#A Lovely Summer Sky Through The Insect Screen

[pittipedia]

#Painting 'Untitled (A Lovely Summer Sky Through The Insect Screen)' by Rodolfo Pitti (2023)

[startrekwintergiftexchange]

An anonymous gift for @70thousandlightyearsfromhome

A night at the drive in

Tom gripped his tray a little tighter as he spotted harry, sitting alone at a table in the corner. His friend sat slumped with his arms crossed, staring out the window, his dinner untouched. Again. 

  Tom felt something heavy settle in his chest at the sight. After a moment, an idea struck him and he strode over. He let his tray fall onto the table and sat with a loud groan. “You will not believe my luck, harry,” he grumbled. 

  Harry startled then registered his friends presence. “Sorry. What was that?”

  Tom fought the urge to smile. His friend was miserable, but he was still unfailingly polite. As always. Instead, tom let out another loud sigh. “You will not believe my luck.” Harry just looked at him, but tom took that as a good sign. If he’d just fallen in love with an unattainable alien- again- he’d have been hurling knives, or at least insults, at anyone who came near him. 

  “I traded in three favors, listened to ensign vorik recite vulcan poetry, agreed to cover the nightshift, AND burned through all my replicator rations for my date tonight…and then she goes and stands me up.”

  Harry hmmed and tried to smile. “Yeah, that rotten luck alright.” 

  “Rotten?” tom exclaimed indignantly. “Its terrible. Downright unfair is what it is.” He felt outraged on his own behalf even though it was a total lie; he definitely did not have a date. 

  “Maybe she just wasnt that into you,” harry offered weakly, more to fill the silence than anything else. 

  Tom gave his friend an indignant look. “Har, come on. Its me,” he said, pointing at his chest. “Women love me.”

  Harry couldnt help but give a little snort. “Sure they do. Thats why you're here, talking with me instead of your date.”

  Tom let out a sigh. “Well. Maybe you have a point. THIS time.”

  “Who was your date, anyway?” harry asked.

  But tom waved his hand dismissively. “Doesnt matter. What does matter, is ive got the holedeck reserved for the next three hours. So, come on.” tom stood and grinned down at harry. “Lets go.”

  Harry almost stood just out of reflex. But then he sagged. “Im not good company right now.” 

  Tom scoffed. “Im the one who’s just been stood up. IM not good company right now. Come on, harry,” he urged again. “Please dont let me have suffered through vulcan poetry for nothing. Please!” The silence stretched. “You’d be doing me a favor. Really.” 

  After another moment, a slow smile spread across harrys face. “I suppose we cant have that,” he agreed reluctantly. He had no idea what vulcan poetry entailed, but just the thought made him shudder.

  “There he is,” tom said enthusiastically as harry stood. He draped an arm around the ensigns shoulders and quickly steered him for the door. “Youre going to be impressed with the program that i came up with. I cant wait to show you.”

  As they neared the holodeck tom finally let his arm drop from harrys shoulder. He tried to ignore the sudden disappointment he felt when he did. Instead, he ordered the computer to start his newest program. “So here it is,” he said as they walked in. He threw his arms wide and gave harry a crooked grin. 

  Harry spun in a slow circle, slowly taking in the surroundings. It was a balmy 75 degrees with stars filling the night sky. Gravel crunched underfoot as he shifted his weight and the sound of some sort of insect filled the quiet summer night. There were rows of ancient boxy like contraptions that harry knew used to ferry people around all parked in front of massive, white screens. 

  “Its called a drive in movie,” tom explained as he watched his friends face carefully. 

  Harry stood with his hands on his hips as he took in the program. “There sure are a lot of…what are they again? Vehicles?”

  Tom grinned. “Cars,” he corrected. “And not just cars harry. No. These are hotrods.” He rubbed his hands together. “ The best of the best in style and design. They were what they used to call, chick magnets.”

  Harry just smiled and nodded. Sometimes it was just easier that way. “And what about those screens?” he asked as he nodded his head to the large, white square dominating the holodeck. 

  Tom brightened even further. “Thats where they used to project the movie. Right onto the screen there and then you and whoever you were with, would sit in the car and watch.” 

  Harry raised his eyebrows. After a moment he asked. “Thats it?”

  “What?” tom asked, defensively. 

  Harry just shrugged. “Well, that doesnt seem very romantic. I thought you said this was for a date.”

  Toms eyebrows shot up. “Oh,” he exclaimed. “Not romantic enough, huh? Well I will have you know, this is incredibly romantic.”

  Harry just continued to look skeptical so tom took a step forward and said, “I will prove it to you.”

  Harry cocked his head quizzically. “Prove it to me?”

  “Yeah,” tom said, doubling down on this crazy impulse. He had no idea why he had insisted on showing harry this program when they could have just done captain proton or gone to sandrines or done any other program really. He didnt question why NEEDED harry to see how romantic the program was. How romantic HE could be. 

  Tom made a mock bow and held out his hands. “After you, dear sir,” he said, still grinning. He led harry over to the snack stand, letting his hand rest briefly on harrys low back. He ignored the way his fingers ached to linger, to explore. 

  “These were the snacks typical for that time,” Tom pointed out enthusiastically as they stood at the window to the small hut, the overpower scent of salt and butter wafting towards them. harry looked in the window and eyed many of the items dubiously. Why there were sausages floating in a large metal turning contraption, he didnt know, nor was he sure he wanted to. They felt as questionable as some of nelix concoctions.

  “Popcorn is quintessential when it comes to moves,” tom reassured him as he asked the standard, bored teenager stationed at the window for the largest popcorn they had. She popped a bubble of chewing gum, looking unimpressed then slowly turned away to fetch it for them.

  “If you say so,” harry agreed as tom handed him a box of the popped corn and a drink in a very questionable cup. “Arent you getting some too?”

  Tom winked, holding up a drink but no snacks. “You’ll see.” He moved towards a large, fancy car with a truly ostentatious paint job. “This is a convertible,” he explained. “That means that the roof can be pulled down for beautiful nights like this, so you can sit under the stars.”

  Harry nodded in appreciation as he slid into the seat next to tom. “So then what. What happens next on your super romantic dates?”

  Tom flashed him a grin. “Well, I start the movie.” Which he did. “Its a classic romance flick. Its called Casablanca, set during the second world war. Those soldiers, the…um, nazis, are the bad guys.” 

  Harry helped himself to some popcorn as the film started to play on the large screen. His eyes widened in surprise. 

  “Its good, isnt it?” tom asked knowingly. “And now you see why we only got one box.” He casually reached over to where harry held the snack and let his fingers brush over the ensigns.

  Harrys eyebrows raised and then he smiled appreciatively. “Ah, I see,” he agreed. “Okay. What other moves do you have?” he asked as he only half watched what was happening on the screen. 

  Tom smiled then stretched with an obvious yawn. He slowly let his arm rest around harrys shoulders while the other dropped into his lap. He flashed harry a grin. “Oldest trick in the book.”

  Harry laughed. He didnt know if he moved closer or if tom pulled him, but suddenly he found himself leaning into tom. But he realized he didnt mind it at all. “So,” he said, shaking the box of popcorn and offering it to tom, who reached over with his free hand, bringing them even closer together. “I am beginning to see how this might be romantic.”

  “You havent seen anything yet,” Tom declared. “Wait til you hear my best pickup lines.”

  Harry snorted. “What’ev you got, stud?”

  Tom grinned, the corner of his eyes twinking. “Do you believe in love at first sight? Or should I walk by again?”

  Harry groaned. “Oh. Thats awful.” 

  “Wait. This ones better, Are you a phaser? Because youre set to stun!” Tom laughed even as harry rolled his eyes. 

  “Or how about-Even in zero gravity, I would still fall for you.”

  Harry laughed. “You know, that ones actually not half bad.”

  “Thanks har, thats how I want to be remembered. Not half bad,” tom joked. He took a piece of popcorn and threw it at his friend. Before harry could do more than gasp in outrage tom grinned again. 

  “No. Here's the winner.” He leaned closer. “Feel my shirt.” When harry just looked at him, tom nodded his head encouragingly. “Feel my shirt.” So harry hesitantly rubbed a hand over toms chest. “Know what thats made of?” he asked when harry let his hand drop. “Boyfriend material.” He’d said it as a joke, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew he meant it. 

  Tom held his breath as he watched harrys face. It felt like all the air in the car had been sucked into the vacuum of space. Something flickered in harrys eyes but tom wasnt sure what it was. 

  Finally harry smiled. “Thats the best one yet,” he said softly. 

  “Yeah? You think so?” Tom asked, equally as soft, all joking gone from his voice for once. 

  Harry pursed his lips as if thinking about it then nodded. “Yeah. I do.” He looked at tom then let his hand dig into the popcorn. Tom slipped his hand into the container as well. 

  “You know harry,” tom said, smiling again. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  “What?” harry asked quizzically. 

  Tom laughed and nodded his chin towards the screen. “You’ll see what I mean.” 

[raddocwrites]

A night at the drive in

Voyager: Tom/Harry

Tom gripped his tray a little tighter as he spotted harry, sitting alone at a table in the corner. His friend sat slumped with his arms crossed, staring out the window, his dinner untouched. Again. 

Tom felt something heavy settle in his chest at the sight. After a moment, an idea struck him and he strode over. He let his tray fall onto the table and sat with a loud groan. “You will not believe my luck, harry,” he grumbled. 

Harry startled then registered his friends presence. “Sorry. What was that?”

Tom fought the urge to smile. His friend was miserable, but he was still unfailingly polite. As always. Instead, tom let out another loud sigh. “You will not believe my luck.” Harry just looked at him, but tom took that as a good sign. If he’d just fallen in love with an unattainable alien- again- he’d have been hurling knives, or at least insults, at anyone who came near him. 

“I traded in three favors, listened to ensign vorik recite vulcan poetry, agreed to cover the nightshift, AND burned through all my replicator rations for my date tonight…and then she goes and stands me up.”

Harry hmmed and tried to smile. “Yeah, that rotten luck alright.” 

“Rotten?” tom exclaimed indignantly. “Its terrible. Downright unfair is what it is.” He felt outraged on his own behalf even though it was a total lie; he definitely did not have a date. 

“Maybe she just wasnt that into you,” harry offered weakly, more to fill the silence than anything else. 

Tom gave his friend an indignant look. “Har, come on. Its me,” he said, pointing at his chest. “Women love me.”

Harry couldnt help but give a little snort. “Sure they do. Thats why you're here, talking with me instead of your date.”

Tom let out a sigh. “Well. Maybe you have a point. THIS time.”

“Who was your date, anyway?” harry asked.

But tom waved his hand dismissively. “Doesnt matter. What does matter, is ive got the holedeck reserved for the next three hours. So, come on.” tom stood and grinned down at harry. “Lets go.”

Harry almost stood just out of reflex. But then he sagged. “Im not good company right now.” 

Tom scoffed. “Im the one who’s just been stood up. IM not good company right now. Come on, harry,” he urged again. “Please dont let me have suffered through vulcan poetry for nothing. Please!” The silence stretched. “You’d be doing me a favor. Really.” 

After another moment, a slow smile spread across harrys face. “I suppose we cant have that,” he agreed reluctantly. He had no idea what vulcan poetry entailed, but just the thought made him shudder.

“There he is,” tom said enthusiastically as harry stood. He draped an arm around the ensigns shoulders and quickly steered him for the door. “Youre going to be impressed with the program that i came up with. I cant wait to show you.”

As they neared the holodeck tom finally let his arm drop from harrys shoulder. He tried to ignore the sudden disappointment he felt when he did. Instead, he ordered the computer to start his newest program. “So here it is,” he said as they walked in. He threw his arms wide and gave harry a crooked grin. 

Harry spun in a slow circle, slowly taking in the surroundings. It was a balmy 75 degrees with stars filling the night sky. Gravel crunched underfoot as he shifted his weight and the sound of some sort of insect filled the quiet summer night. There were rows of ancient boxy like contraptions that harry knew used to ferry people around all parked in front of massive, white screens. 

“Its called a drive in movie,” tom explained as he watched his friends face carefully. 

Harry stood with his hands on his hips as he took in the program. “There sure are a lot of…what are they again? Vehicles?”

Tom grinned. “Cars,” he corrected. “And not just cars harry. No. These are hotrods.” He rubbed his hands together. “ The best of the best in style and design. They were what they used to call, chick magnets.”

Harry just smiled and nodded. Sometimes it was just easier that way. “And what about those screens?” he asked as he nodded his head to the large, white square dominating the holodeck. 

Tom brightened even further. “Thats where they used to project the movie. Right onto the screen there and then you and whoever you were with, would sit in the car and watch.” 

Harry raised his eyebrows. After a moment he asked. “Thats it?”

“What?” tom asked, defensively. 

Harry just shrugged. “Well, that doesnt seem very romantic. I thought you said this was for a date.”

Toms eyebrows shot up. “Oh,” he exclaimed. “Not romantic enough, huh? Well I will have you know, this is incredibly romantic.”

Harry just continued to look skeptical so tom took a step forward and said, “I will prove it to you.”

Harry cocked his head quizzically. “Prove it to me?”

“Yeah,” tom said, doubling down on this crazy impulse. He had no idea why he had insisted on showing harry this program when they could have just done captain proton or gone to sandrines or done any other program really. He didnt question why NEEDED harry to see how romantic the program was. How romantic HE could be. 

Tom made a mock bow and held out his hands. “After you, dear sir,” he said, still grinning. He led harry over to the snack stand, letting his hand rest briefly on harrys low back. He ignored the way his fingers ached to linger, to explore. 

“These were the snacks typical for that time,” Tom pointed out enthusiastically as they stood at the window to the small hut, the overpower scent of salt and butter wafting towards them. harry looked in the window and eyed many of the items dubiously. Why there were sausages floating in a large metal turning contraption, he didnt know, nor was he sure he wanted to. They felt as questionable as some of nelix concoctions.

“Popcorn is quintessential when it comes to moves,” tom reassured him as he asked the standard, bored teenager stationed at the window for the largest popcorn they had. She popped a bubble of chewing gum, looking unimpressed then slowly turned away to fetch it for them.

“If you say so,” harry agreed as tom handed him a box of the popped corn and a drink in a very questionable cup. “Arent you getting some too?”

Tom winked, holding up a drink but no snacks. “You’ll see.” He moved towards a large, fancy car with a truly ostentatious paint job. “This is a convertible,” he explained. “That means that the roof can be pulled down for beautiful nights like this, so you can sit under the stars.”

Harry nodded in appreciation as he slid into the seat next to tom. “So then what. What happens next on your super romantic dates?”

Tom flashed him a grin. “Well, I start the movie.” Which he did. “Its a classic romance flick. Its called Casablanca, set during the second world war. Those soldiers, the…um, nazis, are the bad guys.” 

Harry helped himself to some popcorn as the film started to play on the large screen. His eyes widened in surprise. 

“Its good, isnt it?” tom asked knowingly. “And now you see why we only got one box.” He casually reached over to where harry held the snack and let his fingers brush over the ensigns.

Harrys eyebrows raised and then he smiled appreciatively. “Ah, I see,” he agreed. “Okay. What other moves do you have?” he asked as he only half watched what was happening on the screen. 

Tom smiled then stretched with an obvious yawn. He slowly let his arm rest around harrys shoulders while the other dropped into his lap. He flashed harry a grin. “Oldest trick in the book.”

Harry laughed. He didnt know if he moved closer or if tom pulled him, but suddenly he found himself leaning into tom. But he realized he didnt mind it at all. “So,” he said, shaking the box of popcorn and offering it to tom, who reached over with his free hand, bringing them even closer together. “I am beginning to see how this might be romantic.”

“You havent seen anything yet,” Tom declared. “Wait til you hear my best pickup lines.”

Harry snorted. “What’ev you got, stud?”

Tom grinned, the corner of his eyes twinking. “Do you believe in love at first sight? Or should I walk by again?”

Harry groaned. “Oh. Thats awful.” 

