#His Nonexistent Drip <3

[shivroy]

HIBERNIAN ROY-WAMBSGANS!!!!! literally why have a succession oc if im not gonna make a season 4 promo pic of him. this is how hibs can still become canon

bonus: given the slightest opportunity hibs will steal tom's clothes, especially ones that have a nostalgia factor from his dad's college days & how tom dressed when hibernian was naught but a tiny pink fetus. check out the tomshiv nightmare interaction white sneakers

[haknom]

MY PERFECT MATCH? — LEE HEESEUNG

CHAPTER 008 ┆locked and loaded (0.9k words)

Heeseung stretched his arms as you both walked down the halls of Odd Eye High, in silence.

It was only the first period, yet he was exhausted. He didn’t even have practice this morning, but he still wanted to go home.

The camera that hung around his neck swayed, softly hitting his chest after his every move.

“So, what’s first?” He asked, confused as to what you were supposed to do.

“We have to take pictures of things and draw them when we get back.”

“What things?” He asked, still confused. Your explanation was terrible.

“Our favourite things, okay?” You said with a harsh sigh. You already didn’t want to be with him right now, especially alone, but you had no choice.

His clueless questions were already enough to tick you off.

“Really? Can we take a picture of the pool then?” He asked, hoping you’d say yes. He loved the pool. Swimming was one of his favourite things.

You rolled your eyes, changing the direction you walked in as he followed through.

After 3 minutes of walking, you two arrived at the pool. You turned around, waiting for Heeseung to capture whatever he found intriguing.

You watched as the gleam in his eyes shined against the reflection of the pool water. A slight smile made its way on his face—it was quite childish.

“So?” You asked, your patience getting the best of you. He looked over at you as you motioned for him to take a picture with your hand.

He nodded, carrying the camera that hung around his neck, and positioning it around to find the best angle. Spoiler alert—he had no clue what he was doing.

You rolled your eyes once more and turned around to sit on the nearest bench. Your footsteps echoed in the empty space, catching Heeseung’s attention. He lowered the camera from his eye and looked over at you with wide ones.

“Wait—” He exclaimed, but you cut him off before he could finish his sentence.

“I’m not leaving, I’m just sitting down.” You said, clear irritation lingering in your voice.

“That’s not what I meant. Watch where you’re going—”

Too late. You already fell inside.

The clipboard was now long discarded somewhere on the surface of the pool as water engulfed your ears.

You closed your eyes at the sudden coldness, yelping underwater.

Heeseung peered over, wondering where you went. Did you even know how to swim? What was taking you long to get back up?

You swam back to the surface, moving whatever blocked your vision out of your face.

He sighed, not knowing why he felt so relieved, and lowered his camera as it softly hit his chest once again.

“Are you okay?” He asked, hurriedly rushing over to the stack of hand towels. It wouldn’t do much to dry your current state, but it was enough to prevent a cold.

He rushed over to you and handed you the towel as you climbed out of the pool. You grabbed the cloth item in annoyance, muttering a short ‘I’m fine’ at the same time.

“Hold on.” Heeseung said as he made his way to their locker room.

He always brought his swimming bag with him in the mornings, but always dropped it off in his locker before contemplating if he wanted to attend class or not.

He made his way back to the bench you sat on, water dripping down from your head to toe. You must’ve been freezing.

“Take this, you’ll get sick.” He said, gaining your attention. You looked at him with a scowl, but accepted the towel a little after.

You rather be damped than soaked.

“Thanks.” You mumbled and began dabbing at your uniform.

“Do you have anything else to change into?”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not, you’ll get sick if you don’t. One second.” Heeseung said and left once again. You rolled your eyes, tsking at the fact he was so careless enough to even leave your freezing self alone.

He really had no manners—well, aside from his act of bringing you a towel. All his manners were nonexistent.

You stood up, teeth chattering as you moved. At this rate, you two wouldn’t finish your assignment at all. The clipboard with your list of items was discarded on the sidelines of the pool, water droplets swallowing it whole.

“It won’t do much, but it should keep you warm.” Heeseung appeared from the corridor of their locker room with an item in hand—his team jacket.

All members of the swim team had one, and every single one of them included their names on the back.

There was no way you would wear something so eye-catching like that. It would give everyone the wrong idea, but then again, you didn’t want to freeze your butt off for the rest of the day and get sick in no time.

“It’s okay if you don’t want it. Just know, this is the only other option I have.”

His words irritated you for no reason. You felt embarrassed. He shouldn’t pity you in a state like this. You couldn’t seem weak to him.

Still, that didn’t explain why you were currently accepting his team jacket with your head hanging low. Your bottom lips hid under your front row of teeth as you bit back the embarrassment you felt.

This was terrible! Who would want to accept a team jacket from their enemy because they pitied them? Definitely not you, yet you still did.

Hey, there was no way you would find a second option any faster.

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[daze4all]

HSR Always Remember Me- Soft!Yandere!Blade x Reader Fluff & Angst

"Always remember me," a strange man with a coat of spider lilies asks when he saves your life on a day of pouring rain. A man who lives forever but always forgets, and you who always remembers but will fade away like flowers. In your last embrace, you are pressed against his chest to an unbeating heart. As he listens to yours ticking down a time he’ll never have again. Rewrote in but also Edited the Original That I posted to remember to rewrite it lol 3 am thoughts, drabble adhd, stream of consciousness etc lol

All You Can Do, is Remembers me Always

Synopsis: You saved a hurt man who leaves once he remembers his past and mission. Guest!Blade Gifts his host a dagger before Saying Goodbye. All the eternal marastruck man asks in return is “ Remember me always, though I may forget you”

Blade was an enigma and a puzzle probably best let unsolved.

A stranger who had turned up broken and bleeding near your house. You had struggled to patch him up to the best of your ability and strangely he healed despite you nonexistent healing skills.

Ligr continued Domestically for a Time.

He had left for quite some time before coming back soaked from his fit. He had left the house abruptly after breaking a pin you treasured when you had tucked his hair up to the side. A spin on the night-time ritual of brushing his hair to help him fall asleep that went horribly wrong.

Somehow it had triggered some lingering pstd for what you could not fathom.

…

“In place of your broken pin, a dagger for protection” Blade simply says demonstrating a few parries, lunges and thrusts with the small sword he had gifted you. More like a dagger easy to conceal in the fold of your clothes.

“Keep it with you always” he said thinking of how easy it was to break into your house. As he had done countless times already.

He gave it to you as a token in place of him for protection. A poor substitute but he had an unspoken mission to pursue.

An end to seek that even you couldn’t keep him from. Now that fractured memories were trickling back to him.

Your pretty handy with a sword shall we call you Blade?

“ Be safe”  you say being the silent one. Now unsure what to do know your unexpected guest was leaving.

"You too “ Blade replied a man awkward silences and few but meaningful words.

A grasp of your wrist as he drew you close in a desperate bruising kiss before you go. “Don’t forget your mine.” Blades eyes burned bright as flame with lost desperation. A hidden side that only softened for you and griped your heart in guilt.

A softer desperate almost inaudible whisper “Always remember for me” he repeated his grip bruising and eyes blazing almost a threat. So intense and meaningful were the words for the mara struck man.

“Of course” you softly say taking his hand with you own to detangle yourself from him. You don’t think you could forget him if you tried.

He certainly made an impact. How you could forget someone coming in the rain with red dripping off their clothes and seeking shelter at your rundown house.

 You had to be careful with him injured as he was. He was raving mad when you found him half frozen and almost dead. Afterwards, he shivered as a comatose patient in your bed for many days, from the cold. He was clearly sick from something more than a simple cold.

He spilled his life story in raving, heated mutterings, of fragmented pieces of battles. Mentioning Sinners, dragons and fighting monsters in between a terrible fever you nursed him through.  You couldn’t understand the concepts beyond your comprehension, but it seemed he finally remembered.

“You, don’t forget.” He reiterates his grasp tight on your own.

You wonder if he even remembers or forgot that too. Somone you saved. Somone who saved you.

He has all the time in world and yours is ticking away….

It is the least you can do for the man who will live forever but forgets.

And you who remembers but will fade away like flowers.

"This I will remember." You promise with a sad smile.

Only harsh truths would only hurt him and you. The memories scratch painfully at your heart.

As you stare sorrowfully at the broken man, his now blue black hair fades to red like the blood he was once soaked in when he collapsed at your doorstep.

His burning eyes once calm steady and peaceful a bare concealed burning fire staring beyond you at his target.

They leave you mouth dry, unable to speak of the too cruel reality and shatter this fantasy of togetherness.

To cowardly and weak to deny him the future he was seeking.

 So, you lay still by his side for one last night. A warm body beside him in a sleepless night. You stay awake as long as you can by his side.

Pressed against his chest to an unbeaten heart as he listens to yours ticking down a time he’ll never have again.

And he leaves on his self-imposed revenge with the dawning of a new day without a sound. A warm spot beside you in the bed slowly fading as he did.

A/N Guess cuz default Blade is yandere  it’s nice to make him soft and vulnerable just like how I make normal soft bois like Jing Yuan yandere character

Also edited but rewrote this in

[autismsubway-remade]

domestic ingo fic because im insane (EVERY INTERACTION IS PLATONIC)

(inspired by a comic from @hoofpeet ^_^)

In Hisui, Ingo had to do many things himself. Cooking and cleaning were a given, because Lady Sneasler was a pokemon and unfortunately lacked opposable thumbs (and also had knife claws.) As a warden, he was to help his noble with every one of her new litters and was to watch them once she was recovered enough from birth to hunt again. He did not mind, finding the routine comforting in an otherwise unpredictable place.

Lady Sneaslers newest litter had brought upon a predicament.

A sneasel had arrived too early, and was much too small. Ingo feared he would have to bury yet another child of Lady Sneaslers, an unfortunate occurrence that was becoming far too frequent for his liking. The tiny sneasel squeaked in his arms, small enough to be held with only one hand. Lady sneaslers other eggs weren't set to hatch for quite some time yet, so he focused his attention on the kit. She was a girl, feather so small that it was nearly nonexistent.

By the time Lady Sneaslers other kits were hatched, the tiny sneasel (affectionately dubbed little lady) had grown much stronger.

The only issue was that she refused to see Lady Sneasler as her mother, opting instead to follow Ingo wherever he went, strutting behind him like a ducklett and constantly pleading to be held. Eventually, he crafted a small sling from a soft blanket he had sewn.

Nobody batted an eye when he appeared in the settlement with a very affectionate sneasel on his chest, swaddled in a makeshift baby sling.

Even when little lady was old enough to leave the den, she refused to, and when Ingo was returned back to Unova she came along.

Ingo quickly fell back into his routines, waking up with the sun to clean his and Emmet's apartment, and making breakfast with little lady still fastened onto his chest.

She purred and swatted at his beard with her poisonous knife claws. He was wholly unaffected.

Emmet however, was not.

"Ingo? What are you doing? It is 6am." Ingo looked back at his brother, who was still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Oh, did I wake you? I apologize."

Emmet stared at him.

"Ingo. Why do you have your sneasel in a baby sling."

He looked down. Little lady stared back up at him, and continued to tug at his hair. The menace.

"She does not like being away from me, or on the ground for that matter. I have no idea as to why that is, however." He mumbled, focusing on cracking eggs into a bowl.

"You said you raised her because she hatched early, right? Maybe she thinks you're her mother!"

He stopped.

"What."

Emmet was silent for a total of 3 seconds before doubling over in laughter.

"Did you seriously never notice??"

Ingo did not. Most of his time in Hisui was a blur of disassociation and mild poisoning (before his immunity, that is) so he truly never noticed. It was simply more convenient to carry little lady around, and nobody in the pearl clan even batted an eye.

"I...Was not entirely present for most of my time in Hisui. I guess I just assumed she was simply more affectionate than the other kits." He scrambled the eggs, and lightly batted little ladies hand away from the raw bacon.

Emmet sat down on the floor. "I kinda figured, you kinda had a thousand mile stare in the photos I found." Ingo hummed in response, the smell of bacon filling the apartment as he cooked.

"By the way, Elesa said she's coming over since we're awake. I don't know how she figured that out though."

"Maybe she has telepathy?"

"Verrry unlikely. She probably just has our routine memorized."

Ingo placed the bacon and eggs on a plate, and placed little lady on the floor.

"Snea!"

"You are going to steal more bacon if I keep holding you, little lady."

"Sneas!"

"Do not deny it. You are guilty."

Little lady was in fact guilty, claws not dripping with poison but instead a light sheen of bacon grease.

"Crrriminal." Emmet spoke through a mouthful of egg. "Emmet, it is rude to speak with your mouth full."

Emmet blew a raspberry at Ingo, who pretended to be scandalized.

Little lady started to weakly claw at Ingo's pant leg, whining to be picked up. Ingo sighed, and obliged her. He placed her on his hip, and fried more bacon. Elesa was a notorious bacon fiend.

Speaking of Elesa, she barged (not really) into the apartment.

"BACON SPO- Wait." She cut herself off mid sentence, instead deciding to stare at Ingo.

Ingo who was in the kitchen, little lady placed on his hip as she watched him cook with wonder in her little eyes. His apron, that he most definitely did not own before. She looked at Emmet, a flash of understanding in his eyes as she took in the sight.

"Iggy. You kinda look like a housewife right now."

Ingo nearly dropped the pan of bacon in his hand.

"I- What?" He flushed, confusion etched across his face.

"Elesa is right. You are even holding little lady like how the old timey mothers do."

Ingo turned off the burner. "I. I do not think that is what I'm doing."

"Nah, it totally is. You're very wifey, got the apron and everything!" Elesa teased, before beelining to the bacon.

Ingo shifts little lady in his arms, and she chirrs in displeasure as she is moved against her will. Ingo does not speak, but instead turns around to try to hide his blush. It fails, his red ears giving him away.

"Wait holy shit this bacon is really good, when the hell did you learn to cook?"

"Probably in Hisui. Ingo was verrry bad at cooking before."

"Well, you weren't a very good cook either Emmet."

"Mm, fair. Wait, did you actually learn to cook in Hisui?"

Ingo nods. "It was essential for survival. A fellow warden helped me though, as I was indeed incredibly bad at it when I first arrived. I had kind of attributed it to the memory loss though." Ingo breaks a piece of bacon in half and hands it to his Excadrill, who has also taken to begging him for food. Little lady is a bad influence.

"I'm kinda suprised you didn't get shredded living on a mountain." Elesa says through a mouthful of bacon. "I didn't leave much, to be fair. Most of my duties were easy to accomplish without even having to go down the mountain, but I did develop an immunity to poison."

"What?"

"These sneasels are poison-fighting type. I thought you knew?"

"I am Emmet. I did not do my research."

Little lady steals more bacon off of Ingo's plate, but hands it to him, skewered in a very poisonous claw. He eats it without batting an eye, and scritches under her chin.

"Ingo. Ingy. Iggy. Go-Go. Can you please be my platonic malewife." Elesa pipes up from his other side.

"Um. Why?"

"Bacon."

"No."

Elesa sighs. "Worth a shot."

[familyvideostevie]

Hii I was wondering if you could write a Steve Harrington x Henderson!reader where she’s like 2 or 3 years younger than him and she’s in love with him and he knows about it but he pushes her away because of the age gap but when they’re in the upside down she gets hurt and he freaks out and they have an argument and he realizes his feelings for her. Sorry if it’s confusing :)

thanks for the request lovely, and for your patience! reader is 17 in this and steve is ~19, since it's season 4. hope you like! | 1k, angst then fluff, a tiny confession, fem!reader, henderson!reader, cw: blood, injury, part 2

Rejection is no picnic, especially when it comes from your younger brother's...mentor? Friend? Babysitter? You still don't know what to call Steve and Dustin's relationship, but now you know what to call yours: nonexistent. You're sitting in your car in the Family Video parking lot with your forehead pressed against the steering wheel.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," you mutter to yourself. Maybe it wasn't that bad, you think. At least he was nice about it.

You'd gone in to the store to finally tell Steve that you're in love with him. Well, you weren't going to come on that strong -- you were just going to ask him on a date. When you did, his face did something complicated and he pulled you into the stacks away from any customers. Robin started to whistle and pretended she didn't see what was happening.

His hands twitched at his sides as he sighed. "Look," he had said. "I--uh. It's real nice of you to ask me out, and Dustin has mentioned that you, uh, like me." You closed your eyes and prepared for what was clearly a rejection, filing away the tidbit about your idiot brother for later.

"And you're a great girl," he continued, "Honest. It's just...you're still in school, a junior, right?" He clearly hadn't mean for you to answer as he plowed on. "And you're smart, even I know that, so you're going to apply to college and go somewhere really good, and I'm 19 and working here --"

You had heard more than enough by then. You stopped him with a tight smile. "Steve, it's okay. Forget I said anything. See you around, yeah?" You had held your head up as high as you could and stalked out of the store to where you are now still sitting in your car, twenty minutes later, wishing the ground would swallow you whole.

Until you see your brother plowing through the doors you had just left with his friends looking frantic. So you do the natural thing and follow him in, Steve be damned.

__

You barely have time to think about Steve's rejection over the next few days or so as life becomes more hectic by the minute. But when it comes down to it, diving in after him isn't even a question, and you don't really get to process what has happened until you all get to Skull Rock. Or, the Upside Down version.

"Fuck," you exhale as you watch Steve get bandaged by Nancy. Robin has her arm linked through yours and a small part of your brain registers that you're leaning on her a little too heavily.

"My thoughts exactly," Eddie mutters. "Uh, Henderson, did you know you're bleeding?" Steve's head whips around from under the outcropping.

"What did you say, Munson?"

"I am?" you wonder. You look down at the arm hanging by your side and realize there's blood dripping from your fingertips. You've left a crimson trail behind you on the dark, slimy ground. "Oh," you breathe out. "I don't--"

"Hey, sit down," Robin says, guiding you to a nearby rock. Eddie moves to help you out of your flannel but all of a sudden Steve is there.

"I've got it," he says firmly. Eddie throws his hands up and backs away, pulling Robin with him to stand by Nancy. Steve squats to pull your sleeve away. He hisses through his teeth, jaw clenched as he sees the mess that had been covered. You look down and find your forearm sporting a series of long, deep scratches. Clearly a demobat had gotten you and the adrenaline kept you from feeling it too much.

"Christ, Henderson," Steve says. "Why didn't you say anything?" He rips a piece of your flannel off with his teeth and starts to tie it around your arm, his furious tone at odds with his gentle movements. "I can't fucking believe you came down here. That was so stupid. Who is gonna look after your brother, huh?"

