#and YES I KNOW SHE HAS GLASSES BUT. LOOK. I HATE DRAWING GLASSES. OKAY. SHE TOOK THEM OFF FOR THIS PICTURE. LEAVE ME ALONE

[seasprincess]

nerd!rafe x popular!reader

mdni

warnings: smut-handjob, pathetic sub!rafe, this is not cannon Rafe AT ALL

Rafe Cameron is a quiet nerdy boy with about no friends. Where as you, you’re loud and popular, friends with everyone.

Ever since you had joined the school Rafe’s eyes have been on you. Watching you laugh and smile with the people that flocked to you like moths to a flame.

He couldn’t help admire you in a way. But mainly he was admiring your beauty.

He has never spoken to you of course. God no he wouldn’t dream of it. Well that’s not entirely true.

He’s dreamt of it, thought of it, imagined it while his hand was around his length. But not in a perv way of course. No no. Not in the way the other boys do it. In a sweet way. Right?

But no, he couldn’t talk to you. In the world of high school. Rafe isn’t allowed to talk to you. He’s too ‘low’ for you. Which he thinks is stupid but he can’t rewrite the social laws of the school.

So he’ll just sit in class staring at you instead of doing his work. Not like he needs to do more work in class. He’s smart enough to pass a test with just a glance. So here he’ll sit waiting for his chance to talk to you properly. Instead of that couple times you were sweet to him, sticking up for him and that one time he said thank you for you holding open the door. And god did that thought make his heart beat.

But soon enough, here’s his lucky day.

“Rafe, you’ll be working with y/n.” The teachers words ring in his head as his eyes are pulled up from the desk. He turns to face you and sees that you’re looking at him. And he c-wait-you’re looking at him.

He does a double take before seeing you wave at him. A small gesture that means so much to him you don’t even know. So he does a wave back. But he’s shy and awkward so now he’s stressing that he looked weird and seeing your friends giggling and whispering doesn’t help the feeling he’s embarrassed himself.

So quickly he turns away, back to the page on his desk. Drawing random lines on it to make it appear he’s doing something. Doing anything other than looking at you and gawking.

Why does he have to be so shy and embarrassing? Why can’t he be like the popular people like Bryce and Zach? They can just talk to everyone and just be confident all the time. He hates himself for his anxiety that is in the bottom of his stomach everytime anyone even breathes to close to him. He hates it so much th-

“Hey partner.” Rafe’s brought out of his spiral of thoughts when you speak to him. He’s frozen looking up at you, is this real? Or is he dreaming?

“H-hey.” He says, pushing up his glasses on his face as he adjust in his chair.

“So when we doing this project?”

“Anytime. Anytime that’s good for you, I’m free. Like all the time. I’m not doing…anything.” Rafe decides to stop himself from babbling and making himself look like a complete and utter loser.

But all you’re doing is smiling at him. Not pulling the disgusted face he’s use to.

“Tomorrow night? My place?”

“Yeah sure.”

“Cool, do you have snap so I can send you the info?” You say as you pull out your phone. Waiting for him to respond to you.

Rafe rubs the back of his neck as he thinks how to reply to this. He couldn’t say that his mom doesn’t allow him to have social media and even if he was to have it he wouldn’t have enough friends anyway.

“No. I don’t use snap anymore.” He lies.

“Oh right okay. Insta? Tiktok?”

Rafe just shakes his head.

“I can give you my number?”

“Yeah sure okay.”

Rafe gets out his phone, a tiny phone that was probably made eight years ago that his mom told him was ‘cool and trendy’. She’s so wrong it almost hurts.

Rafe had been waiting and waiting for this day. Yes the plans were arranged yesterday but he’s just so excited it’s almost sad really.

But after making his way to your house and you giving him a tour of the mansion you live in. You’re now both sat on your bed.

He’s in your room.

On your bed.

“No you’ll have to tutor me.” You say as you smile before looking back at the work that’s in front of you. You’re laying on the bed as Rafe is sat stiff.

“Tutor you?” Rafe asks, adjusting his glasses again for the second time this minute.

“Well we’re doing this project and I don’t get what it’s about so you’ll have to help me.”

Earlier when Rafe started talking about the project he had presumed that he’d been doing it all himself like he’d usually do with other people. But you insisted you’d actually help. Even if you have been distracted a couple times.

“Yeah sure.” Rafe replies as he smiles, looking down at you. He’s rather close to you it’s making his heart beat so fast. If it beats any faster it’ll pop out his chest like in those cartoons. His eyes might also pop out his head too. We’re just waiting for that.

God he’s so close to you he can smell that perfume you wear every day to school. It hasn’t changed since the first time he met you.

He’s just watching you lay on your stomach on the bed, writing down some things. He just can’t seem to pull his eyes away from you. You just look so beautiful and calm. Of course he has to go and ruin it.

He’s just staring, and before he thinks he leans in and kisses you. His soft lips pressing against yours until he realises what’s happened and pulls back.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He says as he starts panicking. Of course he’s ruining things like he always does. He may be smart when it comes to academics but he’s so stupid when it comes to social situations.

But all you do is smile. Just smile at him before pushing up and climbing onto his lap.

“Oh, oh. Okay…” He says as he holds his breath and looks anywhere but you. His hands don’t touch you. Just in the air, frozen in place by this very unexpected action from you.

So you place his hands on yours hips looking at him before your hands are placed on his cheeks. Gently rubbing them as you look down at him.

“You have a crush on me Rafe?”

Rafe nods as he stares into your eyes. He’s too shy to say anything, and also incredibly aroused by having you here. On his lap. His hand sneaks as he brings it close to his face to adjust his glasses. He look looks up at you like a puppy.

He’s so cute and shy it makes him all the more attractive to you. Some people think he’s all these things but unknown to him you’ve always had some feelings for him. Even if you did try and stop them.

Your hand travels downs Rafe’s body until it reaches his zipper. His dick twitching in his pants as he lets out a low whine. He’s so pathetic it’s so hot to you.

“You want me to touch you Rafe?”

This has escalated very quickly, and as scary it is to Rafe. It’s very exciting for Rafe too. He’s never even held hands with a girl. Or spoken to one for longer than thirty minutes. Twenty minutes. Ten minutes at best.

“Yes please.” He whines out as he wriggles lightly underneath you, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He has thought about thus situation before but this is not how he was expecting at all.

You smile as you start to kiss him, lips pressing softly against Rafe’s. His lips are soft, different to what you’ve kissed before. Your tongue slips into his mouth which is met by more whines from the boy underneath you.

Your hand slips into Rafe’s pants and before he can say a word you start to stroke him. His dick hard and leaking with precum. He feels slightly embarrassed but that’s quickly stopped as you begin to go faster. And all he can think about is how good it feels and how much better it is than his own hand.

The moans and whimper from this man is heavenly. Making those panties you chose to wear just for him wet.

“Please, please can I cum?” Rafe is begging for this. Begging for this release from you. His whole body is practically shaking. He knows he’s acting needy and pathetic. But he can’t help it. He’s practically brainwashed by you.

He’s a man who could genuinely have any job he’s ever wanted but here he is whining for you. Whinging and moaning and begging. A possible future president is begging to cum.

“Yeah baby. Cum for me.”

You will definitely be doing this again.

a/n: don’t know how to feel about this one and i am still upset over bae’s eyebrows.

[jsooly]

death in the family (5) / sully family x human!daughter/sister!reader

synopsis, you're plagued with an uneasy feeling that persists day in and day out.

tw. you throw up once, depictions of anxiety

(1) / . . . / (10) / (11* - ur here! ☆)

+ chapters with an * beside it means that it’s following atwow plot line as opposed to disconnected scenarios

a week and a half passed and you were still drawing up empty on ideas to snatch spider from the RDA's clutches. as far as you were concerned, he was constantly with the recom team, sometimes in areas you couldn't access.

"they're going to try and bond with ikran," spider whispered over the comm you slipped on his wrist.

you scoffed, pressing onto your new comm choker. "already?"

"they really want to go 'full na'vi.'"

"you think they'll be able to do it? complete the ritual?"

"honestly..." you heard him sigh softly, his tone begrudging. "as much as i hate to admit it, yeah. they could probably manage it."

you dropped your head into your hands. with each passing day, the situation spiraled just a little further out of your control. sometimes you laid awake in bed staring at the ceiling, a war raging in your mind on what you could handle. this was quaritch you were talking about—the man who hunted and almost succeeded in killing your father once before.

the only thing that pushed you to get up in the morning was the fire burning in your heart. his entire team was dead set on killing your family and regardless of how anxious you were, under no circumstances were you going to let them catch the faintest whiff of the sully's new refuge—even if you didn't know how you'd do so.

"okay, i'll..." i don't know what i'll do, you wanted to scream. "i'll be in touch. stay safe, okay?"

"yeah, i will." spider said hurriedly before the line dropped.

as if your doubts weren't enough to paralyze you, a sinking sensation constantly weighed you down. like a lead ball rooted in your stomach, your gut was trying to tell you that something bad was going to happen. but every situation around you had the potential to crash and burn, you couldn't pinpoint what your premonition was trying to warn you about.

"y/n!" norm exclaimed when you wandered into the break room for a glass of water. he launched from his seat and studied your face carefully. "are you getting enough sleep?" he flattened the back of his hand against your forehead. "you look sick!"

you smiled, trying to reassure his nervous assessment of your state. "i haven't been sleeping well, lately. that's all."

he frowned. "lately? how long has this been going on?"

"uh..." you pursed your lips, pouring some water into your glass. "since they left, actually. it's only gotten worse now."

"i think we should take a medical assessment, just to be safe." he pulled out his tablet and tapped away on the transparent blue screen. "you've been avoiding all the poisonous flora while you're out, right?"

you rolled your eyes, shaking your head. "yes, i have. and i don't need an assessment, norm, i'm just adjusting."

his hands stilled and he slowly pocketed his tablet. he eyed you suspiciously but settled for trusting your word. "...if you say so."

/

afterwards, you retreated to your room. your thoughts trailed back to spider once again. could you switch out his exo-pack somehow? if the tracker was the problem, a simple switch of the mask could give him the freedom to slip away the minute he sees an opportunity.

you weren't naive, however. a trained solider like quaritch would definitely be able to identify the switch if he were to look hard enough. the exo-packs the research department had were old and weathered, nothing near as spanking new as the RDA's updated model.

you pursed your lips as you ruminated in your thoughts. your eyes caught on the faint silvery glow outside your window, even in the bright daylight.

eywa.

respectfully, she was annoying you. she was teasing you with wonder, with a message that you were clearly oblivious to. even worse, you had no way to communicate with her except stare at her spirits dumbly.

this was probably the fifteenth time her sprites popped up, hung around your person, and then disappeared into the forest. it was clockwork. you couldn't go a day without seeing those majestic tendrils floating in your vicinity. you were confused the first time she showed herself up in high camp, and you remained just as confused now.

you appreciated her presence as much as you could before it fluttered off. you sighed and shook your head slightly.

your comm buzzed to life. your fingers automatically raised to accept the call, a habit fostered over the years. "yeah?" you answered.