“Wait. This ones better, Are you a phaser? Because youre set to stun!” Tom laughed even as harry rolled his eyes. 

“Or how about-Even in zero gravity, I would still fall for you.”

Harry laughed. “You know, that ones actually not half bad.”

“Thanks har, thats how I want to be remembered. Not half bad,” tom joked. He took a piece of popcorn and threw it at his friend. Before harry could do more than gasp in outrage tom grinned again. 

“No. Here's the winner.” He leaned closer. “Feel my shirt.” When harry just looked at him, tom nodded his head encouragingly. “Feel my shirt.” So harry hesitantly rubbed a hand over toms chest. “Know what thats made of?” he asked when harry let his hand drop. “Boyfriend material.” He’d said it as a joke, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew he meant it. 

Tom held his breath as he watched harrys face. It felt like all the air in the car had been sucked into the vacuum of space. Something flickered in harrys eyes but tom wasnt sure what it was. 

Finally harry smiled. “Thats the best one yet,” he said softly. 

“Yeah? You think so?” Tom asked, equally as soft, all joking gone from his voice for once. 

Harry pursed his lips as if thinking about it then nodded. “Yeah. I do.” He looked at tom then let his hand dig into the popcorn. Tom slipped his hand into the container as well. 

“You know harry,” tom said, smiling again. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

“What?” harry asked quizzically. 

Tom laughed and nodded his chin towards the screen. “You’ll see what I mean.” 

[femreader]

Chemoreceptors ➵ Michelle ”MJ” Jones

could i please request some cute flustered mj x reader, maybe mj could be trying to ask them out but she keeps on tripping on her pick up lines and such?

Summary: y/n finally has the guts to ask MJ out, awkwardness ensues

Pairing: Michelle “MJ” Jones x fem!reader

Warnings: none

Words: 1.5k

A/N: I changed it a little bit but, here you go?

MJ watched as you talked with your friends by your locker, gushing about how one of your friends got a date for the prom coming up. She could see you smiling, happy for your friend while shaking your head when asked if you already had a date. It was rather surprising that you didn't’ have one yet, you were one of the most popular kids in the school. MJ was sure the guys were basically throwing themselves at you. Unlike most of the annoying people who she had to endure eight hours for five days a week, you were actually pretty cool. The “popularity” hadn’t gotten to your head, yet anyway.

“Stop drooling, you look a little creepy”, Peter Parker slid beside her, bumping into the locker next to MJs. He literally was wearing one of those shoes with rollers on the bottom.

MJ rolled her eyes at him and closed her locker after taking out the necessary books. She briefly wiped the corner of her mouth with her sleeve to make sure she wasn’t actually drooling.

Peter glanced at Y/N who was with her friends and wiggled his eyebrows.

“She doesn’t have a date yet”, he nudged MJ.

“I know”, she answered, annoyed where this conversation was headed already. “Why do you even care?” Her eyebrows furrowed together.

You said goodbyes to your friends and decided to head towards your chem class, passing MJ and Peter. She awkwardly smiled when you greeted her briefly and continued on with your way. MJ looked at Peter warningly when he turned back to her with a smug look.

“MJ’s got a crush--”

“I will hit you with a chair”, MJ said pointedly just as the class bell rang. Peter chuckled at his own sing-song joke, resting his hands on the straps of his back bag.

”Just ask her out man”, he said, looking up at her. ”What’s the worst that could happen?"

”Uh, first of all, you don't get to have any say in this”, MJ mused out loud, knowing just how dead and miserable Parker’s love life was and how he channeled it through other people's business. ”Second, I don’t even care.”

”Pfft, sure”, Peter mumbled, scratching the back of his neck while following her to class.

You were sitting in the cafeteria, talking with few friends of yours about the upcoming algebra exam when Peter Parker slid into your conversation. He plopped down beside you, scaring the life out of you.

”Hi”, you smiled confusedly. You weren’t quite sure what he wanted from you as you weren't too familiar, but his awkwardness was adorable. It made your friends giggle a little.

”Uh, hi okay so a quick survey”, Peter began making random patterns on the table while talking. ”If there happened to be an intelligent girl--woman! An intelligent woman, who's also rather cute but won't admit to anyone because the patriarchy sucks and we all eventually die and happened to also like dogs”, he nodded towards your phone where your cousin’s dog was as your lock screen.

”Like what would be her chances... with you?” He squinted his eyes at you, while yours were wide open.

”Peter, are you talking about MJ?” You freaked a little. You had no idea she might have liked you, you thought you always looked too girly and one of those bimbos in her eyes. Plus you always were so awkward when talking with her. Well, those rare times you got to talk with her. Like that one time the last December before Christmas break, you had complained about the homework in the bathroom while she had stayed mostly quiet.

Peter’s eyes went wide and his mouth opened and closed rapidly like he was a fish. ”I—uh, no! No, not MJ, definitely not—”

”Peter, it’s fine”, You chuckled, still a little overwhelmed by the new found information. Your friends nudged you teasingly, you just shook your head at them. ”I... I kinda like her too. If she likes me, that is.”

”She does!” Peter caught himself saying a bit too loud and he immediately lowered his voice. You bit your lip from excitement. ”I mean, she does... she’s just really bad at talking with people, who's not me.”

”You could see her after school”, one of your friends proposed. You looked at them in thought.

”We have cheer exercise though.”

”After that, behind the bleachers”, your other friend offered. ”I mean that’s where everyone makes out so you’d totally have all the privacy.” The thought made your cheeks heat up a quite bit.

You rolled your lips together in thought before nodding and turning to Peter. ”Can I have her phone number?” The boy scrambled through his pockets to get his phone, nodding feverishly at the same time.

”Hey it’s Y/N, can you see me after school by the bleachers?”

MJ had been pretty sure she had accidentally inhaled something poisonous in chem class when she got the message from you. And When MJ asked Peter how you had even gotten her number, he just shrugged his shoulders the tips of his ears bright red.

”I swear to god if you said anything stupid—”

”I don’t know what you’re talking about, I have to go, Aunt May’s waiting bye!” Peter word vomited after their last class and darted out of the room, leaving MJ deal with the mess by herself. She put the hood over her head and read your text again, not sure what to say so she ended up answering okay.

She grimaced a little how blunt it sounded.

Outside was warm, the summer was quickly approaching with the help of climate change. MJ didn't necessarily dislike the heat, in the summer, she just didn't like the fact that she couldn't seek comfort from her hoodies and long-sleeved clothing anymore.

She had almost forgotten how nervous she was until she saw you, already in your cheer uniform, hair out of your face. You had this gleeful grin on your face you usually had when the cafeteria had your favorite lunch or when you were talking about your weekend plans with your friends. And now it was directed to her!

MJ awkwardly brushed the hair strand in front of her face, glancing around if anyone was at the field yet to see you two. There wasn't anyone.

”Hi”, you breathed out. MJ felt her heart hammer in her chest. She felt like if she opened her mouth to speak she’d accidentally blurt out everything she was thinking.

”So”, you continued when MJ stayed silent, standing there with her hands fiddling by her sides. ”Peter gave me your number”, you began, chuckling when MJ rolled her eyes a little. She made a mental note to sack that loser... or maybe thank him, depending on what this was about.

“Are you going, to the dance?” She asked, wanting to fill the awkward silence. You were a little taken aback by the sudden question, smiling a little baffled.

“Uh, no”, you shook your head. MJ raised her eyebrows a little surprised. She was sure out of everyone you’d go. You probably had a line of guys ready to take you out from the drop of the hat.

“I don’t really like big crowds”, you admitted sheepishly. “And you?”

MJ had been staring at your lips for a second. “Oh, no—I don’t—“ she began stuttering and falling over her words. You nodded understanding her nonetheless. Meanwhile, MJ was cursing herself inside her head for suddenly turning into such a toddler.

“I was thinking”, you began, eyes darting all around you two, too nervous to look at MJ. “And you can totally say no, but like... there’s this apocalypse movie coming up. Well, the first show is on the dance night to be exact and I thought if you’d like to go and see it? With... me..?” You dared to look up at MJ, whose mouth was hanging a little bit open. Normally you would have joked about it, had you not been feeling like throwing up your lunch from the agonizing nervousness.

”I uh—” stupid brain, for once work! MJ stuttered, looking at you like a deer in the headlights because there was no chance that she was being asked out right now? By you of all people. How did people usually react to this? Like, do they nod? Say just yes? Yes seems too plain and stupid.

”Does—does insects have chemoreceptors for taste on their legs?” She clicked her fingers into the universal finger gun motion, awkwardly bouncing on her heels. You furrowed your eyebrows a little in confusion.

”Yes?” You had no idea, but you sure hoped it was the right answer.

”Yeah! Yeah, they do. It’s—It’s actually the hairs... on-on the legs...” MJ kicked herself mentally from the ramble not realizing how adorable you found it to be. She scratched her neck, glancing up into the sky. What would be the odds of lightning striking down st her right now?

”Well, I have to go to practice”, you said, your voice accompanied by a disappointed sigh. ”But I’ll text you after. "Is that... cool?” you awkwardly offered, trying to stop the grin spreading too wide on your face and scaring the girl away.

MJ nodded, barely managing to speak before you already had to go to the field. She watched as you jogged away, hands in her hoodie pockets. Once she was sure she was alone she punched the air slightly.

"Yes", she exclaimed under her breath before turning around to walk back to the school bulding. At least she now had something to think about during her detention.

[notyourdayrdream]

A/N: this is for @todaydreambelieversfic ‘s summer advent (?) “Tan Hands and Tan Lines.” I know i missed a day lol, i completely forgot. this is also my first time participating in any sort of event, and omg ‘judicious’ is a VERY difficult word to start out with! i’ll post this and all the other days i manage to complete on AO3.

Day 2 Side A: Judicious

“You have shoes on?” Blaine asked, stopping their stroll to kick a rogue soccer ball back to a group of kids.

“Of course I do,” Kurt took his eyes off the street in front of him to glance at his boyfriend's toes. “Of course you don’t.”

The sun was just barely peeking out from the horizon, the sky burnt with deep oranges and pinks. Even Westerville sunsets were prettier than Lima’s, Kurt noticed.

Blaine laughed sheepishly beside him, the sound almost as loud as the chorus of crickets around them. Almost. “It feels nice. It’ll feel even better when we get on the grass.”

They were supposed to be downtown, watching a movie at the theatre. They sat through the previews, sipping on soda and eating butter free popcorn (at Kurt’s request). Kurt’s mind wandered from how annoying Tony Stark was to August, and the few days he and Blaine had left actually together. They slipped out from the back of the theatre just after the Marvel logo disappeared from the screen. Mike and Santana had jobs there for the summer, he would cover for them.

That’s how Kurt found himself wandering down the quiet streets of a Westerville suburb with Blaine, hands pressed into his pockets. Blaine had asked him to not hold his hand or ‘do anything too romantic’ until they got where they were going. Kurt was almost offended, but Westerville was even more conservative than Lima was, with almost twice the amount of watchful eyes. And even though he wouldn’t say it, he knew Blaine didn’t want it coming back to his dad that they were being too out and proud in where he lived.

“Are you sure you know where we’re going?” he asked for at least the seventh time. If they were lost, he’d have no choice but to call his dad, and that would open up a wormhole of questions. Kurt really didn’t want to spend his last summer in Lima grounded.

Blaine waited until they got to the stop sign at the end of the street. “Yeah,” he waved his hands as if the question was silly. He chewed on his bottom lip as he made a right. He was jumping over the cracks in the sidewalk. Kurt was dating an absolute dork. Now he knew how Santana felt.

“I don’t want to be murdered on the outskirts of your neighborhood.” Kurt teased, only half kidding. He kicked a rock out of Blaine’s path.

Blaine knocked against his shoulder slightly. “We’ve been dating for a year and you still think I'd kill you?” There was a lilt in his tone.

“You can never be too sure,” he grinned, admiring the two and three story houses along the way. They were all the same, with pools and freshly trimmed rose gardens. The neighborhoods of Westerville seemed like the type to have a neighborhood watch and rulebooks on how long you were allowed to leave garbage cans out for.

They walked in comfortable silence until the sun had set completely and the street lights turned on. There were no cars on the road anymore, and lamps inside houses clicked off one by one. Blaine led them down a road where houses no longer lined the streets, until the outline of his body was only a shadow. This was how horror movies started. Kurt kept checking for a sign of life, in case he actually was about to be murdered in the middle of nowhere.

They made a left and jogged until Blaine grabbed Kurt’s hand and skidded to a stop. “Here we are,” he sing-songed, wincing as he rubbed the reddened pads of his feet.

They stood on the edge of a perfectly manicured lawn, on the backdrop of rolling hills. Fireflies danced around them, covering the grass like a blanket. A brick school

building was placed in the middle of the field, nearly four stories with a tennis court in the rear instead of a playground.

“It’s beautiful,” Kurt whispered, squeezing Blaine’s hand. The streetlamp tinted his skin as orange as the sky had been.

“This is my old elementary school,” Blaine said pensively, rocking onto the tips of his toes.

“The one where you got your first role as ‘Tree number one’ in The Jungle Book?” He should’ve never told Kurt that story.

“You’re never gonna let me live that down are you,” he said in between giggles, wearing that dopey half smile that was reserved for Kurt’s eyes only.

“Nope,” Kurt shook his head and swooped down to meet Blaine’s lips. He hummed in surprise, but grasped at the small of Kurt’s back. His lips were still sweet and bubbly from his cherry slushie.

When they pulled apart, Blaine opened his eyes slowly, kissed to the point of confusion. It took a moment before he yelled, “Come on!” grabbing Kurt’s hands and sprinting down the hill like a child.

Kurt slipped off his shoes and socks as fast as he could, leaving them behind him in the damp grass. Not even a minute before they made it to the base of a hill did the sprinklers turn on around them and then everywhere in a chain reaction.

He shrieked, pulling off his cotton button down and holding it over his head in a desperate attempt to protect his clothes from being soiled any further. Kurt turned to Blaine, expecting him to be doing the same. But he was doing the opposite.

He was dancing.

If you could call it that. It was more of just jumping, moving to the beat of an imaginary song. He lifted his head to the sky and shouted, catching droplets of rain on his tongue. His jeans and striped t-shirt clung to his body in a way that made Kurt blush.

“You’re so stupid!” Kurt called, barely able to hide the smile playing on his lips.

Blaine turned to look back at him. His hair was frizzy and ruined, gel washing out in greasy clumps down his face. “You love it!”

And he did.

Of course there was still the uncertainty of everything; college, the glee club, their relationship. But none of that mattered to him now. If they only had a few weeks before everything changed, Kurt wanted to spend it like this. Rolling down hills and staining his clothes, lying shoulder to shoulder in the grass and naming stars, trading lazy kisses that ended up more of just teeth knocking together.

Truth was, Kurt really liked being undignified with Blaine.

Long after the sprinklers had gone off and their clothes had stuck to their clothes, a pair of fireflies came close enough for the two of them to touch. Kurt cupped one judiciously, careful to not crush the tiny insect.

Blaine’s was crawling up his arm, flickering at the same time as Kurt’s. A heartbeat, they were the only light source around them. Kurt stared at his boyfriend over the greenish haze of the bugs, trying to soak it all in. He was always handsome, but he was especially gorgeous like this, sopping wet and carefree.

“I love you too,” he said after scooping the lighting bug up before it crawled up into his shirt.

Blaine blinked in surprise. Kurt caught a glimpse of the blush that spread over his face when the fireflies lit up again before flying off.

“I didn’t even say anything.” He scooted until he was halfway in Kurt’s lap and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “I love you too.”

[heli0s-writes]

“i don’t mind”

I have neglected 28 Ways so badly. Here is some Bucky softness as requested by @peachy-lana. Reader has insecurity from acne scars on her shoulders and chest. Fluffy and silly. 1.4k words.

[28 Ways Masterlist / Prompts here and here]

Charioted by starfall, courage arrives in late July.

Under a nocturnal breeze, the compound’s northern pond finds a few more reflections. Surface skimmers breach dark waters with their spindly limbs, making discs of midnight wrinkles, skipping from one ripple to the next. Loamy dirt gathers between your toes, warm peat burying and unearthing.

