#( drabble. )

[clamped-jaws]

18+ below // minors dni!!

loser!coworker!steve harrington who’s like fully obsessed with you to the point where he’s begging you to fuck him and has been for months.

and you bully him about it because 1, you can tell he’s been in the adult section doing more than just putting the tapes back post customer returns, and 2, ew why would you ever do that.

but he’s all needy and wanting, so when you finally give in just to get him to shut up about it he cums damn near as soon as you go to unzip his pants in the break room.

now he’s rutting himself against you like a horny dog, using you like you’re not even a person, pushes against your fingers in the break room that’s way too hot and sticky damn near choking you both out.

and when you start to pull away, he’s grabbing for you.

remembering you’re not just some fantasy, that this is happening and he still hasn’t gotten the chance to be inside you yet.

you won’t let it happen even still. but he won’t shut up about it, whining even more. and you want to laugh at him but he’s got a surprisingly big dick so you’ll just have to make it work for now.

[rafes-honey]

Thinking of… ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

Swan!reader who is delicate, high-maintenance without saying a word, with a face too pretty to ever hear the word “no.” She's cold to most people, polite but distant, always dressed in soft cashmere, silk, pearls — the kind of girl who looks like she belongs behind glass. Rafe is obsessed from the first second. Her silence, her sadness, her elegance — it all drives him insane. He chases her hard, reckless and intense, until she caves and lets him in. Around others, she’s still graceful and untouchable; around him, she’s a quiet, needy thing, clinging to him like a prayer. Their relationship is toxic-sweet: he spoils her, worships her, but owns her violently too. Sex is desperate — he handles her like she might break, but he still leaves bruises where no one else can see. She cries during sex sometimes — overwhelmed, too fragile — and he *loves* it. He kisses the tears off her cheeks, whispers that she’s his perfect little thing, his swan, his baby, no one else’s. She lets him ruin her lipstick, tear her lingerie, mark up her throat — because deep down, she doesn’t want to be perfect anymore, she just wants to be his.

[fortuneforsaken-if]

if you're not following my main blog (which you should, i make funne joek sometimes lol) then you should know that my kitten massacred my charger cable to the laptop and i've yet to get a replacement.

in lieu of an update, here's a concept piece about how you would've met maluset for the first time in game. it's scrapped now for something better (hopefully) but it's still an okay piece of writing if i do say so myself. think it was some sort of a fever writing so let's not look too close okay.

It's cold. The mansion is always cold, of course, but this feels unnatural. Like the sun itself blotted out, a chill that seeps into your bones, a freeze after submerging in icy water.

No. You stop your steps and scan your surroundings. The mansion is quiet as well, void of the hustle and bustle of the maid always scurrying around. Something has shifted. 

"What the fuck is going on," you hear the voice from atop of the grand staircase, the keeper of your chains aggravated as they tie the sash around their bathrobe. "What the fuck did you do?" They hiss, each step down the staircase filled with anger, theyr eyes on you in accusation.

But you didn't do this, did you? A cursory glance at your hands, and they're shaking. Why? Why can't you stop them? A tug at your heart could be anything; fear, exhaustion, panic, but those are emotions you've long buried. No, there is something else too. A familiarity, a longing, you felt it for the first thousand years, but it has since lain dormant. 

"I-" you begin, interrupted by the rumble you feel underfoot. It's minimal at first, barely there for you to sense, but it grows stronger, stronger, until a vase perched on a side table crashes into the floor. 

The heir grabs onto the bannister and curses. Another figure falls against the bannisters upstairs, a familiar, exhausted visage now with frantic eyes looking across the room, eyes meeting yours in question. 

It peaks and recedes, slowly, shakes becoming tremors, and tremors becoming subtle vibrations. The heir stomps up to you with a finger raised, but they get no word out before Rami is down the stairs and grabs their arm. "Wait, do you see -"

"Rami, you're my brother, but I will break every single one of your fingers if you so much as touch me aga-" and he does, grabs them by the head and turns them to look at the front entrance, the massive windows that show an opulent garden outside.

Or they should, but there is nothing. Only darkness. 

Oh. You feel the realization creep up your neck like a soft desert breeze, warm in midst of the cold that has otherwise settled. It cocoons you like your mother's hugs, protective, adoring. Alive.

"What the fuck," the heir offers eloquently yet again, bare feet stomping to the door and yanking it open. Light that should spill out from the open door sits still at the threshold. "That's not normal," Rami mutters, but you can only stare into the abyssal darkness. 