"they're gonna scale the hallelujah mountains around midday tomorrow. the mountains above that watering hole we used to go to."

you pursed your lips. "if you guys are going to be in close quarters with each other and the ikran, it's too much of a risk for me to try and follow behind you."

"no, you're totally right. i'm just letting you know so you know you have free reign on the ground if needed. their temporary base is near the watering hole, too."

oh? "that's great, spidey. thanks for letting me know." you hummed, the gears in your head turning. "they got backup masks for you? do you know?"

"they got a whole trunk of stuff, m'not sure what's in it, though. i would assume yes?"

"i'll snoop around tomorrow. how long can you hold your breath?"

"huh?"

you smiled to yourself as the pieces fell into place. "just be prepared to break your mask."

/

for the next few hours, you worked to modify one of the exo-packs to match the newer RDA versions. truthfully, they were just darker and thinner, ultimately covering less of the face.

you groaned as you gave up on your endeavor. there was no way the recoms would fall for some half-assed switcheroo like the one you were planning. you needed their model, one that was untouched by the military without any trackers of any sort.

am i really doing this? you asked yourself as you slung your bow and arrow over your chest and slipped out your bedroom window. yes, i am. you sighed in defeat as you rushed towards the RDA base again.

/

night was falling fast over awa'atlu and jake sully was counting heads for the night.

"four," he mumbled to himself as he ruffled lo'ak's head and gently pushed him inside the marui. "good job today, everyone. didn't hear about any trouble."

lo'ak grumbled under his breath as he crouched next to his mother, who caressed his cheek lovingly.

"why are you so upset, lo'ak?" she probed gently. "you had fun today. i saw you."

"he had fun with tsireya!" tuk teased, a wide grin on her face. "oooo, you liiike her!"

lo'ak's head snapped up, his golden eyes glaring. "shut up, tuk."

"hey." jake scolded him, a disapproving look on his face. "that's no way to talk to your sister."

lo'ak rolled his eyes and stormed off to his corner. neytiri sighed and threw more ingredients into the fire, the aromas spilling over into the air.

"why is your brother so upset, neteyam?" neytiri asked tiredly. it was always something with these children.

neteyam pursed his lips. "i think he's just missing y/n."

"we all are," kiri cut in, her tone clipped. "doesn't mean he can be an ass about it."

neteyam shrugged. lo'ak wasn't likely to hear anyone out. he'd probably sort through it himself, if anything. he was probably also at his limit of hearing him lecture his ear off.

"it's been weeks. the longest we've been without her." neteyam, ever the diplomat, reasoned. "we all process differently. you haven't been perfect either."

kiri sat up straighter, indignation written all over her face. "what is that supposed to—"

"okay, okay." jake cut in swiftly. "it's been a good day. let's not end on a bad note, yeah?"

the kids grumbled as they reluctantly bit their tongues.

"dad." lo'ak spoke up, drawing everyone's attention to the boundary of the marui. "your computer's buzzing."

/

for all the pride the RDA possessed, their base was sure easy to infiltrate. it helped that you were one person, already familiar with the layout and camera blind spots, and had a few sedatives at your disposal. gaining an access card was a piece of cake.

you buzzed into the research department, the halls empty and dark. surprisingly, all the scientists were sleeping. you assumed they had dorms, though you did stumbled upon the odd person slumped over their desk.

along the wall there were rows upon rows of exo-packs. you smiled to yourself, swiping one kit with ease and attaching it to your person. getting out was as easy as getting in, and you held onto that access card.

for this to work, you'd need to eliminate all suspicion that the new mask would be tampered with. if the recoms did have spare masks for spider, undoubtedly with trackers in them, you'd have to deactivate them and hide them away somewhere, and give spider a handheld tracker so that the recoms would still be able to see his movement, but could be discarded when he decided to make a run for it.

what if this was all for nothing? you suddenly asked yourself. your stomach sunk, twisted, and flipped all at once. what if you were just as helpless as they thought you were, and you couldn't protect those who mattered most to you?

you felt sick.

you slinked into your room, promptly dropping the new exo-pack on the bed along with your weapons. you stumbled out the door to grab some water.

shut up, you told yourself, aiming to console your raging sense of impending doom. nothing bad is going to happen, i'll make sure of it.

you didn't even believe yourself. your hands shook as you poured your glass. something bad is going to happen. something bad is going to happen.

you were convinced. despite your family safely tucked away in the refuge of the island clans and spider cooperating with quaritch himself, you were on the verge of snapping. you didn't feel something bad was going to happen, you knew it. something was about to go terribly wrong and you knew no matter what you did, it was going to occur anyways.

is this all for nothing?

you set your glass down and tripped over yourself racing to the bathroom. you didn't bother to put the lights on before you keeled over the toilet and threw up.

"y/n?" the light flickered on with a click! and norm stood in the doorway. his brows furrowed in concern. "are you okay?"

you gave him a deadpan look. do i look okay? you wanted to retort.

he smoothed the hair away from your face and really studied you. "okay, i'm not taking any chances." he gives you a stern look. "i need to give you a medical checkup."

you shook your head, drawing yourself to your feet and rinsing your mouth. "m'fine. just... tired." you mumbled before grabbing your toothbrush and cleansing the panic from your mouth.

"you're not fine. this is unorthodox, especially for you. just an hour of your time, if so much. what's your medical history?"

you blinked. growing up on hometree, nothing of the sort was recorded. you were treated as symptoms were presented, going about your day as normal once you were treated. "i don't think i have one?" you spit out the minty foam and packed away your toothbrush again.

norm slaps his forehead in realization. "oh, yes. okay, i'll call your dad to see—"

"no!" you whipped around and latched onto his wrist, your eyes wide. you gave norm an incredulous look. "you can't contact them in any way. what if the RDA picks up on the signal?"

norm paused, his mouth shutting as he pondered your words. his eyes narrowed, and you could see his mind searching for answers. then, "don't worry, bug, i'll encrypt and mask our frequency."

you shook your head, "they'll find them."

"you're being paranoid, y/n."

"they could."

norm's firm hand squeezed your shoulder. "they won't pick up on our conversation. i swear on my life, y/n, okay?"

you stared at him for a moment before relenting, momentarily shocked by your own outburst.

"besides, won't it be nice to see your dad, mom, and the kids again?" norm attempted to lighten the mood.

he left the small room without another word, typing and clicking away at his computer.

you shook your head, struggling to regain your bearings. you're fine, you tried to soothe yourself. you're fine, and so is everyone else.

"your family's on the line," norm was beside you again, grinning as he grabbed your wrists and strung you towards the computer.

"wait—" already? what were you going to say to them?

distance was the strangest thing. put a bit of it between you and the nineteen years you've been by their side seemed foreign all of a sudden.

he sat you down in front of the monitor and you're still reeling, head tripping over itself to catch up to the fact that this was happening, your heart beating obnoxiously loud (could norm hear it?), and the uneasy feeling of something crawling over your skin.

you held your breath as the call connected, the picture of your family coming to life.

you pressed your lips together in a tight-lipped smile. "hey."

jake adjusted the camera, his forearm blocking most of the view for a moment before he drew back, squinting at the screen. then recognition washed over his face and he smiled. "y/n."

neytiri crouched beside him, a bright grin on her face. "how lovely to see you, ma'ite."

"sa'nok, nga 'ur tse." (mother, you look well.) you found yourself smiling, the nerves festering in your body a minute ago vanishing as if they were never there.

jake squinted harder at the screen, peering closely. "are you sleeping enough?"

you rolled your eyes as norm hovered over your shoulder. "no, she is not. which is why i called, actually..."

you sat back as norm and your parents discussed your medical history, but there was nothing out of the ordinary that would explain your insomnia or your severe anxiety.

"this seems sudden," neytiri mused, her brows knitted. her eyes darted to you. "y/n, you must visit your grandmother more often. she will be able to help you rest."

jake shook his head, the motion barely detectable. "norm, what medicine does she need?"

"let's not jump to medicine just yet. neytiri, you said this was sudden. has she never shown these symptoms before?"

"what symptoms?"

"paranoia, an impending sense of doom, uh..." norm glanced at you as he listed them off. "trouble sleeping, you know, stuff like that."

neytiri pursed her lips, taking a peek at her husband. "no, she's never..."

"never seen this before." jake finished, his face full of concern and sympathy. his poor baby suffering oceans away from him, and he couldn't do anything but stare at your forlorn state with guilt.

"no, we have." lo'ak piped up, scooting into frame. your face lifted at the sight of him. as if following his lead, the other kids slowly trickled into frame.

"remember when the RDA first touched down?" lo'ak continued. neteyam's eyes brightened with understanding. "she didn't let me wander around cuz she had a 'bad feeling.'"

"yeah, she was insistent. and didn't sleep after, either. for days." neteyam added. "there've been moments since then where she gets these fits of restlessness and unease."

you shifted in your seat awkwardly. it was odd for everyone to be talking about you as if you weren't there.

"so about two years ago it became noticeable." norm hummed, noting the new information down. "seems like her insomnia is a byproduct of her anxiety. they occur together."

"so, medicine?" jake cut in.

norm pursed his lips. "we have some, but they're strong. i don't wanna put her on those yet." he dragged a chair beside yours. "you know, this call doubles as a reassurance, y/n. they're safe. you can call them as many times as you like to remind you of that when you begin to spiral."

sure, they're safe now. what about when the recoms get their ikran? what about the day a call glitches and the channel is no longer encrypted? you had to find solutions for all these problems or you swore you were going to lose it.

"actually," you leaned forward, finally speaking up. "i'll be fine. i don't want to risk the RDA catching onto the call signals."

norm frowned. "y/n."

"what?"

"i told you i would never let something like that happen."

"you don't know that for sure." you muttered. before norm could protest, you put on a smile and focused on your family. "i hope you guys are having fun. are you swimming a lot?"

tuk grinned, immediately prattling off. "yeah! and we're learning this cool new hand language—"

"sign language." neteyam corrected.

"—because we're underwater for a looong time! i can hold my breath for two minutes!"

your eyes widened. "wooow, tuk. you're only gonna get better from there, huh?"

"yeah, we practice everyday."

after a few more minutes of catching up with each of your siblings, you finally signed off for the night. norm gave you a look.