Bucky’s vibrant with anticipation tonight, propping your tired body up with his shoulder, having kidnapped you from bed with promises of witnessing meteors ignite the sky. A wriggle beneath his black bomber and you tug the collar tight around your neck, shrinking down.

He got too carried away rushing you out without warning—not even letting you put shoes on—but at least he’d been mindful enough to grab it. Nearly habit now, and he doesn’t quite know if he’s helping you or enabling you.

One of his favorite friends-- one of his favorite people in the world—and, hell, the things your brain betrays you about. Trifling marks—wounds from ages ago. Nobody even notices them, but they haunt you so bad you wear his jacket in the heat of summer.

Watchful moon casts silver over your lashes and the tip of your nose when you stir. A noisy suck of your teeth before you come for answers.

“So… are the… shooting stars in your imagination, or..?”

Bucky pats around for his phone, tossed somewhere in the grass and scrolls through the open tabs hastily, finding the article listing every astronomical event of—ah. Shit.... 

Nice going, Barnes. Way to overlook one extraordinarily vital detail. You’re going to kill him.

“Oh my god.” Disbelief fans over his shoulder as you jab at the numbers on his screen with an accusatory finger. “2017? Bucky...”

You begin to sputter before it takes off full blast into a cackling laugh. In between gasps, you manage to croak, “Your omelet got scrambled so bad you forgot the year!”

His favorite person in the world—who else would Bucky let rib him like this—and sometimes he’d like to kill you right back.

“You’re dead,” he sighs, accepting his resumed occupation of murderer. “So dead.”

“Wait—” you plead, “Hold—hold on—N-No!”

Your screams scatter every insect within a 20 feet radius, rising louder and louder but it doesn’t matter because no one’s out here to save you.

The price of Bucky Barnes’ elusive affection, you’ve come to know (and fear), is a love language dedicated to candor and contact. If only those green junior agents saw how the passionate the indomitable Winter Soldier was about stargazing and excavating your damn armpits.

“Quit!” You screech, flailing uselessly. “Motherf—!”

“You’re gonna piss yourself, aren’t you?” he huffs in reply, fingers like pickaxes digging into your sides, “Go ahead, pissbaby, piss yourself.”

Tussling like animals now, bodies barrel through grass as a blur of hair and limbs. You howl in equal measures of delight and terror as Bucky pummels you into the dirt.

Finally, he snags you in a headlock, a gracious gesture to let you catch your breath. It’s a vibranium bear trap around your neck as the rest of your body writhes beneath, jerking like a fish out of water. One final useless thrash and Bucky’s knuckles part your hair in warning, bones digging into your scalp. 

“Take it back or you’re gonna fucking get it.” Noogie incoming.

“Ow okay!” You relent under a tick of pressure, “Your brain is a perfectly formed egg—uncracked!”

He sits you back up, grinning at the damage he’s done, brushing and patting off the dirt from your knees and face, everything gone slick and warm from effort. A sheen of sweat glistens across your brow and a single bead of sweat rolls down your neck. Still laughing, he watches you a while longer.

“Serves you right,” Bucky says, giving another pat to your dusted ankles.

“Well,” you distractedly wipe your cheeks, fanning yourself with both hands to cool down, “You’re... stupid.”

“Your feet are ticklish, right?”

“Do not!” You yelp, pulling away before he can harass you some more. A flap of the bomber’s open lapels and your eyes dart quickly at him. Bucky pauses, catching the nervousness of your gaze. “It’s hot. Okay? Don’t look at me,” you say sharply, and his heart drops into his stomach.

This again. 

Bucky groans. If only he could siphon out the self-loathing from your brain. That traitorous part of you housing a million tiny points of uncertainty that he’d like to throw away. He’d chuck it clear off the peak of the highest mountain and shout good fucking riddance!

Unfortunately, it’s not in his power to change your mind about anything, but he attempts prayer at whatever other powers are out there—deities or cosmos—he’ll take anything to give you confidence. Give him, courage.

“I don’t care,” he mumbles. Quiet rustling as the sleeves come off your arms. You take a second to respond and he’s holding his breath for it. 

Then you say while folding the bomber up into your lap, “Good. Then don’t care by not looking.”

Unbelievable. He tries again. 

“What if I want to look at you?”

“Look at me do what?”

“Do nothing.” Bucky shrugs awkwardly, “I just want to look because I like you.”

“Well, like me with your eyes closed.”

Fucking unbelievable.

“C’mon,” he sighs, and you glance at him briefly, half-indignant, half-apologetic. Stubborn, most of all, and backsliding into your shell now through the safety of your smart tongue.

But Bucky knows you better than your covers and better than scratches and scars and willful pigmentation. You’re fireflies in the dusk of summer—like sunrise breaking over the skyline, piercing the treescape with shine. You’re the pages of his most favorite book, well-versed and well-loved.

Stipples or softness, every bit wholly, entirely, you. And god, why wouldn’t he like all of it?

Still, the jacket lies immobile over your legs; you make no move to put it back on or to turn his face away. Those absent stars have answered his prayers, after all.

A shy smile at him like a crescent moon polished brightly and Bucky thinks you look beautiful like a constellation. A celebration of starlight, a scattering of the milky way and he’s just the lucky bastard trusted enough to witness it. His favorite vision and sometimes you want to disappear.

It breaks his stupid heart.

Gently, one hand finds the back of his collar, pulling his shirt over his head until it’s off completely, landing with a rustle into your lap. Two carapaces shedding to reveal vulnerable flesh.

You swallow.

He guides you toward his arm, over that running line of raised sinew and the corners of your mouth start turning down. The previous moment’s levity seeps away the closer your fingertips get and your lips tuck between your teeth, breath breaching in shallow exhales.

“Buck…"

“I don’t mind,” he urges.

His heart swells with affection as you begin to trace him delicately, knowing his own sensitivities. Bucky returns the gesture, fingers skimming up your arms, thumbprints dancing over skin and you shudder beneath his hands. Contact and candor, you’ve come to know him well; he’s your favorite person in the world, too.

The puckered skin, ropes of scar tissue, pinched in places, and hollow in others—reminders of pain, yes, but also of triumph. A cord like lightning, a vine like ivy. A chronicle of his history.

And you, touched by blemish, are also slowly conquering.

“Look at us, huh?” Circles dance over your shoulders, falling down the slope of your collarbone. “Pieces of nature, is all, in our skins.”

“Y-yeah,” you say, leaning forward onto his shoulder, your eyes pressed to it, cheek damp with rolling tears. They smear into the gloss of his sweat, both shimmery pearls under moonglow.

Keeping his hand in yours, you give it a firm squeeze and mutter, “Thanks.”

“Sure,” he responds, “Any time you need a reminder.”

“You’ll strip?”

“You won’t even have to pay me.”

You chuckle. Soft and indulgent and he knows tonight’s confidence won’t last forever, but he’s serious—any time, he’s got you.

When it starts, neither of you notice, forgetting completely about the previously mislabeled article and scuffling that followed. Caught up in listening to each other’s laughter, fingers entwined, Bucky nuzzles his nose into your hair, eyes transfixed on your shy smile, growing brighter and brighter.

Lines sizzle above—coincidental, or fateful— clumps of space rock brilliantly streaking down like gems finding a new home on this alien planet. Cicada song accompanies the melody of whistling wind heralding their chance arrival.

Bucky counts the stars on your skin and makes a wish on every one.

[penisman420-69]

A gentle glow from the computer screen washes over the dark desk, colors flickering in rapid motion. The monitor whirs in self defense of the growing heat. The ceiling fan lays mockingly silent in the stifling air. Reclined in his seat, Dream's head is tilted back to watch the wooden slats for the slightest tremor.

Betrayal.

Beads of sweat collect near his hairline. He tugs absently on the sticky plastic of his headphones, where they rest around his neck. The small light on the exterior blinks green.

"Dream?" He hears George say faintly.

"Wait, did he leave?" Sapnap asks.

"It says he's on the call, still." George's voice slowly grows closer. Dream begins to detach his eyes from the fan. "Dream?"

The concern in his voice makes Dream sit up. He pushes his headphones back on and wipes his face. "Yes, yes, hello, sorry. I zoned out for a sec." He blinks to register what's on his screen, seeing green grass blocks and Sapnap's avatar crouching in front of him. "Shoot, did you end the stream?" He quickly tabs out just in time to see George laugh.

"No, but I'm about to. Couldn't end it without you saying bye," George says. The small considerate act is enough to bloom a warmth in Dream's chest.

He smiles. "Oh, alright. Bye stream!"

"Bye!" Sapnap yells.

George waves to the camera. "Bye you guys, thank you so much. Also, pray for Dream's air conditioning."

"And my broken fan," Dream adds.

"Bye bye," George repeats, then disappears from Dream's view. This stream has ended. A familiar feeling creeps into Dream's chest whenever that message appears post-stream; disappointment clouded with confusion. Today, it is accompanied by trickles of regret.

He frowns. "Sorry I spent so much of your stream complaining about the weather," he says, clicking back to the server. Sapnap has placed an oak sign before him that reads: wee waa dream can't take the heat. He rolls his eyes and breaks it.

"It's fine, really. I just feel bad for you," George says. His avatar bounds over and starts placing doors on the ground. "Any idea when it'll be fixed?"

"Soon, I hope," Dream answers with a huff, opening and closing the doors to appease George. "I don't think I can take much more of this." They'd been playing for the past three hours, meaning Dream had been accumulating enough sweat in his boxers to stick to his chair for much longer than any man should. Physical comfort was a key component for him to stay mellow, and not much could distract him from itchy tags and blistering heat. Not much, that is, besides gaming. "Seeing you was nice, though, something about your cheerful face distracts me from my agony," he confesses, words leaving his mouth before he can attempt to filter. He cringes. What was that?

"Oh my god, shut up," George says. He sounds embarrassed.

Sapnap coos. "Maybe I should stream with my camera on too."

Dream laughs, running away from the two of them to ease his sudden spike in nervousness. "That would keep my attention."

"Oh yeah, are my streams not interesting enough for you Dream?" George says, flying after him.

"What?" Dream says, feeling a pang of guilt. "What makes you think that? I love your streams."

George continues to act offended. "If you loved them you wouldn't zone out randomly."

"I didn't mean to," Dream whines, which only makes the other two laugh. "I just got distracted by my misery, and tried to airbend a breeze in here."

"Yeah right," Sapnap says, "you couldn't have been doing just that for ten minutes."

"Ten minutes?" Dream repeats, bewildered. He didn't feel it had been that long; he was exploring the map and then clicked onto George's stream to see where he was, and of course George was smiling and yelling, but somehow so full of energy and spirit, and the hot air started to seep into Dream's soul—

"You were AFK for a while," George says, "we were still talking to you though and thought you'd muted yourself or something. Chat thought it was embarrassing."

"Oh," Dream says.

"Hold on, did you mean to mute yourself?" Sapnap asks, laughing as his own words leave his mouth. "Lil too excited watching George?"

Both Dream and George explode in disgusted yells. Good lord, Sapnap.

"Sapnap!" George sends a series of hits raining down onto his avatar. "You are so inappropriate off-stream."

"You're gross," Dream says with a laugh, but it's feeble and half-hearted. His pulse is rapidly drumming inside his skull. He is not lost to the strange dilemma of why he faded from their call for so long to stare at his George-less ceiling. Why did George have anything to do with it? Envy, perhaps, of his friend's ability to be wearing a hoodie in the middle of summer. He brushes it off. "It's true, though. George's face does get me excited."

George groans, making Sapnap and Dream laugh. "Now you're just trying to make me uncomfortable."

"Flustered, you mean," Dream inputs quickly.

"Okay, no, I'm sick of you two," George says, immediately exiting their server. "Consider this a rage quit."

GeorgeNotFound has left the game. Dream sends a :( into the chat.

"Noo, Georgie," Sapnap pleads.

"You did a great job today," Dream says, wholeheartedly. "I'm going to re-watch what I missed of it later." George laughs.

"I seriously have to go. I'll talk to you soon," he says, a small sound emitting from Discord signifying he's left the call.

The feeling returns to Dream's chest—it's akin to the cold rush that follows when he removes his hands from a steaming coffee mug. Some nights after their friends have logged off for good, he'll do anything to avoid giving in and going to bed. Twitter, mini-games, coding, creating playlists. His favorite nights, though, are when George wakes up early enough to keep him company. Their conversations radiate with the warmth of both the Florida night and the English sunrise.

So whenever George jokingly becomes angry with him, Dream can't dispel the tiny tremor of worry that maybe he's gone too far. He doesn't like to mull over the thought of them really fighting; it would terrify him like nothing else. He knows George will call again tomorrow, and that he isn't nearly as upset as he lets on. Yet he still finds himself carefully watching the dot next to George's name switch from green to a pale grey.

"I think I'm gonna hop off too," Dream says to Sapnap.

"Alright, seeya."

After disconnecting, he swivels around in his chair to face his bed. The dark comforter has been kicked to the floor, sheets askew. The window above his bed is shut tight to keep out the humid air and insects, but he can see the soft orange streetlights in the distance.

He sighs and wishes for rain.

He remembers running barefoot on his neighborhood streets as a child when storms would roll in from the sea, splashing in gravelly puddles and letting the cool raindrops dampen his hair. That space was always euphoric—a brief temperance from the smoldering air, green palm trees swaying in the wind, the hint of thunder and lightning—but it feels so far from him now. Especially in this dreadful weather.

He turns off his computer and begrudgingly gets in bed. He's nearly grown accustomed to the dark when his phone vibrates, the notification lighting up the room. He squints.

A text from George.

I feel like this song is a good way for me to get back at you, it reads. Dream clicks on the link, opening his Spotify to a new 'Glass Animals' song.

"Heat Waves," he responds, smiling. Very funny.

He'll listen to that in the morning. As he sets his phone back on the nightstand, Dream finds himself warmed by the gesture, even though it was an insult on his behalf. George is a thoughtful guy. Nothing wrong with appreciating that. Not that Dream finds it unnerving that interacting with George has a direct correlation with his general contentment and moods; in fact, it isn't worth the overthinking.

Settled by his own logic, he allows his body to focus on sleep. He slips in and out of shadows, occasionally tossing and turning in irritation at the cotton sheets. The fabric clings to his dampened skin up to the moment he sluggishly kicks it away. Something clatters to the floor, but Dream rolls onto his side.

Eventually, the night cools enough for him to sink deeper, and deeper, until he turns his head from his soft, warm pillow to a cold pile of sand.

Confused, he grasps at the foundation beneath him only for the rocky grains to slip through his fingers.

He sits up rapidly, glancing at the beach now surrounding him. Although the image is narrow, he can tell there is a murky-purple lagoon lapping a few feet before him. The moon ripples across its ominous surface. The night is quiet; a taunting breeze brushing the back of his neck and bringing chills down his spine.

He looks down at his hands, seeing his bright sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. Bright green.

A sinking feeling begins to rot in his stomach as the familiarity sets in. He's been here before. He shifts his head cautiously, realizing where the shadows at the edge of his vision are coming from, and raises a hand to gently graze the ceramic covering his face. He doesn't need a mirror to know what the mask looks like.

He pulls up his hood, tensing as he anticipates the next subject he'll recognize. At any moment, behind his right shoulder, a voice will call from the edge of the trees that'll say—

"Dream?"

He freezes. That's—that's not right, it isn't supposed to be—

"George?" He asks quietly, turning around with caution. George stands a few feet behind him, goggles perched atop his head and an axe in his hand. He's looking around their location, dazed. The starry sky reflects itself on his lenses.

He walks across the sand towards Dream slowly. "Where...are we?"

"Um." Dream considers curling in on himself, but can't help fighting the comfort of honesty. "My head, I guess." He knows from experience that this place values integrity more than anything. Facing it head on, so to speak. He just doesn't know why he'd let George in here—it isn't safe.

"It's pretty," George says, sitting on the sand next to him.

