its hook and poured herself some lukewarm coffee. The slogan on the side of the mug demanded silence, at least until the bearer had finished their name-brand coffee. The winking face of a defunct coffee logo grinned up at her as she took a sip.

"A trader's in town, just for the day. Some sort of pilgrim."

"Anything else good?"

"Protein bars, holy symbols, ID chips, and..." she looked around, as if Shiv hadn't swept the place for bugs last week, and dropped her voice. "...ammunition. No guns."

"What did you give him?"

"Some of the kitchen knives."

"You gave him knives for a fish?"

Maggie wrung her leathery hands nervously. "It's Potato Chip's birthday! Besides, they were getting dull."

"You have a whetstone!"

"I don't know how to use it right, and you..." she trailed off, but couldn't stop the glassy lenses of her eyes from flickering to Shiv's shoulder. Or rather, to where her shoulder used to be. Maggie swallowed, her gaudily-dyed hair bobbing in distress.

"I could have taught you! And Tater didn't even get to eat his fish." A contented Candy Bar wound her way about Maggie's legs, purring. Maggie opened and closed her mouth a few times, but said nothing.

Shiv wordlessly grabbed her bag off the couch. It still smelled like the factory that made it, even after a month. Much as it irked her to waste money–she’d already owned a perfectly serviceable bag–this one had velcro. Zippers were too much trouble these days.

She tore it open to behold the extent of her worldly possessions. A change of clothes. Her knife, the one Raz had given her. Rope. A pack of bandages. Disinfectant. Four days of nutrient bars. A wallet, empty save for a credit card and a few coins. A well-worn prayer tablet. A needle and a spool of thread. A ballpoint pen. Content that everything was where it should be, she closed the bag.

Shiv swung her bag over her good shoulder, then fumbled with the doorknob for a moment, nearly dropping her mug. Maggie took half a step forward as if to help, but whatever she saw in Shiv's eyes kept her rooted in place. Shiv pulled the hood of her coat up over her head, and turned to leave. "I… Sorry. I'm going out. Be back by midnight unless I get shot."

Next Page

[cranberrymoons]

work for it

prompt: suck (@steddiemicrofic) word count: 480 tags: rated e (18+), blow jobs, morning sex, future fic

—

Eddie wakes him up with a mouth on his cock.

The morning sun is breaking through the window, and Steve blinks bleary eyes at the lump moving under the sheets between his legs. He lets a hand drift down to cover the back of Eddie’s head, threading through his hair and giving him a little scratch behind his ear. Eddie hums around him, and Steve’s breath sucks in sharp, hips jerking up into the heat of his mouth as he comes on a cut-off groan.

Eddie kisses over his hip and up his chest, pausing to suck a mark into his collarbone before settling down on top of him, hands skimming up over his sides.

“Morning,” he says. His voice is hoarse with sleep and with– “I need to borrow a shirt.”

Steve smiles at him, still blurry-eyed as he runs a thumb over Eddie’s mouth. “Is that why you decided to wake me up at six in the morning?”

Eddie’s lips part to bite his thumb, tongue running over his skin. “Maybe. Maybe I just like blowing you.” He dips down to skim a kiss over Steve’s mouth. “It’s also not six in the morning.”

Steve frowns. “It’s not?”

Eddie hums again. His thigh slots between Steve’s legs as he kisses him again, hips thrusting down against his leg in a subconscious little movement. “Almost eight.”

“And the kids are still asleep?” he asks, then he makes a small noise as he feels Eddie’s cock drag over the cut of his hip. He kisses him again, licking into his mouth, scratching a line down over his shoulder blades. “Get on your back.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Do you want me to talk about it, or do you want me to just do it?”

Eddie snorts as he rolls off Steve and settles against the pillows. He watches Steve stretch toward the nightstand and pull the top drawer open, fishing out a bottle of lube. Eddie’s hand settles on his hip, pulling him closer over top as he moves to straddle him. 

He blinks up at him dreamily. “You’re so hot.”

Steve just smiles, reaching back to press two fingers inside himself, easing himself open and clenching his thighs on either side of Eddie’s waist.

“Shut up,” he says. He hooks two fingers from his other hand in Eddie’s mouth as he adds another to himself, grinding back. “You want to borrow a shirt, you’ve got to earn it.”

Eddie says something around the shape of his fingers, muffled and incomprehensible, and Steve pulls his hand away. 

“What?”

Eddie grins up at him. “We’re married,” he says again. “What’s yours is mine, or whatever.”

“Nope,” Steve says. He positions Eddie’s cock against him, dragging it over himself until it catches, then sinking down so fast it punches a groan out of Eddie’s chest. “Better start working for it.”

[also on ao3]

[hopeymchope]

Tribe Nine status update: Chapter 1 complete; Chapter 2 is NOT underway.

While the rest of the TooKyo Games/Kodaka/Post(?)-Danganronpa fandom is wrapped up in the demo and hype for The Hundred Line, I remain fixated on Tribe Nine. So this is more-or-less my follow-up to my first impressions post.

Despite its less-than-appealing roots as a mobile game with some gatcha elements, I'm still finding it to be quite good as a game in its own right. It doesn't flood you with a boring open world full of 20,000 objectives around every corner like some other gachas I've tried (Genshin Impact, Infinity Nikki), nor is it a glorified visual novel with just basic RPG combat added like other gachas I've quite enjoyed (Magia Record, Fate/Grand Order). Once you get past the tutorializing, Tribe Nine is an actual game with lots of legit gameplay exploration/combat routine—but there's still a lot of story pinning it down.

First off: The Steam version is finally playing smoothly! After a difficult process, I eventually got my Steam and IOS Tribe Nine accounts linked together. Now I can keep my progress rolling on my Steam Deck, and I MUCH prefer playing with button controls.

Perhaps most important to me is that I'm interested in the (goofily dark?/darkly goofy?) story. I've been compelled by the desire to take down the bizarre ruler of Shinagawa and its dominating ruleset—the evil "corporation" structure that lets the President and his twisted director execute whoever they want. I enjoyed driving that all the way to the climactic Danganronpa-style "baseball argument" thing.

Senju severely wrecks shop.

I'm currently NOT so compelled by the characters, honestly; they're likable enough and have great Komatsuzaki-style designs, but their characterizations are pretty damn thin so far. The ones who I'm attached to are either just excellent in a fight (Hyakuichitaro Senju), have a central personality quirk that's endearing (Tsuruko Semba), or I've gotten to know them better by having recently watching the anime (Kazuki Aoyama).

Speaking of the anime: "Q" in the game is Ojiro Otori from the show. Some might consider that to be pretty obvious, but I was a little slow to put it together, so I'm just laying it out there: Same voice actor, considers Kazuki his most important friend, supposedly "atoning for past sins," same hair and eye colors... yeah.

...did I mention that the soundtrack is excellent? Danganronpa's Masafumi Takada is in the house on this one. Very moody, cool, funky, atmospheric.