"what?" you asked defensively.

he shook his head. "you want some sleeping pills?"

you pursed your lips. might as well. "sure."

norm gave you some melatonin gummies before sending you off to bed. he said he'd check on you in an hour or so to make sure you were asleep.

you sighed as you laid your head to rest on your bunk. and for the first time in what seemed like forever, your eyes drooped down, and down, and down, and...

. . .

thanks for reading! <3

taglist (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @dae-dreamer @delirious-dolce @strawbaerriesvt @avatar-lover @ryiana @lxon-kxnnedy @zukki33 @chalahyung01 @ssc7514 @shmaptainbonky @aureolinb @whosbibi2000 @childishname @nen-nyy @moonchildxoxx

© jsooly ‘25

[moonstruckme]

hello my sweet gorgeous mae!!

how we feeling abt a fic where reader has some difficulty regulating her emotions when she’s upset and just some casual poly!wolfstar dominance. girl honestly just needs a hug and someone to validate her feelings tbh

Hi lovely, thank you for requesting!! I did give her a reason for her upset which in retrospect I probably should have just left vague but I hope it doesn't take you out of it and if anyone knows anything that makes them think this relates to me in any way no it literally doesn't why would you think that

cw: somewhat subtle/implicit d/s dynamics (really just a couple joking mentions of "rules" or "bans")

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

You’re grateful to come home to an empty apartment. No sooner does the door shut behind you than the sob that’s been building in your chest jostles its way out. You hug your bag to your front and go to the floor, crying. 

You don’t hold back. You let tears flow down your cheeks and take short, jagged breaths to fuel even more, curling your knees towards your chest and pushing your fingertips into your forehead. 

Your heartbeat is loud enough in your ears that it takes you a second to register the sound of footsteps on the stairs, but you notice when they pick up their pace as they draw closer. Not, evidently, so empty an apartment after all. 

“Dovey.” Remus sounds gutted. You open your eyes, and he looks it, too. Sirius comes up behind him, both of their forms blurring as they crouch in front of you. “What happened?” 

You shake your head. “I—I didn’t—” You’re crying like a child, all choked sobs and snivelly voice. “I didn’t—”

“Shh, that’s okay.” Sirius takes your face in his hands. His hold is firm but his thumbs gentle as they brush over your cheeks. “Just nod yes or no for me, my love. Are you hurt?” 

You shake your head. 

Some of the worry eases from his features, but his brows pinch sympathetically. “Just sad?” 

You open your mouth to answer him, and a hiccup of sobs spills out. 

Sirius makes a pained sound and pulls you to him. Remus murmurs, “Oh, sweetheart.” 

You try to speak again into the material of Sirius’ shirt, to apologize for coming home like this, but both boys shush you, Sirius rubbing your back while Remus gives your arm a squeeze and leans over to kiss your head. 

Remus takes your shoes off for you, and Sirius helps him ease your bag off your shoulder without ever really loosening his hold on you. They move you to the couch. Your boyfriends work in quiet harmony, one always comforting you while the other takes measures to make you more practically comfortable. 

“Dove, listen to me,” Remus says after a while. “You’re going to make yourself sick. Take a deep breath.” 

You try, inhaling only for it to come jerking back out of you on another sob. “I can’t.” 

“You can.” Sirius rubs your back. “Keep trying, baby.” 

They talk you through deep breaths for a while, until you start to calm and it’s only Sirius’ voice in your ear, low and reassuring while Remus goes to get something from the kitchen. 

He passes you a cold glass of water when he gets back, while Sirius is scraping damp pieces of hair back from your face. Presses it into your hands. 

You sniffle. “I’m not really thirsty.” 

“You’re going to be dehydrated after all that. You don’t have to drink it all at once,” he says, and the message is clear: but you do have to drink it. “Take your time if you need to.” 

You take a shaky breath, bringing the glass to your lips. 

“There you go.” Sirius kisses your cheek. You love and hate when they gang up on you like this. You’re between them on the couch, quite literally the center of attention. It’s both comforting and overwhelming. “Now, are you ready to say what’s wound you up so badly?” 

You swallow, nodding. “Sorry,” you say, and you still sound congested, “I didn’t think anyone was home.” 

Sirius tsks. “You know the s word is banned.” He somehow manages to strike a tone that’s both loving and stern. “You don’t get to start bending the rules because you’ve had a bad day.” 

“You shouldn’t feel like you can’t cry when we’re here, either, sweetheart,” Remus adds. 

“Probably wouldn’t have made such a spectacle of it, though.” You attempt a feeble smile. Neither boy looks amused. “It was only that I got my rejection from the Lunds job.” 

“Oh.” Remus' face creases with sympathy. He rubs your thigh. “You really wanted that one, yeah?” 

You shrug, but tears fill your eyes again against your will, dribbling down your cheeks. “I thought I had a good feeling about that one,” you whisper. Sirius starts stroking between your shoulder blades again. “It was stupid.” 

“I’m beginning to think we should ban every s word,” Sirius mutters. There’s no bite to it, though, and when you crack a smile he kisses underneath your ear. “It wasn’t stupid, baby. You were excited about it.” 

Remus’ voice is a low hum. “It’s not just about this one job, though, is it?” 

You look at him, tasting salt in the seam of your lips. 

“You’ve been anxious about all this for a long while,” he says, thumb moving over your knee in a slow, soothing back-and-forth. “I think you put all your stock into this one, and now it’s caught up to you, but this was never the only one that mattered. You can still find a job somewhere else.” 

“I just…” You draw in a breath, trying to steady yourself. “I thought I was so perfect for this one. If they didn’t want me” —your voice wavers— “how can I expect to ever get one?” 

“Angel, I love you, and you know I think you’re a genius ahead of your time,” says Sirius, “but that is some very shoddy reasoning. You’ve no idea who else applied. They might’ve had fucking superman in their stack of applications, and you could’ve been their second choice. That’s not going to happen every time.” 

“But it is still,” Remus tells you, taking your hand in his, “very hard to feel like you weren’t good enough. I’m sure all you’ve been putting in without getting results weighs on you, yeah?” 

You bite down hard on your lower lip to keep from bursting into tears again. Somehow Remus always knows how to get to the heart of the issue. 

“Yeah,” you say softly. 

“Oh, I know, sweet girl.” He pulls you into his side, kissing your head. “You’ve worked so hard. But it’ll all pay off in the end, alright? What’s say we have a break for tonight. No more applications, just relaxing.” 

“Yeah,” Sirius agrees for you. “After a good cry like that, I think a film and some cuddles are in order.” 

“These aren’t already cuddles?” you joke wetly. 

He makes an offended squawking noise. “Not proper ones. Get your cozies on and let Rem make us a hot cocoa, babydoll, and then we’ll remind you what real cuddles are like.”

[lightsovermonaco]

Wedding Date, Part 2 (Pato O'Ward)

an: requests and comments always welcome! There will be at least two more parts to this series.

wc: 3800

Summary: Pato is in need of a wedding date, desperately. Despite hating him, and despite him knowing it, he asks you to be his date and you agree.

Okay, maybe Pato isn't all bad. If your favorite childhood Disney movie trilogy taught you anything, it's that everyone has some good in them, no matter how sour they seem. (High school musical, for the record- even Sharpay had her positive moments.)

Inherently bad people don't pay the aquarium entry fee for their fake date, or purchase the add-on ticket that allows you access to the touch tank. Perhaps Pato was revealing the best parts of himself in an attempt to impress you. Normally you're not inclined to let someone throw money around like that but… Pato had invited you. That counted for something.

For now, you give Pato the benefit of the doubt, extending him an olive branch in the form of holding your tongue. He is your employer after all- well, in a sense, at least. You do owe him some debt of gratitude for flying you out here, paying for your room, your dress, all of it. So you allow him to set the pace, occupying yourself by reading the plaques on the walls. 

While you're happy to take your time stopping at all the tanks, Pato gravitates towards the wrap-around shark tank the moment it comes into view. You let him wander, keeping him at the edge of your vision while you check out another nearby exhibit filled with brightly colored fish the size of your palm.  

Pato steps into the tunnel, utterly nonplussed by the thousands of gallons of saltwater pressing against the glass on either side of him. The water casts a cool, blue glow over him as he cranes his neck to see a bull shark swim over his head. His mouth falls open as he turns to track the animal as it glides through the water, gaping like a kid in a candy store. 

“Wooowww, did you see that? Amazing!” Pato’s boyish grin is something out of a story book. His following laugh draws the attention of a young, blonde woman to his left. She blatantly stares at Pato, eating him up like Christmas dinner.

Something curdles in your gut. Objectively, you know it's not Pato's fault that people become ensnared by him the second they're in his orbit. But you can't wrap your head around why people are so infatuated with him in the first place. He's just a guy that drives fast cars for a living. What makes him so special? 

“The shark? Yeah, it's great.” You roll your eyes and turn back to the tank you'd been examining. Tiny fish no larger than a stick of chewing gum dart through a miniature rainbow coral reef. The sign above the tank proudly encourages visitors to ‘find nemo!’, including a photo of a clown fish with only a single white stripe on its body. You're determined to find it, nose bumping the glass as you go up on your tiptoes for a new angle. 

“Bella, come look at this.” Apparently, Pato is equally determined to ensure you do not have a moment of peace. His voice grates on your nerves, though your feet propel you forward against your better judgment. It's a learned reflex and one you now curse yourself for developing. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, you cannot stop yourself from answering Pato’s call- you blame Emma, head of Arrow McLaren's PR team for that. “How many times do I have to tell you my name isn't Bella?”

Pato looks at you as if to say yes I am aware but does not correct himself. You sigh, arms crossed over your chest. “What did you call me over here for?”

Like you had done seconds before, Pato presses his face to the tank and jabs his finger at something down below. It's hypocritical, but you cannot help noting the childishness of the action.

“Look at that one. The little one at the bottom, isn't it adorable?” Pato glances over his shoulder to confirm you follow his line of sight. You hum politely, not even remotely interested. “That's a nurse shark- they're pretty much harmless. They're known for being friendly, but they're fourth on the list for biting humans. Their teeth are tiny though, so really they don't cause too much harm.” Maybe he isn’t as much of a himbo as you thought. Apparently, Indycar’s golden boy knows a thing or two about aquatics. “I touched one once when I was snorkeling in the Great Barrier Reef- I'll never forget that.”

Ah, there it was. The humble brag, which is almost certainly the real reason he'd called you over here. It's like he knows exactly what buttons to press to get a reaction out of you, and as much as you hate it, it's effective. You shouldn't give in- you should let the subtle jab roll off your back like a wave instead of rising to the challenge, but you just can't.