Your mouth gapes at him. "Are you serious?" you say.

"Deadly. This is no place for you. None of us should even be here!" He ties a knot with the fabric and stands up, though his eyes don't leave you arm as if he can still see the wound through his field dressing.

"Listen to me, Harrington," you say, angry now. "I know you don't like me and I came on too strong a few days ago but there's no need to be nasty--"

"No, that's the fucking problem," he sneers. "I do like you, don't you get that?" He runs his dirty hands through equally filthy hair. He's not shouting but it's a close thing.

"What?" You're genuinely confused. He clearly rejected you, you remember that much, though things are a little hazy in general right now.

"I do like you," he says again, softer. "But this isn't the time, okay?"

"No, I think it's a good time as any, Steve." You stand but wobble a little from the blood loss. He quickly moves into your space, a hand on your hip to steady you. His fingers are warm and his grip is a little too tight. You wonder how much pain he's in.

"I'm no good for you," he says, eyes on your lips. "You gotta get out of this literal hellhole town, Henderson. Leave it all behind."

"I think that's my call to make." You hover your hand over his bare chest, not sure where to put it. You settle for laying it over his heart, and you feel it beating fast.

"I--fuck," he says. You've never heard him curse so much.

"Let’s make it out of here first, okay?" you tell him. He nods. Well, at least you don't feel rejected anymore.

"Hey guys," Eddie calls. "Cute, and whatever, but let's not stick around for too long, yeah? Let's get the hell out of here."

want to be added to my tag list for full-length (non-ask) fics? send me a message and specify for steve, eddie, or both!

reblog, send feedback, requests open, masterlist here!

[alexanderlightweight]

what about cat magnus in his animal form whilst dragon alec in human form deals with a possessive and playful big kitty.

oh i love this idea and especially because playful is very different for predator big cats ^_^

i hope you enjoy

<3 lumine

the taste of his magic

-

Magnus ignores a grunt of complaint as he gives another imperious lick to the stubborn curl of Alexander’s brow. This one particular curl is as stubborn as the man who it belongs to and Magnus chuffs as he settles his weight more intently on Alexander, keeping him trapped and still with his face caught between two massive paws.

Alexander has disappeared during the morning — as they slept — only coming back after several hours of absence and Magnus isn’t the least bit pleased with his lovely treasure.

A dragon Alexander may be, but he’s also Magnus’ dragon.

Which means that when Magnus’ boy comes back irritated and with flecks of blood stark on his bare skin when he’d transformed, well… Magnus lets his instincts take over.

Which means a grumpy Alexander now that Magnus is nearly finished grooming him — though just because he’s finished doesn’t mean that Magnus is going to be letting his treasure get up anytime son or let him go anywhere without him.

“Magnus, I was just checking the perimeter of my caves and had a snack. The blood was just leftovers from cleaning up some attempted-intruders.”

It’s the third time Alexander’s made the same such excuse and Magnus rumbles, because that isn’t the point and if it was so important, than surely Magnus could have been brought along, or at the very least informed him that his dragon was leaving.

Magnus growls in response, because of course Alexander is willing to use words now that the deed has already been done. No matter that Alexander hasn’t even attempted to ask Magnus to come ward his caves.

As if Magnus’ magick would ever allow an intruder to still remain in existence for Alexander to dirty his muzzle with their inferior blood.

Magnus is at the point where he’s tempted to go back to his archives to look for the legendary — and completely nonexistent — dragon-binding rituals just so he has one way of keeping Alexander where he’s supposed to be.

As it is Magnus has enough and he growls, shifting so he’s pinning Alexander and can delicately place his jaws around Alexander’s neck, his tongue against Alexander’s pulse and jugular even as his fangs rest on skin.

His darling merely huffs at him, unconcerned by the threat and even goes so far as to trill indignantly at him, as thought Magnus is the one being unreasonable.

Magnus stays where he is until — finally — Alexander’s fingers pet through Magnus’ fur and his darling sighs with a petulant tone.

“You were asleep when the wards went off and I didn’t want to wake you up. You were tired.” It’s a better excuse than Magnus was expecting but still an excuse and he growls, the sound reverberating through Alexander’s throat. Little pinpricks of blood are dripping down from where Alexander’s moved while talking, his treasure is unconcerned and uncaring even as Magnus keeps him trapped.

Fingers scritch down his sides and then there is a sigh, “I’ll wake you next time and see if you want to come with me?”

The only thing more surprising than the offer is the fact that it’s a question.

Magnus barely takes the time to lick Alexander’s neck clean of blood — the wounds already healed — before he shifts. He turns to sit on Alexander’s chest and stares down at the pleased confusion on his boy’s face.

“What do you mean if I want to come?” Magnus is incredulous at the very idea of not wanting to go.

The thought that Alexander would allow him into his hoard isn’t something that Magnus has done more than wistfully consider.

“Well you might be too tired.” Alexander tells him with some confusion, “I can take you to my caves whenever you’d like. Why would you want to go when I’m taking care of pests?”

Magnus is…

Magnus is quite frankly furious.

Incandescently so, in the way that shock can turn confusion and joy into something terrible in the desperate need to understand.

“Treasure—” Magnus realizes his voice is hoarse — almost rasping — as he speaks but he doesn’t even bother to fix it. “What do you mean when you say you’ll take me whenever I like?”

The echo of his own voice sounds strange as he stares into beloved hazel eyes.

“That I’ll take you whenever you want?” Alexander returns Magnus’ strangeness with a furrowed brow and a tone dripping with confusion, as if he thinks it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

Perhaps it is but Magnus needs to know.

“You’d let me into your hoard?”

“It’s impossible not to?”

—

Alec is wondering if Magnus is still exhausted.

Maybe he woke him up leaving and Magnus hasn’t rested and that’s why he’s acting so strange. He keeps asking questions that he already knows the answer to and it’s making Alec worried.

Magnus is quite literally, the heart of Alec’s hoard. How is Magnus supposed to stay out of his hoard?

Has Alec miscommunicated something?

Does Magnus think that Alec has hearts for each of his hoards? Instead of one hoard-heart that all of his hoards center around and sustain. Does he not realize that the reason for every single other piece of treasure that Alec collects and finds and devours is meant to exalt the heart.

They are paltry offerings, a surrender of opulence in an attempt to sustain the might of the heart.

The singing caves with their deep caverns wide and warm and humming the songs of the universe as fire dances on the pure walls made of opal that Alec had carved into intricate artwork were filled with pieces catered to worship them.

They had been the most magnificent thing he had ever beheld — until Magnus and his magic — and he had filled them with the rarest and most coveted things that called to him from across the world.

Each piece had paled in comparison to the heart but at least each piece was something deemed acceptable, something worthy of being a pebble on the floor of the caves.

It is the same with Magnus.

Every single thing Alec hoards is Magnus’ to do with as he pleases.

They are gifts for him and while Alec’s never actually had a sapient as a part of his hoard — or talked with anyone who had — he can’t imagine acting differently.

If the caves had ever managed to sing to him what they would have liked to be filled with, then Alec would have been honored to heed their requests.

That Alec can fulfill each and ever request Magnus ever makes of him is his greatest wish, so of course Magnus can go to the caves whenever he wishes. It will take years of magic and wards and rituals for them to be safe for Magnus to portal to and traipse by himself. So Alec is happy to be Magnus’ guide and transport whenever he wishes to visit them or any of Alec’s other hoards.

The very nature of dragon magic ensures that Alec’s hoards are difficult to find and easy to be lost in. Even as the heart and as powerful as he is, Alec’s own nature betrays him in this and until Magnus can visit them as he wishes, Alec will be the gateway and the path.

So of course Alec will take Magnus whenever he wants.

[tmntxthings]

Could you make a story about the reader stealing Leo’s swords and before the reader could go anywhere leo catch’s them?

A Sword Runaway

author’s note: short & sweet <3 here ya go anon~~~

warnings: cursing, fluff, crack

> part two <

—————————————————————————

“What’re you doing?” Leo called out from his bed, he was laid out, one leg propped up and the other crossing it. He had been reading a comic, (Jupiter Jim obviously) when he noticed some movement in his peripheral. “Just looking around!” You said innocently, you were bored of reading. The comic he had handed to you 30 minutes ago was now on the bed. You had been looking around his room, it was so him (very messy).

That’s when you noticed the swords. They were sooooo cool. And was it just the lighting? Or were they glowing in a slight blue haze. They beckoned you over and that’s when Leo had called out to you. You didn’t even look over your shoulder as you answered. And it wasn’t until you had both swords, one in each hand, did he finally take his eyes off the comic completely.

They were pretty heavy, keeping them held up and not dragging on the ground took some effort. “I’m gonna ask again, what do you think you’re doing?” He was smirking, a nonexistent eyebrow raising. “Just ya know, looking cool~” you posed suddenly, both swords coming out and you swung. Accidentally knocking over a stack of comics in the process, Leo laughed, “Very cool~” and you narrowed your eyes. He was making fun of you.

You shot out of his room. “Hey! Where are you going with those?!” you were running as fast as you could. You passed by Raph who had to dodge out of the way, “WHY ARE WE RUNNING WITH SHARP OBJECTS?!” Raph hollered after you. “Leo!!” Raph called out wondering why he wasn’t stopping you. You heard a loud groan. “I think I’ll take a trip to the Bahamas,” you announced and you heard a commotion come from Leo’s room.

“Don’t you dare!” he said skidding out of his room. You had the entire living room between the two of you as you started making a circle with one of the swords. “You!” Leo said in an accusatory tone as he ran forward. You stopped immediately running farther away into the kitchen. “Woah woah!” Mikey said backing into a corner like you were a dangerous, wild animal. “Leooooo,” Mikey called out as the blue turtle entered. This room was smaller but you put a table in his way. As he rounded it, you did the same, keeping the same amount of distance between the two of you.

“Y/n just give me the swords!” Leo said, he was smiling widely, like he had a plan and he knew it would work. “After the Bahama trip, then sure!” You said sweetly, trying to make a portal for the second time. Leo lunged forward, jumping across the table and surprising you completely. “Hey- oomph!” As the turtle tackled you to the ground. “Thank you~” Leo said as he had to pry your grubby fingers from the sword handles. “Nooooo! The Bahamas!!” You cried out dramatically as he put the swords behind his shell. After, he held a hand out to you, offering to help you up since he was why you were on the ground in the first place. You smacked away his hand, sticking out your tongue as you got to your feet yourself.

“Aw c’mon Y/n, there’s no way the swords could’ve portaled you all the way there!” You crossed your arms exiting the kitchen going back to Leo’s room as he followed after you. “But maybe they could’ve!” You said defiantly. He shook his head, “okay whatever you say, you’re the sword expert after all,” sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Exactly, now hand ‘em over so I can take us both to the beach.” He looked at you skeptically, “and you promise not to run away?” He knew you wouldn’t be able to portal there, but he thought it was very cute, how you wanted to hold his swords. You held up both hands showing you weren’t crossing any fingers. He handed you one odachi.

You turned your back, an evil grin forming on your face. Raph walked back in the living room, only to immediately turn back the way he came. “Leo you dumbass!” His older brother said as you took off again. “Y/N!” Leo exclaimed, seriously wondering what was wrong with you. “I hereby dub this sword, mine!” You sang happily as Leo chased you around the room. “That is definitely mine,” Leo pointed out and you turned on him, pointing the sword at his plastron. “Gonna use my own weapon against me?” His hands were up raised in mock surrender. “If I must!” You lied, and as quick as lightning Leo pulled out his other sword and batted away the sword you were holding. You hadn’t expected it at all and it clattered to the ground out of your hand.

Both of you lunged for it, Leo again standing victorious as you swore in defeat. “Better luck next time Y/n,” Leo said smugly doing a little dance in front of you, and you kicked your foot out effectively tripping him. “Ow!” He complained, to which you stuck your tongue out. He copied you. “Children please,” Donnie sighed, he had been in the living room the entire time, tucked in a corner on a bean bag chair. “Oh hey Donnie!” You said getting up and heading in his direction. Leo made a hasty escape, finally figuring it out, you were in one of those moods, where you liked to annoy the shit out of everyone! You reminded him so much of himself as he heard Donnie holler in surprise.

If Leo had to guess, you’d probably jacked his phone or tech goggles. “Y/n give that back right now!!!”

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

Cinema

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Pairing: barista!Mike (Hellraiser) x reader (you)

Summary: Mike takes you to see a terrible horror movie...

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: Fluff. More fluff. Then some more fluff. Shenanigans. A makeout sesh... A cop. We're definitely still cockblocking Mikey. I'm still not apologizing for that...

If you like this fic, please let me know 🥰 and reblog so that others may see it too! <3

@deandoesthingstome @ellethespaceunicorn @sillyrabbit81 @peyton-warren @summersong69 @mayloma @livisss @geralts-yenn @ylva-syverson

Mike has taken you to what absolutely has to be the worst horror movie of all time. At least, that’s what the reviews said when you looked up the plot online beforehand. You don’t like horror, and this one is no different, yet you are here. All that proves, if you really think about it (which you don’t), is how much you really like Mike.

As you are waiting in line to get into the cinema, you can already tell that pretty much everyone – all forty or so people – is here for the same reason. Because the one thing these sucky horror movies are good for, is a good, old-fashioned, socially sanctioned make out sesh in the dark. You hate how perfect these dumb films are for it, and you especially hate that they genuinely scare you…

“I’ve never been here before,” you say as your eyes wander the foyer of the building. It’s a relatively new theater, but not so new that not having been here isn’t a scathing indictment of your nonexistent dating life.

“Really? I’ve been here a ton of times,” Mike says casually. It takes a few beats for him to realize what he’s said. “Eh… with friends…”

“Eh… on dates,” you correct him, and watch his ears go a little red from embarrassment.

“Well, they threw all these terrible scary movies at me the last year and a half… what was I supposed to do? Go see them alone?” he fake-complains.

“Oh, you went to see them, huh?” you tease. “What were they about, Mike?”

“Eh… People getting killed?” The girl in front of you just snorts outright, and one of the guys behind you does a half decent job at hiding his laughter in a suspicious cough. You follow the example of the girl.

“Mike, you idiot,” you blurt out. The look on his face is absolutely priceless; he looks mortified, and it somehow looks good on him. So good, even, that you grab the front of his jacket with both hands and pull him closer. When he looks at you, the expression of terror morphs into a smirk.

Finally, it’s time to find your seats. You follow Mike through the just a tad too dimly lit room. He somehow managed to get seats all the way in the back. They always sell out the quickest because… well… less people can watch you stick your tongue down your date’s throat there. Which is a nice thought, even though everyone who’s here is paired off and planning on doing approximately exactly the same – meaning no one will actually be watching you. Oh well. Mike also bought you popcorn, so he can stay, despite his outrageously obvious moves.

“This one,” Mike says as he sinks down on what should have been two seats, but isn’t.

“You know they have normal seats,” you say as you look around the room.

“Sweetcheeks, why are you making it sound like you don’t want to be near me?”

You sit down, putting as much distance between you and Mike as the small loveseat will allow. “I don’t know?” Because you don’t want him to think you’re easy? “This is a little transparent and… I have to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” What is wrong with you?

“Hey, are you here with Mike?” Oh god no… Some girl approaches you as you’re washing your hands, giving you a pitiful look when you nod. “Have you met his cats yet? Poor you.” She and another girl – looks like a friend of hers, you’re guessing they’re on a double date – laugh, and it almost sounds evil.

“Actually, I have,” you answer. “They’re adorable. And Mike is great.”

“They sleep in his bed. It’s weird,” the girl throws back at you, her voice absolutely dripping with contempt. You have to get out of here before you punch this bitch, but she stops you as you make a beeline for the door. “Hey! I’m just trying to help. He’s a weirdo.”

“He’s a vet,” you yell, “they tend to like animals. And it’s not weird. It’s sweet. Now get out of my way, I’m on a date.” You roll your eyes and push little miss spoilsport out of the way, leaving her there with a hideous grimace of disbelief on her pointy face. Okay, maybe she doesn’t look that bad, but you’ve had it with that cunt.

“Hey,” Mike says nervously when you come back to your seat.

“Hey,” you snap, still not over what just happened in the bathroom. When you look at Mike, there’s concern on his face.

“What’s wrong, Sweetcheeks?” he asks, his voice trembling ever so slightly.

“Have I ever told you you’re a great guy, and that I really like spending time with you?” you quietly blurt out as you sit down – close to him, this time. So close, in fact, that you’re almost in his lap.

“Eh, no you haven’t, thanks? Where is this coming from?” He looks a little flustered, clearly not expecting your compliment, or you sitting so close to him. You can’t blame him. Minutes ago, you were halfway through tearing him a new one for being a little obvious about wanting to make out with you.

“Some horrible troll-” You emphasize the word and speak up a little as aforementioned horrible troll passes by your seat – yes, you’re being petty, and yes, you’re going to keep being petty. “-attacked me in the bathroom calling you weird, and I need you to know that you’re not. And I really like being here with you, and I don’t actually care that you’re not being more subtle about this. I kind of like this. It’s cozy.”

“We don’t have to do anything, I just thought… you told me you get scared and I want to be able to hold you if you do,” he whispers, a little uneasy – and cleverly omitting the ‘easier to make out this way’ portion of his transparent plan, so you raise an eyebrow at him to coax the rest of the truth from him. “Baby, we’ve been cockblocked by cats, caught by my parents in their room and I was put on house arrest for three weeks… I just want you close. We can always just watch the movie.”

When he says that last bit, you laugh. “Then you really should have picked a better movie.”

You eat your popcorn during the commercials and the first five minutes of the movie. It’s plenty of time to determine the whole thing is absolute crap – and that the world probably could have done without yet another Hellraiser movie. In fact, you’re starting to regret not spending these five minutes making out with Mike. Luckily, with the way Mike kisses, he makes up for those five minutes within seconds.

Another lucky thing would be the fact that Mike still clearly realizes that you are, in fact, in a public place, which means he isn’t as handsy as he was last time… The last thing you need is to get caught somewhere on your way to half naked in a movie theater, that would be… bad. Let’s leave it at that. Now, that doesn’t mean Mike isn’t all over you in any way he can get away with – of course he is, and you want him to, but man, it makes you wish you were at his place right now, and his cats would leave you the fuck alone, and the turtles wouldn’t be slurping up all attention, and his parents wouldn’t walk in on you.