I've currently finished the story of Chapter 1/Shinagawa, and I want to move on to Chapter 2/Minato (which already has a good central hook/mystery driving me there), but I'm stuck grinding out achievements due to the arbitrary gatekeeping where you can't pass certain points without having enough "stamps" from Zero. Which fucking sucks.

For the record: Beyond the trio of characters that all players get for free (Yo Kuronaka, Tsuki Iroha, and Koishi Kohinata), I've also unlocked Roku Saigo, Yutaka Gotanda, Hyakuichitaro Senju, Santaro Mita, Minami Oi, and Tsuruko Semba.

The barrier to starting Chapter 2 has given me time to work on every single side quest in Shinagawa, at least. On that note...

Most Upsetting Side Quest: Forcing a bunch of homeless people with nowhere else to go to vacate the aquarium because some fish-obsessed idiot thinks he's going to re-open the business despite knowing jack shit. I definitely felt like the bad guy.

Why are they so intently after her???

Most "???" Side Quest: Repeatedly rescuing that one woman who keeps getting cornered and attacked by masked thugs who repeatedly assert that they don't know why ANYONE would take her side. It seems obvious that she's harboring a secret reason why she's always being harrassed, but by the current end of that quest line, it's not yet been explained. All we've done is beat up her harrassers without ever knowing why they're on her case. I assume this story thread will wind up continuing into Otami or popping up again elsewhere.

Something I want to know a lot more about is WHICH members from TooKyo Games were involved in this title. Who's writing, you know?

[greetingfromthedead]

9. Stampede

Series: Mermaid!AU Depth of Despair

Pairing: Vash x GN!Reader

Word count: 2.3k

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"Roberto! Please!" Vash pleads with the old fisherman.

"You are a fool. Not only do you come back with such a request after years, you want to go chasing fairy tales! The answer is "no", end of discussion." The tired looking man speaks calmly before smoking from his pipe. "You need to move on and make some smart choices."

"You yourself have told me tales of sirens. Please, I only need a ship. For old time's sake," Vash continues, not letting the conversation end there.

Roberto walks calmly along the pier, surrounded by the sound of seagulls and crashing waves. On either side of the walkway, dingy fishing boats have been tied to the dock, bobbing with the rhythm of the water. Vash follows with long strides, keeping pace as he tries to look the older man in the eyes. His determination remains unwavering.

"Boy, even if those rumors were true, they would only mean you are in even greater danger if you seek out their likes. I am not going to risk my men and livelihood for such a foolish mission." Roberto takes another long drag from the pipe. "And I am sparing your life with it too. For old time's sake."

"I'll find my own crew, and I will pay for the insurance!" the blonde continues. "You're the only one I can ask."

"If you take the ship out, it won't be just the mermaids coming after you. Trust me, you don't want to mess with all this. You got out. Your ghost hung from your neck by a thread, and you barely escaped with your life. You should count your blessings and not push your luck further; you have more than most of my men dare to dream of. And why don't you ask your brother for help?"

"Indeed. Why don't you?" A colder voice sounds out, making Vash freeze in place. "Why would you not come to me with your problems, little brother?"

Vash turns around. The words might be gentle, but they sound like a threat coming from his older brother. The mirror image of himself looks back, but dressed in a fancy navy uniform. The golden lace trim along his frock coat's lapels speaks of his high rank, if the shoulder insignia and the lavish hat weren't hints enough.

"Commodore Knives!" Vash salutes his brother, the mockery only noticeable to those who know the twins well enough.

"Why don't we have a chat, brother?" Knives puts his arm around Vash's shoulder, his gloved fingers digging into Vash's upper arm, and starts leading him away towards the shacks by the shore. His voice is lower as he leans slightly closer. "I have been turning a blind eye to your visits to the dock pubs, but now you're looking for a ship? This is going too far."

"Brother…" Vash says quietly, his voice trailing off, but the other twin looks forward, his face neutral, yet stern.

They head to the little houses standing on long wooden poles that disappear into the water. The thatched roofs are disheveled and partially covered by moss. Fishing nets and oars hang from hooks on the outside walls. Knives walks up to one of the doors and pulls it open. Only a small window lets in a sliver of light, illuminating the wooden boxes and barrels stacked inside. The older brother gives Vash a little push to go in first, pulling the door shut after entering himself.

"Really? You want to draw the navy onto your back?" Knives starts in a scolding, almost hissing tone. "How you managed to just barely slither your way out of their grasp last time is beyond me, but you want to fool around again? Do you not realize what you're putting at risk?"

"I'm just a sailor. That's all I've ever been. I just ask for a fishing vessel. I need it." Vash takes a step closer.

"Just a sailor? You can keep telling yourself and others that all you want, but the truth is you were a pirate," Knives hisses, "You put our family at risk. You put me at risk. You put yourself at risk."

"That is not true," Vash insists, his voice firm.

"Really? You commanded your little group of vagabonds, stirring trouble with merchant ships and the navy alike. How many times have you almost been killed? And for what?"

"I couldn't just stand by. They moved stolen goods. Slaves." Vash paused, his eyes reflecting the pain of his past.

"If you fought for justice, why not join the navy the same as me?" Knives replies firmly.

"Because the navy transported slaves just the same as the merchants."

"Those were prisoners. And if they caught you, they would have shipped you off in the same way unless they let you hang in the gallows at dawn. And that's if all they charged you with was piracy. Why do you try to throw your blessing away? You're the luckiest man I know. I'll never understand you."

"I have to save someone," Vash lets out a defeated sigh, "and I won't stop until I do."

"Who would be that important?" Knives demands, "Important enough to risk your life, my career, and the safety of our family? What about our mother? Our sister?"

"A siren," Vash replies softly, his voice betraying the affection blooming in his heart.

"A siren? You want to risk everything to chase some old wives' tale?" The twin scoffs, seemingly relaxing, as he takes a step back. A smug and crooked smirk appears on his face.

"Is it really so outrageous to believe the stories are true? I have seen them. They are real. And should we really be surprised? After all, we have powers we have learned to wield."

This catches the commodore's attention again. The smile disappears in an instant, and the icy eyes turn dark with anger. His hands shake with rage, and in a long step, he stands face-to-face with his brother again, grabbing hold of the red coat's lapel.

"We do not have powers. We do not wield any kind of magic. We are not witches. Be careful, brother," Knives warns, his tone serious. "If you continue down this path, you may find more than you bargained for. Don't go chasing fairy tales."

Knives lets go of his brother and takes a step back, seemingly calm. He straightens his uniform, pulling it down again, and adjusts the white gloves on his hands. As he looks at his brother with a mixture of concern and disappointment, Knives hopes that his words will make an impact and prevent any further reckless behavior. With a deep breath, he turns away, praying that his warning will be taken to heart before it's too late.

"Go home, Vash. And stay there. If I see you at the docks again, I will have my men escort you back." With that, the commodore walks away.