At the sand collecting at the porch, grains coming together to form a vortex before it solidifies into a figure. 

The heir stumbles back with a cry, landing on their behind as they scurry back. You stand still, hands ny your side, but you want to reach. You want to welcome an old friend, but you get no chance. 

He's here. After so many years, he's here. The robes fall effortlessly over his shoulder, the moving glitter of starlight the only differentiating element from the darkness beyond. A divine vision clad in shadows, the human features swirling as if not keen on being in that form. You see the galaxies in his eyes consolidate into an iris, the full weight of it set on the heir sprawled in the ground.

"Ashar tehk nuḥ senet akhet."

Your breath stutters at the inhale. It's been so long since you heard your tongue spoken, the words like an old-forgotten hymn you thought you'd never hear again.

I have come to retrieve the one you have stolen from me.

You could think he came for a relic, or anything else of material value. The spark of hope you've nursed flares to life when he turns his eyes to you, the vastness behind them softening as he takes you in, his shoulders easing only a fraction. Another gust of a warm breeze flows over your cheek.

He really did come for you.

[clubsoft]

javi didn’t want commitment, now he’s watching his girl flirt with her new man. angry, smug, irritated — all of the above, knowing good and well that she’ll crawl back to him, eventually, craving his touch. he’ll preserve these emotions until then, play the waiting game.

a man of his word, he follows through. days later, she’s whining into the pillow, a quivering mess. her silky hair wrapped around his fist, he yanks her back, shifts the same hand under her jaw to whisper in her ear, “your little boyfriend couldn’t make you cum? you’re breakin’ my heart, baby.”

( gif by @rhaenyratargeryen idk why tumblr won’t embed it properly )

[altarfates]

It’s worse because it’s her, because her empathy is offered to him, as if she were suturing the gaping lesion both in him and his wallet closed. Grimsley was adamant that no one see him like this, that only he could see himself as consequences of his own irresponsible actions bore down upon him. Liepard was a capricious pokemon, oftentimes people had said she was hard to read, docile one moment and then belligerent the next. Like this, with her steady gaze glinting down upon him from where he’d sprawled on the floor, an arm splayed over his face to block out the cascading moonlight from outside, she was his most steadfast companion. There was no judgement in her, not as he awkwardly splayed his hand against the door to urge it open, nor as he’d unceremoniously sunk to his knees beside his bed and dropped his head into his hands. The soft, intermittent padding of her paws against the floorboards was the only accompanying sound to his slowly steadying breath. She’s no arbiter of his sins and doesn't bitterly reprimand him for another night of foolishly squandering away what little they had left. Because he had opened his hand, slowly unfurling finger by finger to reveal what he had brought back for her. Liepard ignored it, brushed it away, pressing her forehead against his hand, the insistent, grounding sensation of fur against his skin chasing away the despair that began to fester under his skin. They remain like this for the rest of the night, sleep an elusive mistress. Liepard rests against his side, his fingers buried in her fur, the slow, steady caress of his hand appeasing both trainer and pokemon. It’s absurd how long it had taken him to convince her to eat, she was stubborn like that, staring him down as if the offering was an offense. She would have remained awake all night, vigilant by his side, had he not eventually been able to stave off the churning nausea and grasp the fragments of his cognizance, sliding them gradually back into the places they belonged. Nights like this were the hardest, how much determination needed to be bled from him until it was over, when would the uncertainty of their situation become something more stable, something capable of being nurtured and safe guarded. Grimsley casts his eyes down to her, that same silver moonlight accentuating the golden patterns on her coat, shimmering as her chest rose and fell in a tranquil doze. All he could think at that moment, even as his pockets remained deplorably empty and dawn lurked over the horizon in lurid streaks of crimson, was that he would do anything, forfeit anything, so that they could stay like this. He could shamelessly proclaim it was the lavish life-style he coveted, the ostentatious parties and inordinate gambles but that wasn’t it; it wasn’t it at all. In the end he was gazing long and hard at what he had once been convinced were the people closest to him and realizing they were just as hollow as he was, abhorrent pits of emptiness that desired only the most sumptuous of all things, as if that proved their worth. No, as he slowly stroked her fur and felt the sluggish undulations of alcohol taper off into sobriety all he really wanted was for the two of them to remain together, no matter what else that took from him.