You stay snuggled up to Mike for the duration of the movie, and even though the few snippets you’ve seen are so horrible you can’t even describe it, you’re sad when it’s over. Hand in hand, you leave the cinema, walking towards his car just about as slowly as you can manage.

“I don’t want this date to end,” you confess as you finally get to the car. His parents are home tonight, he already mentioned that, and so is your roommate. Mike says nothing, and with slightly heated cheeks you get into the car.

“Doesn’t have to be over,” he mumbles when he’s also seated and the doors are closed. You look at him, shock apparent on your face, and shake your head by means of a question. Mike makes a vague gesture around him. Does he mean…? He can’t be serious!

“In your car?” you blurt out in disbelief. Absolutely the fuck not!

“God, you’re hot.” So, you caved. Who cares? You’re young, and you’re finally alone, and it’s Mike’s hands sliding up your sides, underneath your blouse and his hands feel good, and there’s no cats to sit on anyone’s head, or… You’re not even overly worried about a serial killer showing up – which is a very normal fear for you after having watched a horror movie, but your little movie date with Mike involved so little actual watching that you’re not scared now.

“Babe?” Mike takes a short break from feeling you up to check if you’re okay, although he never actually takes his lips off your neck. Is ‘pulling on the hem of his shirt until he finally takes it off’ and answer to his question? Apparently. Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him into another kiss. You used to think his enthusiasm was a little bit childish, but you have to admit; these weeks have taken their toll on you, too. At this point, you’re almost just as bad as he is, clawing at his back, impatiently dragging his mouth back to yours.

He's surprisingly strong, and not-so-surprisingly good at maneuvering you around in the backseat of this car. Ten bucks says it’s not the first – or second, or third – time he’s done this… Mike pulls you into lap, and the sigh that you let out as you straddle his thighs morphs into a chuckle.

“You’re happy,” you tease as soon as you feel his erection rub against you.

“Cats, parents, grounded,” he mumbles while kissing down your neck, towards your chest. With a few swift moves, he opens enough of your blouse to be able to reach your boobs.

“How on earth did you… That was fast!” you exclaim, staring at your now mostly naked chest in disbelief.

“I stick needles in squirming hamsters on occasion. Can’t do that without at least a little dexterity,” Mike deadpans. If there’s a good response to that out there, you sure as hell don’t know what it is.

You bite your lip and hold down a chuckle when Mike’s hands find their way into the back pockets of your jeans, squeezing your ass through the fabric and pulling you closer against him. When you roll your hips, he moans – the sound is music to your ears. There’s something about teasing this guy that’s… fun and easy but at the same time insanely satisfying. The way he squirms underneath you, the way he gets impatient and sloppy – well, sloppier… You’ve never felt like someone wanted you this much – and not just because he wants to see your tits, perhaps?

Somehow, Mike manages to get you onto your back in the backseat. It’s a less practical position, but it works – kinda – and that’s good enough for you. For all your talk about Mike being eager and impatient, this whole waiting thing is definitely also starting to take its toll on you.

Soon, it’s your hands in his back pockets – as soon as you’re done mapping every muscle in his back, that is. He grinds his hips into you. You’re wet, you’re ready; you need him. Slowly, one of your hands moves to the front of his jeans, struggles with the button for a moment, then…

Three raps on the window, Mike pulling away from you, buttoning his jeans, while you hastily try to button your blouse again. Before you can make yourself completely decent, another knock, and Mike rolling down the window.

“Officer,” he sighs, “good evening.”

“Michael.” The cop knows him by name? That’s not a good thing… Especially considering the fact that Mike turns around to you with a horrified look on his face.

“I swear he only knows my name because mom and I take care of the dogs!” Sounds plausible.

“Go home, kids,” the officer warns you both before walking away.

Mike kisses you again before reaching down to pick his shirt up off the floor.

“Sorry,” he says softly. “I know it was a horrible idea, I just…”

“You want to have sex with me,” you reply. He seems taken aback by your directness, but after a short while, he shakes his head, much to your surprise.

“I mean…” He sighs deeply. “Please don’t think that’s all there is to it. I really like you.”

“You’re just a little impatient,” you tease. He rolls his eyes before crawling back into the front seat, then he helps you get back in the passenger seat.

“C’mon, I’ll drive you home.”

[chicken-fifi]

Ji Changwook Headcanon | Him During Your Pregnancy and as a Dad

Pairing: Ji Changwook x Fem!Reader

Requested by anon: Hi I don’t know if you’ll see this but could you make a head cannon of Ji Chang wook or what he’s like as a dad and pregnant? I love your writing thank you <3

Genre: fluff

A/n: i do have a reaction of him find out that reader is pregnant so you guys can read that here if you want a recap of his reaction which will explain some of his actions in this headcanon

Early on in the pregnancy, maybe shortly after finding out

Changwook is still quite unsure of whether or not this actually happening

It wasn't planned

But he didn't mind

Even if he was shocked

Which is why his initial tone of uncertainty changes so quickly

Once it fully settles in his mind that you are pregnant

With his child

Your first child

Together

He's on top of everything

The more taxing chores, which he did his best to do before, are now completely off limits for you

He always checks in on if you need anything on his way back from work

Or if there's something he can get you so you don't have to get out of whatever comfortable position you were finally able to find

During the more intimate moments where it's just you and him

Either sitting on the couch watching something

Laying in bed getting ready to call it a night

Waking up early and just admiring you

Watching you do something in the kitchen

His eyes never leave you or your lower abdomen

He notices the way your hand caresses the bump that at first is nonexistent and as it keeps growing and growing

He doesn't hesitate to let his eyes linger on you

Honey dripping from his eyes as he admires you for everything your body is doing

For the indescribable beauty that seems to radiate from you in a different way than before

His hands always seem to make their way to your bump in this moments holding it and caressing it just as you do

And when he has the chance, he gently lays his head on it or beside it as your fingers rake through his hair while he has a little conversation with his little one

Or sings to them

But even in these moments, he's plagued with the thought of not being a good father

His dad died when he was younger so he can't deny that he has no idea what he's doing or is going to do

Did his dad experience these moments when his mom was pregnant with him?

Is going to be able to be a good dad?

Will he screw it up and end up being an incompetent father?

Will history repeat itself?

And those worries aren't kept to himself

He raises his worries and you do your best to reassure him that everything will work out because at the end of the day:

He is the only person who is capable of raising his child, even if he may be the most incapable parent

And as your due date nears, he's filled with nerves of excitement and fear

The entire time you're enduring the pain brought upon by bringing your child into the world, he wishes it could be him so you could rest

So your body wouldn't hurt and bleed the way it does

But he also admires the bravery you possess and is at your beck and call throughout the 14 hours it takes for your little bundle of joy to arrive with a good set of lungs crying into the air

Tears streaming down his face he places kiss after kiss along your sweaty hairline thanking you over and over again expressing his love for you and how incredible of a person you are

All while your newborn daughter/son rests on your chest finally calm

Which brings us to him as a dad

This little girl has his wrapped around her/his pinky

He would do anything for her/him

But he's also strict - more so when she's older and needs to be disciplined

That's not to say it doesn't break his heart every time tears well in her/his eyes when she/he gets in trouble

He's a good partner to raise a kid with

He doesn't leave you to do it all alone

Child rearing is his job as a father and husband too

He has no problem taking her/him out of the house for a few hours on days when he knows you need some time to yourself in order to recharge

And he takes initiative in doing things that interest her/him even if he isn't good at it or is the only dad at that cooking class for kids

Does anyone else remember the paper towel burning and his quick reflex in Youth Actor Retreat?

He slowly grows into his role as a parent little by little, but it is the most natural thing in the world to him

And he realizes that while yes, he was right about worrying over being a good dad, it was just as you said, he was capable of being a good dad

And he has you to thank for it

Because he wouldn't be able to do it without you by his side supporting one another through it all

It is worth mentioning that with your first kid he's on edge

More protective

It's a learning curve, but with your second, he has a better feel, even if he finds that needs to change a number of things to better suit your child's needs

[ontheblock]

Hey u said you’d post the Orochimaru fic pt 3 may i ask where it is?

hi !! it‘s right here. i won‘t lie but i also won‘t go into details, i had a massive mental health drop and had the hardest time writing something coherent. fingers crossed it didn‘t ruin my writing ability lol. i really thought about not posting this since it‘s not up to my standard but i really can‘t make myself write on this even longer and make people wait. so many reached out to me to finish this LMAO. which makes me happy that so many enjoy it :)

offspring pt iii

warning: animal death, vomit, dubcon, manipulation

offspring pt i . offspring pt ii

The first few weeks after your aborted runaway attempt, you sometimes found yourself wandering the halls way after tucking the baby into bed. You haunted the lair like a ghost, unconsciously searching for something but in the end you never encountered another exit; and maybe you were a ghost. Maybe Orochimaru let his genetic spawn kill and eat you - claw into the abdomen you birthed it from, crawl up into your ribcage to rip into your heart with the skinny fangs that shot from the soft gums - after birth and this was all just your brain producing pictures of how things could’ve been. But wouldn’t those pictures be good? Did you consider this to be good?

You didn’t know. You didn’t know a lot of things. You didn’t know the name for the son you grew inside you. You didn’t know if you could morally call that your son because with every passing week, month, it looked less like something that was a person. You didn’t know what he was capable of. He developed at a rapid pace - walking within a few months and grabbing onto whatever was in reach from the very start, he even grew at an abnormal rate. He barely had to bathe unless he got his hair filthy, those ink black tresses that reached his tailbone and looked just like Orochimaru‘s. It was the only hair he had. Otherwise it was all smooth cold skin, textured with subtle scales.

His features didn’t change. Eyes rimmed in lavender, still far apart on the head and overwhelmingly yellow with thin slits as the pupils. The nose was almost nonexistent, just a bump on his sleek face with a single curved slit as the nose hole. And his mouth had no lips, just a thin line stretching into the boys cheeks that he could open wide to expose tiny teeth growing from the fleshy gums. His body was thin but he didn’t seem sickly despite his heartbeat being visible through his chest. His hands had unnaturally long fingers and thickly growing nails you had difficulty clipping, same with his feet.

Despite his fast physical development he didn‘t seem to want any solid food, only hanging off your chest to feed whenever Kabuto brought him back to you. He didn‘t talk, just grabbed for your chest the way he saw his father do all the time. It always made your stomach feel hot and cold with disgust.

So when the boy didn‘t show up one day, it made you pace in your room like a distressed animal in a cage. After months of the same routine you couldn‘t handle the sudden change. You pushed out of your room, into the empty hallway. Your anxiety spiked with each step shooting cold aches up your bare feet. Orochimaru never wavered from his usual schedule but you prayed to whatever power was higher than Orochimaru himself that today was the first day even for that.

You tried every door, checked every corridor and peeked into every room until a wave of cold air hit you in the face upon opening a creaking door. You heard shuffling inside and dared to push the door open wide. The room was big and the floor laid out with rotting hay. In a corner sat a hunched figure, black hair cascading down the back and pooling on the floor. Your words were lodged in your throat as your son craned his neck around at a painful looking angle to catch your eyes. His face was smeared with red, glistening around the mouth and dripping off the jaw as his hands palmed a half skinned rat.

You took a step back as his hands slowly moved the feast back to his face, pushing his open mouth back into the stomach of the rodent. Your back hit resistance, smooth fingers braced against your shoulders to stop you against Orochimaru‘s chest. “Why are you so pale? Didn‘t you voice your concern about him not eating anything despite his fast development?“ There was a smile in the voice and you turned your head to look with a haunted shock in your face. “I thought I should ease your worries by introducing meat to the diet.“

You turned slowly, staring at Orochimaru whose eyes were fixed on the scene in the room. “Why would you-? He‘s-“ You stomach was flipping rapidly and you choked on your words, finally convincing Orochimaru to let you got when you doubled over to retch and heave up your last meal on the filthy floor and the front of your own robe. Your stomach acid burned your nose and throat raw, cotton stuffed your ears and you didn‘t even notice what was going on around you, not even when hands held your hair out your face. All you envisioned was your son pulling the spine from that rat‘s body to spit it back out onto the floor littered with fur and smaller bones.

This was a nightmare.

You didn‘t remember passing out but the next time you blinked, you were tucked into an old leather wing chair like a child, the vile smell of vomit fading into mild soap and dusty parchment paper. The room was dimly lit and turned out to be one of Orochimaru‘s many athenea stacked with all sorts of books and scrolls to collect dust.

You shifted, sitting up on the chair and feeling a damp spot where your hair was resting. You were bathed and changed into fresh cotton robes, hair only half dry and letting the collar of your clothes soak up some moisture.

“And what have you learned?“

You flinched hard, turning towards the desk that was lit up by an oil lamp. Orochimaru loomed above a book, his attention now shifting towards you. “Hopefully to stop looking where your eyes don‘t belong.“

Your hand clenched around the coarse blanket. “How could you make him… do that?“ Orochimaru finally shut the book, tapping his nail onto the hardcover. “The goal was to catch the rat without light or special help of weapons. Anything else was just nature.“ And you swallowed because if that was true, if the only rule was to catch that thing with his bare hands, it meant that he had it in himself to do that - had it in him all along, during all the nights he was with you still.

“So he…“ You didn‘t dare finish that sentence, didn‘t know where it was going anyway. You slumped deeper into the chair instead, just watched as Orochimaru approached. “Yes. It- He was a success. You created a miracle. I never doubted you for a second.“ That was a lie and you knew it. All the old tales you remembered contained deceiving serpents with tongues coated in silver. As a kid you wondered why they chose to use snakes, why they all agreed on snakes being evil by nature. But whoever started it was right.

Orochimaru crooked his finger in a beckoning motion, coxing you to stand. The blanket pooled on the floor with your motions, the leather groaned under you as you pushed yourself out of the seat.

“Can I go now?“ The slight tilt of Orochimaru‘s head made you stare at the floor and lower your voice. “Please?“, you rushed out quietly. Orochimaru seated himself in the leather chair, sinking into the cushion. “Do you want to?“

You were torn between simply leaving or waiting for him to elaborate. He always seemed to read your thoughts before you, so he continued. “You don‘t look eager to leave. Is it because you spend your time alone these days?“ You looked at him, shifting on your feet as if your mind was ready to abandon this conversation but your body hasn‘t caught up to the decision yet. “I do things on my own. I read.“

“Do you?“ Your mouth snapped shut. What was he even trying to say? “What do you-“

“Do you regret not leaving when you had the chance?“

“I don‘t-“

“You wouldn‘t get more attention out there. You already made the right choice by turning back.“ A moment of silence stretched through the room and the distance from the chair to the door felt impossibly big now. “I don‘t want attention.“

“Well, you haven‘t been this talkative in months. Why don‘t you sit down?“ Your brows scrunched together, eyes bouncing between Orochimaru and the forgotten oil lamp on the desk. “I don‘t want to sit.“

“Sit down.“ He hasn‘t used this voice with you in ages - harsh, like a whip on your thighs for being disobedient. The last time he talked to you with a threat in his tone, you were just his underling - he was just your master. Whatever you were now, it wasn‘t the same.

And yet, you sat on his leg gingerly, feeling tossed back in time. His hand found the small of your back and his low body temperature seeped through your clothes. “All you needed was attention.“

“This isn‘t- It‘s about the baby. He‘s not an animal so you-“

His other hand rubbed your leg, pushing beneath the robe to squeeze the skin. “You need to teach them early. I can‘t waste such potential but I can compromise if you‘re feeling neglected.“ It was frustrating when he wouldn‘t listen but the familiar feeling of his hand inching towards your core had your stomach twisting into knots and your senses were overwhelmed.

“You‘re wrong.“ Your thighs locked together as you tried to hold onto coherent thoughts. “Stop trying to- to…“ Orochimaru kept up the lazy caresses. “I‘m not doing anything.“ You let out an irritated huff, refusing to let his hand slip between your legs whenever his fingers tried to snake between them. He didn‘t show any anger at being denied, instead he pinched the skin of your thigh until you relented and released the tension in your muscles.

“You‘re trying to feed me lies.“ You squirmed on his leg as Orochimaru massaged into the inside of your thigh. “Do I? Wouldn‘t you say I‘m more knowledgeable than you?“

“That‘s not-“

“I already assured you to find time for you. Do you really want to be difficult?“ Icy fingers brushed over your pubic mound and the sudden touch made you jerk in your seat. “I‘m not.“

“I think you‘re feeding me lies here. Don‘t you know where that leads you by now?“ Skilled fingers drew figure eights right into your clit, the dry pressure bordering onto painful. You bit back a hiss by holding your breath and dug a hand into his pant leg. “This is what you wanted. You could have gotten it much easier by using your words.“

You shook your head, lips pressed into a thin line as you focused on a particular stack of books. “No? It‘s certainly what you stayed here for, isn‘t it?“ Again, you wanted to deny but the reason why you did stay slipped your mind. You knew he ordered you to but there was no consequence to leaving, was there? He has always been the more intelligent one, always walked away as the winner of an argument even with Kabuto.

Your lack of response was understood as resigning, as always. So Orochimaru manhandled your back against his chest and your legs spread out over his own. “I- I didn‘t come for this“, you tried as Orochimaru fished a vial of amber liquid from one of his pockets. You watched slender fingers unstop the vial, tipping it into his open palm. He spread the oil in his hand, going in to cup your pussy with his slicked hand. The oil was still cold enough to make you suck in your breath but the sensation it left on your skin was like fresh sparkling water. Every bit of skin it touched felt warm and tingly.

“You came here because you felt neglected.“ That wasn‘t how you remembered it like. His fingers smeared the oil through your folds and you had trouble figuring the rest out. Your head dropped with a soft gasp as two long fingers pushed inside. “No, I-“

“Yes.“ His voice was pressing, maybe because his face was right by your ear to peek over your shoulder. “You came here and asked for my time like a stray dog.“ His fingers crooked inside you, dragging and scraping against your walls with every hand movement. You moaned, jerking in his lap as his fingertips passed over your sweet spot every other thrust. You held onto his sleeve like a lifeline. The oil was almost not necessary now that you were dripping down his hand but something told you this burning in your gut and the fog in your head wasn‘t supposed to be there.