The shack's door swings open and nearly closes on its own, the twin's shadow moves across the faded wood of the pier before disappearing. Vash is left alone in the midst of the boxes and barrels, his brother's warning ringing in his ears as he contemplates what lies ahead. He can't give up. It is his fault you were dragged away. His inability to heed a warning is what got him into this position; he can only hope it will help him resolve it too.

If Knives will have him escorted home as soon as he sees Vash, all that needs to be done is remain unseen. Vash lurks in the shadows, in the backrooms of shady pubs, and in the shacks of those whose silence can be bought for coin. He spreads rumors, relies on those crazy enough to find him instead of the other way around, and he hopes it all will happen fast enough. He is not happy with what he has to do. He doesn't relish deception; he doesn't wish to put anyone in danger, but he needs a ship, and a ship needs a crew.

Only a few days after Vash set out on his mission, stories of a legendary pirate began to spread throughout the land once more. Different outrageous tales tell of a cunning, brave, and devilish captain who had a crew unlike any other, willing to follow him blindly into the most dangerous of waters where they all would return from, as if Death itself was scared of the man called the Stampede. Those pirates were rumored to have made a deal with the Devil. They kept the seas in a grip of fear and mystique that no other crew could match. Their ship, the Typhoon, was said to be the fastest vessel on any ocean, able to outrun every pursuer and to catch up to just about anyone.

For years, the Typhoon's crew and their insane captain dominated the waters, their legend growing with each passing day as they pillaged and plundered without mercy. Sweeping through port towns and sending many men, both honest and dishonest, to a watery grave. The fear they instilled was unmatched, and their reputation was known far and wide, but then one day, the giant ship disappeared together with its crew, never to be seen or heard from again. Some say that their time ran out as the Devil granted them powers for 7 years, only to then have the bottom of the sea swallow them whole. Others believe they simply sailed off the edge of the world. A few claim that they were cursed by the spirits of those they wronged and now haunt the seas as ghostly pirates, forever searching for redemption, never able to set foot on dry land. Whatever version anyone believes in, now there are rumors that the devilish Captain Stampede is back, looking for new recruits to join his cursed crew, to go searching for treasure and legends. Anyone willing, would be granted a lifetime of adventure on the high seas, more wealth than they can spend, and stories to tell for generations to come. Apparently, the captain is going to look for the land of mermaids, a place rumored to hold untold riches and immortality, guarded by sea monsters and beautiful maidens ready to give you a kiss in exchange for your soul.

Vash knows the rumors are sure to have reached his brother, so he will have to make his move tonight. His fingers touch the pebble resting against his chest, the small rock hands from his neck, and there is something so special about it to him. He puts on the harness that runs across his chest, where the buckle rests among the ruffles of his white shirt. He takes his pistol, which he has been polishing for most of the day, and secures the weapon in the holster. Vash ties a wide black sash around his waist, making sure it is tight and secure, keeping the gun where it needs to be. In addition, he hides a dagger in the black fabric of the sash, just in case he needs it later. He lifts up a floorboard with his fake arm, the magic giving him the strength to do so. From there, he takes the things wrapped in an old sheet and unravels them to bring out the items of the man he believed to have left behind. He secures the sword to his hip, picking up the feathered hat and the orange glasses. He puts them on, feeling a surge of confidence and determination. As the last touch, he pulls on his long red coat, the golden buttons and buckles glinting in the dim candlelight illuminating his dark bedroom. He is ready to face whatever challenges come his way. He is ready to get you back.

Vash takes the last of his valuables with him, his heart heavy with determination, as he gets on his horse to ride into the rainy night. He travels over the muddy roads, shrouded in darkness and uncertainty, but his resolve never falters. He has his goal, his treasure to find, and he will stop at nothing until he reaches it. This time feels different. The lights of the little port town don't seem as inviting as they once did. The sounds of the waves crashing against the rocks are more ominous, and the salty air carries a foreboding sense of danger. Everything that usually calls for him is now warning him to turn back. But he pushes forward, knowing that your fate lies in his hands.

He leaves his horse in Roberto's stable. He will be able to figure out what to do. The rest of the way, Vash walks through the little settlement by himself, avoiding the routes most guards would take, and he slinks his way to a dilapidated looking pub. It sounds lively, with a few drunken laughs echoing from within. The rain pours down, drenching Vash's cotton shirt and even his leathery pants and boots. It drips from the rim of his hat and the bottom of his coat. He reaches one of the gloved hands forward to push open the door; the other hand holds on to a small chest with an elaborate lock. He takes a deep breath before stepping into the dimly lit room, where everybody falls still to look at him.

A heavy silence fills the pub as all eyes remain on him. A few seem to slowly reach for their weapons, many looking at him suspiciously.

"Men," Vash announces, "I am looking for a crew."

As suddenly as the quiet had rolled over the pub, it is replaced by whispers. Curious and excited murmurs spread throughout the room. People start whispering of the devilish captain ruling the seas just a few years ago. Vash stares back at them, a smile spreading across his face.

"He is supposed to be the legendary pirate captain Stampede?" An impatient woman's voice calls out. Vash turns to look for the source and sees two women, the short one being the owner of the voice. "There is no way!"

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[hayleythecannibal]

Twisted Minds: Chapter Four Ouef

TW: Crime scenes, Yelling, Blood, Gore, PTSD, Mentions of Abuse

Warning this is Fem!reader. You can also find this on Wattpad and A03 @HayleyMarieOfficial. Comment if you want to be added to the taglist.

Taglist: @punkin-time @miaowkitty

Each member of the Turner Family has a full plate in front of them. In front of Will, an empty place setting. "Table has been set. Family dinner. I wasn't invited. I take my seat at the empty plate. My seat. My place setting, next to Mrs. Turner. I am the guest of honor." Will monologues, The YOUNGEST TURNER holds a fork in her hand with a small stalk of broccoli impaled on its tines. "No one has taken a bite of their dinner. Except the youngest. Unless you eat your growing foods, you won't get any dessert." Will continues, The Youngest Turner pops the broccoli in her mouth. "No one is bound. No one leaves the table. All afraid to move. Even the little ones behaved themselves. I brought my new family to this home invasion, controlling the Turners with threats of violence."

WILL'S P.O.V. -

He stares dispassionately into middle distance. "Threats that turned to action." THREE SIMULTANEOUS GUN SHOTS ring out in the dining room. "The Turner Family is executed simultaneously with the exception of Mrs. Turner. Who dies last. This is my design." The Turner Family is now face down in their plates, with the exception of Mrs. Turner -- who stares directly at Will. "I shoot Mrs. Turner, gun against the canvas of her forehead. Looking her directly in the eye

when I pull the trigger." BANG. It rocks her head violently back before swinging forward into her plate, Will leaning across the table holding a smoking gun.