[blightworn]

alone. forced this way by equal parts circumstance and instability, yet clinging to the idea of unconditional love and understanding. desperation and frustration blend into a vitriolic fury that has taken hold of him for as long as he can remember. outrage at his peers, his superiors, his former loves— the fear of solitude grips him at night, but in the waking hours, nothing can sate his anger.

he stares out at his pets, waiting for his command. ever obedient, docile in their imprisonment. they stare at him with the very fear that they once dispensed to the unlucky souls that called to them. the power is intoxicating. he walks among them, basking in the loathing these creatures never knew they could feel. that's his specialty.

he never belonged here. an outsider in every way, abandoned by a broken clan and left in the care of fools who never saw him. his pets can't run away. they can't say no. they can't tell him that he's a monster, though he relishes in the title from others.

they can think what they want, envision the horrible ends they believe they'll get to enact upon him one day, but claude doesn't have to hear it.

[inwhichcronusgetshisasskicked]

Wake.

You’re alone in bed, pillow hugged to your chest. Dirk woke before you did, rustled you from slumber and guided your clingy arms around it instead, but it didn’t take long after he left for your waning consciousness to catch up to reality, for you to wake in full, and now here you are, hugging a piss poor Dirk-replacement and overthinking things you feel like you shouldn’t even be thinking about normally.

You should be happy. You should be more than happy. This is what you wanted, you should be grateful. He doesn’t deserve your resentment, he’s been so fucking nice to you, tried his best to make up for…

... for forgetting you. You guess.

Fuck, is Gamzee right?

You groan, grab the edge of the blanket and pull it snug around your shoulders, cocoon yourself in the fabric. You hear the coffee machine crack and sputter and hiss through the wall, earfin twitches towards the sound.

You don’t want to think about this. It makes you feel weird, makes you feel guilty.

You’re here now, and that’s what matters. The lingering smell of his deodorant, the warmth still present on his side of the bed, it’s all proof that you’re not alone. You’re not, you’re here, and he wants you to be.

He wants you to be. He does.

He does.

[allcfme]

[ Music to set the scene. ]

   "I don't think anyone will understand how much I miss you. I think of you every day, wishing upon those stars you told me you loved so much that you'd come back. I know it is not humanly possible for you to return to me, but I look for you in every crowd I scan. I look everywhere for you to come back to me and. . . I know it'll never happen. You will always be the light to guide me, Maria. . ."

  ⌦ SHADOW'S OUT AWAY from the crustacean station he, Agent Stone and the Doctor reside in. Somewhere quieter with a clearer view of the starry abyss above them. The gentle breeze of the United Kingdom's countryside was just as nice as the times he and Maria would sit outside the testing facility, just in the grass underneath the blanket of stars they studied and loved together. Dreary eyes focused above, admiring the brightest ones. 

   "You wouldn't believe how much I've lived and learned since I was awoken. Ever since we lost you that day, your grandfather went off the rails. You'd personally hate him . . ." A pause, "And me. You'd hate to see what I've become. Well, hate's a strong word. I don't think you had an ounce of hatred within your very being." A gentle chuckle left him as he turned to face . . . nobody beside him. A weak smile blessed his lips. 

    "Your cousin and his . . . weird fling he has going on; they took me in. Interesting turn of events. Always roped back into the family. He's trying his best to be a father figure, but isn't understanding how. Which is . . . comedic, but nice, regardless, despite his history. Agent Stone is a kind soul. He's had it hard. You'd like him, I just know it. I also managed to fall in love. Me? I know. It's silly. I fell in love with Ivo's, your cousin, arch nemesis. Sonic. We're similar. I didn't know there were more like me out there. Alien critters, not subjects. He's a blue version of me. Our favorite color. You'd love him. He's energetic, has quite the attitude, talks a bit much and a bit annoying . . . cute too. He's got friends as well. Tails, a little yellow fox. He's quite intelligent. I'm sure you'd love to nerd out with him. And Knuckles, a red echidna. He's . . . kind of an idiot, but his compassion with fighting is admirable. I taught my partner how to ice skate and roller blade like you did me." 

   ⌦ EYES SLOWLY PEELED away, returning to the speckled night sky.

     "I often think about joining you. In the afterlife. I'd do anything to hear or see you one more time. I'm nothing to be proud of. . ." Gloved hands met his eyes, rubbing at them gently. "The future is so much different than the time we were alive together. It hurts so much. How different things are. I've never felt so . . . alone. I don't know what to do with myself. They aren't treating me like a weapon. They're treating me like I'm someone and that someone is so foreign to me. I just . . .wish you were here. You always knew what to do." A quivering sigh left his lips as his hands returned to the grass below. That weird feeling pooled within the corner of his eyes, dampening cheek tufts. 

     "I love you, Maria. I always will . . ."