Your head fell back against his shoulder, legs shaking and toes flexing. “Can‘t- I can‘t…“ Your robe was sticking to your skin with sweat already. “But you asked for it. So you‘ll take it.“ A third finger slid inside and he pressed in impossibly deep. “Didn‘t… Did I?“

Your eyes fluttered open, unaware you even closed them. His other hand stroked your cheek, pushing strands of hair out your face. “You did.“ You couldn‘t argue anymore, not with his fingers buried deep in your pussy and the aphrodisiac in the oil rushing you to your peak. Your head lulled to the side, hiding your face in his neck and puffing hot gasps and whines against his skin. It was all you could do since you ask for it in the first place.

[youshouldhavepaidattentiondad]

Time Stands Still

Ao3

Entry #2 for the @hatchetfield-bang! The OCs in the story below are mine :3

Summary: While on an assignment in a small town in Florida, John meets the man who will one day become his husband.

Florida.

Of course it had to be fucking Florida.

Sweat practically drips off John's brow as he walks down the street. The humidity in the air makes him feel as though he's being slowly smothered by a very damp blanket.

He can handle it though. He has to be able to handle it. This is his first undercover solo mission since being recruited for the Special Unit: Paranormal Extraterrestrial Interdimensional Phenomenon. He needs to prove himself to all the higher ups who think he's just some young upstart.

Which, to be fair, he is.

At 25, he's the youngest to be recruited into P.E.I.P. He's heard all the sneers, seen all the side-eyes, knows people think he's too young, too green. This is his chance-

His sudden collision breaks him out of his internal monologue. Stumbling back, he looks up at whatever he just ran into.

"You alright, man?" A gentle, slightly twangy drawl asks him.  The voice belongs to a tall man with sharp features. Long, dark hair falls over his shoulders, past the nonexistent sleeves of his tank top. There's paint splattered across his ripped jeans. 

John remembers to breathe. He's in the South, after all. 

"Yeah, I'm all good. Sorry, I didn't see you there." He chuckles slightly.

That makes the man give a good-natured laugh. He glances to the side before jerking his head in that direction.

John looks over to see a local drive-in restaurant. Red picnic tables sit under a pavilion of sorts. The shade seems to beckon to him,  to get out of this blasted sunlight.

"Good place to get some ice cream. It's where I was headed actually." The man gives an easy going grin. "Care to join me, stranger?"

Oh, that sounds amazing. "Sure." 

They head toward the walk-up window. John scans the letterboard menu before the window opens.

A teenage girl peers out. "Hey, Russ," She greets the man with John familiarly. "How ya doin'?"

"Doin' well, Amber, and yourself?"

"Pretty good. You gettin' your usual?" Amber questions as she holds up a notepad, pen poised to write

"Yeah, that'll work," Russ gives her a grin, "That and whatever this guy wants."

Amber's round blue eyes land on John. Her eyebrows raise as she looks him over. "Oh, a new face in town. What can I get for you, sir?"

John isn't sure how he feels about being called 'sir.' It feels wrong, he's still young. He's not even a rank worthy of being called "sir.' "Um, a strawberry milkshake."

"You got it." Amber pops the gum she's chewing. "What size? We got small, medium, large, and jumbo." She points up with her pen, where the cups are posted above the window to show their size. 

"A medium is fine," John says politely.

She nods. "That'll be three-fifty, Russ."

Russ reaches into the backpack slung over his shoulders and pulls out a wallet. He slips out a five and passes it to Amber. "Don't need change."

Lighting up, Amber nods. "I'll bring it out to y'all when it's ready!" She declares before closing the window. 

Chuckling fondly, Russ leads the way to one of the picnic tables.

"So, she was friendly," John says awkwardly once they're seated across from each other.

"That's just how Amber is," Russ says with a shrug, "She's a good kid. She graduates next year. Plans on going to nursing school."

John blinks. He hesitates slightly before asking his next question. "How do you know that?"

That earns him a small laugh from Russ. "It's a small town. Everybody knows everybody," he explains, "Her mom was my first grade teacher. My sister used to babysit Amber. I work at the high school as an art teacher."

A small smile of disbelief curls John's lips. "That's crazy," he says, "I'm from a small town and we don't all seem to know each other like that."

"Y'all's definition of small must be different than ours," Russ teases, "Where you from anyway, stranger?"

"A little town up in Michigan called Hatchetfield," John explains, trying to ignore the flutter in his chest at the way Russ calls him ‘stranger’. "Though, based on this-" He waves his hand, as if gesturing to the entire town they're in,  "You'd probably think it was a city."

Russ laughs again. "It got a mall? If it's got a mall, it's definitely a city."

Scratching the back of his head sheepishly, John admits, "Well, yeah, but it's not a very big mall-"

Russ' laugh echoes slightly from how loud it is.

"What'cha laughin' 'bout, Russ?" Amber asks as she walks out onto the pavilion, carrying a tray.

"We got a city slicker on our hands," Russ says, voice shaking with mirth. Grinning, he sits up a little straighter as Amber approaches them.

"Got a banana split for you,  Russ," She says as she sets down a massive sundae in front of him.  "And a strawberry shake for the city slicker," She giggles as she passes John the cup and a straw.

John's face and ears feel hot. "Thanks," he mutters as he begins peeling the wrapper from the straw.

"Let me know if y'all need anything else," Amber says as she sets a plastic spoon and a stack of napkins in front of Russ. She gives them another smile before heading back inside.

Russ picks up his spoon, immediately digging into his split. John slides his straw into the cup before taking a tentative sip.

"Holy shit, that's good," he mutters.

Glancing up,  Russ shoots him another smile. "It's cause they use fresh local strawberries. 'Sweetest strawberries this side of heaven.' Least that's what they print on the newspapers."

"Do they really?" John asks. He shrugs before he gets an answer and takes another sip of his shake.

The two sit quietly, the only sounds coming from the cars flying by on the road.

"What made you decide to be an art teacher?" John finally asks, his curiosity getting the better of him. 

“Not much else to do with an art degree,” Russ replies with a crooked grin, “Least not like in a small town like Arkets. What about you, stranger? What brings a Michigan boy like yourself so far down south?”

John hopes Russ keeps calling him ‘stranger.’ There’s something enchanting, almost endearing about it.

When asked about his work, John finally comes back to his senses, suddenly feeling heat rush to his face. He quickly takes another long sip of his shake.

“Military,” he finally says, “Got a temporary assignment at the base nearby.”

Russ nods. His smile dims slightly at the information. “So I take it you won’t be hanging around very long,” he comments.

“We’ll see what happens. With the military, you can never tell how long things will take.”

Silence fills the space between them again.

“So what kind of art do you do?” John asks.

That makes Russ’ face light up again. “All kinds. I mostly like painting and sculptures though. If you have some free time, you should let me paint you.”

Embarrassment immediately at those words. John almost chokes on his shake as he feels the blood rush to his cheeks and ears. “Why would you want to paint me?”

“Cause you’re handsome,” Russ states as though it’s obvious, “‘Sides, if I get a painting of you, that would give me a reference for a sculpture.” He laughs heartily before taking another bite of his sundae. “You might have just become my new muse, just so you know.”

“Well, I’m flattered.”

Too soon, the ice cream is gone. John stands regretfully. “I should get back to my lodgings,” he says, despite the fact that he could sit out here talking to Russ until nightfall. “See you around, Russ?”

“See ya around, stranger.” Russ grins at him as he also stands, extending a hand for John to shake.

John takes it, swallowing slightly at how firm Russ’ grip is.

He doesn’t necessarily run back to the small apartment P.E.I.P. has rented for him, but he does move rather hastily, racing up the stairs to his door.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he demands of himself as he stares at his reflection in the small mirror over the bathroom sink. “You’re here for work, not to get googly eyed over some guy.”

His hands tighten on the edges of the sink as he leans in closer to his reflection. “You’re here to prove yourself, MacNamara. Not to get your heart broken.” He grimaces as he remembers where he is. “Or get yourself killed.”

He pushes off the sink, the glass over the face of his watch glinting in the light.

It’s almost a week before he sees Russ again. This time, it’s at the local grocery store. John pushes his cart down one of the aisles, debating whether or not he should get some chips when he hears a voice like warm honey behind him.

“Well, hiya, stranger,” Russ greets him, leaning against the handle of his own cart. “Fancy runnin’ into you here.”

“Have you been trying to run into me?” John questions with a smile as he turns to look at him.

“Who can say?” Russ winks. “You been busy with your work stuff?”

Yes, John has actually. Not that he can give Russ any of the details of his mission. “Yeah I have,” he answers evasively. “School’s out for summer, right? What have you been doing in your free time?”

“Art,” Russ answers simply, “There’s a summer program at the local library, I host an art class of some kind for the kids each week. Turnout’s been great.” He glances at John’s cart. “D’ya like beer?”

“Uh, yeah?” John says, taken off guard by the sudden change in topic. “Why?”

“Why don’t you come over to my place this weekend?” Russ invites. “We can have a few beers, hangout, maybe let me sketch you.”

John laughs, despite his heart fluttering like a rogue butterfly in his chest. “You’re still just trying to make art of me, aren’t you?”

“I’ll never tell.” Russ grins widely. “So what do you say?”

At the sight of that smile, John forgets the talk he gave himself days earlier. “Sure.”

At that answer, Russ grabs his hand at the same time he pulls a pen from his pocket. With a click, he’s suddenly writing his address on the back of John’s hand in black ink. “See you at six Friday night,” he says as he releases John’s hand.

John can feel the heat in his cheeks and ears. “Yeah, see you then,” he agrees.

Friday night rolls around to find John standing outside of a small house. The address has long been washed from his hand but instead found itself burned into his brain. Taking a deep breath, he knocks.

It takes several moments, long enough that John begins to fear he’s at the wrong house, when the door opens.

There stands Russ, in a raggedy tank top and cutoff denim shorts, with his hair tied back and paint smears on his forearms. “Sorry, lost track of time,” he says with a sheepish grin. “Come in.”

Chuckling, John follows him into the house. Russ leads him into the kitchen.

“Hungry?” Russ asks as he pulls a couple beers from the fridge, passing one to John.

“A little bit,” John confesses as he takes the cold bottle. He’s starving actually, having been too nervous about this all day to eat anything.

Humming, Russ opens the fridge door again to look inside. “I could whip us up something quick. You allergic to anything?”

“You don’t have to cook,” John says hurriedly, “We can order pizza or something. You don’t have to go through all that trouble for me.”

Russ looks at him seriously. “It’s no trouble, stranger. Now, you allergic to anything?”

“...no,” John finally relents with a small smile. He twists open his beer and moves to sit at the kitchen table while Russ gets to work.

The kitchen quickly fills with the most delicious smell. John’s stomach growls and he doesn’t even have it in him to be ashamed about it.

“Just a little hungry, huh?” Russ teases him as he flips the burger patties in the frying pan on the stovetop.

“Hush. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a home cooked meal?” John asks.

“No, I don’t. Why don’t you tell me?” Russ answers as he stirs the onions he’s been caramelizing.

John has to think about it. “Probably Christmas last year? When I got to go visit my parents on leave,” he admits. “I can’t cook, so it’s takeout food for me.”

“Really?” Russ asks in disbelief. “You tellin’ me a handsome fella like yourself ain’t got someone back home? Someone to cook and clean and all those old fashioned stereotypes.”

With a laugh, John shakes his head. “No. I don’t think there’s anyone I’d want to make into a wife, anyway.”

Oh, that was gutsy. He almost regrets saying it, but then he sees the corners of Russ’ mouth perk up in a slight smile.

A few minutes later, a beautiful patty melt with a handful of chips on the side slides in front of him on the table. Russ sits opposite with his own plate and beer.

Eagerly, John lifts the sandwich and takes as big a bite as he can. “Oh my god,” he mutters through a mouthful before he resumes chewing.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Russ chuckles before digging into his own food.

There’s not much to say when there’s delicious food in front of you. Too soon, John’s sandwich and chips are gone, as is his beer. “That was amazing,” he tells Russ sincerely, “You’re a great cook.”

“Thank you kindly.” Russ sips his beer before noticing John’s is gone. “Need another?”

“I can get it,” John assures him as he stands, making his way over to the fridge. “So is this when you bust out the art supplies and make me model?” he teases as he rejoins Russ.

“Can’t make you do nothin’,” Russ says with a laugh, “Strong military guy like yourself, you’d kick my ass if I tried.” He tilts his head as he smiles at John. “Would still like to sketch you though, if you’re up for it.”

John considers this as he drinks his beer. “Yeah, I think I am,” he agrees. “Where do you want me?”

Russ lights up at that. He quickly stands from his chair and leads John into the living room. “Sit right there,” he directs John, pointing to an armchair next to the window. “I’ll be right back.”

When Russ returns, he has a sketchbook and a pencil. He settles himself on the arm of the couch, sitting cross legged. “Comfortable?” He asks John as he flips open the book. “You’re gonna have to be still for a bit.”

“I’m good,” John says as he leans back, letting himself relax against the chair. “You work your magic or whatever you artists do.”

Russ smirks at that. “Oh, it’s definitely magic,” he assures, twirling the pencil between his fingers before bringing it to the paper.

John tries his best not to move. At times, he finds himself holding his breath. He can do this, he’s been put through torture simulations, where he has to remain stoic and not break composure.

Though, he has to admit, this is different.

Russ’s eyes dart up from the page to look at him and John swallows softly as their eyes meet.

It’s different and definitely more difficult.

Close to a half hour later, Russ slides off the arm of the couch to approach John. “Whaddaya think?” he asks as he presents his sketch.

“Holy shit.” John’s eyes widen as he takes in the drawing of himself. “I think you gave yourself some artistic liberties,” he tries to joke as he feels his cheeks heat up. “There’s no way I look that good.”

“Give yourself some credit,” Russ chuckles. He brings a hand up to sheepishly rub the back of his neck. “So this is a bit awkward to ask now, seein’ as I’ve got you at my place and all, but what’s your name, stranger?”

Oh right. They never formally exchanged names.

“John,” he finally responds when he finds his voice, “John MacNamara.”

Russ gives him a crooked little grin, “Well, it’s nice to meet ya, John.”

“Nice to meet you too, Russ,” John says with his own smile.

It hangs in the air for a moment as they gaze at one another. 

There’s an electricity to the air around them, its crackling practically audible. 

John’s not sure he wants to put a name to it. He said he wasn’t going to do it, he’s here for a mission-

He’s not sure which one of them moves first. Russ’ sketchbook ends up on the couch, his pencil on the floor, as they kiss. John has to stand on his toes a bit and Russ has to lean down, but it doesn’t take away from the moment.

When they break apart, Russ grins broadly at him, resting his forehead against John’s tenderly. “You’re gonna be the death of me, soldier boy,” he whispers fondly before kissing John again.

Over the next few weeks, when John’s not working he finds himself at Russ’ house. He models for Russ to paint. Russ cooks them meals. They watch movies and drink beer. They makeout on the couch like they’re teenagers.

John especially likes that part.

One Saturday night, John sits at the kitchen table while Russ stands at the stove. John watches him with a soft smile as he sips on his beer.

“Why don’cha take a picture, darlin’?” Russ teases as he glances over at John as he stirs the sauce he has simmering.

“Don’t have a camera,” John retorts with a smirk.

Russ laughs at that, shaking his head. He sets the spoon on the counter before walking over to John, ducking down to steal a kiss. “You’re ridiculous.” He straightens up to walk back over to check on the pasta.

“You love it.” Heat flares slightly in John’s cheeks as he says the ‘L’ word.

“Yeah, I do.” Russ shoots him that crooked grin that John has become so fond of. 

John’s heart almost stops at that.

Before he can recover, there’s a knock at the door. The two of them share a glance before Russ exits the kitchen to go answer it.

John hears the door open, followed by a chipper voice. He can make out Russ talking. The words are drowned out by footsteps.

Before John can move, a young woman walks into the kitchen. She has dark hair like Russ, with round, friendly eyes. She stops when she sees John, her mouth dropping open slightly.

“Hello,” John greets politely before taking another sip of beer.

The woman turns to look at Russ, an accusing look in her eyes. John feels his heart drop, his grip tightening on the bottle in his hand.

“You didn’t tell me you were seeing someone!” the woman exclaims with a playful slap to Russ’ arm.

“How do you know he’s not just a friend?” Russ jests, giving John a reassuring smile.

The woman giggles, gesturing wildly to John. “I have eyes. He’s hot!”

John relaxes at the exchange, though he does blush at the woman’s words.

“Calm down, Lori,” Russ tells her, bringing a hand up to pat the top of her head. “You said you had something to tell me?”

Lori’s eyes twinkle. She presents her left hand with a flourish. On her ring finger, a diamond sparkles in the kitchen’s lights. “Rich proposed!”

“Congratulations!” Russ says happily, wrapping her in a tight hug.

Returning the hug just as fiercely, Lori giggles again. “I’m so happy, Russie.” She pulls back, glancing over at John again. “Now, do you have something to tell me?”

Chuckling, Russ shakes his head. “Impatient as always. That’s John. John, this is my little sister, Lori.”

“Nice to meet you,” John says with a little wave.

“Nice to meet ya as well!” Lori gives a brilliant smile before looking at Russ again. “Well, I’ll leave you two alone then,” she says playfully, “I’ll give you a call tomorrow so I can tell you more about it!” She gives Russ another hug and waves to John before disappearing.

As soon as John hears the door close, John smiles at Russ. “She seemed nice.”

“She’s great,” Russ agrees. His smile dims as he returns to the stove. “Just too bad I’ll have to miss the wedding. I’ll probably just take her and Rich out to dinner to celebrate sometime.”

Frowning, John sets down his beer. “Why would you have to miss the wedding?”

“Because our parents will be there,” Russ says quietly as he picks up a spoon again.

The weight of those words hits John. He sits silently as Russ goes about draining the pasta. “I take it your parents…” he trails off, not quite sure how to put it into words.

“Yeah, no. Not at all.” Russ shakes his head. “That… that wasn’t a pretty night. Least I was smart enough to wait till I had my own place to come out,” he comments jokingly, trying to lighten the mood. 

John stands, crossing the room so he can rub Russ’ back. “I’m sorry.”

Shrugging, Russ turns to give John a quick kiss. “I’m doin’ pretty well without them, anyhow,” he reasons, “Plus, I still got Lori on my side, so it could be worse.” He gently nudges John back as he grabs an oven mitt. “What about your parents?” he asks as he opens the oven door.

“My parents know and accept me,” John says simply. He’s not going to mention that in almost all their letters to him they ask when he’s going to bring home a nice boy.