OMNISCIENT P.O.V. -

JACK CRAWFORD standing in the dining room doorway, watching Will -- who now wears rubber gloves and is no longer holding a gun, but his arm is still raised. A moment, then: "What do you see, Will?" Jack asks looking at Will with a concerned look, "Family values." Will responds after taking a moment "Whose family values?" Jack looks at Will but Will is unable to answer that question...

WILL GRAHAM'S HOUSE - LIVING ROOM/BEDROOM - DAY -

Will's pack of misfit DOGS sniff and wander the house. Suddenly, they all go still. Tails motionless, heads turns to observe an DARK PRESENCE with curious interest. Hannibal appears at the front door, Will's house lit up behind him Holds up LINKS OF SAUSAGES. Dinner time. Dogs occupied, Hannibal stands before a cluttered BOOKSHELF. He scans the bindings, pulls one out for a better look: an instruction manual on fly fishing. He raises an eyebrow. A DRAWER glides open. Hannibal inspects a pile of OLD T-SHIRTS looking for clues to Will's past -- instead he only

finds white t-shirts, a dozen of them neatly folded. Telling in its own way. Unceremoniously displayed in a partially disassembled state. Through Will's glasses, Hannibal picks up the pieces of the disassembled BOAT MOTOR and puts them together effortlessly. Hannibal enters to find Will's FLY TYING GEAR arranged on the table. There is a RACK of COMPLETED FLIES. A VICE, LAMP,

MAGNIFYING GLASS, YARNS, THREADS, FEATHERS, and HOOKS. Hannibal sits at the station, admires Will's handiwork, such delicate lures for catching fish. Hannibal applies himself to tying off an incomplete SALMON FLY, expertly using the TOOLS of Will's hobby -- THREAD, BOBBIN, SCISSORS, PLIERS. His surgeon's precision in play. Having completed his work, Hannibal admires the FLY and HOOK. He presses his THUMB gently against the pointed BARB, and keeps the pressure on until he draws a drop of BLOOD. Without lingering on his act, Hannibal sucks the lone DROP from his thumb-tip. The sound is not unlike a quick KISS.

BALTIMORE, MARYLAND - PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL - ABIGAIL HOBBS' ROOM - EVENING -

A private patient suite with many of the comforts of home. She gazes in the mirror. The bandages on her neck have been removed and we see her fresh, angry SCARS above her white

slip. She runs her fingers across the wound before tying a scarf around her neck to conceal it from the world.

"I can hide what happened to me. All I need is a scarf to pass. Or a turtleneck, the right high collar." Abigail says as-

PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL - GROUNDS - EVENING -

-she walks with ALANA BLOOM, a casual therapy session. "Part of the process of recovery. And hiding what happened to you defeats the purpose of being here. Sharing will help normalize." Alana says walking along side Abigail "I'm not normal. Not anymore." Abigail scoffs, "What happened to you isn't normal." Alana points out, "Some of these women aren't even sharing. They speak in little girl voices telling everyone what was done to them and how they hurt without saying a word about it." Abigail says a little frustrated "Certain traumas can arrest vocal development. Victims can sometimes broadcast victimhood involuntarily." Alana informs Abigail, but she just shakes her head

"Not me." Abigail says as she adjusts her scarf, "That's not necessarily true. Your victimhood has a high profile, thanks to Freddie Lounds." Alana points out to her and Abigail sighs "I'm a celebrity victim. Someone here asked me if I kept my stained clothes." She says as she makes a disgusted face, "How did that make you feel?" Alana asks, stopping and turning Abigail towards her "Like I wanted to go home. But I don't have a home anymore, do I?" Abigail says looking down with a sad expression and crosses her arms. "You will. We'll help you find it." Alana says rubbing Abigail's arm comfortingly. "Abigail, I want you to give the support groups another chance." Alana suggests, well more like a demand but not as harsh. "Support groups are sucking the life out of me." Abigail groans out childishly "Isolating yourself can suck just as hard." Alana says back intelligently......

HANNIBAL'S OFFICE - NIGHT -

Hannibal looks up as the BUZZER on his desk RINGS. Hannibal OPENS the door to find Dr. Y/N L/N waiting for him. "Hi." I say sweetly, "Do you have an appointment?" Hannibal says raising an eyebrow "Do you have a Glass of Wine?" I chuckle

HANNIBAL'S OFFICE - MOMENTS LATER -

Y/N clinks her wine glass to Hannibal's wine glass. "Interesting day?" Hannibal asks curiously, I nod "The grief work, the trauma intervention, it's all on course I think Abigail may be wrestling with a low-grade depression." I say refering to what Alana was telling me and my own mental health while Hannibal Drolly eyes the large swig Y/N takes of her wine as he sits closely next to her-- "She?" Hannibal asks raising an eyebrow, i chuckle "Nothing wrong with a little self-medication, right, Doctor? Professional neutrality be damned, it's hard to see such a bright, young girl go so adrift." I say with a slight sad Smirk, i truly do care for Abigail and her well being in an Motherly way. "One can certainly lose perspective tucked away for weeks in an ivory tower. Perhaps it's time Abigail's released from clinical treatment." Hannibal suggests while taking a sip of his wine, i tilt my head "Released where? Back into the wild?" I ask raising an eyebrow, "Spending each day immersed in tragedy may be doing more harm than good. Abigail should be out in the world finding her footing, giving her the confidence to move forward." Hannibal explains, I shake my head

"Abigail is in no condition to tackle real-world issues like where she's going to live, what to do about school, hell, where her next meal is going to come from." I say quickly, but i desperately want to be the one to help her, "I'm not suggesting abandonment. We are qualified to help her." Hannibal says as he places a gentle calming hand on my arm and i sigh relaxing slightly, "This is a girl who was very attached to her parents. Overly so, in fact. As much as i would love to, Us stepping in as surrogates would only be a crutch. Abigail needs to work things out for herself in a safe, clinical environment Just like Alana Told me when i offered the same suggestion. That will give her the confidence to move forward." I say sighing sadly, Seeing Y/N isn't about to budge, Hannibal bows his head. "I defer to the passion of my esteemed colleagues." Hannibal says politely "Have soapbox, will travel." I say looking in Hannibal's eyes shockingly not being afraid to do so, "Passion's good. Gets blood pumping." Hannibal says as he is appreciating the flush in Y/N's cheek as he caress' her arm...