[valorsworn]

There’s a place in Bucharest where the walls still smell like fire. The windows rattle when the wind is strong enough, and the bed creaks even when he breathes too hard. Steve doesn’t sleep much, so it doesn’t matter.

The room is empty. They always are.

The others are close, but it doesn’t make a difference. Sam is somewhere across the city, lying low, keeping his head down. Wanda, too, though she hates it more than any of them. Too much fire in her veins, too much grief with nowhere to put it. And Natasha… Natasha’s always on the go. Some nights she’s here, some nights she’s not, but even when she is, she never lets herself be still. 

( Maybe she knows what Steve does: that stillness lets the ghosts in. )

They’re a team, in theory. But in practice, they’re just survivors, drifting from one place to the next, stitched together by a shared exile. They’re criminals now. That’s what the Accords made them.

It’s funny, in a way. The world cheered when they saved it. When they fought the Chitauri, when they took down HYDRA, when they went to war in Sokovia. And then, just like that, they were dangerous. 

Not heroes. Not soldiers. Liabilities.

Steve had drawn his line in the sand. The moment he signed that paper, he would have given up the right to make his own calls, to trust his own judgment. He still thinks he did the right thing. He has to believe that, because if he starts questioning it now, it all unravels.

But at night, in the dark, he wonders if it was ever really about the Accords at all. This isn’t the first time Steve has been alone, but it’s the first time it’s felt like a punishment. Some nights, he wakes with his hands fisted in sheets, heart hammering against his ribs, the phantom memory of repulsors against his shield still ringing in his ears. 

That shield doesn’t belong to you.

He doesn’t call. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he does.

Because he remembers a time when things were simple.

Brooklyn, before the war, was never easy, but it made sense. You fought because you had to, because the alternative was lying down and letting the world flatten you. And God, Steve never did learn how to do that.

Back then, it was fists in alleyways, the taste of blood in his mouth, Bucky’s hands on his shoulders pulling him up again. Come on, pal, let’s go home. There was always a home to go back to. Always someone there to patch him up, to hold him up when he was too tired to stand.

Now, home is a string of safe houses across the world, places with no names and doors that lock three different ways. No Bucky. No Tony. Just Wanda, too young and too angry, who doesn’t know how to stop grieving. Sam, who keeps watching Steve like he’s waiting for him to break. Natasha, who never says what she’s thinking, but whose eyes are full of things Steve doesn’t want to name.

And him. The man out of time.

The man who doesn’t know who he is without a fight.

Who doesn’t know how to live in peace.

Even after the war ended, even after the ice, after waking up to a century that doesn’t belong to him, Steve has never been anything but a soldier. If he’s not fighting HYDRA, he’s fighting an alien invasion, or the government, or himself. The idea of peace should be a comfort, but it’s a sickness instead. The quiet makes his skin itch. His bones vibrate with the need to do something.

Peggy saw it. Bucky saw it. Tony saw it. 

Maybe that’s why Steve left. Because Tony was offering him something else. A real future. A place that wasn’t a battlefield. A home.

Tony.

Tony, with his hands all over Steve’s body, eyes bright and mouth fond, stay the night, Cap, grinning like he never expected Steve to say yes. Tony, eyes red-rimmed, voice raw, looking at Steve like he didn’t know who he was anymore. Tony, lips curled around rage, you don’t deserve it. And Steve...

Steve just leaving. Walking away.

He tells himself he did what he had to do. That Bucky needed him, that the world wasn’t black and white, that Tony wouldn’t have listened. But at night, in the dark, he wonders if that’s just another excuse. Because the truth is, Tony made him feel something he wasn’t ready for. 

The phone sits in his bag, untouched. A single number burned into memory. A lifeline. A dead end. He could call. Could listen to Tony’s voice.

Could hear him tell Steve to go to hell.

Instead, he listens to the wind howl through the cracks in the windows. The weight in Steve’s chest doesn’t ease.

The room is empty. They always are.