Dream's heart aches faintly at his remark. Once, he'd thought it was pretty, too. He can't find the words to tell George that after so many years of frantically slipping on the sand, coughing up lung-fulls of the dark water, and running from the woods—it has become a thing of nightmares.

He stares at George. Can he feel the memories here?

"So this is..." George gestures around with his axe vaguely. "Florida?"

Dream cracks a smile. "Yeah, you finally made it," he teases softly. George's grin is bright enough to make him look away. "It's a lagoon I used to come to as a kid."

"You make it sound like that was lifetimes ago."

Something foreign and lost weighs on the tension in Dream's features, forgotten behind the ceramic. "Maybe," he says, "I've had multiple lives here."

George says nothing. He lifts a moon-soaked hand to point at the water. "Do you see those?"

Dream turns his head, and small glowing blobs appear near the shore. Their light blue color is stark against the darkness as they float idly.

"They're moon jellies," Dream says in disbelief. He's never seen them here before. The curling darkness steals all hint of life besides him, his beating heart, and occasional whispers in the wind.

George hums in approval. Dream looks at him again, grateful for the mask covering his own features. Pale moonlight makes George's skin glow a soft porcelain, pink lips pressed together in a delicate brush stroke.

The word bubbles up from deep in Dream's chest, winding into his bloodstream and landing gracefully in his head.

Beautiful.

He wants to back away from it, to shove it deep down. But for once, it feels safe here, safe to admit it to himself without needing an air of humor to skate by on. Here, it isn't a joke.

"Why are we here?" George asks in a murmur, gaze lifting to face Dream. The word here hangs with a heavy lilt, as if he'd meant to say, what brought me? Who pulled me?

Was it you?

In his large brown eyes Dream can see the faded reflection of his sloppy black and white smile.

"I know why I'm here," Dream says carefully, "but I don't know why you are." A brief rustling of leaves and twigs behind them causes him to tense again. "It's dangerous here, George. We should go."

"Why? Don't you want to stay in this memory?"

Dream ignores the comment, and lightly wraps an arm around his shoulders to help him up. George doesn't try to stand. He keeps them rooted to the white shore with a confused frown.

"Nothing is going to hurt us when I'm here," he says.

Dream feels his face grow hot. "Knock it off. This is serious."

George looks at him earnestly. "I'm being serious."

Now that his arm is draped protectively over George's small frame, Dream becomes extremely aware of how close they are. He can sense George's body heat, watch his chest rise and fall, see the goosebumps on his neck. Dream's heart begins to pound. For how long has he wanted to meet him? To hear his voice in person? The fear inside him slowly begins to ebb away into fondness.

The moon jellies rapidly multiply until the lagoon is dappled blue, and gleaming.

George grins. "I told you it's pretty."

"Because of you," Dream says warmly. Even though George rolls his eyes, he means it. They laugh lightly at each other, glowing water and gentle sparks blooming as the moment passes.

George's gaze lingers on Dream for a few heartbeats, before letting go of his axe. He raises his hand to reach for the ceramic mask.

Dream freezes as his eyes follow the motion. His hood falls when George runs his fingers gently through his wavy hair—he can't remember the last time he let someone do this. It feels intimate. It feels terrifying. His eyes shut when George finds the metal clasp on the back of his head, he exhales when he feels the weight of the mask drop from his face.

The breeze is cold on his cheeks. He can smell the nearby saltwater. He opens his eyes, and sees twice as many stars as usual.

"How did you do that? I've never..." He looks at George, who is smiling softly.

"I know honesty is important to you," George says. His hand moves to gently touch Dream's cheekbone.

Dream reaches and delicately takes George's hand in his, slender knuckles and fingers sliding together with timid grace. He feels alive. He leans closer, studying George's eyes until he slips down, further, to his soft lips. His breath is trembling.

"And what if I kissed you right now?" He murmurs, heart racing. "How honest would that be?"

George's eyes grow wide. "I—well, Dream—you—" he stammers, giving Dream exactly what he needs to let go.

Their movements happen nearly all at once—the inclining of George's jaw, the slide of Dream's hand into his hair, the connection of their lips. The kiss is raw with emotion, and gentle. Hot embers rise from Dream's chest to heat his face. The soft presence of George's mouth against his own is surreal, as their senses collectively slip away into the dreamland. His hand rises to softly cup George's jaw. He pulls his face closer, breath hot, heart stuttering. Nervous energy quickly ebbs into a strong hearth of longing, as he kisses George again, and again, and again. George emits a soft noise that makes Dream melt. He can feel George's hands in his hair, then on his neck, then on his chest.

Dream pulls away to capture brief puffs of air. His chest rises and falls rapidly, as he looks at George's flushed cheeks and mouth kissed red. Because of him. A low feeling stirs in the space just below his ribcage, the first flickering of a dangerously hot flame. All of it, all of George, just for him.

Dream parts his lips to say something, anything—and promptly wakes up.

I have heatwaves saved on my computer it doesn't phase me anymore I've read this several times you can't hurt me with this

[prurientpuddlejumper]

Dr. Chilton Hates Camping [NSFW]

K!nktober 2020 Kink Bingo!: Blowjobs

For @thatesqcrush’s kink bingo!

Because for some reason this picture always makes me think Frederick is packing to go camping, and he would look exactly this miserable if he was. 

1,671 words

Feathery tops of pine trees swayed blue-green in a gentle northern breeze off the lake, the late summer air buzzing with a chorus of insects and birds. Golden light cast a hazy glow over your backcountry campsite as the sun began to sink in the sky. It was beautiful and serene. Perfect, even.

For the number of fancy galas and boring dinners Dr. Chilton dragged you to, it seemed only fair that he tolerate going camping. 

“Gah! Die, you blood-sucking fiend!” Chilton shrieked, and a smacking sound echoed off the lake. He grunted. Heavy, annoyed footfalls paced across the camp.

That was your first mistake—thinking Dr. Frederick Chilton shared your notion of “fairness” or the ability to tolerate things with fewer than five stars. All day since backpacking to the primitive campsite he complained there were rocks in his shoes. He was tired. His bag was too heavy. 

A small fire crackled in the center of a bare clearing in the trees near the lake shore. You dropped a larger log onto the tinder as the flames grew hungry enough to bear it, and excitedly rifled through a stuff sack for the makings of s'mores you’d packed.

There was a hissing noise behind you, and you choked on the bitter chemical air, covering your mouth as Chilton’s nuclear cloud of bug spray wafted over to you.

“Can you not spray that upwind of me, please?” you coughed.

He glared at you miserably and swatted another mosquito.

“This is not a fair trade. The things I bring us to are enjoyable. They are civilized, and... indoors!” Swat! “It is freezing, and—and damp, and these damned bugs want to drain me like a phlebotomist in training!” Swat!

“Sit by the fire,” you suggested. “It’s warm and dry, and the smoke repels bugs.”

“It does a better job repelling my lungs.” He stood taller and temperamentally fussed with the buttons of his wool peacoat (because why would he have worn sensible technical gear when he could look stylish). “If you need me... I shall be inside! Waiting until tomorrow when we can leave!” He turned on his heel and stormed into the small, orange tent, and gave his best effort at slamming the nylon zip-up door.

You speared a fat marshmallow onto the end of a stick and sat by the fire, making a s’more while grumbling to yourself about what a baby he was being. This could have been a nice trip if he wasn’t so—ugh!

By the time you finished the crunchy melty treat, you felt much better. It got your blood sugar up, anyway. Sighing, you followed him into the tent.

Chilton had his reading glasses on and was squinting at the glowing screen of his phone as he held it in the air trying to get service… which clearly was not working. You were way off the grid.

The tent flat unzipping caught his attention, and he gave you such a pathetic look as you ducked inside. His always-perfect hair was droopy where it usually stuck up and fluffed up where it was usually slicked down.

“It is damp and cold in here too,” he whined. “And the floor! The floor is lumpy. How will I sleep?”

Your heart softened at the sight of him. He was just so adorable it made your cheeks burn. Crawling onto the sleeping bag he was sitting on, you reached out and gingerly plucked a twig from his hair.

His eyes widened in mortification, and he quickly patted down his head for any other horrible bits of nature that might have latched onto him. “This is not my idea of fun,” he said.

“Well, I’m happy that you tried it for me. Really, I’m impressed you actually came.”

His eyes darted down to your lips, suddenly aware of how close you were sitting, and one cheek twitched briefly into almost a smile. “You wanted to do this,” he said gently. Of course he was going to come.

You leaned forward to close the distance and kissed him. His eyes shut and he moaned softly into your mouth, his frazzled, exhausted, itchy body locking onto you as source of comfort like a heat-seeking missile.

“You taste like chocolate,” he murmured, lips breaking away just far enough to breathe your air, his forehead pressed against yours.

“Have you ever had s’mores?”

“Of course I have,” he answered, a little offended at the implication. He was not so sheltered and elitist to have never roasted a marshmallow. “Not since I was a child…”

“I can make you one. Or if you come out, we can sit by the fire and make them together.”

He thought about it. You had straddled onto his lap, and your body heat was all the more enticing against the annoyingly wet air and cold floor. He was feeling a little less awful about the whole situation.

“But first…” you purred, hand running down the front of his shirt, continuing lower, “I was wondering how I could thank you. Since you’re doing this for me… maybe I can do something for you?”

He inhaled sharply, Adam's apple bobbing as your hand reached the front of his pants, searching between his legs. His eyes, as blue-green as the pines, fixated onto yours, but then rapidly blinked and darted around his surroundings.

“You want to do that outdoors?”

“We’re inside a tent.”

And yet he could hear squirrels chittering as if they were right inside the tent with them. The thin nylon was hardly a barrier at all, and it all felt a bit shockingly exhibitionist. But then, no one was around for miles apart from birds and squirrels who could see or hear you. The devilish idea stirred him that he could fuck you right out in the open if he wanted, like two wild animals rutting in the woods.

Exhaling a deep, breathy growl, he grabbed your face and pulled you back into a burning, fiery kiss. You grinned as he broke it, eyes still burning into you as he pushed you down to his belt.

He leaned back on his elbows, taking the passive role and letting you unbuckle his pants and slip his cock out of his underwear. He drew a sharp, quick breath in through his teeth as your tongue made contact with the tip of his head, and let it out long and easy and shuddering as the wet warmth of your mouth engulfed him. You nursed his semi-soft cock, enjoying being able to hold all of him in your mouth at once so easily, sucking and teasing it, feeling his arousal grow—his pulse getting stronger, throbbing under your tongue as his cock lengthened.

When he finally reached his full, exquisite hardness, he was too big to take in his entirety without choking. You pumped his shaft with your hand, bobbing in his lap as he let out helpless little whimpers, stroking your hair tenderly. He was always vocal in bed, but especially when he was feeling needy. He really needed to be comforted now, and you relished every shiver and moan of pleasure that told you you were doing a good job.

His fingers spasmed reflexively, pulling your hair as you took him deeper, opening your throat until you couldn’t breathe. Your eyes watered with the effort, but it turned you on feeling how much he loved it. You wanted to please Frederick so much he’d remember this trip fondly for a long time. You worked him with everything you had, twisting your hand around his shaft as you pumped it, flicking your tongue over the underside of his cock, stroking his balls, and hollowing your cheeks as you sucked him into oblivion, listening to his gasps of pleasure grow louder as he came completely undone.

His eyes squeezed closed and he threw his head back. You felt his abdominal muscles tense and twitch, and at last he could not hold his hips still and passive, and they began to jerk up into your mouth, pulsing at a rapid and shallow pace. You matched his tempo, bobbing faster on his cock, and within three shallow thrusts he shook and came with a forceful whimpering cry of your name. His hips kept pulsing and twitching as hot, salty cum flooded your tongue.

He fell back on the sleeping bag, panting. You held him in your mouth until you were sure you had licked him clean, then buttoned him back up.

He watched you lick your swollen, shiny lips with satisfaction, admiring your beauty and your skill at making him feel… amazing. It still surprised him sometimes when he stopped to think about it—that you had chosen him. Out of anyone in the world, he was the one lucky enough to have you. It really was incredible.

“I begin to understand how my primitive ancestors got by,” he hummed.

You laid yourself next to him and he happily made room for you to curl up under his arm, wriggling as you settled beside him. He was so warm, like a furnace. Funny and charming. Overdressed. Wickedly smart. God, you loved him. The woods were the last place he should be, you laughed to yourself at your own foolishness in dragging him there. He was not at all the masculine adventure type. There was no hidden rugged side deep down waiting to spring out. But it made you want to take care of him all the more. Your stuffy, helpless, whiny, suit-wearing, scotch-sipping Frederick, who braved the wilderness just to please you.

You kissed him again, warm and tender in his arms. He smiled, and your heart skipped a beat.

“Come on,” you sat up and crawled to the front of the tent, beckoning him. “Douse yourself in bug spray, and lets sit by the fire, stuff ourselves with s’mores, and watch the sun set over the mountains.”

“I suppose...” he considered it, eyes narrowed cautiously, “it does not sound that horrible.”

[skzafterdusk]

Stray Kids As Dates I’ve Been On

Unorthodox, but really this is just:

These are totally the dates each member would take you on

Chan: Why did you guys end up at Barnes & Noble? No clue, but you were here. And while you guys wandered through the sections, looking at various books, you stumbled across a book that intrigued you both:

500 Questions To Ask Someone

Luckily, there was a cafe in the store, so guys were able to order coffee, sit and go back and forth between asking questions.

Some were basic, some were very thought provoking, and it waged some lengthy conversations. You realized, as you watched Chan explain some of his most creative ideas, some of his plans for the future, that you’d never met anyone like him. To be so genuinely engrossed in what he was saying, to catch how he sent you soft smiles when you went on rants, it was a feeling you never had before. 

Even though you don’t remember which question it was, you knew to take a mental snapshot of that day, because it was one to remember.

Yes, you did end up buying the book for sentimental purposes.

Minho: (Should probably mention this now, there’s a lot of driving involved on these dates) He decides to take you to the lake. The summer is forgiving this year, and while the days can still be hot, the nights are met with cool breezes, whisping air that smells of the trees and grass that grow plentiful.

You sit on a bench after having stood near the lake, and you just talk. By this point, you’d gone on a couple dates, and still had so much to learn about each other.

Although Minho has a very forward personality, he stumbles a little when he suggests that you guys become official, exclusively dating only each other. He shakes his head quickly, almost like he is dismissing the idea, but you agree.

In the dark of the night, you can hardly make out each other’s faces that well, but even still you can see his grin and the way he looks back at you.

Changbin: Wasn’t a planned date. You guys closed the store you work at together, and you were both hungry and wired from the interactions with customers that day.

So he suggests you go to this diner. It’s one you’ve been to a couple times in the past, and Changbin has had some memorable late night meals with friends there. It was only fitting he took you to one of his favourite places, right?

The conversation you guys share is unexpectedly deep, you opening up about your relationship with your parents, him being the great listener like he always is. Given that it was your first time in this type of setting with him, you hardly thought this is what the night would bring. Sure, you’d had a crush on him before because he made you feel so comforted at work, but you had no idea that getting to talk with him -like, actually converse with him- would only make the crush turn into genuine feelings.

After the diner, neither of you wanted to go home, so you just drove. You guys ran unnecessary errands, anything to stay in each other’s company. And it was well past 2am when you finally said goodbye.

Hyunjin: The date hadn’t been planned. You just happened to be out near where he lived, and he asked if you wanted to spend some time together. 

It’s already late afternoon when you guys meet up. He suggests you guys go to a park near his home. After the day you had, it was nice to be out on such a lovely summer day, taking in the sound of insects buzzing around you.

After the park, you went to a Japanese restaurant in the downtown area. Sitting outside, you both could admire the skyscrapers just in the distance. And, afterwards, you took a stroll, the streets empty at night, so you took your time crossing. There was a memorial fountain nearby, and it looked lovely in the night.

All this random adventure just brought you back to his house, where you promptly spent the night just talking in your car.