BANGOR, MAINE - TURNER HOME - DINING ROOM - NIGHT -

Jimmy Price stands, PHOTOGRAPHING the dinner table of death. Brian Zellar is in a CROUCH, checking WOUND ANGLES. Beverly Katz collects FINGER PRINTS from a GLASS of SUNNY-D. Jack finds Will at a remove, looking at FAMILY PHOTOGRAPHS. "Karen and Roger Turner. Childhood sweethearts. Owned a successful Real Estate business. Pillars of the community. Three children." Jack Tells Will about the victims "Minus one." Will points out while looking at a family photo, "A son, Jesse, disappeared last year. Last confirmed sighting had him boarding an RV at a rest area on route forty-seven. Possible runaway, probable abduction." Jack says acknowledging the missing child from the family massacre, "Or both." Will points out, "Hundreds of tips, but not a single one held up past lunchtime. When misery rains, it pours." Jack says knowingly and almost sarcastically, This sentiment is counter to the smiling faces in the photos. "False faces in family portraits. Layers and layers of lies betrayed by a sad glint in a child's eyes." Will says picking up a photo of Jesse, Jimmy SNAPS a PHOTO of the DINNER TABLE, commenting --"Norman Rockwell with a bullet." Jimmy snickers, "Any signs of forced entry?" Jack asks his crew, "Perimeter is clean of scoring and rupture. No broken windows or torn screens. It's all sealed up tight." Beverly states coming into the room, "They probably rang the doorbell." Jack inferences, "I've got bullet holes on the upper sections of the wall and again over here." Beverly says pointing out the bullet holes.

"Pull the slugs for ballistics." Jack orders Beverly politely, "If they aren't frangible, it shouldn't be a problem." Beverly says looking up back at jack, "Those elevated termination points match what I see on these bodies --" Zeller moves toward the table, indicating what he means "-- angled cranial impacts, coupled with acute exit wounds and conical spray, the shooter was firing from low to high, probably crouched." This odd information strikes a chord of epiphany for Will, he moves back toward that collection of family photographs."How long since Jesse was abducted?" Will says putting the photo back where he found it."Just over a year." Jack responds turning to Will, Returning to the stack of photos, Will stops on one in particular: a much younger version of the missing boy. THE PHOTO Six-year-old JESSE TURNER holds a STUFFED OCTOPUS, one of its dangling arms in his mouth. His mother sweetly looks on.

B.A.U - MORGUE - DAY -

The CORPSES of MOTHER TURNER, FATHER TURNER, and their TWO CHILDREN covered in sheets are presented on slabs for inspection. Jack faces Zeller, Price, Katz, Graham and Now L/N. He's like a demanding father, presiding over his children as they present what they've just learned at school. Will stands slightly apart, not quite fitting into this surrogate family. "I'm glad we didn't have guns in my house. I would've shot my sisters to get them out of the bathroom." Zeller says chuckling "I liked having a big family." Beverly says smiling, "My parents gave me a gift. A twin. who wouldn't you want two of me?" Jimmy says sarcastically rolling his eyes. "Let me guess only child?" Zeller says looking towards Will and pointing at him, "Why do you say that?" Will tilts his head in curiosity, "Family friction is a catalyst for personality development." Zeller points out An odd remark, but Beverly swoops in to take the sting away. "I was the oldest, so all the friction rolled down hill." I say calmly smirking thinking about all the trauma my childhood came with just because i am the oldest. "Yes all the attention and responsibilities given to firstborn children prime them for future success." Jack says looking at one of the childrens bodies, I go over and lean against the wall with Will. "My baby sister got away with murder. She had 'em all fooled." Beverly says looking at the clipboard in her hands.

"I thought middle were the problems." Jimmy says looking over at Zeller, "The middle is the sweet spot."Zeller winks back, "Always trying to figure out where they fit in. Forces them to use different strategies navigating up and down developmental spectrums. They can be great politicians. Or lousy ones." Will says looking over at Zeller, Jack Crawford, who has been studying the crime scene photos as he looks over each of the bodies, observes: "All of the victims have defensive wounds. Except for Mrs. Turner." Jack says as he hands Will the crime scene photos of Mrs. Turner. "There's acceptance in her body position. Forgiveness, even." I say observing the photo in Will's hands, Will realizes that he missed something that Jack didn't.

"What kind of victim forgives her killer at the moment of her death?" Jack says incredulously,

"A mother" Will says Never taking his eyes off Jesse's mother --

HANNIBAL'S OFFICE - NIGHT -

Hannibal sits opposite Will, smiling warmly before asking: "Tell me about your mother." Hannibal says sitting across from Will "That's some lazy psychiatry, Dr. Lecter. Low hanging fruit." Will says tilting his head, "I suspect that fruit is on a branch, very difficult to reach." Hannibal points out "So's my mother. I never knew her." Will offers, "An interesting place to start." Hannibal says calmly "Tell me about your mother. Let's Start there. Quid pro quo." A fan of the language, Hannibal enjoys Will's use of Latin. "Both my parents died when I was very young. The proverbial orphan until I was adopted by my Uncle Robertas when I was 16." Hannibal tells Will, Will considers that, understanding Hannibal a little more clearly than before -- or so he thinks. "You have orphan in common with Abigail Hobbs." Will points out, "I think we'll discover you and I and darling Y/N have a great deal in common with Abigail. She's already demonstrated an aptitude for the psychological. Quid pro quo." Hannibal says smiling, Will is unwilling to return the volley. "There's something so foreign about family. Like an ill-fitting suit. Never connected to the concept." Will says numbly and looking at the ground bittersweetly. "You created a family for yourself." Hannibal states refering to his companionship with Abigail and Y/N.

"I created a family of strays. Thanks for feeding them while I was away." Will expresses his gratitude, Hannibal nods his "you're welcome," then: "I was referring to Abigail and Y/N." Hannibal points out, Hannibal lets Will get used to that idea, then: "Tell me about the Turner Family. Were they affluent? Well to do?" Hannibal asks about the case, "They lived like they had money."Will raises his eyebrow, "Did your family have money, Will?" Hannibal asks, Will shakes his head. "No, We were poor. I followed my father from the boat yards in Biloxi and Greenville to boats on Lake Erie." Will says smiling back on the fond memories, "Always the new boy at school? Always the stranger?" Hannibal says knowingly, Will chuckles and nods "Always." Will smiling happily.

"What grudge was Mrs. Turner's killer harboring against her?" Hannibal asks about Will's theories "Motherhood." Will states with his head tilted and a serious look on his face. "Not motherhood, a perversion of it." Hannibal replies.

HANNIBAL'S HOME - DINING ROOM - NIGHT -

Hannibal dishes a generous portion of sausage onto Jack Crawford's plate. Jack fills his lungs with the aroma. "You promised to deliver your wife to my dinner table." Hannibal says plating Jacks food and sitting down in his own chair. "We've got to polish our act. Can't have you diagnosing our marital problems in one fell swoop. What am I about to put in my mouth?" Jack says before he puts the fork in his mouth, "Rabbit." Hannibal replies quickly. "Should have hopped faster." Jack smirks and laughs as he takes a bite of my food. "Yes, he should have. But fortunately for us, he did not." Hannibal smirks as he takes a bite and savors the rich taste of blood sausage."Our friend Will seemed haunted today. And Y/N seems worried." Jack says non-chalantly "We don't know what nightmares lie coiled beneath Will's pillow Nor Y/N's." Hannibal points out,