[barksback]

YOU HEAR THE CONFLICT BEFORE YOU SEE IT, a small voice begging as prey fumbles through the forest. his breathing is coming quick, bordering on hyperventilation. it isn't long before he comes crashing through the foliage below you, stumbling, foot catching on the gnarled roots jutting this way and that. skinny limbs flail as he desperately tries to catch himself before his face smashes into the dirt. heavy-footed predator is soon to follow - an older, taller boy wielding a spear; you immediately recognize him as kai, one of district four's tributes ( and part of the career pack, surely in cahoots with that loathsome augustus braun ).

from your spot in the trees, you have a clear view of the two tributes below you, the scene barely illuminated by slivers of moonlight filtering through the leaves. this is the perfect hiding spot.

no. it's the perfect advantage. you remember kai well; arrogant and unbearable, his taunting voice and grating laughter is incredibly familiar. you remember the ten kai had scored, too; he was immediately filed away under distinct threats in your mind. with both tributes completely unaware of your presence, you have the perfect opportunity to take kai out of the game with very little consequence.

you ready your axe as kai readies his spear. unflinching, unblinking, you send it flying. with a sickening thunk, the blade finds its home in kai's skull. the boy below him cries out as blood drips down kai's face, district four's tribute swaying and sputtering before crashing to the ground. it isn't until the canon finally fires that you make your descent.

now able to get a closer look, you finally recognize the younger tribute as

' you're axel, yeah? from district six? ' you firmly plant your boot on kai's lower back as you pull your axe free, wiping the blade clean on his shirt. axel is certainly one of the lesser threats; quite short and skinny, with an unimpressive training score of four.

when you turn back to him, he's still on the ground, terrified, wide eyes brimming with tears. ' wait, you- you remember me? '

' don't feel too special. i remember everyone. ' it occurs to you that you could take him out- quite easily, too. he's prone; he hasn't moved an inch despite having plenty of time to take off. he's got little more than a hunting knife gripped in his unsteady hand. at most, he'd swing it blindly at you. might manage to nick you before you bring the axe down into the center of his skull. it would be so easy.

kai must've thought the same exact thing. axel is a wisp of a boy, no older than thirteen. there is no advantage that he holds over you, or any of the remaining tributes, for that matter. it would be so easy.

instincts are screaming for you to disappear into the shadows, leave axel to sort his own affairs, but the thought of seeing his portrait in the sky by the end of the week makes your chest ache. with a quiet sigh, you're securing your axe in its holster and approaching axel, hand outstretched. ' jake, district seven. ' he's lowering the knife, terror turning into confusion. ' don't just stare at me, kid, c'mon. we need to clear out before the rest of the pack comes looking for him. '

his trembling hand grasps yours like a lifeline, and you haul him to his feet. still, he remains suspicious. ' why're you helping me? '

because you're scared and helpless and you weren't built to last this, you're just a damn kid. ' honestly? i don't know. ' you begin to make your way farther into the forest, not bothering to check to see if axel is following you or not. ' do not make me regret this. '

[benbraeden]

ben sits on the edge of a makeshift cot, his shirt removed, revealing a patchwork of bruises and cuts that crisscross his skin. jesse works with careful, deliberate movements, applying antiseptic and bandaging the wounds. his hands, usually so assured with their supernatural prowess, are now tender and almost clumsy as he tends to ben’s injuries.

claire has left them alone, giving jesse the space to focus on the task at hand. the silence between them is heavy, broken only by the occasional rustle of bandages and the faint hum of a nearby lamp.

jesse’s expression is a mix of frustration and determination. the ache in his chest is a constant reminder of his limitations — demon powers can grant strength and fury, but they can’t heal the deep, physical pain of a friend. he applies another layer of gauze with a sigh, his gaze flickering to ben’s face.

“how you holding up?” jesse’s voice breaks the silence, the question coming out softer than he intended.

ben winces slightly as the bandage is secured but tries to muster a barely there, personable smile. “i’m… managing. thanks to you.”

jesse’s jaw tightens, eyes focused on the task, as the corners of his optics darken slightly at the reminder of the state that he found ben in. “i wish i could do more. i’m not much of a medic.”

“you’ve already done more than enough.”

they fall into silence again, the room filled with the quiet sounds of jesse’s movements. despite the physical pain, ben is buoyed by jesse’s presence — a silent comfort in the aftermath of the ordeal.

jesse finishes with the last bandage and sits back on his heels, finally allowing himself to meet ben’s eyes. the weight of his concern is evident in his gaze. “you sure you’re alright?”

ben’s eyes, though tired, hold a spark of warmth. that a part of him that he thought was broken, somehow still holds onto him like a vice. he's a survivor, through the blood of winchester or his mother, he doesn't know. but it's embedded into him, a part of him, just like an arm. “i will be. just need time.”

jesse nods, though his concern is far from assuaged. “if you need anything, you just let me know. anything at all.”

ben gives a small, appreciative nod. his gaze softens as he allows the chip in his armor to crumble slightly, permitting jesse to garner a glimpse into the man below. “i know. and… thanks, jesse. for everything. i mean it.”

jesse manages a small, relieved smile. it's rare that the two share some semblance of vulnerability, but moreso from the braeden. “yeah, well, we’ve got each other’s backs, right?”