“Great, any other world travels you'd like to rub in my face? What about the hammerhead- did you swim with those when you were free-diving in the Galapagos?”

Something flickers on Pato’s face that you don't recognize. His eyebrows twitch downward and he purses his lips ever so slightly. It is gone in a flash, smoothed over by his usual aloof mask, “that doesn't make any sense. Hammerhead sharks don't live-”

You've had enough. Dealing with his high and mighty ass day in and day out during the season is torture enough. Enduring it now in the off-season is entirely too much to bear. When you agreed to come sightseeing with him, you imagined him as your silent human GPS and your face stuck in your phone whilst you took ten thousand photos. Instead, you're at the aquarium- which you won't complain about- with a man who insists on flaunting his lifetime of luxury experiences over your head- which you will complain about. 

“Look Pato, it was nice of you to bring me here and all, but I don't need a zoology lesson. Listening to you drone on about your beautiful tropical vacation that probably costs more than I make in a year doesn't sound interesting to me, and I don't feel like entertaining your ego. I'm gonna go find anywhere else to be,” you point your thumb over your shoulder, and then pivot to point at the tank in front of you, “and you can stay here with your sharks. Have fun.”

Pato has the audacity to look hurt by your outburst. “Oh. Right. Sorry for bothering you.” A pang of guilt hits your stomach when Pato stuffs his hands in his pockets and sighs. You dig your nails into your palm to resist the urge to apologize when you haven't done anything wrong. “You can just send me a message when you're ready to go. I'll be wandering around, but I promise I won't bother you.” 

Finally, peace.

Without another word, you spin on your heel and search for the signs pointing you to the touch tank, the one thing you are genuinely excited about experiencing. To be honest, a visit to the aquarium was already on your agenda before Pato brought it up. Marine life is something you've enjoyed since you were little, with your fascination dating from the first trip your family took to the ocean. Since then, you've consumed an unfathomable amount of media about all things ocean related, from documentaries to blog posts written by top activists. Oceanography was a career path you briefly explored at one point before deciding the long hours, low pay and tough competition wasn't worth the effort. Ironic that your current job also ticks all three of those boxes, and yet that hadn't deterred you.

The queue for the touch tanks is mainly comprised of families with young children, with a few couples scattered through as well. It feels a bit odd to be in line on your own, but that won't stop you. The bored teenager manning the entry line notes the neon pink band on your wrist and waves you through without a fuss. 

Excitement unfurls in your chest as you take a moment to soak it all in. Two semi-sunken tanks sit on either side of the exhibit, both the size of a small swimming pool. The sides are clear so that the children running about have a clear view of what's inside. The few attendants near the tanks are too busy reminding the little devils to be gentle and not poke the sea life too forcefully to deal with the kids running free.

Seeking a refuge from the chaos, you tuck yourself in a quieter corner away from most people. Your elbows rest on the thick plexiglass as you lean over for a view of the urchins, coral, and sea stars who are, like you, attempting to find some room to breathe. 

“I promise I'm gentler than most of those kids,” you say quietly, like the animals can understand you. Rolling up the sleeves of your chunky knit cream sweater, you dip your hand in the saltwater tank. The cold is a welcome shock to your senses. You gently run your fingers over the bumpy arms of a starfish, which somehow brings to mind the texture of tire marbles on a track. 

The sea creatures creep slowly through the water. You imagine they're on their commutes, either headed home or going to their mundane office jobs on the other side of the tank. There's a certain level of calm beneath the surface despite the occasional shriek from an unruly child. Simply having a hand in the saltwater is enough to regulate your body. Your frustration ebbs away with each passing second until your head is finally cleared of any lingering red fog.   

Circumstances aside, you're glad you're here. Visiting aquariums feels like reconnecting with yourself, a reset of sorts that erases your unease and replaces it with optimism. Did Pato know about your love of water, or did he simply get lucky? 

Guilt wraps around your shoulders like a blanket. You shouldn't have stormed off like you did, you know that. It's not your fault that Pato's unexpected kindness has put you on the back foot. Deep down, part of you knows Pato wasn't trying to brag. 

Despite witnessing his giving personality first hand in the past, having it directed at you is hard to wrap your head around. Whether it be making time to sign as many autographs as possible or purposely building time into his schedule to greet fans ahead of every grand prix on the calendar, Pato always showers his supporters with kindness. 

Now that you think about it, Pato hasn't once treated you as beneath him, despite the power balance in your relationship being skewed heavily in his favor. He's treated you as somewhat of an equal. Which is… an interesting revelation, and one that is best left in a dusty corner of your mind and unpacked another day. 

The sting rays are your next stop, your childhood favorites. Your heart beats a little faster when you approach the water despite knowing the captive creatures are perfectly harmless. Their barbs are kepts closely trimmed, and only the most docile of the animals are allowed into the exhibit. Still, your courage takes a minute or two to build before you stick a tentative hand into the water and brush a light gray ray as it swims past. 

“Beautiful,” you mumble to yourself. The surface of the water ripples when a ray chases your hand as you go to withdraw it. Leaning heavier on the tank now, you submerge your arm to the elbow in an effort to interact with any stingray that seems interested. Perhaps they intuitively know how much you admire them and that's why they seem drawn to you. Whatever the reason, you're perfectly content to stay just as you are, even when pins and needles prick your arm from lack of movement. 

**********

Promises aren't Pato’s forte. He does his best to uphold them, but once he gets bored it's easy to forget said verbal pacts. 

Pato walks through the entire aquarium twice and even stops to sit and watch the otters for fifteen minutes before he gives up. His watch vibrates thirty seconds after he stops pacing, alerting him that his ‘workout’ has ended. Sitting still is another thing he isn't exactly good at, hence his choice of high-octane career. 

If Pato has to make another lap, he might lose his mind- despite almost certainly doubling his step count for the day.  

So he breaks his promise and goes looking for you. Scavenger hunts aren't something Pato actively enjoys, though he is quite apt at them. Being trained to quantify small details means that he can often pick up clues easier than most. He suggested the aquarium because he  had overheard you talking about the ocean once. The wistful love in your eyes had taken his breath away, and he had understood then how much sway the water had over you.

Pato also happens to know that sting rays are one of your top five favorite animals; another fact he had picked up on after seeing the documentary you chose to watch on the plane. After only a few short minutes, Pato finds you by the touch tanks, leaning over the two inch thick plexiglass side and straining to reach a stingray that evades your advances. The sleeve of your sweater drags in the water, but that doesn't stop you. Pato quietly steps up to the tank a few feet away and merely observes. 

“Come on little guy, I just want to say hi,” you murmur, completely oblivious to his presence. A noise of frustration escapes you seemingly without your notice. It's adorable. The urge to squish your cheeks and inform you of that is compelling. Luckily, Pato is good at repressing said urges, particularly when it comes to you.

“Do you need some help hermosa?” Pato’s smile is the equivalent of a white flag of surrender when you glance at him.

“No, I'm fine.” You push up onto your tiptoes to gain a few more inches of leverage. Your tongue sticks out of the corner of your mouth, a telltale sign of your laser focus. Pato's seen that sort of look on you when you're holed up in his driver's room crafting the perfect socials post. “This is the only one that I haven't pet yet. All the others wouldn't leave me alone. I just… want it to… trust me…” 

Never did it cross Pato’s mind that one day he might have something in common with a stingray. No matter how hard Pato tries to be kind and considerate and moreover prove that he's a half decent man, you don't catch on. Like now, as you attempt to coax the stingray from its hiding spot beneath a rocky ledge with a piece of dinner, the ray remains steadfast in its decision to remain concealed where it believes itself to be safe. 

If it would just swim out if it's comfort zone… and if you would step out of yours- perhaps you could be friends. One of you has to take a leap of faith, and considering how you have shown no interest at all in doing so, Pato supposes it's up to him. Heavy lifting is something he does regularly, just in a literal sense, but how hard could it be to do figuratively?

“Here, use this.” Pato grabs the small step stool leaning on the opposite side of the tank and brings it over. He pats the step like it's gold plated and then smiles, “that should give you enough of a boost that you can drop it right in front of him. He might just be new to the touch tank, maybe he's not used to humans yet.” 

“I guess that's a good point.” Though you eye him warily, you accept his help and the extra six inches of leverage is exactly what you needed. Now you can just about reach the ray, and it seems more curious now that your hand rests under the ledge in front of it. 

“Ah! There! That's perfect.” Now that you're within its bubble, the ray happily takes the fish from your hand before immediately retreating to safety. “Perfect, that's perfect! Thanks Pato-” 

You weren't aware of how your arm pressed against Pato's when you gripped the glass for balance, but he was. He hadn't dared to move a muscle. Water from your drenched sleeve drips onto his hand, ice cold and scorching hot at the same time. Time stretches like taffy into what feels like hours but in reality is only a few seconds before you realize your error and break the contact. 

“Sorry. Didn't mean to get you all wet.”

You'd done more than dampen his sleeve; you've tied his stomach in knots. “It's alright. Don't worry about it.”

You absently wipe your wet hand on your sweater. Pato mentally wills you to look at him. His message goes unanswered and your attention is awarded to the view outside the window, “I'm ready to leave now. I didn't mean to keep you here so long. You could've left, you didn't have to wait for me.” 

Pato knows you mean that, too. Whether you admit it or not, he knows you hate feeling like an inconvenience. When the crew invites you out after a race, you're always the first to suggest a restaurant choice that's neutral and well-loved by the majority rather than picking something you like. Pato's heart aches on your behalf, a physical squeeze in his chest that steals his breath. 

Because what you don't realize is that Pato would set the world at your feet if he could. Your rough, impenetrable exterior is a defense mechanism. On the rare occasion that you let yourself enjoy and live in the moment, your brilliance exceeds that of the stars that paint the night sky over his hometown. And upon your request, Pato would pluck each of those stars and fasten you a crown of starlight fit for a queen.

Damn, he was down bad. Elba had warned him that inviting you to Copenhagen may wind up being the death of him. He would rather burn his lucky boots than admit she was right, but Pato fears there may have been some wisdom in her warning. 

“It's alright,” Pato says. “I don't mind. I've had my fill of watching sea otters play for a while though, which is good cause who knows when I'll have time to do something like this again.”

Your laugh is more or less a huff and roll of your eyes, but you know what? Pato will take that. It's an improvement over the icy facade you’ve insisted on wearing, albeit a small one. Progress is progress; shaving a tenth off his lap time is still better than nothing. He may as well build on his lead. 

“So, I was thinking we could grab something to eat on the way to our next stop? Honestly there's a few sights around here I think we should at least walk by, we could just see what sounds good along the way.”

“I guess that's fine.” 

There's another few hundredths shaved off. Another step in the right direction. 