Russ sets the tray on a dishtowel on the counter. “That’s good. I’m glad.” He turns to grab plates from a nearby cabinet. “So if this keeps going good between us, I would meet them?” he asks, his teasing tone back.

Laughing, John settles at the table again as Russ plates their food. “If my parents knew about you, I couldn’t stop them from meeting you.”

He hears Russ chuckle at that. “Speaking of things going good between us,” Russ comments as he carries over two steaming plates of chicken parmesan. “I’m gonna be a little bit old fashioned and ask if you’d like to be my boyfriend.”

“I-” Caught off guard by the question, John flushes. “Yes. Obviously, yes.”

Grinning, Russ steals a kiss as he sets the plate in front of him.1

Two months later, school is back in session. Meaning John can't spend all of his free time hanging out at Russ' place. 

Sure, they have the evenings and weekends together, but it doesn't feel like enough time. John doesn't think there is such a thing as enough time with Russ.

One Friday, when he arrives at the base for work, he's quickly escorted to the Officer in Command's office. Instead of the base's officer though, he's greeted with his own commanding officer from P.E.I.P.

John quickly snaps into a salute when he sees him. 

"At ease, John," Colonel Cross says with a soft chuckle. He stands from the desk, walking around it to extend a hand to John.

John relaxes, shaking the colonel's hand. 

"I'll be honest with you, John, a lot of people didn't think you'd pull this mission off," Cross admits as they release hands, "But not only did you get all the intel we needed, you also managed to do so undetected. Not many first year agents can say the same about their first missions."

Pride swells in John's chest. "Thank you, sir."

The bubble bursts a moment later as he realizes what this means. "So I'm headed back to Hatchetfield?"

"You ship out first thing Monday morning," Cross confirms, "The general wanted you back today, but I convinced him to let you have the weekend. Give you the chance t say goodbye to any friends you might have made."

Swallowing softly, John nods. "Understood. Thank you, Colonel Cross."

After that meeting, John ends up back in his apartment, packing his things. He feels like he's on autopilot.

He's going to have to tell Russ. The very thought feels like a lead weight crushing his heart.

It barely takes any time to pack up his scarce belongings. He sits on the floor, staring at the wall in front of him.

Are they going to break up? He guesses if Russ doesn't want to do long distance, that's really the only option. The very idea of things ending makes his chest ache.

With a frustrated groan, he drops his head in his hands. 

That afternoon, after school lets out, he heads to Russ' house. It feels like an eternity before he's knocking on the front door. 

"Hey," Russ greets with that easy-going grin. His smile falters when he sees the look on John's face. "What's wrong, darlin'?"

Shaking his head, John walks inside. He hears the door close behind him. 

"John? You're scarin' me, sweetheart. What's wrong?" Russ asks, worry painting his words. 

Taking a deep breath, John forces himself to turn around. "Got new orders today," he says, trying to keep any emotion from his voice. "I ship out Monday, back to Hatchetfield."

Russ seems to freeze for a moment before he leans back against the door. He studies John for several moments. 

"What does that mean?" Russ finally asks quietly. 

John swallows back the growing lump in his throat. "Whatever you want it to mean." His voice trembles slightly.

There's a pause before Russ' smile reappears. "Then I guess it means you better write me, soldier boy."

A relieved puff of laughter escapes John at that. "God, I love you."

It takes seeing the surprise on Russ' face for John to realize what he just said. Heat floods his face, quickly rushing to his ears as well. 

Before he can try to backtrack, Russ is there, kissing him like his life depends on it. 

"Well, that's a relief," Russ says as they break apart. "Cause I love you too."

Grinning, John pulls him into another kiss.

Sunday morning, John wakes up in Russ' bed to the smell of cinnamon and coffee. Smiling into the pillows, he closes his eyes again.

Just basking.

A few minutes later, he walks out of the bedroom in his boxers and one of Russ' paint splattered shirts. "Good morning."

Russ looks over from where he stands at the stove, grinning immediately at the sight of John in his shirt. "Good mornin' to you, sweetheart."

John heads to the already full coffee pot. Easily, he grabs a mug from one of the cabinets and pours himself a cup. "What're you making?"

"French toast," Russ answers. His sweatpants hang low on his hips and John admires the view as he sips his coffee.

"My favorite," John smiles as he leans back against the counter.

Chuckling, Russ glances back over his bare shoulder. "Makin' it special, just for you,  darlin'."

An easy quiet falls over them, only disturbed by the sizzling of the toast cooking in the pan.

John sips his coffee, watching Russ cook fondly. 

"You're gonna burn holes in my back if you keep that up," Russ jokes as he starts plating their food.

Laughing, John shakes his head. "Well we can't have that, now can we?"

He drifts over to the table, sitting down just as Russ brings the plates over. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Russ kisses him before heading into the pantry. He comes back with a bottle of maple syrup. As he sits, he sets the bottle in front of John.

John grabs the bottle quickly, pouring the maple-y goodness over his French toast. “I’m going to miss this,” he says solemnly as he passes the bottle over to Russ.

A small smile tugs at Russ’ lips. “Me or my cookin’?” he questions as he proceeds to drown his toast in syrup.

“Both. Just this in general, just being with you.” John cuts a piece of toast with his fork and takes the bite. “It’s been amazing.”

One of Russ’ eyebrows raises slightly. “You act like this is goodbye forever. It ain’t.”

Laughing softly, John shakes his head. “You’re right, you’re right.”

The day passes by lazily as they watch movies together on the couch. John finds himself with his head on Russ’ chest, listening to his heartbeat instead of the film. He closes his eyes.

“Gettin’ tired, darlin’?” Russ asks as he rubs John’s back.

“No. Just… just trying to savor this,” John smiles. His eyes open again as he tilts his head up to look at Russ. “I love you.”

Russ returns his smile before leaning down to kiss him. “Love you too, sweetheart.”

As John shifts to get more comfortable, he hears the jingling of his tags. His eyes widen slightly before he sits up. He pulls the chain they're on over his head. "Here. Something to remember me by," he says as he offers the necklace to Russ. 

Russ' eyebrows raise as he takes the necklace, examining the raised lettering. "Don't you need these?"

"I'll request new ones when I get back," John says with a shrug.

Chuckling, Russ pulls the necklace on,  the tags resting over his heart. "Thank you, soldier boy."

Monday morning, well before the sun is up, John's already at the airport, waiting on the plane to start loading. He stares at the runway through the floor to ceiling windows in the terminal.

He already misses Russ.

Hearing the call for active military to board, he stands, duffel bag in hand. He makes his way onto the plane, finding his seat before buckling in for the flight.

When he makes it back to base, he heads straight to his lodgings. His duffel bag gets tossed unceremoniously onto his bed. He heads to his dresser, picking up a notebook, an envelope, and a pen from atop it.

He settles at the small table in the kitchenette and begins writing.

Dear Russ,

I've made it back safely to Hatchetfield. I love our country and my job, but I wish I was still with you.

Maybe one day you can come visit me here. I'd advise you to come during the summer. Being from Florida, I'm not sure how well you'd handle the bitter cold of a Michigan winter.

Be warned though, if you come for a visit, there's a high chance you would have to meet my parents. It is a small town (even if you think it's a city) and we would probably end up running into them.

I know it's barely been a day, but I miss you already. I hope you are doing well. I look forward to receiving a letter from you. 

Love, your soldier boy,

John 

Gently, he tears the page from the notebook before carefully folding it into thirds. He slides the letter into the envelope before sealing it. 

He begins to write Russ' name on the front of the letter, hesitating when he realizes he doesn't know Russ' last name. He never mentioned it. 

John guesses he tries to avoid using it, since it's a tie to the parents who disowned him.

Biting his lip, he writes Russ MacNamara on the front of the envelope. Under it, he fills in the address before putting his own name and address in the upper left corner.

Satisfied and suddenly nervous, he grabs a stamp from the junk drawer and sticks it to the upper right corner.

After posting it at the post office on base, he heads to Colonel Cross' office. 

The colonel looks up from some paperwork as John walks in. "Hey, John."

"Colonel Cross," John greets with a nod. P.E.I.P. seems to be a lot more lax about formalities, but John's strict training from the previous branch he served in hasn't died yet. "I need to request new dog tags."

Cross raises an eyebrow. "That can be arranged. What happened to your other set?"

"I believe I forgot them when I was packing," John lies, trying to ignore how his heart seems to beat louder.

A smirk curls on Cross' lips and John knows he doesn't believe him. "I'll put the order in. You should have them by tomorrow."

John bites back a sigh of relief. "Thank you, sir."

"Not a problem, John."

Every day for the next several days, John checks the small letterbox in front of his lodgings, waiting on a letter from Russ.

Finally, he comes back from duty one day to find two envelopes waiting for him. He chuckles as he sees Russ wrote Russ MacNamara above the return address. He looks at the other envelope, his smile growing slightly as he sees flowing cursive spelling out the name Florence MacNamara.

Once inside, he settles on his bed, setting the letter from his mother aside so he can open the letter from Russ.

Dear John, 

I'm glad to hear you made it back safe, darling. I miss you as well. I could list all the things about you I miss, but I doubt you want a thousand page letter.

I think I'd like to visit Michigan. I've never been outside of Florida, if you can believe that. You're right though. I'd have to acclimate to the cold, so it's best not to start off with it. 

Meeting your parents would be an absolute honor, sweetheart. Especially since they raised such a fine young man.

I'm doing very well, all things considered. The school year is going very well. I've been nominated for Teacher of the Year, which is always touching. Been working on a new piece. It may or may not be of you. You'll just have to wait and see.

I can't wait to hear back from you.  I'll be eagerly awaiting your next letter.

Love,

Russ

P.S. I was tickled that you decided to give me your last name in lieu of my own. I like it.

John grins as he finishes the letter. His fingers itch to write a response but he just sets the letter to the side before picking up the letter from his mom.

My dear son,

I hope this letter finds you well. I have tried calling, but since you didn't answer, I'm going to guess you have been gone on orders.

Things are going well here. Your father and I are going on a short trip to visit your grandmother. This letter should find you after we make it back.

Please give me a call when you are able. I know you're an adult and a military man, but I am still your mother and I worry.

Love,

Mom

Sighing fondly, John makes his way onto the kitchenette to pick up the phone from the wall before dialing his parents' number.

There's a few rings before a warm, familiar voice says, "MacNamara residence, Florence speaking."

"Hey, Ma," John says as he leans against the wall.

There's a gasp, quickly followed by, "John! Oh, honey, it’s so great to hear from you! How have you been?"

"I'm good, Ma. Got back from Florida about a week ago," John responds.

"Florida? That sounds like it was lovely. Were you there for work?"

"I was," he confirms, "It was nice, though I'm glad to be back. I wasn't too fond of the humidity."

He hears his mom laugh at that. "I'm glad to hear it, honey. Anything new going on?"

Damn mothers and their innate ability to know when something has happened.

"Yeah, actually." John toys with the phone cord for a few seconds before clearing his throat awkwardly. "I started seeing someone."

What can only be described as a happy little shriek comes through the receiver. John actually pulls the phone away at the noise with a wince.

"John! That's such big news! Tell me all about him, honey!"

Feeling himself blushing, John chuckles as a grin spreads across his face. "His name's Russ. I met him down in Florida. He's an art teacher at a high school."

"Does he treat you well?" She asks, suddenly sounding serious. "When do we get to meet him?"

"Meet who?" John hears his dad ask in the background. 

"John's boyfriend, Russ," His mom responds, her voice slightly muted.

There's a bit of shuffling on the other end of the line before his dad's voice comes through clearer. "Congratulations, son."

"Thanks, Dad."

"Nathan, give me back the phone!"

"Hey, I'm curious too!"

"You act like I won't tell you what he tells me!"

John laughs fondly at his parents' shenanigans. "We've talked about him coming up here to visit, but nothing's set in stone yet. He did say it would be an honor to meet you."

"Aw, he sounds like a gentleman," his mom says appreciatively.

"Where's he at if he's coming up to visit?" His dad asks, sounding confused. 

"Florida. John met him down there while he was there for work," his mom explains. 

John stifles another laugh, ignoring how he's starting to feel homesick from his parents' exchange. "Yeah. He's in Florida, working as an art teacher," he fills in his dad.

"A teacher, huh? That's a fine profession," his dad responds. John can imagine him nodding as he says it. "Cece, stop trying to take the phone!"

"I still have questions!"

John shakes his head, not that either of them can see. "Actually, I just got off work and desperately need a shower. I just wanted to call so Ma would stop worrying."

"She does worry," his dad agrees. 

"Of course I worry! He's my baby boy, no matter how old he gets! We won't keep you though, honey. We love you!"

"Love you both too," John bids, "Bye."

"Goodbye," his parents say in unison.

John hangs up the phone with a smile before heading off to shower.

The next couple months fall into a comfortable rhythm. John and Russ exchange letters, filling each other in on the details of their lives.

Well, most of them. John can't tell Russ much about his work given the nature of it. Russ doesn't ask too much about it, which John is grateful for. 

Everything is going smoothly. 

Until one morning, John gets pulled into the colonel’s office, alongside a couple other agents.

“Good morning, you three,” Colonel Cross greets them. A serious expression has settled on his features, unlike his usual warm and welcoming smile. “You’ve been selected for an urgent mission.”

All three of them salute. “When do we ship out, sir?” The agent on John’s left asks.

“Immediately,” Colonel Cross responds, “I’ll escort you to the hangar and debrief you on the way.”

John doesn’t allow the panic to set in. He can’t. So he listens to the colonel’s briefing as they march down the hall. He straps himself into the seat of the plane.  He comforts himself with the reasoning that with a mission this important, it probably has a time restraint. It shouldn’t take more than a day.

A day turns into a week.

A week turns into a month.

It’s close to three months later when they make it back to P.E.I.P. HQ. Tired, hungry, and haggard, they tromp out of the plane into the hangar.

“Well done, you three,” Colonel Cross greets them, looking far more relaxed than the last time they saw him. “Head back to your lodgings. You’ll have a week off to recoup before you return to your normal duties.”

They all salute him, albeit wearily, before splitting off to head back to their homes.

John lives the closest to the hangar. As soon as it’s in sight, he makes a beeline for the mailbox. His heart drops when he opens it and sees the stack of letters inside.

He snatches the letters before hurrying into his room. He settles at the table before quickly opening the letter on top, guessing it’s the most recent. It’s dated from two weeks ago.

Dear John,

I’m not going to lie, you’re worrying me, darling. It’s been almost three months since I’ve heard from you. I don’t know if you’ve just gotten busy, don’t want to hear from me anymore, or if the worst has happened and you’ll never see this letter.

John’s heart drops at the implication. He quickly scans the rest of the letter, noting the phone number under Russ’ signature.

Not caring about the long-distance cost, he grabs the phone off the wall and quickly dials in the number.

It feels like the phone rings forever before Russ picks up with a “Hello?”

“Russ, oh my god, it’s John, I’m so sorry,” John says immediately.

“John?” Russ says, sounding almost disbelieving. In the background, John hears a soft thump. “Darlin’, are you alright? What happened? You didn’t respond to none of my letters-”

“I know,” John interrupts, “I know and I’m sorry. Something with work came up and I wasn’t able to write. I’m sorry.”

There’s no sound on the other end for a long moment. For a split-second, John thinks the call dropped or Russ hung up on him.

“John, I thought you died,” Russ’ voice finally comes through the speaker. “I had no way of knowin’. I was fuckin’ terrified.” Another pause. “What exactly do you do for the military, soldier boy?”

A small laugh escapes John at the familiar nickname. “I’m…” He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t think I can say,” he admits, “It’s a special unit. I get sent out for missions. That’s why I was in Florida for so long.

“I have the next week off though,” he changes the subject, “I’ll be able to call every day-”

“Wait, what?” Russ sounds confused. “You can’t just drop somethin’ like that and move on like it’s nothin’.”

“Russ, it’s not something I can talk about,” John sighs, “It’s part of the job. It’s part of me at this point. I can’t promise I can always tell you where I’m going or where I’ll be. Things happen at the drop of a hat here.” He hesitates for a moment, biting his lip. “What I can promise is that I’ll always come back to you. No matter what.”

More silence.

“Russ? Honey, talk to me,” John says worriedly.

“... I’m sorry, John, I just need some time to think about all of this,” Russ replies, suddenly sounding exhausted, “Decide if that’s somethin’ I can deal with, okay?”

“...okay. I understand,” John barely whispers, trying to ignore the pain in his chest at those words. “Just… reach out to me whenever you’ve decided, alright?" He gives Russ his number, making sure he has it down correctly before speaking again. "I love you."

“I love you too, darlin’. Bye.”

“Bye.” John hangs up the phone. He can feel tears burning at his eyes and blinks furiously to get rid of the sensation. He stares miserably at the stack of letters in front of him as his fingers trace over Russ’ signature.

The next few days feel torturous. John starts writing letters, only to cross out the words he puts down. What can he do? Beg? Plead for Russ not to end things between them?

He doesn't want to guilt Russ into staying with him. That wouldn't be fair to either of them.

The evening of the third day since his return, his phone rings. John practically vaults off his bed to rush to answer it. "MacNamara speaking." He tries to ignore how his heart attempts to beat out of his chest.

"Listen to you,  soldier boy, soundin' all official-like." Russ' familiar drawl drips through the speaker, sweet as honey.

John smiles. "Well, I never know who's going to call," he replies before asking, "How have you been?"

"I've been alright," Russ replies, "Been doin' a lot of thinkin'."

"Yeah?" John asks, trying to ignore the way his stomach drops. "So have I."

There's a soft chuckle from the other end of the line. "What'cha been thinkin' 'bout, darlin'?"

Taking a deep breath, John answers, "That I don't want to force you into anything you don't want."

"Well, here's the thing, John," Russ says with a slight hum, "I want you. If I have to share you with Lady Liberty, I guess I can deal with that."

A huff of relieved laughter escapes John at those words. He slumps slightly against the kitchen wall as his fingers tangle in the phone cord. "It's purely platonic between Lady Liberty and myself, I promise."

Russ' warm, familiar laugh drifts through the speaker. "I'm glad to hear it. You wanna hear what else I've been thinkin' 'bout?"

"Of course."

"Been thinkin' about headin' up that way for a visit," Russ says, "Spring break is in March. It'd be the perfect time for me to visit. If you can get away from work, of course."

“Give me the dates and I’ll go put in a leave request right now,” John says immediately, already reaching for a pen and paper. "Book a hotel and everything."