“right,” ben agrees, the simple affirmation carrying more weight than words could fully convey. there's a silent nod to the prophecy that is scribbles onto their ribs, how jesse's undoing is to play out in ben's hands, with a blade driving into the other's chest. however, in the face of what they have overcome, it feels as though it's nothing comparative to the bond that forges between the two of them.

the silence that follows is no longer uncomfortable but filled with a quiet understanding. jesse takes a deep breath, knowing that while he can’t mend every wound, he has done what he can. and that, in its own way, is enough.

[toprey]

TENDER LIKE A WOUND — CH. 01. a mark and mari dai drabble, as set in the beginnings of her alternative canon. content warnings are as follows: mentions of violence and murder, mentions of abusive relationships, mentions of grief and self-blame, and implied abusive households.

in the dim lighting of mark dai’s apartment, surrounded by blankets and stuck to the corner of a couch, mari dai reacquaints herself with the normality of life.

in the years previous, the mirror had begun to display a stranger. some unrecognizable, incomprehensible version of self that she couldn’t begin to understand. elijah seemed to have always understood her better than she did— or, at least, the version of her that had peeled itself off of the ground and tried to make something out of what was left. the version of her that had stayed, obedient, to the boundaries of what she was given. 

she was made a killer, so she’d stay a killer, until the option of doing so became something ugly. marred. scar-ridden and sanctimonious, just exemplifying all the ways in which she’d gone wrong. 

and because mark dai is her brother, her betrayer, and someone who doesn’t know better, he’d still let her in the door. 

he gave her a place to sleep. blankets to cozy up to. a big t-shirt to swim in, and said to let him know if she needed anything. somewhere, in the back of both of their minds, they know that he owes her this. he owes more than this. he’s just paying some debt that he’d collected years ago, and when the sun comes up, it’ll be resolved. 

she’ll leave, he’ll stay, and the world will keep on turning the way it had before.

except now, mari doesn’t have much of a future to look forward to.

and maybe in truth, she never did— maybe the universe had dealt her the kind of shit hand that kids like her get. no opportunity but to step into blood-filled shoes, leaving evidence of unbelonging where-ever they go. maybe her future is just something too dark, too dim, too dangerous to look forward to, and this is the best it’ll ever be.

her, watching the steam from a mug drift out into the air. her brother, quiet on the computer beside her. everything outside, seemingly stuck at a standstill.

“do you think—”   mari starts, and mark clicks out of a screen. she blinks, gnawing on the inside of her cheek nervously, and presses her knees closer to her chest.   “do you think that we were doomed?”   she finishes, her voice raspy and raw and burnt like the edge of a skinned knee. mark clicks again on his screen, almost nervous, and contemplates a response.

“i…”   he clears his throat. clicks again, and then lets the screen dim as he sits.   “i don’t know, mar.”   he says it slowly, unlike everything else he’s ever said, and it’s enough of an unsureness to let mari know that at the very least, she’s not alone in thinking this way, too.   “i guess i’d like to believe that no one is doomed; least of all, you.”   his voice picks up the pace, a little more sure, and mari adjusts in her spot slightly.

her knees are flush to her chest, pressing against her ribcage in a harsh movement that she can pretend is grounding, if she tries. her gaze drops to the steam collecting on the mug, condensation spooling at the sides of its frame, and focuses all of her attention on the color of the tea.   

“we didn’t g — get much of a chance.”   the words spit out harshly, like lemon rinds sucked to the inside of her mouth. she sniffs, and tucks her chin against her knees.   “mom and dad fucked us over like that, i think.”   her hand traces around the edge of her sock, the color sitting in stark contrast to the dark couch. she flexes her feet, pokes at a small hole in the side of the fabric, and then looks back up to mark.

he’s back looking at the screen again, except it’s dim.

the abyss of a mirror outlines the framework of his face, flickering in a notification that brings him back to reality. the light pours back out, and he glances back over.

“we have this.”   he says, and doesn’t quite know how much it means, anymore— but it’s something, and it’s there, and mari feels it in her chest the same way he does. built up and stuck, swelling against her heart in a way that makes her want to cry.

she swallows the lump in her throat, and nods.

“yeah,”   she says, and blinks down at her socks again.

“i guess we do.”