Pato is careful to keep his distance while you walk and is generally happy to let you take the lead. Which is odd for him, because in all other aspects of his life, he has to be in control. But in your presence, his brain recognizes some green flag that tells him ‘hey, you don't have to worry around this girl, she'll sort everything out’ and it's damn refreshing. The never ending string of thoughts in his head goes inexplicably quiet around you. He doesn't worry about what he's wearing because you quite literally could not care less if he was wearing a potato sack- as long as there was no cameras in the immediate vicinity. He doesn't have to paste on a plastic smile when he's in a mood because you don't expect him to be sunny, happy Pato every second of every day. 

Pato can simply exist around you, be a human being with thoughts, feelings, needs. He's starting to think that is the most precious thing. 

“This looks delicious,” you say, pulling him out of his thoughts when you stop on the sidewalk. “How’s gelato sound?” 

Pato raises an eyebrow, “do you know me at all? When have I ever said no to frozen dessert? If they have any sort of chocolate flavor, I’m game.”

“Considering that chocolate is literally one of the two classic flavors, I think you’re safe there.”

“Hopefully it's as good as that place you took me to after Road America- that little vintage place? How many scoops did I have that day?”

Your laugh is a sound that Pato will never tire of. And now, when it bubbles out of you freely, it sends an unfamiliar heat to his cheeks. “I lost count after five. I still have no idea how you weren't sick! I couldn't imagine having that much in one go.” You wag a finger at him as the line moves forward and brings you closer to a sweet treat, “gotta admit, I was impressed.”

“So… Sounds like I have to get six scoops here and break my own record?” 

“Oh no please don't-” 

“Kinda sounded like a challenge from you though-” 

“Pato don't, seriously don't because then you'll be sick!” Your hand lands on Pato's forearm and squeezes to emphasize your plea. 

Pato hums, glances at the man waiting for your order. “You first cariño, pick one.” 

Pato isn’t sure if you’ve picked up on any spanish, but he uses little nicknames with you anyway. Whether you know what the affectionate words mean or not, your cheeks flare each time.

“What can I get for you, miss?” The shop worker, a young man in his mid twenties, smiles sweetly at you. 

“Um… Single scoop of strawberry please. Yes, thank you.” 

Your hand is still on Pato's arm. 

“And I’ll do…” Pato purposely drags out his choice, teasing you a bit to see what you’ll do. He won’t spoil his diet that badly, after all. The hand on his arm tightens ever so slightly, a warning to not over do it. “Two scoops of chocolate.”

“Thank god,” you mumble, smiling at Pato over your dish. “Thought I was gonna have to rat you out to the team when we got back.”

“Oh, you're reporting back to the team? Well then I have to be on my best behavior! Can't have a bad grade on my otherwise perfect record.”

“So far so good O'ward,” you say, pointing your spoon at him. “You're sitting at a passing grade right now, so don't mess it up.”

[martyfive]

i lay in bed sick for two weeks straight. first there’s body temperature i never knew was possible for a human to have, then there are coughs that feel like they may be the last ones i could ever have in my life, then there’s weakness, then my five year old phone falls down from the bed ending up completely broken, then the bed sheets become something i couldn’t bear to see anymore. then i get up, go outside and unexpectedly find myself at the offer of a somewhat steady part job at this small italian restaurant we’ve been visiting every sunday sharp for the last year and a half except for these two weeks i spent lying sick in bed. we are leaving the bar for the night when R. asks me if i’d like to help her at the bar a couple hours a week.

“i have no experience or anything,” i say, feeling extremely daft. “i’m not even sure i can talk to people properly. i never really could.”

“it’s okay,” she says. “you’ll be polishing the glasses. it’s not hard. i’ll teach you everything.”

on our way home A. says, “it could be good for you, you know. being among people and trying something new,” and i feel like he’s right.

at this point this small restaurant already feels like another home i want to belong to. going there every sunday for so long totally helped with that. they have one of my works i gave them as a present for christmas on the wall. it hangs up above the table me and A. occupied the first time we ever came to eat there. the frame contains pages from a sketchbook i used to draw in while visiting italy five years ago. it feels too personal, but also somehow on it’s place. i hate to hoard the stuff i create. i want to be bolder.

regretting my life choices, i spend all what’s left from my last year’s salary on a new phone. it’s a first phone i bought without anyone’s help. it costs more than i deserve.

i can’t find any will to start drawing again after being sick for two weeks.

a couple days later i go to the restaurant to ask R. about the time i can get to work. she says, “this thursday, 6:30 pm,” and then adds, tugging on my star wars hoodie, “and put on a black shirt, if you have one”.

so i find one that looks like A. has been wearing it during his teenage years when he looked more like a stick than a human and i go for the job that for the first time in my life has nothing to do with any kind of art except the art of making cocktails i still keep messing up. a couple hours a week somehow soon turns into ten as normally as “polishing glasses” turns into “doing everything there is possible to do as quickly as possible”.

“would you like to do thirty hours a week?” R. asks one day looking hopeful as if i hadn’t broken ten of their glasses in the first five days of work.

“my back is gonna die sooner than you expect it to if i agree to that,” i answer. and it really is the only reason i don’t say yes.

i soon notice there is no time to think of anything else except the work to be done while i am behind the bar once again forgetting the difference between prosecco and chardonnay or picking the ice from the ice machine or freezing in the giant fridge while looking for the specific crate of beer everyone in this town drinks more often than water. the countless amount of crates are brought from and to the back room. the ten glasses are crushed, four of them in my own hands just from squeezing too hard on them. i cringe about every single one of them before falling asleep after coming home around midnight with my aching back and more money than i ever earned drawing pictures. i think about that one time my friend told me that once you start working in catering, there’s no way back. i haven’t talked to her in a while and i can’t ask her if she still thinks it’s true.

i still can’t draw. i guess it will pass. i still cough although i’m trying not to be loud when i’m behind the bar.

“you smoke?” R. asks. “i do. i just don’t have time.”

“i’ve been smoking since i was sixteen. but not anymore really,” i say to that. “when my mother calls me, then i smoke. but that doesn’t happen very often.”

M. laughs at that as if he understands what i’m talking about and says, “with this job, i either smoke a cigarette or kill somebody,” and i laugh with him.

M. is the chef and the restaurant is named after him. he cooks so good there is surely nothing better i’ve ever eaten in my entire life. i hear all about it from guests while picking the dishes from the tables, smiling and pretending my hands are not shaking. he and R. speak to each other in loud italian and i like how they sound even if i only understand a couple words from their dialogues.

“what’s allora?” i ask one time.

R. looks at me like i’m the only one who ever asked her a silly question like that, “huh,” she says, “i don’t know. it’s like here we go or something like that,” and she smiles.

i like talking to her. for some reason i like asking her questions and seeing the surprise on her face. she’s five years older than me but i feel like a child around her. she also has her birthday in november.

“all my family are scorpions,” she says after revealing the fact that there’s ten days between our birthdays. she names at least ten of the members of her family and all their november birthday dates in a row.

i say, “the parties must be hilarious when you all gather together.”

more often i feel like she’s my serious boss i keep disappointing with my every move but at the end of the shifts she turns into what feels more like a friend. i secretly hope i can be her friend one day even though it seems like she knows the name of every human being in this town and even some other nearby towns and doesn’t really need any more friends than she already has. but after all, i’m a part of this town now, too.

“what is your favourite thing to do here here at the bar?” i ask the other day.

she looks puzzled for a second, “maybe serving fish,” she says and this time it’s my turn to feel surprised. i saw how it’s done, and i don’t really know what she means.

“i thought it’s talking to people or something,” i say.

“nah,” she waves her hand, “it’s just my job, you know.”

i regret entering this territory but i still ask, “would you better like to do something else? some other job?”

“nah,” she says again, smiling, “i like it.”

and i like it too. horrifyingly, i like it too much. thinking about sitting at home and drawing stuff like i used to do all my life feels like a torture. it surely is one when i pick up my tablet and pencil and stare at the white canvas not knowing who i am anymore. there is nothing in my head i want to say. there is nothing my hands can do. i have no idea why. i want to go back behind the bar and ask R. what her favourite colour is.

“i’m proud of you,” A. says one night while we’re going back home from the restaurant where he got his two beers and one glass of whiskey i poured for him myself. he spent two hours sitting at the bar not far from these three teenage boys who have been drinking an enormous amount of beer and playing cards and then trying to guess where i come from according to my accent. “i’m proud that you’re doing good and you found something that you like so much.”

i buy two black shirts and jeans. i take my old black coat out of the wardrobe. i walk for two minutes from home to the bar and back looking fancier than ever. i feel happier than ever. i don’t look at my social media. i feel like this rotten sadness and loneliness that occupied my head for so long has nothing to do with my life now. i wonder if it’s just a phase. i consider finding a new therapist just to ask them if it’s okay to feel this good or i should be medicated before it’s too late. i want to go to bed at proper hour, wake up earlier, spend the day feeling good and then go to the bar and ask R. stupid questions and be stressed about the things i can control. i look at my workplace at home, at the white canvas that reflects nothingness in my head, at everything i have ever known, and i don’t know what to do.

i go back to work.

“you like it here?” M. asks almost every time. “is everything okay?”

“everything’s okay,” i say, smiling. and i mean it.

someone’s ordering an espresso at 11 pm. R. says, “tell them the coffee machine is already off,” turning it off while saying it. i laugh. i feel happy. i go home knowing there’s gonna be more work to be done tomorrow. i miss drawing stuff. i have nothing to say. i fall asleep thinking of the ten glasses i broke. in the morning, i can’t draw. i used to draw most of my stuff at the evenings and during the nights. now they are full of beer glasses and beer crates and adhd people who want an espresso before bed.

i ask myself if that really is how growing up feels like. i ask myself what i am going to do if i will not be able to draw a single piece of art ever again. i read the email of the person who wants me to draw an artwork for them. i wonder if they should know i’m an imposter who can’t draw anymore. i tell myself to shut up and stop being dramatic.

i go to work.

there’s a wedding at the restaurant. i once again bring what feels like an endless amount of bottle crates from the back room to the bar. i smile. i talk to people. i wipe the tables. i polish the glasses. i pour beer into them.

“my back hurts,” R. says.

“willkommen to the club,” i tell her, although for some reason my back doesn’t really hurt.

someone orders a beer and then changes their mind after the bottle was already opened.

“it’s yours if you want it,” R. says. “your shift is over anyway.”

and i stay. i sit at the bar as if i don’t really work there. i drink my beer, i talk to R. while she puts the new napkins on tables, makes sure everyone from the wedding paid what they had to and lets me ask her my questions. i pay for another beer, taking money from my fresh salary. R. rolls her eyes at that but allows me to pay anyway. she’s not a boss anymore. just… a friend. i tell her i don’t wanna go home.