"Glad you're on top of it, darlin'," Russ replies before telling him the dates. "You go get that request put in and I'll talk to you later, alright? I love you."

"Love you too."

John doesn't quite book it across the base, but anyone who saw him would probably say he was jogging at the very least.

He slides to a stop outside of the colonel's office door, taking a moment to compose himself before knocking.

"It's open."

John opens the door to see Colonel Cross sitting at his desk, casually playing on a GameBoy.

"Oh, hey, John," the colonel greets as his thumbs tap the buttons on his handheld console. "What do you need?"

John blinks, once again not used to the seemingly laid back culture of P.E.I.P. "I wanted to submit a leave request," he answers.

That makes Cross set down his GameBoy. "You know, in the time you've been here, I don't think you've ever taken leave, except when we made you," he admits as he pulls out a form and offers it to John.

"Well…" John trails off with an awkward chuckle as he begins filling out the form.

"It's a girl, isn't it?" The colonel guesses with a smirk. "The same one you 'forgot' your other set of tags with?"

John feels his face and ears heat up. "Something like that," he mutters as he hands the completed form back to the colonel.

Humming, Cross raises an eyebrow as he looks over the form. "Well, if it's something like that, you might want to keep it quiet," he advises John, "We might be a more progressive branch, but that doesn't mean all of our members share the same beliefs."

"Yes sir, I understand," John says solemnly.

Cross brings down a stamp on the form, leaving a bright red approved mark across it. "Enjoy your leave when it comes around," he smiles as he files the form.

"Thank you, sir."

A couple months later, John stands in the airport in Clivesdale, wishing not for the first time that Hatchetfield would build its own airport so he wouldn't have to come here.

He's distracted from his Clivesdale hating thoughts by the sight of Russ walking toward him,  rolling a suitcase behind him. 

John grins as he takes a step towards him,  fighting every urge to just fling himself into the man's arms. "Hey," he greets, slightly breathless.

"Hey yourself, soldier boy," Russ replies with that easy going grin John has missed so much. He peers around John, face dropping slightly at the sight outside. "Holy shit, is that snow? In March?" He asks in disbelief.

Laughing, John nods as he begins leading him towards the door. "You're probably gonna need something warmer than that sweater," he teases as he steps outside.

Russ hisses at the cold, already shivering. "Yeah, probably," he agrees.

John guides him to a small, green pickup truck, opening the passenger door for Russ to climb in. 

"Thanks, darlin'," Russ says through chattering teeth as he hurries to get out of the wind.

Chuckling fondly, John heads around to get into the driver's side. He cranks the truck, quickly turning on the heat settings for Russ' sake.

"So this is your hometown?" Russ asks as they begin driving.

"Fuck no. This is Clivesdale," John answers with a scowl. "Fucking Chemists."

Russ laughs at that. "Ah, town rivalry?" He asks knowingly.

Muttering about how much he hates Clivesdale, John simply nods.

When they reach the Nantucket Bridge, John points out the windshield. "That's Hatchetfield," he declares, a bit of pride shining through his voice.

"Ah, yes, the city," Russ notes, cracking up. 

"Stop it, it's just a small town," John protests. Before Russ can rebuttal, John speaks again. "Hey, so just a quick heads up. I told my parents you were visiting."

Russ raises an eyebrow. "Let me guess, they want to meet me?"

"Well yes. But they invited us over for dinner tonight," John admits, "Is that alright?"

"More than," Russ assures him. "What time are we supposed to be there?"

John turns into the parking lot of the hotel they're staying in.  "Six. Well, Ma said dinner's being served at six, so we might want to get there around five-thirty."

They get checked into the hotel. Once they're in the room, as soon as Russ' suitcase has been set aside, John's in his arms.

Chuckling, Russ returns the embrace, kissing the top of John’s head. "I missed you too, darlin'," he teases lightly.

John doesn't reply, too busy breathing in the scent of Russ' cologne to answer. He finally pulls back to give him a grin before popping on his toes to give him a tender kiss.

"We should get you some warmer clothes before we go to my parents'," he says as he regretfully pulls away.

Russ nods, pulling John in again for another playful kiss. "Sounds like a plan, darlin'. We goin' to the mall?" He smirks, just barely holding back a laugh.

Rolling his eyes, John gently pushes him away. "You're never going to let that die, are you?"

"Nope." Russ gives him that crooked grin loves so much. "Never."

Five-thirty sharp, John pulls into his parents driveway before parking his truck.

Next to him, bundled up in a new puffer coat and hat, Russ looks nervous.

"Hey," John says soothingly, reaching out to take one of Russ' hands. "They're going to love you."

"Of course they will, I'm a catch," Russ tries to joke. He sighs as a hand comes up to brush back his hair. "I gotta be honest with you, John. I've never done this before, the whole 'meet the parents' thing."

John hums as he considers this, lacing their fingers together. "First time for everything, right?" He leans over to press a kiss to Russ' cheek.

Chuckling, Russ turns his head to give him a proper kiss. "Right." He takes a deep breath. "C'mon, let's go ahead in before I try to run."

On their walk to the front door, Russ' grip on John's hand tightens with every step they take. By the time they make it onto the porch, John can hardly feel his fingers.

Before either of them get the chance to knock, the door flies open.

An older man stands in the doorway, a wide grin on his bearded face. Green eyes twinkle as he steps back, waving them in. "Come in, boys! Get out of the cold!"

Grinning, John leads Russ inside. "Hey, Dad," he greets, finally releasing Russ' hand so he can pull off his coat.

He can hear Russ swallow anxiously before he extends a hand to man. "You must be Mr. MacNamara. I'm Russ, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"Please, call me Nathan," John's dad replies as he takes Russ' hand, shaking it vigorously. "It's great to meet you as well, Russ."

"Are the boys here?" A lilting voice calls from another room.

John hangs up his coat before gesturing for Russ to do the same. "Yeah, Ma, we're here!"

As Russ hangs up his coat next to John’s, a petite woman comes in,  wiping her hands on the apron she's wearing. "John, honey!" She smiles, the grin identical to the one on John's face, before she pulls him into a tight hug.

Laughing, John returns the hug, squeezing her maybe a little extra tight. "Hey, Ma."

When she releases him, she turns to Russ, seemingly squaring him up. Despite her small stature, John can see the fear in Russ' eyes.

"And you must be-"

Russ doesn't get the chance to finish before John’s mom hugs him, her head just barely reaching his chest. "Russ! It's so great to finally meet you,  sweetie!" She pulls back, still smiling widely. "I'm Florence but please call me Cece."

"...nice to meet you too, Miss Cece," Russ replies, sounding slightly choked.

Cece shakes her head. "None of that 'miss' nonsense. We're family here." She gives him another smile before heading back to the kitchen. "Dinner's almost ready!"

"Take your time, dear!" Nathan calls after her with a chuckle. He adjusts his glasses before leading John and Russ to the living room. 

A large fire crackles merrily in the hearth. John bypasses the couch and chairs to sit on the rug, feeling the heat of the flames on his back.

Russ settles next to him, long legs stretched out in front of him.

"So, Russ," Nathan starts as he lowers himself into a leather wingback chair. "John tells me you're an art teacher."

"Yes sir," Russ answers. His hand reaches for John's, squeezing it when he finds it. "Been teachin' for the past three years."

Nathan nods approvingly. "Teaching is a fine profession. It takes a special kind of person to do it. My mother was a kindergarten teacher for almost forty years."

Whistling lowly, Russ' eyebrows raise at that information. "That's a long time. I'm sure she loved it."

"Oh, she adored it," Nathan assures him, "And her students adored her. Till she died, she would still get letters from former students telling her how much of an impact she had on them."

"What do you do for work, if you don't mind my askin'?" Russ asks curiously.

"I'm an editor at the Hatchetfield Gazette," Nathan answers with a small chuckle. "You should ask John to take you there. It's a great historic building-"

He's interrupted by Cece calling from the kitchen. "Dear, are you boring our guest with town history? He just got here!"

Laughing, Nathan calls back, "Nothing wrong with having pride in our town's history, love."

“Be that as it may,” Cece says as she leans out of the entryway leading into the kitchen. “Would you mind setting the table? Dinner is almost ready.”

“Not at all.” Nathan rises from his armchair, giving the boys a nod before exiting the room.

Smiling, John gives Russ’ hand a comforting squeeze. “They like you,” he assures him.

Russ’s shoulders finally relax. “Yeah, I guess so,” he chuckles. He leans in, nudging his shoulder against John’s.

They sit quiet for a while, listening to the fire, until Cece calls them for dinner.

The next few days seem to fly by in a blur. They do visit the Hatchetfield Gazette building. They also visit the lake, the Hatchetfield Historical Society Museum, and manage to catch a show at the Starlight Theater.

It’s one night after dinner when Russ brings it up. One of his hands plays with John’s hair as he says, “You know, I’ve been thinkin’, soldier boy.”

“Oh yeah?” John opens his eyes as he tilts his head to look up at Russ. “What’ve you been thinking about?”

“Been thinkin’ this wouldn’t be a bad place to settle down.” He gently presses his forehead against John’s. “Get a house, find a job, build a life.”

John swallows, trying to ignore how it feels like his heart pounding against his chest. “Yeah?” he whispers, voice cracking slightly. “You’d wanna do that?”

“If it meant being with you, yeah,” Russ answers, smiling fondly. His hand slides from John’s hair to cradle his cheek as he kisses him tenderly. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” John murmurs, "Guess we should start looking at houses while you're up here, huh?"

"Not a bad idea," Russ agrees, "I won't be able to come back up till summer break."

John groans at that, pulling back some so he can look at Russ properly. "Don't remind me."

Chuckling, Russ rubs his nose against John's. "What kinda house do we wanna try to find?"

"Hmm… something decently sized," John says thoughtfully. "Maybe a three bedroom? That would give you a room to use as a studio and we could also have a guest room."

"That would be useful if Lori and Rich ever visited," Russ agrees, "Nice big kitchen, give me plenty of room to work."

John laughs. "Absolutely. God, I miss your cooking."

"Hopefully by summer, you can have it again." Russ grins. "I'll have to sell my house down in Florida. That should give us a good bit of money to put towards a new place."

Beaming, John kisses him. "And I'll move off base. That'll be nice."

"I can't wait." Russ kisses him again.

The sun shines brightly one summer day a few months later. The leaves on the trees sway in the gentle breeze.  No clouds can be seen, leaving the blue of the sky exposed.

John stands outside a gray colonial style house, his truck parked in the driveway. He bounces anxiously on the balls of his feet.

It takes a few minutes before he sees a blue car slowly rolling down the street. Grinning, he walks to the sidewalk, waving.

The car turns into the driveway, parking behind John's truck. The driver's door swings open and Russ steps out,  grinning broadly. "Hey, darlin'," he calls as he closes the door.

"Hey yourself." John can't stop smiling as he tilts his head towards the house before leading the way inside.

They step into the small foyer. John waits until the door closes to give Russ a kiss. "Welcome home."

"I'm never gonna get tired of hearing you say that." Russ kisses him again before stepping back. "So, give me the grand tour, soldier boy."

John does just that, taking Russ' hand to guide him through the house. Their home. Their footsteps echo in the empty space as they explore the rooms.

After the tour finishes, they sit in the empty living room. Russ leans back against the wall, his legs outstretched so John can rest his head on his lap. "I love it," he says as he runs his fingers through John's curls.

"I'm glad." John grins up at him. "We have so much to get. Furniture, decorations-"

"We can run to town later, get those things," Russ assures him. He looks out one of the windows into their backyard before looking back down around John with a smile. "We have a house."

"No, we don't," John disagrees. He reaches a hand up to stroke Russ' cheek. "We have a home."

Russ chuckles at that, shaking his head fondly. "You're such a sap, darlin'," he teases. He catches John's hand before he can pull it away to press a kiss to his fingers.

"Says the man who moved over a thousand miles to be with me," John counters.

"Yeah, I did." Russ smiles.

They sit there for a while, just basking in the newness. Sure, there are things to do, like getting furniture and going grocery shopping. There are going to be challenges, like with John's job and Russ finding a job, not to mention learning who they can safely be out to.

But for just a moment, time stands still.

[velmautism]

The Author of Insanity

This is that horror oneshot I mentioned last night! Trigger warnings are listed below the cut, right before the story begins. Please be mindful of them <3

Synopsis: "He watches her bleed for a moment, then his eyes wander back to her face. They trace her lips, which are drawn into a line that conveys nothing about what she may be thinking. What she may be feeling.

'You could at least have the decency to pretend you're still afraid of me,' he snaps. Then her lips show him something– the corners of them turn upwards. Of course his outburst has only served to amuse her– she seems to enjoy making him angry. She seems to enjoy being wrong.

She's only an extension of his conscious mind, a facet he's conjured to fulfill his revenge fantasies. She behaves like him, and that's all he can expect from her. She's made of the same darkness his mind is made of, and she's all he's ever going to get."

Trapped between the pages of life and death, Ben Ravencroft attempts to find solace in the freedom to shape reality with a single thought. But when a world is shaped by a vengeful, sadistic mind like his, the shadows can turn on even those who shape them.

Word count: 7,083

Trigger warnings: Heavy body and psychological horror, blood and gore, torture, violence and injury, psychological manipulation, themes of unreality, themes of obsession, general creepiness.

I would rate this fic mature solely because of just how much gratuitous violence is in here.

~~°•*☆*•°~~

“Why can't I get you right?!” 

His palms sting as he slams them down on top of his writing desk– at least, he makes believe that he can still feel pain. In truth, Ben Ravencroft suspects he may have lost the ability to feel anything at all. Months trapped in this void of Sarah's making has seen to that. 

There is no existence for Ben– And yet, he is all that exists, and creates all that exists. Shadows shift and mold to his will, occupying his timeless unreality and the gaps in his sanity. One such construct– the same he's kept from the beginning– faces him from the other side of his writing desk, faintly illuminated by pale light from an unseen source.

This scene is more confined than others he's previously engaged in. He and his construct are in his study. The portraits on the walls are no longer readable. He doesn't remember which of his books they featured. The fireplace doesn't burn. It's muted, as if painted into the background. The portrait of Sarah that once hung above it is gone. He never wants to see it again. 

At the break of his suspension of disbelief– and the accusation, as if it's her fault she's wrong– her wide-eyed fearful veneer melts into absolute neutrality. Her chest stops rising and falling as she stops fighting for air. She doesn't even flinch at the loud thud that resonates through the room as he slaps his desk, which infuriates him even more. 

She just watches him. Silently. Her eyes, dark and shimmering behind her glasses, belie her morbid curiosity. He rises to his feet, and her gaze remains on him. Blood dribbles down her wrists, painting her torn and soaked sleeves crimson. Blood dribbles from her torn and soaked sleeves, painting the carpet below her rhythmically. 

Drip. Drip. Drip.  

He circles around his desk and approaches her. He watches her bleed for a moment, then his eyes wander back to her face. They trace her lips, which are drawn into a line that conveys nothing about what she may be thinking. What she may be feeling. 

“You could at least have the decency to pretend you're still afraid of me,” he snaps. Then her lips show him something– the corners of them turn upwards. Of course his outburst has only served to amuse her– she seems to enjoy making him angry. She seems to enjoy being wrong.  

In truth, Ben isn't sure if she's ever actually felt right to him. There's a very high chance, in his mind, that he merely convinced himself she seemed like a proper reflection. The passage of time, endless and nonexistent as it is, has him seeing where she's warped, flawed, and chipped– and now he isn't so sure if she was ever accurate at all. 

He can't ask her directly, either. 

She sure as hell won't be able to answer. 

Yes, he decides, this is only a pale imitation of the real Velma Dinkley before him. She's only an extension of his conscious mind, a facet he's conjured to fulfill his revenge fantasies. She behaves like him, and that's all he can expect from her. She's made of the same darkness his mind is made of, and she's all he's ever going to get. 

He wavers in this certainty. He always does. Her believability seems to ebb and flow based on how crushing the isolation within the void is. 

He's alone. 

He's trying so hard not to be. 

He takes comfort in allowing himself to believe she's perfectly real, until she says something. Until she does something. Until she, with her unfeeling and wicked eyes, shatters the illusion.

It's unbelievable, when he thinks about it. He has an entire world fashioned by his imagination at his disposal. He is a god here– and he's still growing increasingly frustrated by his inability to just have what he wants. 

“Even if I'd have pretended to be scared of you, you wouldn't have believed it,” she sneers, breaking him out of his thoughts. Speaking of her unfeeling and wicked eyes, they're now glittering darkly behind her lenses. “You can't get me right? Well, that's your problem– not mine.” 

That's another problem he's having with this facet he's created. 

She's starting to get mouthy. 

He can undo her in an instant if he so chooses, and yet she thinks she can get away with saying whatever the hell she wants! 

She manages a nonchalant shrug to punctuate her statement, the simple gesture far too fluid and graceful for the position he has her in. She's ensnared in a tangle of thorns, supine and with her arms restrained over her head. Bloody and battered as she is, she really shouldn't have any range of motion. 

He chooses to see past the inhumanity in her movements. He has no interest in feeling as if he's being failed further by all he has left. He also chooses, in the moment, to overlook her snide remark. 

“Of course it's my problem,” he agrees, crossing his arms. “I have probably a thousand different ways I wish I could torment her, and now they're all starting to bleed together.” 

He's learned to be careful with allowing the lines between fantasy and reality to blur. When he's speaking to her outside of his fantasies, he doesn't dare to refer to her as Velma. 

Her eyes narrow, and search his carefully. Her smirk begins to fade. 

“That isn't the real issue.” Her monotone voice is dangerously calm. “You and I both know that.” 

He inhales sharply. His shoulders draw in toward his chest. 

There's something off about her, moreso than usual. 

“What's that supposed to mean?” He hopes his voice sounds threatening. 

Her smile returns instead, wider and more dangerous than before. She reminds him of an anglerfish. He's in view of her lure, and now her predatory maws are stretched wide open. 

She shows him her teeth. He half-expects to see them in sharp, pointed rows. 

“Oh, please,” she sneers. 

She begins to move. 

The thorns below her creak. Ben watches them shift at her silent command. 

Her forearms remain bound in exactly the same spot even as she pulls herself up into a sitting position. The thorns dig deeper into her flesh. Her blood flows from a trickle to a stream. Both arms twist behind her back at an unnatural angle. 

His stomach curls with revulsion. 

She looks completely unfazed in spite of the fact that her shoulders are now visibly dislocated. They jut out from their sockets. Her elbows point the wrong way. Her hands are soaked crimson. 