[altarfates]

Distrust dwells in anticipation of pain, it wasn’t a potential outcome, it was inevitable. It’s because Moze knew the portents of it, the pungent, malodorous herbs being ground into a paste, the spindly fingers which forced his mouth open, that he could tense, dread sinking to the marrow of his bones. It was spread across his tongue evenly, the urge to retch repressed as molten heat clawed at the back of his throat, his eyes stung as the inexorable agony swept through him. Those invasive hands hook beneath his jaw driving bruising divots into the soft, pale skin, through the strident wailing static he hears someone instruct him to swallow, he complies. Obedience is drilled into him incessantly, ruthlessly and in spite of the saccharine intonation of praise he finds no solace. Violently he convulses, every nerve scoured until it was raw and bleeding, it felt as if his stomach was collapsing, his lungs desperately heave in breath after breath but there’s not enough, the room is constricting and darkness is seeping into his swimming vision. They tilt his head back, allowing the trail of saliva to trickle down his chin rather than pool in his mouth, they didn’t want him choking to death. His entire body was tethered to a single, excruciating pulse. Someone lays him down on his side, inspecting his inert eyes, the way his stiff arms yearned to curl in on himself. The following sound is one of triumph, as if the nebulous streaks he knew were his family had gazed deep into his vacuous eyes and seen something holy. His breathing is reduced to weak, harrowing rasps, finally permitting the waves of that stygian sea to compel him to sleep. He was so - so very exhausted. 

He won’t let you touch him. Feixiao advises, resting languidly against the doorframe. The foxian she speaks with has long, soft ears and at hearing this they tilt back. His eyes narrow, mouth drawn back in a grimace revealing clenched teeth. Those golden, penetrating eyes meet his and pity occupies the tense silence, with a sigh he folds his slender hands in his lap. His body won’t last without medicine. Nails carve red crescents into his palm as that word is spoken, against his will his body trembles. Medicine, he’d heard it before, knows what it means. His suspicion burgeons into a dark, seething anger. Clammy hands desperately sought his blade but she had stolen it, his one defense against the encroaching dangers, he hadn’t understood her reasoning. you won’t need it here. Why should he place his faith in her words, no matter how soft or how reassuring that was all they were. She takes a step back and from her shadow emerges Moze, his body still malnourished, the clothes they had given him swelled around his gaunt arms making him look terribly frail. the healer’s eyes narrow, appraising him in a way that made him want to writhe out of his grasp. They continue to talk, he grasps fragments of their conversation and soon Feixiao departs and the two are left alone. Every instinct begged him in earnest, run, run, run but fear imprisoned him, holding him firmly in place. It takes an hour of gentle encouragement, of placing the herbs out one at a time, separating them and educating him on their names, their uses, before Moze tentatively settles into the space beside him. The rancid smell does not emit from the bowl where his pestle grinds the herbs into a paste and his hands do not cruelly wedge his mouth open. Jiaoqiu lays the medicine between them like an oblation and for a pregnant moment he merely stares at it, his uncertainty tangible. He doesn’t rush Moze and after a few erratic heartbeats he takes it. His features contort expecting the first lance of pain to be unbearable - but it doesn’t come, there’s a bitter taste lingering on his tongue but that was it. With wide, confused eyes he glances back up. ❝ …. It doesn’t hurt.. ❞ his unused voice still startles him, guttural and hoarse, the healer merely shakes his head. Not all medicine is pleasant but it isn’t intended to cause you harm. ❝ It’s meant to hurt.❞ he insists, it is then that realization dawns upon the foxian’s features, the horrors he must had endured at the hands of those he regarded as family, it was a atrocity that no one prevented them from experimenting on him until he was deceived into thinking it was normal - it had to be that way. A hand reaches out for him, intended to placate the boy’s bristling and he winces as it comes down, it were as if he envisioned it covered in barbs, or steeped in poison. The ice in his veins stills as it merely rests atop his head, the healer’s expression is complicated but the world which had surged by in the days following his rescue becomes utterly stagnant, everything rendered in superlative detail. He breathes in, it doesn’t hurt, he breathes out, it doesn’t hurt then either. As if he were crying his shoulders shook, the revelation of it too much for him to bear. Hands didn’t have to bestow only pain.

Moze blinks slowly, with Jiaoqiu’s hands cradling his face the moment feels inherently intimate. He was tracing his features slowly, with purpose, wanting to recall the way he looked in the absence of sight. He was so still that it was impossible to tell if he were still breathing, his vision regains clarity as their inquisitive tips trace the contours of his cheek down to the sharp line of his jaw. You were thinking about something. Jiaoqiu muses, perhaps because the shadow guard had devoted himself for far too long to the act of silence. His next breath holds the impression of laughter, a strange - unfamiliar note even now, he was transparent beneath the other’s gaze, he did not require sight for such a feat.