“i can see that,” she laughs. “do you have friends here in town?” she asks.

i look at the bottom of my glass.

“no,” i say. there’s a lady on our street i sometimes walk our dogs together with. she’s as old as my mother. i always forget the names of her three kids although they’re all around my age. i wonder if i should mention her. “i have friends in other places. you know. not here.”

“i can be your friend here,” she says, smiling.

i feel like it’s the happiest day of my life. i’m also a little drunk on schwarzbier. even if my back would hurt i wouldn’t have noticed.

“if you need someone as me as a friend,” i say, “then. yeah. sure. uh. why not.”

we talk some more. the beer tests my language skills. i tell her i want a new tattoo. she says she got the first one when she was sixteen and it was a horrible butterfly.

“what is your favourite colour?” i finally ask.

she looks really baffled at that, then pulls out her phone. “i guess it’s red,” she says, showing me some of photos from her instagram where she’s younger than me now and is dressed up in red. “see, it looks good on me,” and she’s right. “but white is also good. and pink. and maybe purple. not black though. with my black hair, it doesn’t look good at all.”

we’re both dressed in black for work.

i come to the conclusion that colours are the least important thing in the world to her. that’s okay. i think about all the years i spent trying to make colours work. i wanna say something, but end up saying nothing.

she turns the lights off and locks the restaurant up. we spend a couple minutes walking in the same direction to our houses. i tell her about the name my friends from other places are calling me. i don’t tell her why it’s different from the one she saw on my id card. i’m not that drunk. she says she’s gonna use it from now on. she kisses my cheek before we part. i was at school the last time someone did that.

i go home. i sit at my workplace. i answer to the email of the person that wants me to draw an artwork for them from a new phone i spent enormous amount of money on. for a second i wonder if i should still tell them i’m an imposter and my career will be over by the morning when i wake up sober.

i think about the ten glasses i broke, then let myself forget about them. i tell myself to shut up and stop being dramatic.

i draw.

29/02/2024

[mahowaga]

THE (NOT SO) SUBTLE ART OF BEING A NUISANCE | K.C. — B-SIDES (TWO)

SUMMARY: you're a sound tech. he's a dj. you hate him. he hates you. (allegedly.) but that's okay, because who needs love when you can be a complete and utter nuisance and make his life hell?

PAIRING: dj!choso x sound engineer!fem!reader CONTAINS: rivals (mild annoyances) to lovers, romance, fluff, crack, profanity TEASER: here WC: 0.8k WARNINGS: none

setlist

— Game night (or, even better: the night Choso almost lost his sanity)

Choso has made a lot of mistakes in his life, but agreeing to a game night with this group of people?

By far, his worst decision.

The scene is pure chaos.

You, sprawled across the couch with an arm slung over the backrest like some monarch surveying their kingdom. Toji, leaning back in his chair with a smirk, a beer dangling between his fingertips, one leg thrown over the other. Nanami, probably regretting every life decision that led him here, sitting with his arms crossed, brow furrowed in a way that suggests he hates every single one of you (he doesn’t). And then there’s Geto and Gojo - who are currently arguing over the rules of the game like their lives depend on it.

“It’s literally in the instructions,” Geto groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You can’t just make up new rules because you feel like it.”

“Okay, but hear me out-” Gojo grins, adjusting his glasses. “What if I could?”

Geto looks like he’s about five seconds away from launching a game piece at his head.

Choso sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I thought we were playing Monopoly. How is this already a mess?”

Toji snorts. “Because it’s us.”

You nod sagely. “We are the problem.”

Nanami exhales through his nose, standing up to go to the kitchen. “I’m getting a drink.”

“You haven’t had one all night,” Geto says, exasperated.

“I know. That’s the problem.”

Choso watches as Nanami opens the bottle with a pop, his expression one of pure exhaustion. This man has endured years of bullshit from all of you, and somehow, he keeps showing up. Admirable.

Gojo claps his hands together. “Okay! New plan. We play Uno instead.”

You perk up immediately. “Oh, hell yes.”

Choso shoots you a warning look. “No.”

You blink, all faux innocence. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“I mean no. You turn into an actual demon when we play Uno.”

“False.”

Toji raises a brow. “Didn’t you make Yuji cry last time?”

Choso nods solemnly. “She did.”

“That was not my fault,” you argue. “I told him not to trust me.”

Choso deadpans. “You looked him dead in the eyes and said, ‘I wouldn’t do that to you, man,’ and then you dropped a Wild Draw Four.”

“I warned him.”

Nanami mutters, “God, give me strength.”

Gojo simply grins. “Alright, alright. Uno it is.”

Twenty minutes later, it is absolute war.

Nanami has checked out entirely, sipping his drink like he’s mentally in another dimension. Toji, surprisingly, is playing quietly, but that’s because he’s most likely plotting something sinister. Geto has four cards left, looking relaxed - too relaxed. Choso has completely given up.

And then there’s you and Gojo. Staring each other down across the table.

It’s tense.

“Play your card,” you say, voice low.

Gojo smirks. “Ladies first.”

Choso watches this unfold with growing dread. He knows exactly what’s about to happen.

You slap down a Wild Draw Four.

“Ha!” you cackle. “Suck it, Satoru!”

“Oh, you think that’s funny?” Gojo slams down a Wild Draw Four of his own. “Boom! Right back at you.”

At this point Choso is aware that neither you nor Gojo give a shit about Toji and Geto, because the two of you are now in your own little bubble of malevolent Uno.

You gasp. “You absolute rat bastard.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, is it illegal to be a genius?”

“I’m going to destroy your entire bloodline.”

Nanami rubs his temples. “I need another drink.”

Toji whistles, amused, setting his cards down. “Haven’t seen Gojo get challenged like this since that poker night.”

“That was a setup,” Gojo grumbles.

Geto smiles serenely, also placing his cards down. “You deserved it.”

Meanwhile, you and Gojo are still locked in battle, both now down to two cards, and Choso can feel the headache forming.

“Just play, you two,” he groans.

You smirk. “Fine.” You slap down a Reverse card, making Gojo’s turn useless. “Uno, bitch!”

Gojo cries out, hand to his chest like you’ve mortally wounded him (you can always count on him to be a drama queen). “You traitor!”

“I warned you.”

Choso sighs, already resigned. He watches as you smugly drop your last card - a yellow seven - and throw your arms up in victory.

“SUCK IT, LOSERS!”

Toji chuckles, shaking his head. Geto, gracious in defeat, simply nods sagely. Nanami doesn’t even react. He just finishes his drink, dead inside.

And Gojo?

Gojo collapses like a damsel in distress onto the couch, whining. “This is the worst day of my life.”

Choso, tired, leans back in his chair and watches you bask in your victory, the very picture of smug satisfaction.

Yeah. You’re still a nuisance. But you’re his nuisance.

NOTE: a snippet with how they interact with their friends! (art by omagatokii on X)

[limitless180]

~ WHAT’S IN MY BAG

︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

꩜ my messenger bag. bobby gave me my messenger bag when i turned 16, claiming that i was getting more stuff, and needed a place to store it all. it’s my prized possession, and i don’t go anywhere without it; and everything inside.

꩜ my phone. i’ve had a couple in my life, mostly burner phones, but this is my phone. i mostly use it to listen to music, since my walkman broke on a hunt three years ago.. still upset about that one, mean poltergeist :(

꩜ wireless earbuds. i’ll be the first one to admit it, i love music; all kinds of music, honestly. rap, country, pop, rock, metal; you name it, i listen to it. if i connect it to my phone, assume i’ll be deaf to anything you have to say for at least a couple hours

꩜ my work journal. it’s kind of like my dads journal (john’s >:P), only it’s much more pretty. i add sketches of weapons i use in hunts, i write down notes about the people i talk to; i sometimes even add in cool shops i’d like to revisit if i ever get the chance! his, but better.

꩜ my everything journal. ahh yes, i love this thing. quotes, song lyrics, drawings, thoughts i have; everything except work/hunter shit goes in here. it’s small enough to carry, but big enough to hold my whole life in its pages.

꩜ altoid tin. i figured i’d need a smaller container to store my weed than my mason jar, so i reused one of the altoid tins bobby had used (he ate all of them). made it a bit more me, and it’s now one of the best things i’ve got in my bag!

꩜ jar of weed. alright. i already wrote about it, so might as well expand. sigh. bobby had a lot of spare empty mason jars in his home, and i asked to use one; he, of course, said it’d be alright. not telling y’all where i get the weed, but i will tell y’all that i smoke responsibly ;)

꩜ pipe. what, you thought i only smoke joints? ha. her name is ellie, and she’s a small elephant pipe; just about the size of a shot glass. i stole it as a twelve year old cause i thought it was cute, but bobby explained to me what exactly it was; and what it’s used for. i don’t think john knows about her yet, and i hope he never does.

꩜ incense. my brothers, both of them, hate my incense. bobby thinks it smells nice on occasion, but hates when it fills an entire room. me? i fucking love incense. drown me in the smoke, and fill my lungs with that scented air; god, it smells so good.

꩜ perfume and deodorant. do i really need to say anything about these two? the hunter life is messy, and dirty, and downright disgusting at times, so of course i always bring perfume and deodorant with me. my perfume smells like strawberries and petrichor, and my deodorant smells like good soaps and honey; love it.

꩜ nail polish. okay, listen. i can’t help that nail polish looks damn good on me, so i have a few different colors in my bag; black, green, and brown. they’re my favorite colors, and they always match whatever outfit i’ve got on.

꩜ bar of chocolate. i have no reason to have this with me other than.. i’m a fat piece of shit. to be fair, it’s tony’s chocolonely chocolate (the best chocolate. if you disagree, your opinion is wrong. i don’t make the rules), and i get hungry for snacks sometimes :3

꩜ extra pairs of clothing. just some clean boxers, three pairs of socks, two gloves, and one sports bra. i get messy sometimes doing what i do, and having these important base clothings with me have helped me an unbearable amount of times.

꩜ trinkets. mostly jewelry, but i have a few rocks, crystals, and diy stuff as well. once made a cute human figure out of beads, wire, and a soda cap; bobby was proud of me for that one.

꩜ hand crank radio. you know, just in case i ever get disconnected from the internet or.. i don’t know, people in general? it’s got its own powered battery, and i have a pair of double a batteries as well; in short, it’s useful, will never die, and plays good music from time to time.

꩜ water bottle. bobby never lets me go anywhere without at least two water bottles on hand. it’s always in the plastic container it comes it, mostly because i’m too lazy to transfer the water to my personal bottle; i mean, it’s already in a container, why move it?