"Children killing other children. Not an unfamiliar notion for Will." Jack says Knowingly "You still suspect Abigail Hobbs in her father's crimes." Hannibal suspects more than asks, "Doesn't matter what I suspect. It matters what I can prove. Ms. Hobbs has been absolved of any crime." Jack says believing that Abigail Hobbs had something to do with her fathers crimes"Yet? And as for Y/N, why would you say shes worried or anxious." Hannibal cocks his head to the side curiously. "Y/N has a rough past with her family, and it seems as though she has developed a lot of mental health issues due to that on top of the ones she already had." Jack says taking a sip of his wine, "What kind of past, Were they abusive?" Hannibal asks curiously, "Its not my story to tell but- yes." Jack says as he nods his head,

"Unfortunate for such an intelligent, beautiful and sweet woman. But her mind is brilliant you have to give her that, Her ability to understand and feel emotions on a deeper level whether its in everyday life or being at a crime scene with Will, she understands more than Will and its incredible." Hannibal remarks fondly of the woman. Jack nods in agreement "Will needed someone like her to be his partner out in the field." Jack says taking another bite of his food. "What Will needs is an anchor and someone who understands him and his mind. And that is what Y/N can do for him, not only that but he can use Me and her as anchors. But remember Y/N does the same thing that Will does when she analyzes a crime scene and it might affect her worse than it does Will because she does Feel Everything she doesn't just feel and see the crime scene she can Feel both the Killers and The Victims emotions as if she were them and it sticks with her." Hannibal reminds Jack.

F.B.I. ACADEMY - LECTURE HALL - DAY -

Will Graham stands in front of a classroom full of F.B.I. Trainees, mid-lecture on an as-yet unexplored killer. "Most of the time in sexual assaults the bite mark has a livid spot in the center, a suck bruise In certain cases, they do not. For some killers, biting may be a fighting pattern as much as sexual behavior."Jack Crawford ENTERS With Dr. Y/N L/N crossing to the front of the hall "Class dismissed. Everybody out. What did I just say?" Jack screams at the Trainees, and I jump, The F.B.I. Trainees gather their books and quickly EXIT. "You're making it difficult to provide an education, Jack." Will says frustrated with Jack, "We found a match for a set of prints pulled from the Turner house. They belong to Connor Frist, a 13 year-old from Huntsville." Jack says with a serious face "Another kid?" Will asks leaning on his cabinets behind his desk, "Another missing kid. Vanished 10 months ago. Case never solved." Y/N tells Will coming out from behind Jack, "How many kids in the Frist family?" Will asks coming towards Y/N,

"Three. just like the Turner family." Jack says sighing before continuing "We're ready when you are. And you're ready right now. Let's go.", Will looks over at jack "Your expecting a crime scene?"

FRIST HOME - LIVING ROOM - DAY -

Unseasonably decorated for the Christmas holiday. Through the artificially frosted windows, there is a flurry of movement... armed, DARK-CLAD FIGURES creeping in swiftly and silently, moving along the outside of the house. A GLOVED FINGER hits the PAUSE BUTTON, silencing Burl Ives and his misplaced holiday cheer. Jack Crawford has turned off the music, surveying the scene with Will Graham, Dr. Y/N L/N, Zeller, Price and Katz at his side as DARK-CLAD FBI AGENTS fan through the home, weapons at the ready. A well-decorated and colorfully illumined CHRISTMAS TREE reaches to the high ceiling. DOZENS OF CHRISTMAS PRESENTS ring the bottom of the pine. Most have been roughly unwrapped and hastily opened, shredded by feral kinder. Several other scattered presents have remained untouched. the FRIST FAMILY, MOTHER, FATHER and TWO CHILDREN gathered around the tree in their PAJAMAS and ROBES, partially concealed by tattered and torn gift wrap. All dead. And have been for some time. The FAMILY DOG trots out from behind the Christmas tree, carrying a chewed-off arm in its mouth. The dog drops the arm at Will's feet. "Merry Christmas." I say eyeing the arm. Brian Zeller casually examines the partially eaten tissue of Mr. Frist's throat.

B.A.U. - MORGUE - DAY -

Will Graham, Dr. Y/N L/N, Zeller, Price and Katz examining the DEAD FRIST FAMILY, Mother, Father and two children (discreetly covered) as Jack Crawford looks on. "Mr. Frist and the children killed first... Mrs. Frist saved for last. Same as the Turner's." Jack says looking at the uncovered faces of the Frist parents "Not exactly the same. Something went wrong." Will says looking at me "Not a single present under the tree for Mrs. Frist. Who doesn't buy their mom a Christmas present?" Beverly says sadly looking at Mrs. Frist, I look down bitterly "Took her presents, took her motherhood." I say my voice twinged with sadness,"Who was the additional corpse in the fireplace?" Jack says looking at THE EDGE OF A CHARRED SKULL, FEATURING --

INCINERATED FABRIC, FEATHERS in the ashes around the skull.

"I'd say Connor Frist." Will says climbing on the counter, Zeller and Katz inspect Mrs. Frist's corpse. Just below her hairline, a puckered entry wound stands out against her smooth, pale skin. Zeller uses his gloved hands to part Mrs. Frist's hair above the entry wound revealing dried, matted blood. "Shooting her once wasnt enough,Bullet deflected off the curvature of her skull, and travelled beneath the scalp to its final resting spot at the base of her neck." Zeller points out, "And It still didn't kill her." Jack asks confused "Hydrostatic shock of shell hitting skull would've caused brain damage." Beverly explains to jack, I go over and sit next to Will looking over at him before i realise something. "Her body went into convulsions. Conner Frist went into a panic. He had been prepped to shoot his mother, but not watch her suffer." I say empathetically Zeller turns Mrs. Frist's head to the side revealing another entry wound that is clearly bigger. "Shot her again to put her out of her misery. Different gun." Zeller gives the idea, "So someone else shot Connor's mom." Jimmy speaks up. "Connor couldn't put his panic back in the bottle. So he was shot too." Jack says looking back at me and Will. Beverly moves to the burnt corpse and pulls a charred feather from his skull. Jack tries to puzzle it out. "Whoever shot him... disowned him." I say shaking my head with a frown.