You’re not even sure how or why you started kissing, but soon enough, the car was filled with heavy panting, the wet sound of your kisses. The center console was uncomfortable, so you ended up in the backseat. 

The only way you were able to drive home was because you had work the next morning. Yes, the Little Mermaid bandage on your neck to hide the hickey was a little ridiculous.

Jisung: There’s a college campus close to where he loves, and it’s almost like a hideaway for him. On a summer day, the campus is rather empty. Spacious lawns and intricate water fountains can be found across one cobblestone street to the next.

But his favourite place to visit? The archive room at the top floor of the library. Past the marble floors, sweeping candelabras and great oak double doors, there is a long room. The only way to illuminate the space is with its many fluorescent lights. Void of proper windows and the need for cool air, being in the archive can feel like being in another world. 

You split up, you get lost in towering shelves as does Jisung. But you find each other, given that you’re the only ones up there.

And when you do meet up, you stand close to his side. He’s skimming a book in the psychology section, and you don’t notice his gaze when you lean closer to look at the words on the page.

He puts the book back gently, turning his full attention to you. 

You feel one of his hands go to wrap around your waist, the other resting where your neck and shoulder meet. He gives a quick smile as he sees you won’t back away. Honestly, you’d been waiting for this, waiting for the moment where you could finally kiss him.

The automated voice that comes over the speaker is cold, harsh, and jarring. It makes your heart stop in your chest as you jump.

“The library will be closing in ten minutes.”

With a deep inhale, Jisung steps away.

“There’s some other places I wanted to show you,” he says, holding out his hand for you to take.

When you finally exit the library, the sun is going down in the night, but your adventures on campus do not stop until the sky is full of stars, and the horizon only shows ignited street lamps.

Felix: I never understood how people could go on dates in stores, but honestly I get it now. And Felix would definitely be the type to walk around Wal-mart with you as you picked up some essentials (toothpaste, a pack of UNO cards, etc), just talking about whatever that comes up. For example, going by the tire section and talking about how you love the smell of tires.

“They’re just rubber,” he’d say, simply.

And you would shrug. “I guess I like the smell of rubber.” And then, somehow, you get on the topic of enjoying the smell of ammonia, and he’s fighting off laughter because,

“Ammonia is in cat pee. You like the smell of cat pee?”

So, yes, you’re wandering aimlessly around Wal-mart for probably two hours when a storm comes by. Tornado and flood, to be exact.

You’re at the check-out line when Felix’s mom would call, telling him he needed to get home because it was supposed to flood really bad, and that a tornado was coming. Little do you know, it’s already absolutely pouring outside.

And you didn’t park anywhere close to the entrance.

So you both book it, a sad attempt at trying to shield yourself from the rain with your feeble hands. There’s so much water on the ground that it kicks up high as your feet pound the pavement. And once you get to your car, the both of you are soaked from head-to-toe.

He lives closer, so you drive carefully as the water is already collecting on the streets, and make it to his apartment. It’s not even a question of you coming inside since he wouldn’t dare make you drive back home in these conditions.

Hours pass by with endless conversation, laughs, giggles, light-hearted bickering. You’re both dry at this point, and he offers you guys watch Scott Pilgrim Vs The World because it was a movie you both really enjoyed.

But here’s the thing: we know Felix is a handsy person. No shame, but he needs physical touch at all times. And really, it’s not enough that you’re just sitting really close to each other on the couch. And soon, his arm is wrapped around your shoulders (smooth), and everytime he laughs, his head bumps into yours, endearingly.

So the movie is on for maybe 15 minutes before he decides to pause it, looking at you with intent. His eyes keep glancing down at your lips. Cheesy, you would think in any other situation, but your breath stutters when he finally leans in. It’s a simple peck, but it’s enough to make the room around you deafeningly silent.

Cue the makeout session that results, featuring some slight biting and mild choking. As a treat.

Then you get your ass home cause it stopped raining. (clearly a lot happened this night)

Seungmin: I don’t know where this idea is coming from, but something about him just screams, “How about you come over to my house and I cook you dinner?” as a date. He’s just that classy dude.

...you might have to help out, cause he’s not entirely sure what he’s doing.

But that’s what makes it so cool, to be in the kitchen with him, listening to some low music while you guys get in each other’s way. More than once thus he yells out in faux anger, and you laugh. Before he’s even done shouting, he’s smiling at you.

Did the dinner come out good? Well...it’s...edible. Luckily, he has a great selection of fresh fruit that makes a great sweet balance.

Jeongin: Movie and dinner sounds a little common, right? Here’s how it goes down:

Jeongin knows someone that works at the theatre. A manager (see where this is going?). 

So you guys essentially sneak into a movie for free. As much as you loved it, you spent a lot of the time curled into him as gorey scenes filled the screen. He teases you a couple times about being too weak, but he still gladly holds your hand, checking you to make sure you’re not getting too grossed out. 

Afterwards, you guys go to the sushi restaurant in the same parking lot. The place is rather empty, given that it’s late afternoon on a weekday, which is nice because you guys don’t have to talk so loud. It’s like you guys are in your own little world. 

From where you guys sit in the restaurant, you can watch as the sun sets across the parking lot. Not very romantic, but a chill date that still leaves you grinning when you get home.

Val’s Note

Hello, there! I hope you enjoyed my first post. This is something I’ve been thinking about since I got into skz, and I’m glad I could finally type it out and post.

I wanna be able to take requests for lists like these in the future, so feel to do so if you enjoyed this :) Until next time.

[cyberneticlagomorph]

Is there anything more daunting and dangerous than the blank white expanse of a page? 

It glitters and glows like the spit-slick teeth of a predator, hungry for words that you cannot give it. No matter how much you want to. 

Its gaze alone freezes all trains of thought, even in the minds of Writers and authors and artists alike, even those more powerful than I. 

And as I sit here, trembling, at the mercy of Writer's Block and my own anxieties… I can think of nothing that I want more than to run, to leave this page blank, and my readers guessing. 

The End is Nigh, dear readers, and I am afraid. 

So very afraid. 

"I'm afraid too," says the rabbit we all know and love, his legs swallowed by moss and weeds and misshapen dreams. He stands right where we left him, sword in hand, broken sky above, the End of Everything staring him down. 

All seven of Her glowing green eyes blaze with something worse than hate, and I wish for all the world that this was a much different story. A happy story, with a happy Ending. 

But I've never written a happy Ending in my life.

There is silence now, neither Protagonist or Antagonist moves or breathes or blinks.

They know that this is how it Ends.

One of them will die today. 

So it is Written. 

So it will be.

"Shut. Up." The End snarls, lips curling back over venomous fangs that drip oily green liquid onto the cracked asphalt below. Flowers bloom from the puddle, and spread like a rainbow rash down the street. "This. This is all YOUR fault!"

I know. 

I'm sorry. 

"LIAR!!" Her scream echoes across the fourth wall and cracks my computer screen. 

This…

This is where I leave you, dear readers. 

I'm sorry. 

Fangs sink deep into the papery flesh of the Narrative, tearing it apart as it is poisoned. Thorns grow from its wounds and strangle it like trembling hands. 

Writer be damned.

Plot be damned.

I am the End of EVERYTHING, I will End this miserable excuse for story on my own terms. 

Or die trying. 

You have not won, sweet stupid rabbit, no one can save you now, no one will stop me now. The world is a page upon which fate is Written and I will burn it all to the ground. May its ashes be lost and forgotten. 

Your dark eyes narrow at me, bone blade glittering as you charge. But I am in control now, and I don't play fair. 

Deep beneath the earth, humans sit snug and safe in their bunkers, thinking themselves free of the horrors outside. From the canteens comes a deep and terrible shattering like teeth against an eggshell, and a figure crawls lazily from the steam wafting from any number of bubbling pots set on stoves across the world over.

She smells of cooking meat and blood drenched in exotic spices and honey. Stick thin, and dressed in a chef's uniform. Her sleeves and hands are stained with the blood of the starving.

She has no face.

Only bright white teeth.

She manifests in the homes of the rich, stuffing them fat with delicacies that humans have no names for. Each minuscule morsel is completely tasteless covered in edible gold. Like the kind of fare you'd find at high end restaurants, going for hundreds of dollars a plate, even though each serving is barely a mouthful. 

She appears in slums with bread made from ash and bone, rat stew, and tainted water.

Pots boil in city centers, a roiling soup made from human offal that nothing in this world or the next could ever hope to surpass.

The poor eat their rations, their bread, their stew and grow sicker and hungry. Skeletal and drooling like rabid animals, they stuff their faces with food that offers no nourishment until there is no choice but to turn on each other. 

Screens grow undulating limbs and crawl from the wreckage of humanity, their screens blinking wetly like the eyes of a crying child. On each one is a broadcast, a man with red eyes smiles a reassuring smile and says,"Hungry? Eat the rich."

And they do.

A hoard of near zombies growl and gurgle as loud as their empty bellies, they hunt down the wealthy, and they FEAST.

Pestilence rises from the pus and rot and ruin and watches as all the good Jack and his friends had done is undone in a flash.

Among the riots and feasting is a cop, his riot gear reflecting the terrified and feral faces around him as he marches slowly onward. There is nothing behind his helmet. 

Only malice.

Only power.

Only slaughter. 

Only Death.

I don't have to tell you what comes next, what Death does when he gets his hands on a victim. The sounds of bullets ringing out into the night can tell you, the smell of tear gas in a crowd can tell you, the cries of innocents choking out their last breaths in steel cuffs, wrists rubbed raw and bleeding can tell you. 

Death is not merciful. 

He is not kind or quick or clean.

He is inevitable. 

You know it.

And he knows it.

This world will collapse under the weight of its own sins and I will be here to watch it dissolve like candy floss in water. 

Tears stream hot and blue down your face, and your grip on the Vorpal sword trembles. They are not worth your tears.

They stole you, beat you, broke you.

Turned you into a monster and then threw you away like you were NOTHING. 

You should hate them as much as I do.

You should be glad for their suffering. 

They deserve to die.

Like HE deserves to die. I turn my gaze skyward and watch the world split as the armies of Heaven pour down like a wrathful rain. 

The Divinity burns your skin, doesn't it Jack? And yet the smell of Angels makes your mouth water. 

You are no better than I am, I think. A man made monster set loose upon the multiverse, expected to play nice and fit in the niches carved for us. But we don't, no matter how hard we try, how good we think we are, we are torn apart again and again and again until we are unrecognizable from our beginnings. 

I think I could have loved you.

In another story.

In another lifetime.

We would have been good friends at least. 

But it's too late for that now, and as the first wave of Angels assault me with Heavenly fire, I part my jaws and give them some fire of my own. Green, as bright and beautiful as the first leaves of spring, it turns their armor into bark and their marble skin into flower petals. They fall to the ground like confetti, and I claw my way up to Heaven.

The Gates bend and break beneath my weight like wire, nothing and no one can stop me as I wrap HIM in my coils, slowly constricting. My venom burns holes in HIM that grow fruit trees, and each fruit contains the knowledge of the multiverse. I want HIM to die slowly, to watch as HIS playthings suffer and burn because of HIM. The humans cry out, and they pray, begging, pleading for HIM to save them. But HE can't, HE won't. 

What GOD would make a world so empty and hopeless as this? What GOD would let HIS followers murder and hate and destroy entire cultures in HIS name? 

HE never wanted this, never wanted it to come to this, HIS teachings have been mistranslated and manipulated for millennia and now there is nothing left but hatred and sin. 

My jaws part above HIS head, ropes of green spittle tarnishing HIS crown. HE does not fight me, how pathetic of HIM.

White hot pain explodes through my tail.

There you are, sweet hero, stupid rabbit. 

Go home Jack, this doesn't concern you. 

"But it does," you twist the blade, dislodging my scales and rending my flesh. My blood slithers up your sword, trying desperately to burrow inside of you and turn you Green. "You said that you think you could have loved me… well love me now, it doesn't have to be this way… I could… I could take care of you and help you heal, we could do it together." 

You offer your hand, bloody and trembling. 

The sound I make is inhuman and hard to describe in words, it is disbelief and venom and vengeance all at once. I stretch myself down to meet you, my eyes are the size of houses, and they reflect your trembling visage like great green mirrors. 

"You're right, I should hate them, hate everyone… but I don't." a swallow, you taste copper and butterscotch, "I used to but I-I found people who cared, I found people who I love and who love me back and they make my life worth living… they gave me a reason to get better and stop hurting people… let me be your reason."

You reach out and touch my face, my scales are warm like the sidewalk in summer. 

I crush GOD in my coils and HIS blood rushes over you like a wave.

There is nothing that can fix this, fix me. 

No love will quiet the hatred in my heart.

I do not deserve kindness or redemption. 

Love might have tempered your monstrous hearts, but it won't do the same for me.

Only one of us will make it out of this story alive. 

"So it is Written." You say, solemnly. 

So it will be.

My coils curl around you, quick as lightning. Your symbiote is the only thing keeping you from being crushed like a soda can, I hope you know that.

I don't waste time, and fling you down…

Down…

Down…

Towards earth.

Countless Angels have been discarded this way, wings torn from their backs, left to the mercy of gravity. It never gets any easier. 

I tear a hole into space and crawl through it, into Fairyland, the place of my birth. 

I devour the Sun-In-Chains, my replacement, and plunge the planet into darkness. I skin my teeth into the planet's crust and empty my venom glands into its core. Fairyland becomes my twisted Eden, choked with blinding bioluminescence, thorns, and poisonous things that not even I have a name for. 

It's beautiful and terrible all at once. 

Like me. 

Like you too, I suppose. 

You plunge your blade into my seventh eye and send me reeling, screaming, flailing. My frantically flapping wings crash into a nearby planet and reduce it to dust.

I pluck the sword from my eye and snap it into pieces. 

You're becoming a real thorn in my side. 

Seven perfect fingers snatch you out of the sky like the annoying insect you are and start to CRUSH YOU.

I will tear you apart with my TEETH if I have to.

You've had every chance to run and hide, or join in my crusade and you denied them all. I have no use for you. 

Not even as a snack.

Or a toothpick. 

"Then kill me." You growl through clenched teeth, blood already flecking your lips and leaking from your nose. 

I throw you into a patch of thorns. Each and every one is serrated and ranges in size from a human finger to a school bus, you are impaled, skewered, crucified even. 

Neon blue blood running down to the soil beneath, feeding my Eden. 

And yet, you refuse to die.

Slowly but surely, you drag your broken body up and off the thorn, shakily levitating up to meet me. 

You stare at me with dead eyes, blood pouring from the opening in your chest. Your lips part and black flames flicker behind your teeth, smoke curling from your nostrils as the color drains from your eyes in inky tears, until there is nothing but black. 

Just like the hole in your chest.

You seem to crack like porcelain, to split in two like something precious dropped from a great height. What crawls from the darkness inside of you is something no human throat can utter, no human tongue can twist or shape itself the right way to name. 

It's said that Demons possess. 

But Angels abandon. 

But what can be said of creatures that man has no name for? 

The thing inside of you stares at me with eyes darker than the emptiness between stars, its maw is the belly of a black hole with teeth long enough to split a planet like an apple. 

It is the bleak black emptiness that existed before the universe, and will exist again when there is nothing but dust and dead silence. 

This… this is my Warden, my Prison, the creature tasked with my capture those eons ago. You are barely a speck in it's vast form, a limp and lifeless nucleus.

It roars, a sound that radiates across time and echoes across the multiverse. 

"FROM NOTHINGNESS YOU CRAWLED, TO NOTHINGNESS YOU WILL RETURN." the beast howls in a voice that echoes from every dark and terrible place in the multiverse and shakes me to my core.

I will not go without a fight.

It lunges, claws outstretched, the endless expanse of its hideous maw seems to suck all the light out of the stars, out of me. I sink my teeth into its throat and pull, my body curling around and around it. 

Its claws are impossibly sharp, tearing my flesh down to the bone. My blood falls to fairyland like rain. My face is grabbed and smashed into the planet's surface again and again. I crush the Warden close and set myself on fire, I am the LIGHTBRINGER, it will take more than some overconfident shadow to defeat me.