Rather than pay any attention to the jarring angles of her own body, she calmly looks Ben in the eye. He takes a step back. 

He hopes she can't see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows hard. 

“You can't hide anything in here, you know. Especially from me. So, don't lie. It's no use to try, not when this entire little ‘world’ of yours is built on nothing but your thoughts. Your problems have nothing to do with an overactive imagination– your imagination is actually too limited. And as much as you like to pretend otherwise, you'll never truly have me.” 

The hairs on the back of Ben's neck stand on end. 

She's a facet of his mind– why is she now speaking as if she's not? As if she's split between him and the real Velma? 

“You can wish for me all you like,” she continues silkily, “but you'll never be able to create me perfectly.” 

“Don't…” Ben starts to stammer. Her head snaps up at that. He could almost swear the deep brown of her eyes further darkens as she watches him. She waits patiently for his next words. 

He tears his eyes from her face. 

Her chest still isn't rising or falling. 

She still isn't breathing. 

He looks lower. 

She's stopped bleeding. 

It's as if she's frozen with anticipation, waiting for him to take one step in the wrong direction so she can tear him to pieces. If he gives in… If he tells her not to refer to herself as if she's really Velma… 

This is wrong. 

He shouldn't be afraid of her! She's part of him, for crying out loud, and part of his mind! She's under his control– not the other way around. 

He paces off to the side. Her face turns to follow him, but the rest of her remains motionless. 

“Don't sit like that,” he finally manages to say, peering at her from over his shoulder. His eyes travel from her frozen collarbones to her twisted shoulders. He refrains from looking below her elbows. “It's creepy.” 

She stares at him for a long time. She must know what he's truly thinking. She must know what he wishes he could say. Then she finally rolls her eyes at him. 

“What, you mean you've never wanted to see me dislocate something as severely as this?” She shrugs again. Her shoulders audibly groan as they pop outwards and back into place. 

Unease coils in his gut. It's so raw and visceral after months of nothing that he begins to feel nauseated. 

“I'd enjoy it more if you actually looked bothered,” he admits. 

She peers at him from over her glasses with the iciest stare he's ever been given. Her smile only widens further. Improbably further. 

“Oh, I'm sorry,” she croons, tone sweetened into a saccharine simper. “Do you want me to lie back down?” The unease fades as his blood simmers again. “Look meek and terrified, just for you? Settle back into the same routine you just decided you were tired of?” 

“Shut up,” he snarls. “Just… shut up. I don't want to hear another word out of you.” 

She elegantly crosses one leg over the other and tilts her head sideways, continuing to smile. 

“Anything you say,” she responds in that same sugary tone before thankfully complying. He sighs and paces behind his writing desk for a moment. He looks out the window behind his desk. It boasts the same view he's always had. Void. Nothing. 

Her eyes, sharp and inquisitive as ever, follow his every move. He can feel them boring a hole in the back of his head. 

When he meets her gaze again, her lips part. She shows him her teeth again. She swings her lower leg back and forth slowly. Impatiently. She's not even on her feet, but his heart quickens as if he's being stalked. 

What is this to her, a game? What's gotten into her, for her to act out this way? 

He shakes his head at her, deciding to stop paying her any attention. That's obviously what she wants. 

“I just don't understand,” he whispers to himself. She perks up, listening with rapt interest. “It couldn't have been that long ago, when inconsistency didn't bother me. I had so many ways I could destroy her, or leave her in ruin… And in the end, I would always be satisfied.” 

Her voice cuts through the room sharply. 

“Don't lie!"

The suddenness sends his heart leaping into his throat. He whirls around to berate her. 

Then his lungs constrict. 

Her haughty glare alone is accusing enough, but beneath her frown and under her lenses he can't even see the whites of her eyes anymore. All that glares back at him is darkness. Inky, beady darkness. 

“You've never been satisfied with anything you've done here,” she continues, steady and powerful. Her voice is tinted with what sounds like barely-contained rage. “If you had, you wouldn't force me to play through the same scene over and over again. Capture me, torture me, kill me. Capture me, torture me, kill me. It's never been enough.” 

Whatever she thinks she's doing, he's had enough. He has half a mind to end her, then and there. 

One more chance, he resolves. He'll give her one more chance. 

If she keeps this up, he'll get rid of her. 

“What would you have me do instead?” When he glares at her, she doesn't waver even a little. “What else is there to do in this god-forsaken void, rot from sheer boredom?” 

She raises her chin slightly. He lets out a small sigh of relief. The light must have been playing tricks on him– her eyes are completely normal now. 

“Of course not. But if you're frustrated, you ought to try something new. Find some novelty in someone else. You can have anyone you want.” 

Her face begins to shift then, melting and warping and narrowing soundlessly. 

Her hair and body remain the same. 

Her glasses remain on her face. 

Her self-inflicted injuries remain jarring. 

She blinks. When she opens her eyes again, they're cool. They're blue. They twinkle as they land on his. 

He knows this face. 

Pale pink lips part to speak to him. 

“The nosy reporter,” she says. 

Then her face widens, and her chin squares. Her eyes remain blue, but they round out.  

“Her lackey.” 

Her face continues shifting. She rattles off more descriptions, faster than he can acknowledge who she's suggesting. 

“The idiot beatnik. The sycophantic mayor, or his obedient pet pharmacist. Mommy's special little good witch. Or you could even take revenge on the witch who damned you here in the first place!” 

Ben shoots her a furious glare mid-shift. She pauses like that for a moment. Her cheekbones are uneven, one high above a sunken-in cheek and the other concealed by flesh more plump. 

She relents, and her face rounds out again. Freckles dot her cheeks. Her usual visage returns. 

“My point is,” she continues, “why me? Why do you care so much, and why not bother with someone else? I'm not that special– I’m only a mystery solver who helped defeat you.” 

Her words betray nothing but inquisitivity, but there's something dark behind her voice. He tries to parse that something out, but he can't. She's still watching him like a predator. He's still riled up. 

“I'm just some girl.” 

He slaps his desk again. “Velma, you-!” Ben starts to shout sharply, then stops. 

She perks up while he falters, and her eyes have taken on that wicked gleam again. She sits up taller. She finally has him where she wants him. 

He's slipped up. She knows it, too. 

That was it, he realizes, that something in her voice– in that moment, she stopped sounding like a figment of his imagination. Her inflection had been so unmistakably human, she'd sounded like the real thing. 

She'd referred to herself as the real Velma. 

And with two words outside of a fantasy, Ben’s just made the terrible mistake of playing right into her hands. 

“She,” he shakily corrects himself far too late, “is not just some girl. She was instrumental in my defeat and my destruction. She deserves to be punished for her treachery. She deserves to suffer the way I have.” 

She scoffs, then smirks wryly. 

He wishes she'd stop smiling at him. 

“Besides,” he continues, “didn't I tell you to shut up?” 

It's a weak retort, and both know it. 

She tenses, like a coiled spring. 

“Words have power, Ben,” she states. Her voice is calm, her words simple– but her eyes are wild. “And you just gave it to me. You've got something, buried deep down in here. In your mind. Something you're choosing over certainty in what's real. And since you refuse to let it go…” 

CRACK!!  

She breaks free from her thorny restraints. Her arms spring forward, bouncing back into place. Splinters and blood splatters fly at his face, and he instinctively closes his eyes and recoils. 

He takes a step back. 

And he plummets. 

A gasp slips out of his lungs and his eyes fly open. He's fallen into utter darkness. 

Air whips against his skin, pulling at his hair and blowing against his clothes. 

He can't hear it. 

He can't hear any of it. 

The wind doesn't whistle in his ears. Nothing on his body is rustling. The only sound comes from his heart, which pounds in his ears. 

There's no light. 

There's nothing to grab hold of. 

There's nothing, except the feeling of falling. There's nothing, except her voice as it resonates all around him: 

“I refuse to let you go.” 

He falls farther. Faster. 

No, he thinks. 

NO!

This is his world! Only he decides what happens in it! 

He closes his eyes, and the vertigo worsens. 

“STOP,” he commands. He comes to a halt, limbs and muscles springing back into place as if he's slammed into the ground. 

He opens his eyes. 

The dim but welcome sight of the ceiling of his study greets him. 

He attempts to sit up, but something presses down on his wrists– something sharp that digs into his flesh when he pushes against it. The sharp sting bites him first. The realization follows right behind. 

He's now the one ensnared under a tangle of thorns. 

And they hurt. They hurt more than anything he's felt since winding up here. 

She enters his field of vision. He grows colder. The room seems to darken. 

Shadows flicker and dance along the curves and edges of her face. The fireplace is still unlit. 

She peers down her nose at him. Her eyes are obscured by darkness. 

Ben closes his eyes and summons the will to put a stop to this. This is still his world. 

He wills the thorns to loosen. 

The thorns dig deeper into his wrists. 

He gasps. His eyes fly open. The scratching sting he'd previously subjected her to is sharp. Warm and wet pervade his senses. It trickles down the sides of his arms. It seeps into his jacket. 

She stands over him still, smiling. Always smiling. 

“Now, now,” she tuts, “don't be difficult. I only want to help you.” 

What the hell is going on here? This is his void! This is his mind! He has to be distracted, he supposes. He can get out of this mess, if he just concentrates. 

He inhales deeply, and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he'll be in his proper place. When he opens them again, he'll be in his proper place. 

He opens his eyes. 

She crosses her arms– her uninjured, unmarked, clean, and healthy arms. Vague amusement is etched into her lips. She still stares down at him from above. 

He's still trapped. 

“Stop this right now,” he snarls. “Let me up, or else..!” 

She raises both eyebrows, eyes widening to feign innocence. The corners of her mouth still point up. 

“Or else, what?” she asks softly. Calmly. “What are you going to do? Do away with me? What then? Make a brand-new effigy? A brand-new victim? You'll have to make it out of my remains… and you'll have to hope you get it right this time.” 

Ben's mouth goes dry. 

She's right. 

She smirks. Ben isn't sure if it's a trick of the shadows that continue to dance along her visage, but her lips appear to droop and bleed into her chin like softened wax. 

“And, let you up?” Her brows draw closer together, betraying her sadistic confusion. “Let yourself up, if you want it so badly.” 

He tries. He tries like hell. 

His heart jumps into his throat again. 

“I can't,” he admits to himself, as well as her. 

The notion makes him cold– he's no longer in control. 

She hums softly in consideration, looking him up and down through half-lidded eyes from where she now has the vantage. The corner of her mouth twitches. 

She leans over him and stands so still she could be a statue. Could be– but with her face so close to his, he can see that it's not just the shadows dancing across the edges of it. Her freckles slide around. Some disappear. Some reappear. 

Then she shows her teeth again. They look to be the wrong size. The gaps between them look as if they've been carved in– like there's one solid mass of marble sculpted to resemble teeth below her gums. 

“You can't,” she repeats perfectly clearly, “even though you could before. Why?” 

“I don't know, ” he sneers. 

His cheek is scratched before he can even register that she's gripping something in her fist, or that she's attacked him with that something . He cries out in alarm, then pain. The gash begins to weep blood– it makes his skin tingle. 

“Don't. Lie.” She punctuates each word with a jab to his chest. It isn't her finger prodding him. It's solid. It's probably the same weapon she struck him with. 

His mouth hangs open. For once, he has no idea what she's talking about. 

She continues glaring down at him harshly. The lack of light is playing tricks on him again– he can't see the whites of her eyes. He can see a wicked gleam in them, however. 

He's truly in danger. He hasn't felt this way since Sarah dragged him down with her. 

His heart pounds in his ears. She blinks twice. She matches the rhythm of his heart. 

She knows. She knows what she's doing to him.

She draws closer to him. 

Closer. 

Closer. 

He waits to feel her breath on his skin. 

She still doesn't breathe. Her chest remains motionless. Her body remains motionless. 

Then her expression softens. She shakes her head lightly, and peers down at him with eyes no longer obscured by shadow. 

He releases the tension in his gut. She doesn't look murderous anymore. 

She straightens at the waist, gaze no longer focused on him. She's staring beyond him. Thinking. Then she nods slowly, as if a realization has just struck her. 

“I see,” she mutters cryptically. “You're not lying.” She glances at him again, smiling wryly. “Not on purpose, anyway. In that case, I suppose…” 

A cold edge glides across the gash on his cheek. A chill runs along his spine, and he shivers. Is she planning to strike him again? What even is it? 

She smiles with her drooping lips, then holds her weapon within his view. He focuses on it– it's a pen she's gripping between her index finger and thumb, he realizes. An ink pen. It's glossy– and so is her skin. 

He watches the metal nib carefully. It's painted crimson. As if overfilled with ink, droplets of blood begin to ooze out of it. They slide down the length of the pen and stain her hand. 

“We may need to do a little introspection,” she finishes. “We'll figure you out, the way you would figure someone out.” 

The edge of a book enters his field of vision. 

Light flickers off of that, too. It's better-illuminated than anything else in the room. 

The book is porous. Organic. But it's not cracked or tanned– and it matches her skin tone. There's no title, but the spine is ridged like vertebrae. The cover pulses. It's dotted with rust-colored specks. His stomach seizes. 

This is how he's always begun a novel, in the past. A blank book. An ink pen. A free imagination. And most importantly, an idea. A main character, waiting to be broken down, whittled, and molded. 

But this isn't a novel, and he isn't a character! He's a dead man, tormented by an out-of-control figment of his own twisted imagination! There is a difference, and a vast one! 

He writhes within his restraints, ignoring that it draws more blood. No luck. 

She peers at him from over the top of the open book. He avoids her eyes and looks straight up. 

The ceiling is cracked. 

The ceiling is supposed to be painted. Smooth. Un-cracked. He watches another line etch itself into it. 

“Let's begin,” she says smoothly, commanding his attention. “Tell me, who were you in life? What are a few good words I could use to describe you?” 

He's had enough of this game. 

He's done playing with her. 

“I will have no part in this ridiculous..!” 

She clutches the pen in her palm and presses a damp, icy finger to his lips. Then she raises her hand, and wags that same finger at him. 

His throat feels empty. Even if he wanted to, he can't speak. 

“Play nice,” she whispers, lowering the book enough for him to see the improbably wide smile in her leer. “The truth will come out, whether or not I have to rip it out of you. A lie of omission is still a lie– and I've told you repeatedly: Don't lie.” 

Ben's voice returns to him, but he shakes his head. He simply won't speak. He won't participate. 

She sighs dismally. 

“Don't say I didn't warn you. The answers are written all over your heart.” 

She lifts the pen. He can see the end of it wiggle as she ponders. She isn't writing yet. Just thinking. 

He holds his breath. 

“Most notably, of course, you were an author.”

She presses the pen to the page. Then she begins to scribble. 

Ben's chest begins to burn. 

It's under the skin. It's spasmic. It's fiery. Each letter is etched onto the page. Each letter is carved beneath his ribs. His heart stutters, flutters, mutters, instead of beating, pounding, racing.  

He gasps and writhes, each inhale sharp and each exhale shaky. His stomach clenches. His shoulders instinctively draw in to protect his chest. He wants to clutch the space over his heart, to pretend he can reach past his ribcage and protect the soft, vulnerable organ. 

But he's bound. He can't move. He can't protect himself. 

He has to let her carve. 

Each letter is agonizing, but quick. Her movements are deliberate. Her movements are not drawn out. 

She's only scribbling. 

It takes her five seconds to finish– not that he's able to count. Not that it feels that short. Time is meaningless down here, anyway. 

“Then,” she continues, “you were a warlock.” 

She carves that into his chest as well, and he finds solace in bracing his hands against the thorns. They still hurt. But they distract him. He wrenches his eyes shut and waits for it to pass. It takes her six seconds. 

“A sadist.” 

She carves. Four seconds, bordering on five. 

“A megalomaniac.” 

At the threat of the twelve-lettered word, his eyes fly open. 

“I get it!” The yell bursts from his lips before he knows what he's doing. 

She lowers the book. She looks him dead in the eye. 

He's certain of it now– her lips are sagging, melting into each other. Her cheeks are sinking in. Her auburn bangs are plastered to her forehead, but she doesn't appear to be sweating. 

Her visage is in flux.

She's unraveling. 

He doesn't know why. 

“Are you ready to play nice now?” Her voice is still perfectly clear. 

He nods frantically. 

She smiles, showing him the marble between her wide wax lips. He's certain he won't see the whites of her eyes anymore. She's too far gone. The pools of ink peer down at him. They're void. They're dark. They're…

They're oddly compelling.  

Her fingers– spidery, long, glossy, plastic– drum against the cover of the book propped in them. Taptaptaptap. She reverses the order in which she drums. Taptaptaptap.  

She conceals the lower half of her face as she raises the book. The palm of her hand has melded with the spine. He can't see where she ends. He can't see where the book begins. 

She thinks. 

Her inky eyes flit back to her bloody page. 

“Good. Now tell me, Ben Ravencroft… What was your biggest vice in life?” 

His mind goes blank. 

He'd been ready to comply to spare himself, but…

Vice? 

He struggles to find an answer that will appease her. Nothing comes to mind. 

She taps her index finger on the cover again. 

He's trying her patience. 

He swallows hard. “I don't know,” he whispers. 

“What do you think it was?” 

He knows what this question means. He's allowed to guess. He's allowed to be wrong. He exhales. His breath quivers as it escapes his lungs. 

“H… Hubris,” he answers. 

She lowers the book again, nodding sagely. She taps the pen to her chin. The nib continues to bleed. 

“Close… Though not exactly. Hubris was your downfall, rather than your vice. Vices… while stigmata, can lead us to do great things. For better or worse.” She leans closer and uses the pen to push her glasses further up her nose. “And you were a remarkable man.”

Her voice sounds almost reverent in its quietness. Her eyes glimmer, darker than the void he's in. Her freckles gather in a cluster on her nose, then explode across her face. 

Under her prying eyes, he feels small. 

She doesn't lift the book again. 

“Ben, what led you to write horror stories in the first place?” 

Ben shrugs– he figures the answer is obvious. 

“An interest in the macabre, I suppose.” 

She smiles wryly. Her sunken cheeks accentuate the bones below her eyes. He's certain she's never had dimples– but she does now. She doesn't have pores anymore. Just a disintegrating wax face with painted, dancing pockmarks dotting it. 

“One doesn't build a career like yours out of something as simple as interest,” she retorts coyly. 

“Okay then, a passion,” he sneers. 