F.B.I. ACADEMY - LECTURE HALL - DAY -

Will sits alone at the table in front of the room. Y/N enters. Studying the photos of the two boys, Will doesn't look up. Not much can distract him when he's concentrating. "Ever heard of Willard Wigan? He's this artist who does micro sculptures, like putting the Obamas in the eye of a needle. He's so focused that he can work between beats of his heart. I guess archers do that too, right?" Y/N asks wanting to distract or ease her partners anxiety. Will doesnt look up and continues looking at his computer. "Hm?" He hums still looking down, "What are you looking at?" Y/N asks as she moves around to see what has captured Will's attention. It's only now that he acknowledges her presence. "These kids are both small. Underweight for their age." Will says as he rubs his temple "You think there's a possible ADHD diagnoses for both boys. Ritalin, Focalin, any medication containing methylphenidate can affect appetite and slow long-term growth in kids." She asks because she herself has ADHD and took medications for it when she was a child. A beat as Both partners inspect the two photos. Then --

"Another thing about Willard Wigan? He had a lonely childhood. He used his tiny sculptures as an escape." She continues "Who's Willard Wigan?" Will says Confirming that he paid no attention to what she was saying when she entered the room. Y/N smiles as she goes behind him and leans on his shoulder. "Price got a hit from the ballistics-matching program he's been running on the two family murders. The bullet that put Mrs. Frist out of her misery matches three used in a murder in Bangor, Maine a year ago. Mother of a 13-year-old boy shot to death with her own gun." She says as Will turns his head to look at her raising his eyebrow, "13-year-old milk carton material?" He asks perking his head

B.A.U. - BEHAVIORAL SCIENCE SERVICES - DAY -

"C.J. Lincoln disappeared six months before his mother's murder and hasn't been heard from since.' The picture of C.J. Lincoln is displayed on a MONITOR, along with his JUVENILE RAP SHEET. Jack, Will, Y/N, Zeller, Price and Katz are gathered around the monitor studying C.J. Lincoln. "He has none of the characteristics of a sociopath or a sadist." Will points out, "Right, No shoplifting, no malicious destruction of property, no assault and no battery. He was kind to animals for god's sake." Jack says in a tone i don't recognize "But the firearm says we're looking at Peter Pan to our Lost Boys." Will says knowingly and seemingly frustrated, "It requires a sophisticated level of manipulation to convince boys to kill their families in cold blood." Jack says seriously, "Kindness to animals doesn't suggest that kind of sophistication." I point out slightly frustrated, "He's older, been out in the world. Could've picked up a few tricks." Jack suggests.

HANNIBAL'S OFFICE - MOMENTS LATER -

Hannibal studies Will and the WRAPPED GIFTS on his lap. "Has Christmas come early? Or late?" Hannibal asks, Will stares, then shakes off the murderous association. "One was for Abigail the other for Y/N." Will says taking off his jacket, "Was?" Hannibal questions, "Thought better of it. Wasn't thinking clearly. I was upset when I bought it. Maybe still am." Will explains frustrated and running a hand over his face. "What is it?" Hannibal asks Will, "Magnifying glass'. Fly tying gear." Will says looking at a letter opener on Hannibal's desk "Teaching Them how to fish. Abigail's father taught her how to hunt." Hannibal points out, "That's why I thought better of it. At least for Abigail." Will says bitter-sweetly, "Feeling paternal, Will?" Hannibal asks ask he stares at Will's back, "Aren't you?" Will spits back as he turns around placing the letter opener back where he found it. "Yes. Our good friend Dr. Bloom has advised against taking too personal an interest in Abigail's welfare. Tell me. Why were you so angry?" Hannibal asks Will,

"I'm angry about these boys. I'm angry cause I know when Me and Y/N find them, We can't help them. We can't, We can't give them back what they just gave away." Will raises his voice slightly, angrily and frustratedly. "Family." Hannibal replies calmly, "Yea. We call them the Lost Boys." says a quiet Will. "Abigail is lost, too. Perhaps it is our responsibility, yours, mine, and Y/N's to help her find her way." Hannibal suggests.

B.A.U. - JACK'S OFFICE - NIGHT -

Jack, Zeller, Katz, and Price hover around the CASE BOARD that bears the PHOTOS OF EACH OF THE BOYS they've identified as taking part in the family killings. It also includes a TIME LINE of their respective abductions, the dates of the murders they participated in, and a MAP pinpointing where each of the murders took place. Jack twists a PUSH PIN into the map at Bangor, Maine. Y/N and Will are sat next to each other shoulder to shoulder leaning on a cabinet. "Bangor, Maine. Stamford,Connecticut. And most recently, Reston, Virginia."Jack says frustrated, “That places each of the murders approximately five hundred miles from the one before it.” Jimmy says eloquently, Zeller shakes his head raising his hand “You're trying to attach a geographical pattern to murders that took place weeks apart.” Zeller says sarcastically

“Our shooters are minors. Middle children from traditional affluent families.” Will says causing everyone to look towards us. “They're not traveling by Greyhound.” Beverly quips, Jimmy laughs “I drove my dad's car when I was 14.” Jimmy says shaking his head. “They're moving southbound, we're looking somewhere on the border of Georgia and North Carolina.” Jack says as He CIRCLES the area on the map.“There's hundreds of towns in this area. Off every freeway ramp.” Zeller say exasperated, “Got a better idea?” Jack says looking at him with raised eyebrows, “Throw darts.” Seller says shrugging as He wilts under Jack's gaze.

“There's a pattern. Less to do with geography than psychology.” I say rolling my eyes at Zeller’s sarcastic behavior.

“What kind of kid would do this?” Jack wonders out loud , “And what kind of kid would follow a kid who would do this?” Will wonders back quirking his eyebrow. “There's no indication these kids came from abusive families.” Jack says trying to find a rational explanation, I shake my head tapping my hand on the cabinet, “No, No, No, Capture-bonding. A passive, psychological response to a new master.” I say looking towards jack and then towards Will, “Y/N’s right! It's been an essential survival tool for a million years.

Bond with your captor, you survive.

You Don't, you're breakfast.” Will says nodding his head in agreement with me.

“Get files on every missing boy within 200 miles of North Carolina.” Jack says pointing towards Me, Will, and Beverly.

B.A.U. - EXAMINATION ROOM - NIGHT -

Will, Beverly and Y/N sit at a conference table with many discarded file folders of missing or abducted kids. There are FOURTEEN PICTURES arrayed in view, a range of faces. “If we're looking for our next Trilby, are we assuming C.J. Lincoln is in the Svengali role?” I ask quirking my eyebrow and smirking. Bev looks up at me smirking then starts chuckling “Sounds like me at fourteen.” She says looking back at the files, “Without the interference of a leader, these kids would never consider violent action.” I say letting my psychiatrist side out. “A fuse yet to be lit.” Bev says tilting her head, “A buried darkness. An inkspot on their soul. It takes a catalyst to bring that to the surface.” I say but then look over at Will noticing The conversation makes Will uncomfortable. He paces the table, studying in turn the fourteen pictures.

“Our Trilby's a boy, a paradox in the midst of a normal family, an outsider who doesn't look like one. He'd be good at a vocation, something inventive or mechanical.” He says as he leafs through files, discarding ones that don't fit.

“You Would've been a perfect candidate.” I say smirking at Will playfully,“So would you.”he smirks back looking at me with his greenish-blue eyes, we hold intimate eye contact. “He'd have hobbies that require hand-eye coordination, that are off the beaten path... that link up to what his father does for a living. Something that consumes him so as to keep him engaged.” He says moving on and breaking eye contact. “The devil makes work for idle hands kind of thing.” Bev says as She's skimming the files, tossing ones aside. Bev holds up a photo; it's a boy named Chris.