The Warden burns, it smolders and screams like steam escaping. I fling it away into deep space and charge after it, driving my seven horns into its belly.

I miss you by a hair, I feel you reach out and grab me just as I pull back. Amber chains snake from your weeping wound, to the Warden behind you. 

You have no control over this thing, do you?

No.

Didn't think so.

But still, you stubbornly grab your chains and pull. The Warden does not come to heel, so much as it melts, engulfing you in its emptiness like a suit. When you open your eyes, you nearly dwarf me.

Nearly.

Your fist collides with my face in an instant, sending teeth flying like meteors. I cannot tell your rage apart from the Warden and I'm not sure I really want to.

Run.

For a second, we are stars, two pinpricks of light twirling around each other in double helices, colliding and clashing with enough force to summon new stars from the ether. We are creation and chaos incarnate. 

We crash through debris fields, shatter planets and extinguish stars. Our blood becomes the new crawling things left behind in the wreckage. I'm smiling, the pain is dizzying, delicious, delightful. 

My venom turns you into a garden, and you tear me apart with your bare and bloody hands. 

Through it all we refuse to die.

Maws wide and screaming in tongues the universe hasn't heard since it was new, I am thoroughly seduced. 

But I am growing bored with this game.

I shove my hand through the Warden and tear you out. You scream in undeniable agony, I close my fist around you and squeeze.

The Warden hangs limp and dead in the darkness of deep space, slowly dissolving. 

Something oozes between my fingers. 

Not blood, far too sticky and cloying to be that.

If Hope had a color, what would it be? 

Would it be a color that only shrimp can see, and only gods have a name for? 

You pry my fingers apart, tears pouring from your eyes the same color as Hope. Hope flows from your mouth as flames, rushes from your open chest as ferns and flowers and vines more beautiful than I could ever create. You reach into the forest of your heart and pull out Kindness, sleek and soft and sharp. 

It melts in your hands, becoming a hammer, comically oversized like your Ma's. And then it grows, and grows, and in the blink of an eye it's bigger and I am. The swing alone takes out half a dozen solar systems before it hits me and sends me crashing through different universes and out the fourth wall. I land heavily on the Writer, dazed and bloody, your hand reaches through his broken computer screen and drags me back home, and there we float over the ruined remains of earth, the skin of my chest balled in your hand like a shirt. You kiss your knuckles and punch me hard enough to send me careening back down to the earth's surface, my crater levels a nearby city.

Do you care?

Are we beyond morals and niceties and caring about humanity? 

You teleport to my limp and broken body, you scoop me up into your arms and hold me close. 

I've folded in on myself several times, I'm barely the size of a person now. 

I can feel those amber chains slithering around me, they clasp around my throat tight enough to choke. 

I don't want to go.

Don't make me go.

I don't want to go back to sleep.

Please. 

I'm scared. 

I'm so scared. 

You don't let me go, as I break down and cling to you like a scared child you don't let me go. 

I wrap you in my wings, I shove my head under your chin and apologize when I stab you with my horns.

"I am your Warden, you are my Prisoner… you are the End of Everything, but I am the End of You…" your throat is choked with snot and tears as you squeeze me so tight I can barely breathe. "You… you deserve to be a Happy Ending and I refuse to live in a world without one."

You kiss my forehead and wipe away my tears. "We do terrible things when we hurt… you deserve compassion instead of imprisonment."

I can do nothing but sit there and bawl, choking on Kindness as thick and sweet as soft caramel. 

Seven times seven thousand lifetimes worth of hate and sorrow and trauma run from my eyes.

You sit with me until the crying stops, until my throat is raw and all I can do is whisper. 

I speak a Word, one that fixes the shattered sky and let's the sun shine properly again. 

The sun speaks their own Words and resets the world, turning the clock back to the day before my escape, I do humanity one kindness and let them wake the next morning as if the past week were nothing more than a bad dream.

I am made to fix my messes, to undo my misdeeds. 

The Horsemen are sealed away again. 

Fairyland is repaired to the best of my ability, although there is nothing that I can do for the Sun-In-Chains. What's done is done. 

GOD will be fine, HE'S GOD, and therefore more or less impossible to kill permanently. 

All evidence of my tirade is erased.

I am finally bound in amber, my powers diminished. I dread returning to the cold depths of the well, but you won't let that happen.

You refuse to send me back to that lonely place beyond dreams and take me home, to your home. Warm and safe beneath the soil, I curl up next to you by the fire.

And for the first time in your short and terrible life, you get a good night's sleep. 

[rikuphobic]

A gentle glow from the computer screen washes over the dark desk, colors flickering in rapid motion. The monitor whirs in self defense of the growing heat. The ceiling fan lays mockingly silent in the stifling air. Reclined in his seat, Dream's head is tilted back to watch the wooden slats for the slightest tremor.

Betrayal.

Beads of sweat collect near his hairline. He tugs absently on the sticky plastic of his headphones, where they rest around his neck. The small light on the exterior blinks green.

"Dream?" He hears George say faintly.

"Wait, did he leave?" Sapnap asks.

"It says he's on the call, still." George's voice slowly grows closer. Dream begins to detach his eyes from the fan. "Dream?"

The concern in his voice makes Dream sit up. He pushes his headphones back on and wipes his face. "Yes, yes, hello, sorry. I zoned out for a sec." He blinks to register what's on his screen, seeing green grass blocks and Sapnap's avatar crouching in front of him. "Shoot, did you end the stream?" He quickly tabs out just in time to see George laugh.

"No, but I'm about to. Couldn't end it without you saying bye," George says. The small considerate act is enough to bloom a warmth in Dream's chest.

He smiles. "Oh, alright. Bye stream!"

"Bye!" Sapnap yells.

George waves to the camera. "Bye you guys, thank you so much. Also, pray for Dream's air conditioning."

"And my broken fan," Dream adds.

"Bye bye," George repeats, then disappears from Dream's view. This stream has ended. A familiar feeling creeps into Dream's chest whenever that message appears post-stream; disappointment clouded with confusion. Today, it is accompanied by trickles of regret.

He frowns. "Sorry I spent so much of your stream complaining about the weather," he says, clicking back to the server. Sapnap has placed an oak sign before him that reads: wee waa dream can't take the heat. He rolls his eyes and breaks it.

"It's fine, really. I just feel bad for you," George says. His avatar bounds over and starts placing doors on the ground. "Any idea when it'll be fixed?"

"Soon, I hope," Dream answers with a huff, opening and closing the doors to appease George. "I don't think I can take much more of this." They'd been playing for the past three hours, meaning Dream had been accumulating enough sweat in his boxers to stick to his chair for much longer than any man should. Physical comfort was a key component for him to stay mellow, and not much could distract him from itchy tags and blistering heat. Not much, that is, besides gaming. "Seeing you was nice, though, something about your cheerful face distracts me from my agony," he confesses, words leaving his mouth before he can attempt to filter. He cringes. What was that?

"Oh my god, shut up," George says. He sounds embarrassed.

Sapnap coos. "Maybe I should stream with my camera on too."

Dream laughs, running away from the two of them to ease his sudden spike in nervousness. "That would keep my attention."

"Oh yeah, are my streams not interesting enough for you Dream?" George says, flying after him.

"What?" Dream says, feeling a pang of guilt. "What makes you think that? I love your streams."

George continues to act offended. "If you loved them you wouldn't zone out randomly."

"I didn't mean to," Dream whines, which only makes the other two laugh. "I just got distracted by my misery, and tried to airbend a breeze in here."

"Yeah right," Sapnap says, "you couldn't have been doing just that for ten minutes."

"Ten minutes?" Dream repeats, bewildered. He didn't feel it had been that long; he was exploring the map and then clicked onto George's stream to see where he was, and of course George was smiling and yelling, but somehow so full of energy and spirit, and the hot air started to seep into Dream's soul—

"You were AFK for a while," George says, "we were still talking to you though and thought you'd muted yourself or something. Chat thought it was embarrassing."

"Oh," Dream says.

"Hold on, did you mean to mute yourself?" Sapnap asks, laughing as his own words leave his mouth. "Lil too excited watching George?"

Both Dream and George explode in disgusted yells. Good lord, Sapnap.

"Sapnap!" George sends a series of hits raining down onto his avatar. "You are so inappropriate off-stream."

"You're gross," Dream says with a laugh, but it's feeble and half-hearted. His pulse is rapidly drumming inside his skull. He is not lost to the strange dilemma of why he faded from their call for so long to stare at his George-less ceiling. Why did George have anything to do with it? Envy, perhaps, of his friend's ability to be wearing a hoodie in the middle of summer. He brushes it off. "It's true, though. George's face does get me excited."

George groans, making Sapnap and Dream laugh. "Now you're just trying to make me uncomfortable."

"Flustered, you mean," Dream inputs quickly.

"Okay, no, I'm sick of you two," George says, immediately exiting their server. "Consider this a rage quit."

GeorgeNotFound has left the game. Dream sends a :( into the chat.

"Noo, Georgie," Sapnap pleads.

"You did a great job today," Dream says, wholeheartedly. "I'm going to re-watch what I missed of it later." George laughs.

"I seriously have to go. I'll talk to you soon," he says, a small sound emitting from Discord signifying he's left the call.

The feeling returns to Dream's chest—it's akin to the cold rush that follows when he removes his hands from a steaming coffee mug. Some nights after their friends have logged off for good, he'll do anything to avoid giving in and going to bed. Twitter, mini-games, coding, creating playlists. His favorite nights, though, are when George wakes up early enough to keep him company. Their conversations radiate with the warmth of both the Florida night and the English sunrise.

So whenever George jokingly becomes angry with him, Dream can't dispel the tiny tremor of worry that maybe he's gone too far. He doesn't like to mull over the thought of them really fighting; it would terrify him like nothing else. He knows George will call again tomorrow, and that he isn't nearly as upset as he lets on. Yet he still finds himself carefully watching the dot next to George's name switch from green to a pale grey.

"I think I'm gonna hop off too," Dream says to Sapnap.

"Alright, seeya."

After disconnecting, he swivels around in his chair to face his bed. The dark comforter has been kicked to the floor, sheets askew. The window above his bed is shut tight to keep out the humid air and insects, but he can see the soft orange streetlights in the distance.

He sighs and wishes for rain.

He remembers running barefoot on his neighborhood streets as a child when storms would roll in from the sea, splashing in gravelly puddles and letting the cool raindrops dampen his hair. That space was always euphoric—a brief temperance from the smoldering air, green palm trees swaying in the wind, the hint of thunder and lightning—but it feels so far from him now. Especially in this dreadful weather.

He turns off his computer and begrudgingly gets in bed. He's nearly grown accustomed to the dark when his phone vibrates, the notification lighting up the room. He squints.

A text from George.

I feel like this song is a good way for me to get back at you, it reads. Dream clicks on the link, opening his Spotify to a new 'Glass Animals' song.

"Heat Waves," he responds, smiling. Very funny.

He'll listen to that in the morning. As he sets his phone back on the nightstand, Dream finds himself warmed by the gesture, even though it was an insult on his behalf. George is a thoughtful guy. Nothing wrong with appreciating that. Not that Dream finds it unnerving that interacting with George has a direct correlation with his general contentment and moods; in fact, it isn't worth the overthinking.

Settled by his own logic, he allows his body to focus on sleep. He slips in and out of shadows, occasionally tossing and turning in irritation at the cotton sheets. The fabric clings to his dampened skin up to the moment he sluggishly kicks it away. Something clatters to the floor, but Dream rolls onto his side.

Eventually, the night cools enough for him to sink deeper, and deeper, until he turns his head from his soft, warm pillow to a cold pile of sand.

Confused, he grasps at the foundation beneath him only for the rocky grains to slip through his fingers.

He sits up rapidly, glancing at the beach now surrounding him. Although the image is narrow, he can tell there is a murky-purple lagoon lapping a few feet before him. The moon ripples across its ominous surface. The night is quiet; a taunting breeze brushing the back of his neck and bringing chills down his spine.

He looks down at his hands, seeing his bright sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. Bright green.

A sinking feeling begins to rot in his stomach as the familiarity sets in. He's been here before. He shifts his head cautiously, realizing where the shadows at the edge of his vision are coming from, and raises a hand to gently graze the ceramic covering his face. He doesn't need a mirror to know what the mask looks like.

He pulls up his hood, tensing as he anticipates the next subject he'll recognize. At any moment, behind his right shoulder, a voice will call from the edge of the trees that'll say—

"Dream?"

He freezes. That's—that's not right, it isn't supposed to be—

"George?" He asks quietly, turning around with caution. George stands a few feet behind him, goggles perched atop his head and an axe in his hand. He's looking around their location, dazed. The starry sky reflects itself on his lenses.

He walks across the sand towards Dream slowly. "Where...are we?"

"Um." Dream considers curling in on himself, but can't help fighting the comfort of honesty. "My head, I guess." He knows from experience that this place values integrity more than anything. Facing it head on, so to speak. He just doesn't know why he'd let George in here—it isn't safe.

"It's pretty," George says, sitting on the sand next to him.

Dream's heart aches faintly at his remark. Once, he'd thought it was pretty, too. He can't find the words to tell George that after so many years of frantically slipping on the sand, coughing up lung-fulls of the dark water, and running from the woods—it has become a thing of nightmares.

He stares at George. Can he feel the memories here?

"So this is..." George gestures around with his axe vaguely. "Florida?"

Dream cracks a smile. "Yeah, you finally made it," he teases softly. George's grin is bright enough to make him look away. "It's a lagoon I used to come to as a kid."

"You make it sound like that was lifetimes ago."

Something foreign and lost weighs on the tension in Dream's features, forgotten behind the ceramic. "Maybe," he says, "I've had multiple lives here."

George says nothing. He lifts a moon-soaked hand to point at the water. "Do you see those?"

Dream turns his head, and small glowing blobs appear near the shore. Their light blue color is stark against the darkness as they float idly.

"They're moon jellies," Dream says in disbelief. He's never seen them here before. The curling darkness steals all hint of life besides him, his beating heart, and occasional whispers in the wind.

George hums in approval. Dream looks at him again, grateful for the mask covering his own features. Pale moonlight makes George's skin glow a soft porcelain, pink lips pressed together in a delicate brush stroke.

The word bubbles up from deep in Dream's chest, winding into his bloodstream and landing gracefully in his head.

Beautiful.

He wants to back away from it, to shove it deep down. But for once, it feels safe here, safe to admit it to himself without needing an air of humor to skate by on. Here, it isn't a joke.

"Why are we here?" George asks in a murmur, gaze lifting to face Dream. The word here hangs with a heavy lilt, as if he'd meant to say, what brought me? Who pulled me?

Was it you?

In his large brown eyes Dream can see the faded reflection of his sloppy black and white smile.

"I know why I'm here," Dream says carefully, "but I don't know why you are." A brief rustling of leaves and twigs behind them causes him to tense again. "It's dangerous here, George. We should go."

"Why? Don't you want to stay in this memory?"

Dream ignores the comment, and lightly wraps an arm around his shoulders to help him up. George doesn't try to stand. He keeps them rooted to the white shore with a confused frown.

"Nothing is going to hurt us when I'm here," he says.

Dream feels his face grow hot. "Knock it off. This is serious."

George looks at him earnestly. "I'm being serious."

Now that his arm is draped protectively over George's small frame, Dream becomes extremely aware of how close they are. He can sense George's body heat, watch his chest rise and fall, see the goosebumps on his neck. Dream's heart begins to pound. For how long has he wanted to meet him? To hear his voice in person? The fear inside him slowly begins to ebb away into fondness.

The moon jellies rapidly multiply until the lagoon is dappled blue, and gleaming.

George grins. "I told you it's pretty."

"Because of you," Dream says warmly. Even though George rolls his eyes, he means it. They laugh lightly at each other, glowing water and gentle sparks blooming as the moment passes.

George's gaze lingers on Dream for a few heartbeats, before letting go of his axe. He raises his hand to reach for the ceramic mask.