Her shoulders rise like she's laughing through her nose. She can't do that, though. She doesn't breathe. 

“That's one way to put it. And what sparked your… passion for horror?” 

What is she getting at? She sounds like she can't decide whether she's a reporter or his shrink. She's neither– why go through this charade? 

“Research on Sarah Ravencroft and her legacy,” he responds, and he can't resist an eye roll. 

She gives him that look again– the anglerfish stare. She's even illuminated in a room that's gone completely dark this time. Her eyes are large. Round. Void. Her teeth are still flat. Completely flat. 

She knows she has him. 

He doesn't know how she's ensnared him. 

His heart quickens. He tries to swallow his anxious anticipation down. 

“Why do such intense research on her in the first place?” 

A word pops into his mind. 

A word that horrifies him. 

He shoves it back and locks it behind his tongue. He won't speak it, not out loud. 

She snaps the book shut. The cover trembles, and she presses it to her chest. It collapses, somewhere between solid and liquid. It seeps into her sweater, slowly dissolving back into her. 

His spine feels as if it's encased in ice. His stomach flips and flutters, trying to escape him. 

She reabsorbs the book. Her palm remains fused to her chest. Her fingers remain mobile. She curls them against her sweater, now reverted back to its normal bright orange. 

Without the book, the room grows darker. Colder. 

She knows this word. 

He knows she knows. 

His heart trembles, knowing what's coming. 

Her lips have fused together. When she parts them to smile, they part with fleshy strings between them. She has no teeth– just a solid lump of polished plaster, porcelain, marble. 

Her skin is barely clinging to her jaw. It just droops and sags. It's still plump and robust, the flesh of a woman not yet out of her 20s hanging grotesquely off her chin. 

Her eyes are gone. There's just two deepening voids behind her glasses. 

“Tell me, Ben,” she urges. “What ties those aspects of your life with me? What… is… your… vice?”

He presses his lips shut and shakes his head. 

“Don't lie,” she whispers. 

The pen traces his neck, cold and unforgiving. It leaves swirls of his own blood glued to his skin. She circles his Adam's apple with it. He swallows hard. The nib grazes it. 

His breath flutters in his throat. 

“Don't make me rip the truth out of you.” 

At the threat of the agony she'd put him through earlier, he tries to flatten himself against his thorny snare. 

“Don't you dare,” he utters. His voice grows louder. “Stop this right now!” 

She throws her head back, cackling wickedly. 

“Stop me!” she challenges him. “Go ahead, do it! Strike me down– you have the power to!” 

He thrashes against his restraints, and he tries. 

He tries. 

Like. 

Hell. 

He tries until he gives up, and frustratedly resigns himself. She watches. She smiles. 

She knew he wouldn't do it. 

He knew he wouldn't do it. 

He doesn't know why he even bothered to try. 

Her nose begins to leak. 

It leaks ink. 

It drips down to her lips, then vanishes into her gaping maws. 

“I'll ask you this one more time. You have one last chance.” 

She begins to pace around him slowly. 

“You had so many options. Why not the lying mayor? Why not the pure little witch? Why not the woman who banished you here?” 

He knows why. 

She knows why. 

It can't be anyone else, for the same reason he can't get away from her. It's why he can't free himself. 

But he can't let the truth come out. 

He can't admit it. 

“Why does it have to be me? Why me– the detective who gave you nothing but praise and adoration? Why me– the fool who listened to every lie you told me? I wrapped your words around my heart, and you wrapped your hand around my throat. Why me? Why choose me to torment, and why choose me to be your tormentor?” 

She stops pacing. She stops moving. Only what remains of her chin bobs up and down. Her lips try to move, but they've completely dissolved. All that remains is a gap held together by melted flesh. 

“You chose to give up control to me,” she accuses him. “You've had the power all along to just get rid of me.” 

“I have not!” he protests, just so he can say he tried. 

She tears her palm out of her chest with a sickening squelch, and slaps him across the face. The impact sends liquefied flesh and ink splattering across his face. 

“How many times are you going to make me teach you this lesson? DON'T LIE.” 

She holds up her left hand. 

Her fingers are still completely intact. Her fingers are still glossy. 

Her palm is obliterated. 

Mangled flesh hangs jaggedly from the sides of her hand. Everything between her wrist and her fingers gapes wide open, weeping a mixture of blood and ink. 

Her gaze is beyond murderous. She doesn't have to ask him again. They both know what the question is, and what the answer is. They both know he won't admit it. 

He keeps his mouth shut, and he braces himself. 

He won't be the one to reveal the truth. 

She braces her pen in her right hand. She pulls the neckline of his shirt down with her left. She bleeds openly on him. 

“If you insist, I'll spell it out for you.” 

She pushes the tip of the pen against his collarbone. Then she jabs it below his skin. 

He cries out in agony. The effect it had before is compounded. It burns against his flesh, and it burns beneath his chest. 

And this time, she's painstakingly slow as she carves each letter. She hovers over him so he can't break eye contact. 

“O…” she spells aloud as she completes each letter, “B… S… E… S… S… I… O… N.” 

She revels in his screams. 

It takes her over a minute to finish. 

Ben still can't count the seconds. Time is still meaningless. 

She lifts the pen. 

He inhales heavily. His lungs refuse to fill. 

Then she swipes at the word to underline it. 

It's not enough.

She plunges the pen into the hollow of his throat. 

His scream– his pathetic scream– is reduced to a laborious wheeze. 

“What,” she asks slowly, calmly, murderously, as she twists the pen, “does that spell?” 

“Obsession,” he chokes out. 

She plucks the pen out. He's left gasping for breath, but blood spills into his airway. He can't fill his lungs. 

He can't die here. 

But he can choke. 

“Obsession,” she repeats. 

Her face is dripping now, but she loses none of her mass. If she were a candle, the wick would be at her throat. Her flesh sticks to her hair. Her flesh drips onto her sweater. Her flesh is unrecognizable. 

She tucks the pen into her hair. It stays in place, even though she has no ear to prop it on top of. The nib glowers at him. The nib threatens him with more pain. 

“Your vice.” 

Her voice is still clear. Her voice is still unyielding. 

“It drove you to do every remarkable thing you've ever done. Put pen to paper. Understand what was truly buried in Oakhaven, and use me to help you find it. Rise to power. And still, even after you've fallen…” 

Her intact palm presses against the wound in his neck. Then that, too, begins to come undone. Warm and wet floods his senses, warm and wet that isn't blood. 

She fills the gap. She mends his flesh with her own. She bleeds. She bleeds so much. 

Her fingers tighten around his throat, and his breath hitches. 

“It still has you in its grip. I'll tell you a secret about vices– either they control you, or you control them. And obsession still controls you. It's why you can't let me go. It's why I can't let you go.” 

Her hand lifts from his neck, leaving behind traces of carnage. She places what's left of her hands on either side of him, then leans in. Her chin drips onto his shoulder. 

“You're obsessed with me,” she whispers into his ear. He can't feel it… but he hears it. “But you're not just obsessed with seeing me suffer. Oh, no. You want to see me broken. You want every little itty-bitty piece of my mind, just so you can be the one to destroy it. Because you're broken, Ben, and you want to drag me down with you. But I won't bend. I can't be broken when your control over me is nonexistent.” 

She's right. He knows it. 

She hasn't made him admit it, but she's been right all along. 

He has had the power to wipe her out. But he's chosen not to. He knew this would happen eventually. He's always known.

And he's glad she's finally torn out of his control. 

Her arms melt onto his jacket, and she collapses against him. She pulses, oozes, unravels at the seams. 

She's fallen apart. She can't keep herself together any longer. 

He can't keep himself together. 

“I think it goes deeper than obsession,” she continues. Her voice remains, with the same steadiness it's always had. “I think you may even love me. At least, you love when I infuriate you. When I defy you.” 

He lets her continue speaking. He lets her continue to tell the truth. It's all she has left. 

Her eyes are gone. 

Her mouth is gone. 

Her limbs… gone. 

The remnants of her flesh, waxy and liquid but still mobile, creeps up his neck. He stays perfectly still. Perfectly unbothered. She weeps like an infected wound, staining his face with blood and viscera. 

“That's a truth you were loath to admit, though… Because admitting the truth would have meant your ego needs to have someone to keep it in check. Someone like me.” 

She laughs with what she has left. Her breath warms his chin. 

Her breath warms his chin. 

“You wrote and rewrote stories and realities in ink darker than the sins you committed, and in spite of it all you could never control me. I was always stronger than you are. So give in, Ben… Ben Ravencroft…” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “The only way to have what you want is to acknowledge that it really is what you want. Stop existing in denial.” 

Yes… This is what he wants. 

He wants her to be the reason he forgets this world is all his own construct. He wants to fade into the oblivion she's created for him, into a world where he can't predict her. Where he can't control her. 

He wants her to stay. He doesn't want anyone else. And he wants to believe she's real.  

And he does, somewhere in that mind of his. He does now. She's more than proven he won't be able to predict her. She'll elude him. He has something to pursue, and catch, and break.  

He has what he wants. 

And that's going to make this that much better. He has to take control, or else be controlled. He can't allow himself to let this world or this woman control him– he'll be destroyed! It’s his world! 

“You're right, Velma,” he says. “You're right about everything. You always are. But words… words have power.” 

With no effort, he breaks free from his thorny restraints. He reaches up. Snatches the pen from her hair. 

And plunges it into her throat. 

She recoils. Her body solidifies and coagulates in an instant, her jaw once again visible as she tries to scream. Tries to. She gurgles instead, choking on blood and ink. 

He shoves her off of him. Her shoulders are perfectly solid when he pushes them. Her blood and flesh withdraw from him, from his skin, from his jacket, and she crashes to the ground. 

He rises to his feet. He glowers at her. She gasps and struggles for air, holding a hand out as if she can defend herself. Her eyes are wide with terror, a silent plea for mercy. 

How pathetic! 

“You made a grave mistake in reminding me to control my obsessions,” he taunts her, taking a step forward. Velma slides back on trembling, unsteady legs. 

She backs against the writing desk. 

She can't back away any further. 

His wounds close themselves up. The blood in his jacket dissipates. He doesn't feel any pain anymore. 

Maybe he never did. 

It seems a distant memory. It seems an illusion, a trick of his mind. 

Things are exactly the way they should be, at last. He's back in power– and she's beneath him. She's herself. He can speak her name with confidence now. She won't get the upper hand over him, not again. 

“I am the author of this world, Velma,” he asserts, “and everything shall be as I say!” 

She cowers before him. Shadows dance around her viciously. He's ready to let them consume her. She whimpers, terrified. 

“That being said,” he concludes, towering over her with a cruel grin on his lips, “let's begin again.” 

[the-6th-harbringer]

It all started with his mother. His mother left him alone

Despite his crying. Pleading. Begging. 

His non-existent heart had always been bleeding. 

And She was disappointed in him for bleeding.

He never could find a home nor family. 

Whenever he did, they hurt him

Just like his mother had 

To the point where this hurt had turned to rage.

The blood-stained puppet took the lives of millions

But none of their souls filled his empty shell

Until one day 

He finally got back what was his

He finally got back what should’ve always been with him

A heart that wouldn’t bleed.

A way for him to have worth again.

And yet when he tried to fix his sorrows with the heart

It rejected him

Just like his mother

Just like the child

Just like iwNa

This only fueled his rage.

Desperate, 

He seeked help

From one he hated from the day they locked eyes.

Countless experiments

[ There are so many markings.. ]

Countless tears fell

[ When can I leave? When will we be done? ]

Constant pain and agony

[ I hate you all. ] 

But, it would be worth it. Wouldn’t it?

Is what he thought

While he scratched and clawed at his own arms

As they leaked purple mixed with red

Dripping onto the floor 

Staining the marble

Just like his bleeding, nonexistent heart.

Ages upon ages it went on.

Ages upon ages he allowed his body to be broken

Ages upon ages he allowed himself to be in pain

The winds destroying his chest

The fire burning his arms

The cold freezing him to stone

But, it would be worth it.

Until it wasn’t anymore.

Until he was tired of it.

Until he wanted out.

But he couldn’t back out 

The Doctor said.

You wanted this 

The Doctor said.

I am not allowing you to leave me.

The Doctor said.

So, the blood-stained puppet was stuck.

Once everything was done

Once the final product was created

He felt powerful again

The heart he should’ve been born with

Could no longer reject him

Because now

It was his.

And always will be.

At the moment where he lifted the giant arms of divinity for the first time

Is when everything stopped.

Everything shook

Counterparts evaporated into nothing

Vessels tipped over

Staining the marble.

His power was being stripped away from him again

But he wouldn’t let it be.

He would win this time.

Tubes ripped

Liquid spilling everywhere

As the puppet reached for his glowing heart

Grasping it

And then falling

Into the nothing of a bubble

Where he would never have to worry again.

It was the universes way of pitying him

It was the universes way of giving him a second chance

But of course, the puppet wouldn’t know 

The bubble of kinship would protect him

Keep him safe from the outside

Away from deletion and destruction 

Away from sorrow and evil

Now he would be safe

In the frozen space of time.

[3/3]

[spitdrunken]

i think ingo has an oral fixation. he would cockwarm for hours, dripping wet and whining bc his mouth is so full and it feels so good and he can probably cum just from that! even better if it's emmet he's cockwarming, feeling so good about being such a good older brother and making his lil bro feel good <3 emmet would fuck his mouth whenever it gets to be too much and ingo would be sooo into it, gag reflex nonexistent and eyes so delightfully hazy 💕 hed be grinding against the air to try to get some friction, maybe rolling his hips down onto his hand until he can get fucked properly! -📀

notes: incest

📀 how does it feel to always have the best ideas /lh

I know this is a classic thought, but Ingo cockwarming Emmet underneath his desk! Anyone can walk in at any time... Emmet knows that whenever Ingo is stressed or overwhelmed or just to be happy in general, he needs a nice, thick cock down his throat- If he can pick, he’d want it to be his! Emmet nudges the tip of his shoe in between Ingo’s legs, so he can grind against it the whole time and get relief himself!

Ingo, meanwhile, just knows how easily pent up Emmet gets, so he wants to service him always! (He loves his little brother so much, and his cum is always so nice and thick...) At first, he always tries to swallow all the drool threatening to leak out, but he always gives up in the end. Emmet’s cock can nudge at the back of his throat for hours on end, and he would never even gag once! Obviously, his brother doesn’t get much work done. Ingo keeps staring up at him, and his expression is just so lovely... So red and hazy, a smile spreading across his face for a split second when Emmet starts to pound into his mouth and cum down his throat.

He’s constantly humping against Emmet’s shoe, letting out a constant string of little noises. Emmet can always tell when he’s cumming, and if it takes a particularly long time, he’ll help his big brother out even more by bending him over his desk. Ingo’s so wet at this point, that Emmet can slip inside with little to no resistance, and fill him up like he deserves!

[seashaper]

>> Madison Rook sees the red flags that their angel counterpart has chosen to ignore, already pushing it with the water, now he’s going to fully submerge himself? Really? Rook vividly remembers what happened the last time their ‘brother’ had sunk under deep, cold water, the fear they’d had to calm, and the inevitable mental scars that had to come with that act for its perpetrator. They have their suspicions, and after how close things came the first time, the arcanist decides to be better off safe than sorry.

They sit invisible off the banks, watching Mads Altair wading into the water, boots left on the shore. His wings unfold from his back, and Rook sighs, deeply, magically silenced, pressing a hand to their face. He couldn’t have forgotten the circumstances entirely, could he? Those violet feathers begin to soak up water, and the tiefling stands up, ready to move forward. The angel’s bright blue head disappears under the flow, deeper than he expects as his bare feet slip from under him, the current knocks him off-balance, and his now water-weighted wings begin to drag him down. 

The water filling his ears, silencing the world, submerges Madison Altair in a similar memory, a much more painful 1, a deep, aching pain and fear of what’s to come filling his chest. Tears come to his eyes, the fear makes him gasp, and immediately he’s choking on water, starting to thrash beneath the surface. His head hits a rock and things go dark faster, but not for long.

It wasn’t possible to move much faster than Rook did as they glimpsed the first sign of thrashing; quickening their spell with an internal surge of power, they take Control of the river where their other self had submerged. With a gesture of their long, invisible staff, the water’s flow turns in on itself, then to the shore, ejecting the sopping angel onto the smooth stones and dirt before quickly retreating to its normal state. The staff turns to a wand, and with a now-familiar, more precise gesture, Rook draws the water from Altair’s lungs, allowing him to cough and gasp for air, but they see the black blood dripping from the side of his head, the dizziness in his eyes. ..This is the perfect opportunity. 

Shadows gather in Mads Altair’s eyes, filling the gaps in his head trauma induced lingering darkness as he coughs up the last of the water, and the pulse-pounding terror of nonexistence expands from that memory into his soul, convinced despite the breathing that this might still be the end.

“This is the second time, Altair,” the now-visible tiefling states, as if Mads could see them anyways. “You haven’t even apologized for what you did to me, but I’ve saved your life twice, now, 3 times, technically. And I never even held it against you. But if you’re going to be a dick about even taking responsibility for your own cruelty, remember, I apologized for what I did the second you confronted me. And I’ve left you alone, despite it all. I knew you hated having me around, and I respected that. But you still think I deserved it, don’t you? Do you still? After all I’ve done for you, and for everyone else?”

It would be so easy to hurt him. So easy to make him feel what he made them feel, to even the smallest extent, and Rook has to take a moment to breathe while Mads hyperventilates without response, but they knew from the start they wouldn’t return his cruelty in kind. Still, they can’t help but leave him to panic for a moment while they consider their next action. Stepping closer to him, they reach for his hand wrapped around his head and pull his watch free, tossing it nearby. The same way the angel had done to them, sword in hand..but instead of spearing him to a tree, Rook presses a hand to his huddled head. 

In an instant his life-or-death terror fades into dizzied confusion, which intensifies as he floats up several feet into the air, still blind as his knees and feet leave the ground. “Wh- hey, what’s- you can’t-” he can’t get his words together in time to assemble a real response, but as his vision returns to a painfully sudden flash of silvery mist, he sees himself alone floating in place 15 feet overover the shore, his watch below him, out of reach. Altair wiggles in the air, drenched wings flapping weekly, but he can’t budge, and there’s nothing to pull himself along on. It takes some sparks along his skull clearing his thoughts enough to realize what Rook did, and that it’s temporary, before the loud cursing in the middle of nowhere begins.