❝ about the past.❞ a solemn confession, these long, arduous days surrendered to healing left ample room for such things. He makes a soft, incredulous noise which Moze recognises as chiding, don’t stray too far - go where I cannot follow. It takes quite an amount of restraint not to ease back into the shadows, to allow the familiar darkness to encompass him and to alleviate the way his heart ached when Jiaoqiu smiled at him like that. ❝ I won’t. ❞ and it sounded akin to a heartfelt vow. 

[ataviisms]

it didn't use to hurt. it didn't use to feel like this.

every waking moment is agony; every unconscious moment a too-short relief. some days he spends howling and thrashing on the floor. most, all he can do is lie there pathetically and shudder while the pain wracks his body. skin so tight it could snap. ache in his jaw like a knife in his brain. like a special kind of torment he doesn't even have words for.

the meals they slide through his cell door go uneaten, become a buffet for cockroaches. he's so so hungry, stomach like a hollow drum, but his mouth no longer works the way it used to. food falls from it before he has a chance to swallow, he can no longer chew. what little he manages to choke down comes right back up when the pain hits, and all he can do is press himself against the concrete until exhaustion takes him.

he doesn't know what he looks like now. he'd smashed the tiny mirror above the sink when all this had started. when he tries to look at it, his face is distorted by the spiderweb of cracks. no way to tell what's wrong with him. no way to make any sense of anything.

days, weeks, months. hard to tell how long he's been in hell. no concept of time in solitary. no concept of time in his haze of pain. slowly, slowly it lessens a little. his vision clears a bit, his jaw has stopped swelling and the blood on all the teeth he'd lost has long since dried. his skin just feels hard, not tight. the white-hot pain at the base of his spine has faded to a dull, heavy ache.

it takes him a long time to stand. when he does, the cockroaches on the floor scatter at the movement. he tries to lean against the metal sink and it bends beneath his weight with a terrible screeching sound. he looks into the broken mirror, trying to decipher the jigsaw image he's presented with. blood red eyes staring back at him; something dark and lumpy and jagged for a face. something no longer human. something reptile.

and the dark smear of sweat and dried blood and old dead skin on the floor is all remains of waylon jones.

[10ve1etter]

prompt 9 of pininlongingyearning ... long distance relationship // shoko x suguru.

the stretch of time between when they've last seen each other and the now feels both like an impossible expanse of time and a very short one.

like yesterday, they had just been sharing a meal made in her kitchen made by him. but, it also felt like it's been years since she's rested her head against his chest and felt the thrum of his heartbeat against her cheek, the lapping of his cursed energy in her home.

traces of him were gone except for the lavender wash he kept at her place in the bathroom. sometimes, she would bathe with it and carry around his smell with her, leaning her face into the crook of her arm when she tried to take a small nap at her desk in her office. that is, before she'd be interrupted by satoru and he would lounge around her office, stretching his tall body around. he would give pause sometimes, glance at her knowingly but strangely wouldn't needle. it makes sense that he would notice, too.

the postcard comes in the mail and she's almost giddy when she clutches it in her hand, trotting up the stairs to her apartment, shutting the door behind her and collapsing into her couch. it's not a very long note on the back, but one that's written in his hand and giving a short but detailed account about his recent travels, then a sentiment that only she can understand.

shoko isn't much of a writer, but she'll dedicate the words she can muster to a handwritten letter that will likely need to be forwarded to his next available address.

she misses him the most when she can't sleep. when bleary eyes peer towards the harsh red digits on the digital clock next to her bed and it read some horrible hour. it was always easier when he was around. everything was easier when he was around. but, she tried not to think about it too hard, to spoil herself into depending on another person. she's gotten by this far on being mostly alone --- not to discount the times spent in company or in reliance of her friends. but, isolation is something she's used to, and it once could even be a comfort.

when did being in the company of another person replace that?

she entertains the thought that he's ruined her in hopes that it would make her resentful and she would miss him less. it doesn't work. if anything, shoko wants him there so they could pretend to argue about it, so she could blame him and he would strike her with those fox-like eyes of his, cunning and knowing. imagining those things made the absences feel longer.

soon, the ache of it would dull out. present but not as sharp and she could manage breathing. she'd tidy up her mind, focus on her work, and try not to dwell on the void left behind.