Dream freezes as his eyes follow the motion. His hood falls when George runs his fingers gently through his wavy hair—he can't remember the last time he let someone do this. It feels intimate. It feels terrifying. His eyes shut when George finds the metal clasp on the back of his head, he exhales when he feels the weight of the mask drop from his face.

The breeze is cold on his cheeks. He can smell the nearby saltwater. He opens his eyes, and sees twice as many stars as usual.

"How did you do that? I've never..." He looks at George, who is smiling softly.

"I know honesty is important to you," George says. His hand moves to gently touch Dream's cheekbone.

Dream reaches and delicately takes George's hand in his, slender knuckles and fingers sliding together with timid grace. He feels alive. He leans closer, studying George's eyes until he slips down, further, to his soft lips. His breath is trembling.

"And what if I kissed you right now?" He murmurs, heart racing. "How honest would that be?"

George's eyes grow wide. "I—well, Dream—you—" he stammers, giving Dream exactly what he needs to let go.

Their movements happen nearly all at once—the inclining of George's jaw, the slide of Dream's hand into his hair, the connection of their lips. The kiss is raw with emotion, and gentle. Hot embers rise from Dream's chest to heat his face. The soft presence of George's mouth against his own is surreal, as their senses collectively slip away into the dreamland. His hand rises to softly cup George's jaw. He pulls his face closer, breath hot, heart stuttering. Nervous energy quickly ebbs into a strong hearth of longing, as he kisses George again, and again, and again. George emits a soft noise that makes Dream melt. He can feel George's hands in his hair, then on his neck, then on his chest.

Dream pulls away to capture brief puffs of air. His chest rises and falls rapidly, as he looks at George's flushed cheeks and mouth kissed red. Because of him. A low feeling stirs in the space just below his ribcage, the first flickering of a dangerously hot flame. All of it, all of George, just for him.

Dream parts his lips to say something, anything—and promptly wakes up.

oop there’s the entire first chapter of heatwaves

[slashhinginghasher]

Midnight Star - Chromeskull x OFC - Part 1: Thief In the Night

Listen. I love the "Big Scary is only soft for their SO" as much as the next horny person, but I feel like we as a community have been largely overlooking the fact that Chromeskull canonically tortures and murders people (specifically women) for personal enjoyment. So I'm gonna be the nasty bitch that brings that side of him back up again lol.

You can also read this on my Ao3.

Marena hated a lot of things. But if she had to list them, “summer” would be very fucking near the top, and “summer in the Southern United States” would be right next to it. She hated the way the sun beat down like an anvil. She hated the sticky, suffocating humidity that draped itself over everything until it felt as though the entire world was sweating. She hated the waves of heat that emanated from the ground, even in the dead of night. She hated that even the fucking ocean provided no relief; she’d nearly gagged the first and only time she’d attempted a midnight swim, the water curling around her ankles like tepid bathwater. She wanted to peel off her clothes, shave her head, wriggle out of her skin. She wanted to crawl into a freezer and wait until winter, but that season didn’t seem to exist here in the armpit of the world, so maybe she’d stay there until she was dead.

There were no freezers to be found in the swampy vegetation bordering the empty road she followed. There was, however, an abundance of gnats, flies, mosquitoes, and other nameless biting, flying things so great that Marena was seriously considering setting herself on fire just to kill them off. She’d been on the road for weeks. Her feet were blistered. Her stomach was starting to eat itself. If she had to comb any more spanish moss out of her hair she was going to scream. But she kept going, one foot in front of the other, because it was better than turning back. And she stayed in this stupid sauna of a country because it was better than what lay across the ocean.

Marena walked, and dreamed of snow.

***

The car was a temptation. Shiny and black, it gave off an impression of speed even while sitting still. And it was gloriously unattended. Marena had been watching it for nearly fifteen minutes and had seen neither hide nor hair of the driver.

Her court-appointed therapist in Miami had said that a lot of her problems stemmed from a lack of impulse control. Marena thought that was bullshit. She could control her impulses just fine when she wanted; it was just that she so rarely wanted to. With a mental Fuck You to Dr. Call Me Linda, she pulled the wire hook out of her bag and popped the car’s lock in a matter of seconds.

The rest of the job was not so simple. The car was a newer model; the dashboard alone had enough electronics to power a small rocketship. At first, it resisted her efforts, almost as if it didn’t want to be stolen. Her nerves felt like a live wire as too many minutes stretched past, expecting the owner to return. Two screwdrivers and broken nail later, she resorted to swearing and brute force.

“Come on you piece of shit suka blyat’, START!” she snarled, forcing screwdriver number three into the keyhole with her fist and cranking it as hard as she could. The engine roared to life, the radio blaring a hip hop dance remix she’d heard outside at least half a dozen clubs. She slammed her hand against the power button and froze, the only sounds now the purring of the engine and the incessant insect chatter. Scarcely believing her luck, Marena slid into the leather driver’s seat and carefully shut the door. She tapped the gas pedal and grinned when the engine revved in response. Cranking the air conditioning and easing out onto the road, Marena let out a triumphant whoop and floored it.

***

The sky was turning a dusky, pre-dawn blue when the car slowed to a stop.

“What?” The tank was still half full. Marena stomped on the gas. No response. “Chto za khuynya? What the fuck?” She punched the steering column, punched the dashboard, succeeded only in scraping her knuckles. The car shut off. “No no no no…” The cooling engine ticked mockingly at her. “How the fuck…?”

The screen on the dashboard flared to life.

NOT YOURS, PIGGY

Marena’s very heartfelt Fuck! froze in her throat. She had to get out. She had to get out now. Eyes still on the screen, she pulled at the door handle. Locked. When did that happen? And why couldn’t she unlock it? Rage bubbled up in her chest as she yanked at the handle, rage at whatever bastard was controlling the car, and at her own stupid mistake for stealing a goddamned remote control car, of all the dumb fucking…. Marena forced herself to stop before she did something else idiotic, like ripping the handle off the door. Took a slow breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. She scanned the futuristic dashboard. Too many buttons, probably not enough time to push them all, assuming they’d even respond to her touch.

Come on, Masha. You love to break shit. Duh. Marena pulled her only spare shirt out of her bag and quickly wrapped it around her elbow, planning to smash her way through the window.

The guy with the crowbar beat her to it.

***

The first thing Marena noticed when she came to was sweet, blessed cold, the kind one felt in warehouses with industrial AC systems.

The second thing she noticed was that she was chained to a chair. Literally chained; she could feel the links chilling her wrists and ankles. Another chain dug into her hips like a too-tight airplane seatbelt. Whoever tied her up knew what they were doing then; metal couldn’t be frayed or worked loose like fiber rope. And the restraint across her lap prevented her from bucking or contorting into a more favorable fighting position.

Speaking of fighting… all of her knives were still in place. Wrists, boots, back, pockets. Which meant one of three things:

1. This was a rush job. 2. Her mystery abductor was half an idiot and didn’t check her for weapons. 3. Her mystery abductor knew she was armed and didn’t do anything about it because they knew she wouldn’t be able to beat them in a fight anyway.

Marena really hoped it wasn’t the third one.

A quick mental check revealed that she was still fairly intact. Her muscles were stiff, her head ached, and she had a nasty case of dry-mouth, but she’d had hangovers worse than this before. The lack of a massive head injury meant she hadn’t been beaten unconscious, so she must have been drugged. She tried to think past the car window shattering, but couldn’t remember being forced to swallow or inhale anything. A needle, then?

Marena heard heavy footsteps approaching, then the rustle of fabric as someone settled in front of her. She briefly toyed with the idea of playing possum, but the need to face whatever was about to happen head-on won out. Not weak. Not anymore.

She opened her eyes and came face to face with a grinning skull.

Well, it was a mask shaped like a grinning skull, attached to a head that was most probably human. The mask shined in the weak light of… wherever the fuck she was. It was meant to be intimidating, distracting, and Marena forced herself to look away and take in the other details of her captor.

The guy was a beast. Crouched as he was, he was still eye-level with her. He’d dwarf her standing. Shaved head, black tailored suit (why though), black gloves (too thin to be leather, latex maybe?). The red light of a camcorder blinked from a mount on his right shoulder. She caught a glint of metal near his waistband but didn’t let her gaze linger long enough to identify exactly what type of weapon he was packing.

That familiar destructive urge, the need to kick and claw and tear, crept through her veins. Her fingers wanted to twitch. Her teeth wanted to clench. Marena forced herself into stillness. Not yet. Wait for the right time. Patience. The skull stared at her, motionless, expressionless, so she returned the favor. He pulled out a cell phone, typed something, and held it up for her to see.

HELLO PIGGY

Years of practice kept Marena’s face blank while a litany of choice curses flew through her head.

“This is about the car,” she said. It wasn’t a question. The skull nodded anyway, and reached for her.

Fuck it.

Marena lunged.

[sakuurae]

upon the firefly garden

pairing: mark lee & reader insert prompt: 5; fireflies includes: fluff wc: 1.5k a/n: Parts of my heart and soul were poured into this, and also i like fireflies :> im pretty content with this too !!

from the soft summer drabbles; for @zhengtongue !!

One of the best parts about summertime was the spontaneous adventures. Whether they were unplanned road trips or impulsive plans to check out a new lookout spot, you were willing to do anything out of desperation of living the season of heat’s life to the fullest. Rather than lazing on your bed, wasting days in the comfort of your home, you found the outdoors far more pleasing than staring at a screen, binge watching old shows.

Oh, and because Mark Lee spent these summer days with you. In fact, he instigated a grand fraction of the plans that had you living in the outdoors than indoors.

Mark was a good friend of yours—a best friend that had its relationship spark from day one. From the mutual way of communication known as severe sarcasm and an interest in video games, the two of you bonded instantly and expeditiously. No one thought you and Mark would become the friends that you were today—the two dorks who used to waste daylight indoors now becoming outdoor adventurers—but it happened, and you were grateful.

The admirable sentiments you experienced with Mark were given. How could you not develop an attraction to your best friend when he was constantly lingering around you, communicating with you at your highest and lowest? The impulsive summer trips that were prompted by out of the blue phone calls never helped.

That was how you ended up at a place you had never seen before, unknown to the town you resided in. The area was practically a summit point; it was the highest point in your small town overlooking the world below. Hidden among the trees and past a labyrinthine of shrubs, Mark led you to an area filled with lush grass to waste the night light speaking about a ton of dumb stuff—as always. As you rested on the greenery you stared up into the world above, fascinated by every aster. No matter how many times you witnessed the lovely sight, it was impossible to grow tired of the view.

“So I’m guessing you like the spot?” Mark asked you with a soft smile. He was sitting criss cross, his guitar resting on his thigh as his hand held the neck loosely. Recently, he finished playing a riff, like he was creating background music suitable for the night.

You turned your head to look at the boy, only to be met with an angelic image that burned into your mind. “Yeah, I like it. You always seem to know the best places in this town—and I’ve lived here longer than you.”

Mark chuckled. “Because I wander a lot. I’m happy I can drag you with me these days.”

“You’re not dragging me,” you flipped to lay on your stomach, facing the boy’s direction, “I’m here because I want to.”

For a moment, you could have sworn you saw Mark’s eyes widen ephemerally, and if it was not for the bright moonlight that illuminated the summit, you would have never caught the cherry hues that swirled at his ears. Or maybe it was cold. Who could tell?

“Right,” he muttered. With the corners of his lips curved upwards, he fingered another tune on his guitar.

Hearing him play the instrument he loved dearly was always pleasant. No matter what he found delight in creating tunes or playing some classic songs; consequently, it made you feel equally satisfied. As he recited a melody, you closed your eyes and tilted your head to the sky. While the summer breeze whistled through the canopy of leaves and the cicadas in the distance sang as if they were accompanying your friend, you found solace in the middle of a summer night.

But the mellifluous refrain ceased abruptly, leaving its dulcet echo in the air like a phantom wandering the night. The sudden halt confused you, but so did the sound of astonishment that left Mark’s lips.

“Whoa…” he trailed off.

You heard him place the guitar down on the grass, which caused you to open your eyes. A part of you expected a captivating comet to soar across the sky, as they normally would if this was a television show or a corny movie, and another fragment ached to have Mark look your way, perceiving you equally angelic as you did with him. Though, you were met with something paramount to both aspirations.

Before you and your friend, and beyond the dip of the valley, were clusters of fireflies igniting the darkness of the night. Every glow bug left a trail of yellow, only to have it dissipate within seconds. There were numerous fireflies that night, and they all scattered across the field like they were coming together to form a picture that was worth a thousand words.

Astonished, you looked at your friend. His mouth was agape as he lifted a hand—a call to the fireflies. Hypnotized by the sight, the sentiment of raw joy painted on his features, which made your heart skip a couple of beats.

“Mark—”

You cut yourself off when the blanket of light flew upwards in synchronization, more insects illuminating the sky a few at a time. Maybe it was the tunnel vision you had with the boy or perhaps he was blessed, but it seemed like the fireflies were dancing around Mark, attracted to him as you were. The glowing insects appeared to be making a sanctuary surrounding you two, irradiating every piece of darkness.

Mark let out an airy laugh, amused by the flooding of miniature lights. “I’ve never seen fireflies before,” he said, his voice nearly a whisper like he cared about disturbing the peace of each firefly.

“Neither have I…” you admitted, sitting up. Your head turned left and right; you looked up to the sky and back down the field. The light show was surreal. Every glowing insect acted as an ornament of the night, casting a warm glow to the greenery.

Your eyes found its way to Mark, and the sight alone was phantasmagorical. A couple fireflies flew onto him and the guitar by his side, and he froze. The blood in his body was almost ice as he did not want to disturb the delicate creatures. Though, when he met your gaze, he burst out in a fit of laughter, which sent the insects on an excursion to the stretching sky like embers from a raging fire.

The lights were disappearing bit by bit as time passed. To have this moment last forever was an impossibility, but never had you wanted anything more in your life.

The remaining flickers of the lightning bugs reflected off his features; though, regardless of these illuminations from the world above and the universe you stood upon, his eyes ignited your world. There was so much joy, admiration—every tender sentiment present in his expression. And it was brought out by delicate creatures.

Mark held your gaze as the fireflies trailed into the world above. Bit by bit, the glows were fading. An expression of stupefaction remained, but Mark was more wondered by the sight of you accompanied by fireflies than the insects themselves.

While you were distracted, Mark caught one in his hand, cupping the bug gently. He closed the proximity between you two and held his hands to your face, opening them slowly once he enraptured your attention. Confusion was replaced with amazement as the firefly crawled around his hand, the back of the bug gleaming on and off with shades of the sun.

Yes, the sight of the glimmering insect was captivating, but Mark was unable to take his eyes off you and your face of admiration. He held his breath, unwilling to interrupt the scene. Little did he expect, you locked eyes with him once more, only that time his face was inches away from yours. Aside from the lovely effulgence in the sky, the only illumination was from the bug in his hand, and its flickering danced on both your and his features. However, there was more than the glow of a lightning bug in his eyes. Almost scrutinizing them, you nearly pieced the puzzle together…

But as fast as the fireflies came, they left in a similar manner. Two seconds later, all the fireflies disappeared and you were both left wondering if it was an illusion—a dream come to life. You and Mark watched the lightning bug that once graced his skin soar into the night, the stream of yellow weaving into the stars.

Mark tilted his head your way, his eyes unable to meet yours from the tender moment that was shared. Of course you two were close friends, but to experience a raw, warmhearted feeling was another story he was not prepared for. What was there to say? The show of the fireflies was worth more than a thousand words, yet he could not muster one to break the ice.

Benevolently, you smiled.

When the boy saw your face, he mirrored the same compassionate expression back, his grin as bright as the firefly’s glow.

There was a comfortable silence for a long while, almost until the sunrise. No words were exchanged. However, none were needed to be exchanged for you to realize how he felt.

[mutantsrisingrpg]

Congratulations BECKY! You’ve been accepted as VENUS.