꩜ my gun. obviously, the fuck you think this is? i have a few i keep in my car and in bobby’s house, but the one i have in my bag? it’s a beautiful brown colored glock 19 bobby surprised me with a few months ago. already, it’s my favorite gun, and her name is roxy.

꩜ my knife. again, obviously. it’s a fixed blade with a deep green colored sheath, and i’ve put a few stickers onto the sheath; a middle finger sticker, a weed sticker, and a ‘fuck you’ sticker. i know, original. shut up.. her name is stacy.

꩜ my stuffed bunny. i know, it’s stupid, but she’s the only thing i have left of our home in lawrence; i was holding her when dad gave sam to dean, and we ran. anyway, her name is bonbon, and she goes where i go; always.

๑‧˚₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹๑‧˚₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹๑

★ that’s definitely not all of it, but it’s still a lot, and i don’t wanna make this post too long. let me know if you guys would wanna see a part two of ‘whats in my bag’ ! :)

๑‧˚₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹๑‧˚₊꒷︶ଓ︶꒷꒦⊹๑

[siilvan]

bloodsport – IV

prologue | one | two | three | next

characters: vladimir makarov

summary: your first time back in the field is a whirlwind of emotions, especially after being forced to rely on yet another enemy. new information is revealed, and you realize that a drastic action may be the only way to fix this mess.

genre: angst, slowburn, enemies to ?, fem!reader (callsign: petra)

warnings: semi-proofread, cursing, canon-typical violence, descriptions of blood/injuries, poorly written spec-ops, allusions to trauma and stress, reader has a bit of a breakdown, graves lol

word count: 6k

note: giving a quick PSA here— please be mindful about what y'all write. i know this fic is about a very controversial and problematic character, but i try to be mindful about how i portray him and his actions. don't romanticize things that should not be romanticized, and be respectful to people. COD as a whole is problematic, but that doesn't mean we need to be a shitty community. support real victims, don't spread hate. easy peasy.

also, yes, i changed my formatting. the little text is too hard to read without my glasses, so... yeah. hope it's not ugly now :)

you spend the rest of the night tossing and turning, trying but failing to will yourself to fall asleep. soap texts you shortly before the sun comes up - a picture of himself and the rest of the team, posing for the camera. they're covered in dirt and ash, exhaustion apparent in their eyes, but the image is enough to make you crack a smile.

you give them a few hours, pulling yourself out of bed after sunrise and occupying yourself with mundane tasks around the house, before picking up the phone and calling price.

"hey, captain. sorry for calling so early." you chuckle, leaning against the arm of the couch.

"don't worry about it," price clears his throat, hoarse from fatigue, and you wonder for a second if he was asleep before you called. "was just finishing some paperwork. what d'you need?"

a low sigh escapes from you. "i know it's only been a day, but... can i come back? i really want to get back to work."

you can hear papers shuffling from his end. "i know you want to work, but we just can't take the risk—"

"there isn't going to be any risk," you assert, raising your voice slightly and interrupting him. you pause and wet your lips, speaking in a softer tone again. "please, captain, i know i can handle it. i just want to get back to normal already."

the line is quiet for a long moment, with price silently deliberating over your request. you shift nervously, gripping the phone tighter as you wait impatiently for a response.

finally, after you shift for the umpteenth time, he exhales deeply.

"i'll see if i can convince laswell, okay?" he concedes. you can hear his chair creaking as he leans back - you're assuming, at least. "pack your bags. i'll send a transport helicopter in an hour."

⋆⋆⋆

that's how you ended up at base again, with the team welcoming you back with open arms. laswell initially rejected the idea, stating the same concerns as before, but price managed to sway her after some discussion.

so, now you're in a meeting room, gathered around a table with lists, blueprints, names, pictures— any and all of the intel that the task force has gotten their hands on, scattered across the surface. you blink when price raps his knuckles against the tabletop, drawing your attention.

it's laswell who talks, shooting a glance around the table to address the group. "as you're all aware, shadow company has been a target of the konni group in recent times," she starts, sending you a cursory look, asking you for confirmation. you nod, and she continues. "not only have they been fighting the group head-on in al-mazrah, but there's been several incidents with undercover konni operatives in their ranks."

"good, let 'em fuckin' deal with it." soap remarks, earning noises of agreement from gaz, ghost, and yourself. price and laswell aren't as entertained by it.

"general shepherd, commander graves, and their men betrayed us." laswell pauses before letting out a heavy sigh. "i know none of you were happy about the ceasefire, and i know that you were furious when graves resurfaced. but, besides farah's forces, shadow company is our strongest ally."

"—and the only one capable of making any strong moves without risking an all-out war." price adds, shaking his head. everyone's displeased with the situation, that much is obvious.

"where are you goin' with this?" ghost asks. a tense silence fills the room for a long moment, making you shift awkwardly.

laswell motions towards the door on the far side of the room with her head. you cast your gaze in the same direction, watching as the door is pushed open.

as if on cue, the very man that should've been buried in flames in las almas walks into the room. the shadow himself. philip graves.

"oh, fuck off." soap growls at the man, looking ready to lunge at him from across the table. ghost steps forward and, if you didn't know any better, you'd think he was reaching for his sidearm. gaz and price are eerily quiet while glaring daggers at him, and you immediately feel the blood rush to your ears as every nerve commands you to shoot him yourself.

"i know this isn't ideal," laswell attempts to placate all of you, though the cold stare she regards him with betrays her calm demeanor. "but, for now, we're allies. we have a bigger threat to worry about."

"yeah, those konni guys are, uh..." graves perks up, languidly sauntering up to the table. he purses his lips for a second, thinking, before clicking his tongue. "real troublesome. i've lost a lot of good men thanks to them."

"good." ghost mutters, straightening himself next to soap.

price cuts through the tension with a wave of his hand. "alright, none of us want this, but we've got no other options." he grumbles. "konni's moving towards urzikstan. if we want to stop 'em, then we need to cooperate."

you eye graves from your peripherals, recalling the information that makarov gave you a couple weeks ago. graves isn't in on shepherd's plan, but he's likely the only person who knows the general's whereabouts. you need to say something while you still can. how will he take the news, though? he's betrayed you before, he'll do it again if it benefits him.

"petra, you listening?" laswell's voice abruptly interrupts your thoughts. you divert your attention back to her and notice that everyone's focus is on you.

"i have something i need to say," you blurt out. you need to bring up the general before he potentially ropes graves in.

you receive a collection of interested stares, urging you to go on.

"when i was captured, i managed to get some information," you drop your gaze, narrowing your eyes at the documents laid out. "we're not just fighting konni and al-qatala. some of the forces occupying al-mazrah are under shepherd's command."

the silence that falls over the room is almost deafening. the group balks at you with shock and confusion written on their expressions, until graves huffs out a laugh.

"general shepherd's 'forces' are my men. i can assure you, petra, that none of my shadows are workin' with konni." he says with a lopsided smile, confident as ever.

you turn to face graves fully, grimacing. "i'm not talking about your shadows. shepherd has another group under his command."

"what group?" price asks.

"cia operatives. ex-soldiers, specifically." you turn back, eyes flitting between price and laswell. "he's sending men undercover. the unmarked mercenaries that we keep encountering? that's them."

laswell shakes her head and crosses her arms over her chest. "where did you get this information?"

you freeze. your mouth opens to say makarov's name, but for some reason, you hesitate. with a deep inhale, you blink away the odd feeling and force the words past your lips.

"makarov. i'm not sure why, but he told me about it."

yet another unbearable tension befalls the group; you're getting close to ripping your hair out over it. as if reading your thoughts, gaz speaks up.

"you know about this?" he says, directed at graves. he's tight-lipped, glowering at him.

graves doesn't respond, letting the question hang in the air. he looks just as surprised as the rest of you - makarov was telling the truth, then. shadow company isn't in on the plan. shepherd has effectively betrayed his strongest ally, to your knowledge.

"i'm sure there's an explanation," graves utters, chuckling to himself. "war's a dirty business. there's good reason to send men undercover."

"he's got part of the special activities division in his pocket." laswell says.

"isn't that where you pulled alex from?" price hums, earning a nod in reply. it's a bad situation, to say the least.

you regain everyone's attention and continue. "i don't know the full plan, but makarov suspected that shepherd's doing this to put himself back on top. start a war, get himself marked as a hero, reap the rewards."

graves raises a brow at you, amusement written on his face. "and, we should trust the judgement of a terrorist?" he says while searching the room for support.

price keeps his gaze on you, though the distant look in his eye tells you that his mind is elsewhere. "i'd trust this one's judgement." he mutters, jaw clenching.

"well, there's no point in standin' around, is there?" graves seems to bounce back quickly, shrugging off the news. "we've got a job to do and a terrorist to catch. let's focus on that."

"i'll contact farah and see if alex knows anything about the men under shepherd's command." laswell says as you all break away from the table and start to file out of the room.

"keep us updated," price nods to her before turning to the rest of you. "wheels up in thirty. we'll debrief on the way."

you breathe out a relieved sigh once everyone breaks off, heading off to finish any last minute preparations before takeoff. you linger in the corridor, running a hand down your face and groaning into the palm of your hand. of course, you have no choice but to work with an enemy whilst relying on intel from yet another. at least you can be open with your team about this one.

shepherd and makarov are your targets. graves comes after. take down all three, and your headaches are gone. no more doubting yourself, no more questions, no more nights spent looking at lists of crimes that make you feel sick. you can resume your not-so-peaceful life with the rest of the task force and celebrate the world being a somewhat safer place.

your phone buzzes in your pocket, distracting you from your pondering and pulling you back to the present. you frown at the name on the caller id.

it's a single letter: 'v.'

after your conversation - if you can even call it that - with makarov last night, you saved his number. putting his name in your phone is basically shooting yourself in the foot, so you saved it under a name that gives you deniability in the event someone sees it.

you duck into an empty rec room nearby and accept the call, keeping an eye on the door as you lift the phone to your ear.

"you actually picked up the phone this time." makarov remarks upon you answering. your frown deepens, brows furrowing.

"if you don't have anything important to say, i'm hanging up."

he chuckles, far too casual for your liking. "i have an update. something that i'm sure you'll be interested in."

you shift, leaning against the back of one of the couches. "what is it?"

"in case you're planning to return to al-mazrah, just know that shepherd's men have been given strict orders to target and eliminate members of the one-four-one."

a chill creeps up the back of your spine. it's an unsurprising order, but you still rack your brain as to why he gave it. does shepherd somehow know that you know about his plans? it shouldn't be possible— until the meeting that finished just minutes ago, the only people privy to the knowledge were makarov and yourself.

of course, shepherd's allies are aware of it, but the only ally of his that you've contacted is graves. you doubt that he's talked to the general in the short amount of time since, which eliminates graves as a possibility just as quickly as you suspected him.

there has to be another source. someone feeding him information, keeping the one-four-one under watch.