“Here's one. Family moved from Biloxi, to Charleston to Fayetteville in the last three

years. He won Junior High award for his work on pretty sophisticated computer circuitry.” She says handing Will the file. “Chris O'Halloran.” He reads out loud as he skims the file, “Why do you think these kids are susceptible to C.J. Lincoln?” I ask smiling sweetly at Him, “Because he may have a brother, but their ages or interests set them apart. A brother without a brother.” Will says Looking up at me holding the same intimate tension filled eye contact we did earlier.

O'HALLORAN HOME - NIGHT -

Featuring an elegant, A-frame house oozing with lazy, Magnolia-scented Carolina charm. A FLORIST DELIVERY VAN quietly pulls up in front of the A-Frame. Jack Crawford emerges from the sliding side doors as F.B.I. AGENTS and ARMED SWAT MEMBERS swarm toward the house. A SWAT GUY with an air-ram blasts open the door. Jack leads our team behind the front guard of SWAT... through the house, following the SWAT TEAM, followed by Will, Y/N, Zeller, Price and Katz, guns drawn and at the low ready. They sweep through the house, splitting off to cover various rooms, balletic in movement... Jack, cautiously bringing up the rear. Weapon at the ready, he carefully steps toward the back of the house. The backyard. Where the O'Hallorans were in the process of a barbecue lunch. But something's gone wrong.

“F.B.I., Drop the weapon!” Jack shouts as He motions Will and the others forward. A BARBECUE TABLEAUX played all over America every weekend of the year. Weber grill. A-One steak sauce. Burgers and dogs cooking red hot. Only one thing wrong... THE LOST BOYS (C.J. Lincoln, Jesse Turner, and Chris O'Halloran, along with TWO OTHER BOYS) are formed in a semi-circle around the terrified O'Halloran parents (Dad, Mom, a

boy and a girl). C.J. holds a gun to the O'Halloran Father. JACK CRAWFORD bursts into the yard. SWAT is there in various

positions. Will, Y/N, Zeller, Price and Katz bring up the rear. C.J. tenses his finger on the trigger to fire at Mr. O'Halloran. BLAM! In a split second miscalculation, C.J. misses his dead-to-rights shot of the back of Mr.

O'Halloran's head and instead takes off a portion of his ear. A SECOND SHOT RINGS OUT and C.J. is hit in the shoulder Looking up through the grill, C.J. Lincoln face-plants on the grill, cheek seared at 400 degrees. Chris O'Halloran BOLTS. A SWAT MEMBER raises his gun, but Will takes off after the young boy.

“I got him.” Will says bolting after Chris and I bolt after Will C.J. sprawled dead, everyone else frozen in shock. Zeller pulls C.J. off the grill, his body slumping to the ground. Mr. O'Halloran clutches his bloody ear, alive. SWAT MEMBERS cuff Jesse Turner and the other boys. WILL sprints in pursuit along with Y/N and several other SWAT MEMBERS as CHRIS O'HALLORAN, is running for his life. “Chris, stop.” Me and Will shout compassionately, Chris pulls up short. He turns around. And we see that in his hand is a GUN, to reveal Will, Caroline and several SWAT GUYS taking positions ten yards away from Chris. “Don't shoot.” I shout at the SWAT GUYS. “You don't have to worry about C.J. anymore. It's okay. You're home now. Put down the gun, Christopher.” Will says his eyes pleading, Chris shuffles on his feet, eyes welling. And this is when Will and Y/N have a realization -- “Shoot them, Christopher.” ANOTHER FIGURE emerges from the shadows. She too has a gun in her hand but it's at the back of Christopher's spine.

Will and Y/N lets their guns FALL TO THE GROUND. “Shoot him, Christopher. Like I showed you.” She says in his ear, Chris's traumatized glance pierces Will's heart. Tears well in my eyes as I look at Chris, he reminds me of my late little brother.

“Christopher, please.” I plead sadly not wanting this to end even more badly than it already has. She raises her gun. BLAM!

The shot is so immediate and unexpected that Will checks his stomach to see where the bullet hit and then panics and looks over at Y/N looking her over concerned. It takes a moment for Will to realize he hasn't been hit at all and neither has Y/N.

The woman spins, her shoulder erupting in a cloud of arterial spray as she is hit. Chris's arm goes limp at his side. REVERSE TO REVEAL BEVERLY KATZ, gun outstretched, smoke

issuing from the barrel. Will kneels in front of Chris, gently taking the gun from his hand. Will watches as Beverly

moves in and almost motherly guides Chris away.

Y/N crosses to fallen Eva on the ground; she takes sharp breaths, tensing through the pain. As the SWAT TEAM surrounds her, Will stares down at her. Condemnation at what

she's done to these boys...

HANNIBAL'S HOME - FOYER - NIGHT -

Hannibal holds the door open as Y/N ENTERS, annoyed with him and searching for the words to express it.“As someone who makes such a big deal about common courtesy, I'm a little taken aback, slash a lot taken aback, that you would check Alana’s patient, Alana’s patient, out of the hospital without permission. I'm not a professional scold. Don't put me in this position ever again. Because quite frankly I hate yelling and I hate having to yell at you.” I say exasperated and a little sad, “I'm sorry.” Hannibal says expressing his feelings, I feel bad for yelling at him “Rude, Hannibal. Shockingly rude.” I say a little frustrated but more so at myself than him. “You have every right to be upset with me. I overstepped my bounds.” He says looking down, “Your lucky it was me they called instead of Alana. Where is she?” I ask in a sad motherly tone. “She's in the dining room.” He says pointing towards the dining room, Y/N moves toward the dining room, but Hannibal puts a gentle hand on her shoulder to slow her down. “Y/N, Alana was right.” He says stopping me in my tracks, I turn towards him.

“She Often is. Have to be more specific.” I say narrowing my eyes, “She wasn't ready to leave the hospital. She experienced a bit of anxiety so I gave her a sedative.” Hannibal says shaking his head“A sedative? Hannibal What did you give her?!?” I ask like a mother concerned for her child “Just Half a valium. She may be a little hazy.” He says smirking amusedly at my motherly concern, Hannibal and Y/N ENTER to find Abigail sitting at the table

with food and teacup in front of her. “Hi, Doctor L/N.” Abigail says as she smiles at me, “Hi Abi, You were expecting me?” I say smiling, titling my head towards the third place mat. “In the interest of honesty, we were expecting Will. But my phone calls went unreturned. Please. Sit down.” Hannibal says smiling as he pulls out a chair for me, I do as instructed. “Are you hungry? Hannibal made breakfast for dinner.” Abi asks me, I smile and look at her happily. “I could eat.” I chuckle happily, Hannibal notices Abigail smiling at he and Y/n.

“What is it? What do you see?” Hannibal asks Abigail kindly and almost fatherly.

“I see family.” Abigail says smiling at me and Hannibal.

Hannibal smiles at Y/N, who is more thoughtful, happy but also unsure about how to feel about Abigail's admission. Nevertheless, off that artificial family tableau