Becky’s back, back again. Becky’s back, tell a friend! Now that I got that out of the way, I can make this a serious acceptance note. I can honestly say there was not a moment while reading this app that I didn’t think your Hana was it. Hana is obsessed with power and the way you hit on that through her bio had me on the edge of my seat. You created this storm of a girl that I want to know more about even if I know the danger associated with her. Both of us are beyond excited to see the “human embodiment of pikachu with anger issues” on the dash!

Welcome to Mutants Rising! Please read the checklist and submit your account within 24 hours.

Out of Character Information:

NAME/ALIAS: Becky

PRONOUNS: she / her

AGE: 24

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: GMT ( but technically GMT +1 currently bc summer! ); online daily, particularly active atm because ya girl is working from home

In Character Information:

DESIRED ROLE: Venus / Hana Mercado

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Female; she/her

DETAILS & ANALYSIS:

Even in a city like Miami, Hana is hard to miss in a crowd. Bubblegum bursts, her lazy chew concealing the switchblade sharp smirk that slides across her mouth a little too late for anyone to be able to avoid the trouble that comes from it. She thinks she’s wired up wrong, like a casino gambling machine full of bullets that just keeps dishing out violence while playing its disjointed electric-warped song of congratulations, bright lights flashing wildly.

To your left, a man walking his pet leopard down the sidewalk; to the right, Hana Mercado paralysing a man with the touch of a fingertip for wolf-whistling her. She fits in well here, Florida born and raised, helping the drug lords keep their territories and the mutants keep their identities and everyone and anyone in between keep what’s left of their slowly unravelling sanity. Despite the bustling sea of tourists that ebbs and flows with the good weather, it’s easy to feel lonely. Hana isn’t great when it comes to other people. Pushing them away is a lot less difficult than making them stay.

Everything is loud. Everything is bright. The electricity is near palpable as she splashes through the remnants of a thunderstorm, rainwater spraying over fresh white sneakers. She’s quiet when the sun sets, bleeding red across the sky, the colour of the popsicles she’d eat for dinner as a kid. It’s hard to fear the consequences of her actions when she’s as close to a young god as anyone’s ever going to get. Mutants? Deities? Same difference if you know how to play to the right narrative.

Fuck you has always been easier to spit than a genuinely spoken I love you and that’s the honest-to-fuck truth.

[ + ] driven / brave / resilient / passionate [ - ] arrogant / reckless / unpredictable / childish

BIO:

Money is power. And power is power. And electricity? The sort that decorates the country like a spiderweb, an interwoven network of wires, all humming, all singing to her, the siren’s call of greatness from above ground and beneath it? Power.

Hana is a vicious formation of blood and desire, with the scent of someone burning from the inside inhaled like a nicotine hit. Interrogation comes naturally to her; smiles that should be sweet on a face like hers turn sharp and deadly. She likes to hear them beg. To watch them shake. People spill their secrets to her whether they like it or not.

It’s been that way since she was nineteen years old, static dancing between her fingertips after getting too riled up in an argument with a neighbour’s son over stealing her family’s gas cylinder. An impromptu lightning strike had left the tarmac lining the trailer park sizzling, black and sticky like summertime ( and don’t worry, the Cheeto-dust-decorated-rude-mouthed-slacker-of-a-punk-ass-brat had survived – getting hit by lightning suddenly made him interesting, too, so if anything she’d been doing him a favour ).

A freak accident, they’d called it. Another one of those unexpected Florida storms. But she knew better than that. As had her mom, smoking a fresh pack of Camel Blues from the other side of the door’s insect screen, fresh foils in her hair, acrylic nails the colour of the algae in the neglected community pool down the street. Thinking back, maybe this all stemmed from swallowing too much of that fucking nuclear-waste-looking water when she’d dared to swim there as a kid, hot and sweaty as a storm breaks on the horizon.

But the point – the point is that, to her mom, having the human embodiment of Pikachu as a daughter was as good as winning a jackpot at one of her weekly bingo sessions. She tries to sell it. Power. The ability to pluck electricity from charged particles in the air makes her daughter useful. A living battery. Studies on mutants at University of Miami dish out hefty paychecks after the right terms and conditions have been signed ( note: if you die, that’s on you, don’t try to sue us ). Hana attempts to protest but even she can’t deny that the allure of getting rich sounds like a dream come true.

So she goes to college. Not in the usual sense, sure, but she gets to live on campus ( in a secure underground testing facility beneath the BioMed building ) and hang out with others ( mostly mutants ) her age. And it’s fine for a while until simple fitness tests and blood sampling turn more extreme. Some days are hazy, pumped full of drugs and hooked up to machines that she doesn’t know the name of, let alone the purpose, beeping their own idle hospital-like symphony. Other days are dark and quiet, plunged into sensory deprivation for the sake of whatever it is the boffins in their lab coats are trying to figure out.

She’ll get rich or die trying and, ironically, neither of those things happens.

When the anti-mutant-testing protestors storm the building, they free Hana from both the confinement and the contract. The money she was supposed to get at the end of all this vanishes, along with the pleased looking humans who pat themselves on the back for doing a good deed and disappear to go and celebrate. None of them ask her if this was what she wanted. None of them stop to think that maybe liberation was never an option for her.

Her mom’s gone too. A new trailer stands where Hana’s home once had. The monthly paychecks from the university never reached her bank account, instead wired directly to Mrs Mercado. She laughs until she cries, the air crackling overhead.

After all that, turning to a life of crime is far easier than it has any right to be. Angry and alone, she fucks a guy in a gang in the back of his drop-top and makes herself useful when it comes to getting money out of those who owe it. She runs from the cops. Has a gun pressed to her temple. Watches an illegal weed farm burn at the flick of a lighter. Nothing phases her because she doesn’t let it. Rules stop meaning anything when you realise just what having powers can get you. Making a living from getting spineless people to open up their mouths and offer the gold that is information makes her feel a little less like a failure. Interrogation has a nice ring to it, after all. And once she makes a name for herself, sought after by those who know that secrets are worth a decent stack of bills – well – who is she to turn a job down?

EXPANDED CONNECTIONS:

YVETTE. It’s more than just the sticky sweet sugar of sisterhood. Hana would fight tooth and nail for Yvette should she say the word; would go to war for her if needed. There are very few people in the world that she cares about more than herself, but her partner ( in crime, in the sport of bringing their enemies down, in a vodka-tasting kiss that she’s managed to take a little too far ) holds the throne to Hana’s adoration. If only Yvette would take another step further into chaos and embrace becoming the seductive sort of danger that people run from.

ANDREAS. He knows how to say the right things, she’ll give him that. Hana wants what is hers. And sure, she may not know what that is exactly but the whispers of power he offers are captivating. After so long of operating alone for anyone with enough money to afford her services, the concept of joining strengths is a tricky one to navigate. She keeps him waiting, keeps him on his toes, avoiding a crystal clear answer for the sake of keeping her cards close to her chest. Better to have multiple options on the table than settling for the first one that comes along.

DEREK. Oh, the joy of knowing she’s the shiny new model; a glossy picture-perfect upgrade; a brand new battery to keep Damien and his clowns energised. The temptation of coaxing out Derek’s anger to watch him slip up and fall further from grace is all too great. She’ll press a cherry red lipstick kiss to the dark shades of the sunglasses he will no doubt need down here in paradise. Her future is bright, can he say the same about his own?

DAMIEN ft. JACKSON. He sends his loyal hound. She can only assume that Jackson is missing a collar because he doesn’t like wearing it in public; his Tiffany heart-shaped dog tag would probably get too warm glinting in the Miami sunshine. Hana knows a mob boss pet when she sees one, sniffing her out amongst the cheap cocktails and plastic palms of a Tiki Bar on Ocean Drive. Who’s a good boy? It’s appealing, the carefully constructed dream Damien offers. Almost a little too good to be true given the circumstances. She knows his gang has chased others out, a fine show of strength and organisation, but how long will it last when he doesn’t even know this city?

EXTRA:

Inspo [ x ]   Pinterest board [ x ]

ANYTHING ELSE: ily both

[inkstarlight]

In honor of finishing the third draft of US AND THE STARS and beginning on the fourth (and maybe final draft??), I want to post the edited prologue and first chapter of it here!! I’m SO unbelievably thrilled at the number of people who have been genuinely interested in this story, and I hope you all enjoy reading this!

tag list!! ♡: @ehlsea, @birdquils, @ladywithalamp, @rijeke, @of-a-hamartia, @angelolytle, @bootlegpoem (ask/dm/reply for + / - )

Part One

“Lying is done with words and also with silence.” - Adrienne Rich

                                                         Prologue

                                                            1914

                                                        New York

In this place place between a dream and a memory, a small clearing in the woods provides a whispered haven beyond the limits of the small town near the outer edge of the city. Here, the grass is thick and soft against the hard ground and the ambling chatter of insects in the woods the young man standing alone. His shaking breath sounds harsh in his ears as he turns his eyes up to the tall trees stretching their limbs up in a patchwork quilt of summer green towards the sky.

The moment is one of peaceful serenity, yet the tension he holds tight in his chest is enough to make the simple beauty of the moment lost to him as he looks behind his shoulder once more. He knows as well as the other that the two of them should not be here. No law prohibits them from occupying the same space, but the implication would still remain jarringly clear should anyone catch them now. The large rock in the middle of the clearing is tall enough to sit against as he waits, looking down at his hands. He breathes; nobody knows that they are here, and they would both be okay. He tells himself this again and again, a mantra of desperate reassurance in his own mind.

When the other arrives, he smiles and the two join hands. But the other seems distracted, his eyes unfocused as they dart from his companion to the trees around them. The other pulls out a small, makeshift locket from his pocket and places it into his hands, insisting that he keep it as close to his heart as he can. He says this because the other has to go away to fight in the war: the War to End All Wars. The war that would devastate Europe and bring the United States into its bloody fray.

He begs the other not to leave. But he knows as well as anything that the other has no choice. It was this, or be labeled as a draft dodger for life. He cries the tears of a boy losing a piece of his heart for the first time.

It would not be the last time he would cry this way.

But for this moment, the two of them sit in an uneasy silence. He rests his head against the other’s shoulder and tells him that he loves him and that he doesn’t want him to go. The other doesn’t want to go, either. But it is all the same. The other knows that he must.

When they embrace and say their goodbyes, the other promises he will return to see him again.  That this will feel like little more than a bad dream. They would be together like they should be, like their dreams told them that they should be. It’s a promise that the other intends to keep.

But as the year stretches by, the days roll into weeks that amble on into endless months and the promise ends in tragedy. The man is left watching the other on a musty hospital bed, his skin growing cold to his touch as he steps back from the bed in horror. As his ears ring, he feels like he can hear the frantic struggle of his heart clinging to life. His vision darkens and blurs, and he sways on his feet as the frantic beating reaches a high, shrill sound. Again. And again. And again. And —

                                                      Chapter One

                                               December 7th, 1982

                                               New York, New York

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

The sound of the fax machine startles Aaron awake from where he had been dozing off in his chair, shaken by the sudden noise in the quiet office cubicle by his messy desk. Aaron sucks in a quick breath, scowling to himself as he averts his eyes from Michael, who shares a cubicle with him, although they rarely speak by Aaron’s own choice. The dream lingers behind his eyes for a brief moment, its colors and strange bends and turns of a different life hanging just at the edges of his consciousness.

It’s forgotten as quickly as it comes as Aaron shifts upright in his chair. Michael casts him an uneasy gaze from the machine as Aaron wipes a hand across his face, clearing his thoughts.

“Your desk phone rang a few times,” he points out. “Reception said someone’s trying to get ahold of you. I figured I’d let you sleep for a minute – you looked exhausted."

Aaron frowns and shakes his head. He blinks back the sleep in his eyes, shuffling himself upright in the creaky office chair. Michael gives him a pitying stare.

“It’s nothing,” Aaron says with a wave of his hand. He turns back to his paperwork before Michael can say another word.

It’s nothing, and he doesn’t need to look into who is calling him, either, when he already knows exactly who it is. If Serena is going to badger his phone with every goddamn update under the sun, he’s going to disconnect the phone for good, upper management be damned. 

She’s the reason he didn’t sleep last night, anyway.

His hand trembles as he picks up the pen again, trying to finish the form he had been filling out before his grip slackens, causing him to drop it onto the desk. He curses, his knee coming up and banging against the underside of the desk with a loud clamour of the gray tins of pencils and word processor sitting on top. Aaron bares his teeth, biting down hard enough to make his jaw ache with a quiet groan

Michael eyes him warily. “You alright?”

“Yes. I mean — yeah. I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

The only thing that keeps him from screaming is the other, filled cubicles who would surely lose their minds if he loses his own shit now, including Michael. 

Aaron mumbles something about needing to take a shit and practically runs from his cubicle, storming into the private stall and slamming the door behind him. His labored breathing feels impossibly loud in the small space and his head spins like he’s been thrown into a washing machine.

If she calls me one more time –

He shakes his head, forcing the thought to stop before it completes itself. He knows that he’s slipping, losing his mental grip on his thoughts as his hands grasp the dingy sink hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

If she calls you one more time, you’ll spill your coffee on your desk phone and make it look like an accident. You’ll unplug the damn thing and have a day of peaceful, boring work and go home and not think about her or the –

Aaron can’t finish the thought. He knows he has to get his shit together if he’s going to make it through the rest of the day without breaking something.

He quickly turns on the sink and splashes water onto his face, blinking away the dizziness. With a huff of breath, he grasps for the bathroom handle and stalks back to his desk. He sits down, ignoring what he knows are the concerned stares of his coworkers, and stares at the form once again.

Keep it together.

The phone rings.

He jerks his hand and the phone slides across his desk. Aaron manages to catch it before it tumbles onto the floor. His eyes dart to the coffee mug sitting idly by the screen, and for a long, hysterical moment, he actually considers doing what he told himself he would do in the bathroom. But his hands feel mechanical, as if controlled by invisible strings being pulled by a God surely reveling in his own misery. He lifts the phone and places it against his ear.

“Yeah,” he answers quickly, trying to find his bearings. “Yes. It’s Aaron. What is it?”

“Aaron Duggar, Serena Baker has been trying to get a hold of you from the New York State Hospital.”

Aaron’s hand tightens on the phone. He almost doesn’t hear her.

“Sorry – what?”

“I’m sorry, Aaron, we tried to get a hold of you earlier. She said she’s going into labor.”

He can feel the color drain from his cheeks as he holds the phone to his ear. He blinks in numb disbelief, his hand trembling as he opens his mouth twice to speak, his own voice weak and hoarse.

“That isn’t possible,” he says flatly, as though the receptionist has any say in the matter. “She’s – no. She’s a month early.”

“I’m just letting you know what she told us. If you need to go, we can put in a word with HR and – “

Aaron drops the phone onto the desk without hanging up. 

You don’t have to go to the hospital! he practically screams at himself.You don’t have to have anything to do with this.You rid yourself responsibility months ago, but Jesus Christ, a month early?!

But even he knows that it isn’t true. He had given himself responsibility when he chose to go with her to the doctor’s office during the first month of her pregnancy. He gave himself responsibility when he didn’t run out the door then and there as she wept over the positive pregnancy test, and when something in his chest hurt, despite his refusal to admit that he cared, when Serena’s parents renounced her for good over their daughter bearing an “illegitimate child.”

No good daughter would do this to them, they had said, as though the baby growing like a tumor in her womb would put a curse on their family name. 

He hears Michael’s concerned voice somewhere beyond the fog shrouding his thoughts. Aaron leaves work without saying a word to anybody, throwing the front doors of the New York State Credit Bureau open. He doesn’t look back, only climbs into his car, and drives. He doesn’t wear a seatbelt, and he doesn’t realize that he is taking up two lanes until a loud horn from an oncoming car jarres his senses into hyperalert. All the while, the word labor echoes in his ears like a chant.

Aaron Murphy Duggar is not ready to look Serena in the eyes as she brings their daughter into the world. He isn’t ready for their premature baby to be here and present and tiny and completely dependent on the two of them for life.

He isn’t ready to be a father. 

Aaron drives as it begins to rain.