"shepherd's got a mole in our group." you reply, pinching the bridge of your nose. "fucking hell. he knows that we're onto him."

"'we,' lieutenant?" he comments with an amused lilt in his tone.

"my team, asshole. he's got men undercover in your group and in my squad. he's watching all of his enemies."

makarov hums, voice dropping a little. "you have a keen eye, petra. have you asked the shadow about shepherd's whereabouts, yet?" he asks, brushing past your frustration.

"haven't had the chance," you mutter. "based on his reaction to the news, i doubt he'll give it away, though. we might have to get the location ourselves."

he exhales, audible through the phone. "it would be more convenient if you could convince him to tell you."

you roll your eyes. "yeah, of course it would. just don't expect any miracles. aren't you the one with all the mysterious ways of gathering information, anyway?" you grumble sarcastically and move away from the couch, starting to pace around the room while keeping your gaze on the door.

"i can get his location if necessary, but that would eliminate your usefulness in this operation, wouldn't it?"

he's right, and you hate him for it. "you still need me to kill him." you counter bluntly.

"i can do that, too. your team wants revenge for his betrayal. this is me being charitable - don't disappoint."

makarov ends the call before you have the chance to argue, leaving you to huff to yourself in the empty room. a moment later, a head pokes around the doorway, startling you and nearly making you drop your phone when you jump.

gaz is regarding you with a sly grin as he fully reveals himself and steps into the room. your palms immediately moisten with sweat as worry floods your mind - how much did he just hear?

"so, who you talkin' to?" gaz cocks his head to the side, teasing. he's relaxed, standing in front of you with his hands shoved in his pockets.

you pocket your phone and flash a calm smile. "that depends. you have any guesses?"

he chuckles, lifting one of his hands to playfully stroke at his chin as he thinks. "let's see... i know you weren't home for long, but—" his grin morphs into a lopsided smirk as he eyes you suspiciously. "y'got a boyfriend?"

dear god, no.

you resist the urge to gag at the thought and shake your head. "nope, it's just a... friend of mine."

gaz leans forward, an inquisitive 'ah' tumbling from his lips. "a friend, eh? they got a name?" he asks.

"he, uh... just goes by 'v.'"

"'v?' like the letter?"

you answer with an affirmative "mhm," patting gaz on the shoulder as you brush past him. "it's a nickname i gave him. don't worry about it."

gaz groans in exasperation as you stroll towards the door, trying to ignore the way your heart races. lying is a normal part of the job, but lying to your team? generally not recommended.

"most 'just friends' don't have exclusive nicknames, you know!" gaz calls out from behind as you round the corner and start down the hall, leaving him alone.

a sick part of you finds the sentiment - makarov, being anything more than an enemy - entertaining, but your better judgement steers you back on track. you've got a mission to prepare for, and the likelihood of something going wrong is as high as ever. you need to focus on the mission and getting graves to give up shepherd.

⋆⋆⋆

shadow company's gunship is a familiar sight as you climb aboard, slipping past the groups of shadows and finding your teammates gathered around what you can only describe as the command center. graves is standing close by, though the tension is palpable as you approach.

after the aircraft lifts off is when graves talks, addressing the soldiers lining the seats of the craft.

"alright, now i know we've had our problems in the past," he starts, briefly acknowledging your group before turning back to his men. "however, none of that matters right now. the one-four-one is our ally on this mission; treat 'em like your own. copy that, shadows?"

johnny snorts from next to you. "where have we heard this before?" he mumbles.

there's a resounding "yep-yep" from his men, accompanied by several nods and looks in your direction. graves pats one of the soldiers on the shoulder and looks to price.

"think you can lay out the rest, captain."

price starts down the middle row, his voice booming even over the sounds of people checking their weapons, gear, and anxiously shifting in their seats. he moves slowly, practically stalking down the length of the gunship.

"the mission is simple: konni and al-qatala have set up bases across the city. they're using gas, heavy artillery, and stolen weapons to protect themselves." price stops for a moment and lets his gaze drag over the soldiers staring back at him. "i don't think i need to remind you shadows of what konni's done to your brothers in arms. we're going to break off into strike teams - eight men - and destroy these bases. alpha team will take the nerve center in the heart of the city. you already know your assignments."

graves speaks again once price goes quiet. "the commanders are not likely going to be in any of these field bases. but, if they are, then each and every single one of you has execute authority." he announces. "first man to bag an HVT gets a reward." he adds with a smirk, earning light laughter from several of his men.

when the speeches conclude, you settle back in your seat.

alpha team includes yourself, price, graves, and five of the shadows that graves handpicked. ghost, soap, and gaz are leading the bravo team, charged with the largest and best-guarded of the field bases. the commanding chain within shadow company are leading the other groups tasked with the bases scattered around the city.

you fish your phone out of one of your vest pockets when it buzzes, reading the notification on the screen.

there's an agent in your group 11:06 am

not a shadow. special forces. 11:06 am

you frown, angling the screen back and quickly scanning the group. everyone seems to be engrossed in conversation, giving you a chance to respond.

do you have a name? 11:07 am

not yet. he's a rookie. 11:07 am

he's stationed at the base you're staying at 11:07 am

check the files. should have transferred recently. 11:08 am

thank you. 11:08 am

don't mention it. 11:09 am

you're quick to tuck your phone away again, jolting when gaz suddenly addresses you.

"texting your boyfriend, eh?" he laughs, catching everyone's attention.

soap snorts and turns to you. "since when did you start dating?"

you wave them off, sitting up again as all eyes fall on you - even ghost, who is usually horribly uninterested in gossip.

"what are you two, schoolchildren?" you ask, earning playful noises of offense. "he's just a friend. not even a close one."

you're getting yourself caught up in a lie. a shitty one, at that. all it's doing is making people more interested in who you're talking to. at this rate, you'll get caught by the end of the day.

"bullshit— no one in this job talks to a person this much if they're not special." gaz counters, pointing an accusatory finger at you.

price chuckles. "c'mon, gaz. come off it," he lightly scolds the sergeant before looking at you. "just make sure he treats you nice, yeah?" he adds, both teasing and sincere at the same time.

"he's not my— yeah, okay. i'll remember that." you concede, slumping back in your seat.

the topic is dropped not long after, leaving you to relax as people talk around you. after a couple minutes, you can feel your eyelids start to droop, reminding you of how restless last night was. the trip's going to take a while, you might as well get some sleep while you still can.

⋆⋆⋆

everything is so hot. the sun, the ground, your clothes, the air— you.

you don't have any protective gear on, your sidearm secured in your loose grip as you stumble through the ruins where a city once stood.

that's right, you think. the city was destroyed in all the fighting. reduced to nothing more than rubble. you remember when there used to be buildings here; half-toppled and abandoned, but they stood as evidence of life nonetheless.

you falter, landing on your knee and hissing as it hits the solid ground below you. your vision starts to blur as your eyes water, forcing you to rub at them with your free hand in a desperate attempt to clear them.

when you blink rapidly, trying to force back the disorientation and bleariness, you notice a figure directly ahead of you.

an ally. a friend. someone that can help.

you force yourself to your feet and stagger towards them, sucking in a hopeful breath when they start to rush to meet you. the harsh sun— fuck, it's so hot— makes you squint, preventing you from making out a face until they're already pulling you into their embrace, strong arms holding you close to their chest.

"it's okay." their voice— his voice, reassures you softly, one of his hands coming to rest on the back of your head, cradling you impossibly closer. "i took care of it, my dear. you're safe now."

hot tears streak down your cheeks, dirty with sand, dust, and ash, as you wrap your arms around his middle. you try to speak, but all that comes out is a hiccup and a pathetic sob, so you resolve to burying your face in his shoulder to muffle your cries.

you're tired. exhausted, actually. for once in this career, you want to be selfish. you want to be the protected one. fighting, losing allies, killing— it never ends.

he shushes you, but even in your state, you can tell the action is unnatural. gentleness, empathy, tender care... it isn't who he is.

you manage to lift your head enough to look at him, eyes glassy with tears.

makarov stares back at you, his callous gaze betraying the way he holds you. it makes you pause, confused, as you slowly recall why you're even here.

you were fighting konni operatives. there was a missile— no, something bigger. something that decimated the city and would have taken you along with it, had you not ducked into a shelter at the very last second. when you emerged, shaken and dazed in the aftershock, you encountered al-qatala and konni mercenaries alike.

bodies scattered in the streets, men wheezing for air despite blood displacing the oxygen in their lungs and leaking from every orifice, some still trying to fight even as they collapse in heaps of pure agony, writhing on the ground alongside their brothers in arms.

you wince when his fingers trace along the edge of your jaw, his forefinger hooking under your chin and forcing you to look into his eyes after your gaze drifts away.

"their lives mean nothing," makarov whispers, barely audible over the sound of your heart pounding against your ribcage. "not compared to you. you're better, stronger, than them. you will serve me well. you will help me usher in a new age."

he runs the pad of his thumb across your bottom lip, slightly chapped from the dry heat. on instinct, you part your lips, and he moves his hand to cup your face before leaning in to capture your lips in a searing kiss.

it's wrong. this is wrong.

you shouldn't be here. you shouldn't be doing this.

the kiss is a distraction, keeping you occupied as his other hand falls from its spot on your hip. you don't even notice the change until a gunshot rings out, and pain equally as burning as the kiss courses through your veins.

you can't even muster a proper cry as you pull back, one of your own hands flying to the epicenter of the pain, right in the middle of your stomach. your fingers brush against the spot, and you whimper when you lift them back up to your face. dark red stains your skin, dripping down your wrist.

"i just need to fix you first. under my guidance... you will be perfect, my dear." makarov mutters, catching you and holding you up when you crumple against him. he coos at you, sympathetic yet mocking, as he scoops you up in his arms, the world around you going dark.

⋆⋆⋆

you wake up with a start, shifting to the edge of your seat as you frantically rub at your eyes. there's an ache deep in the pit of your stomach, making you press your palm against the same spot as your dream.

this time, when you look down at your hand, you see nothing. a shaky sigh escapes from you at the sight - or, rather, the lack thereof.

"y'all right?" ghost asks, eyeing you from the seat across from you.

"yeah, yeah—" you respond, shaking off the lingering effects of the dream. "we almost there?"

price comes over, having been talking with graves some feet away, and pats your shoulder in acknowledgement. "about to touch down, actually. let's go."

you disembark alongside the rest of alpha team, taking up formation with price and graves, with the few shadow company operatives behind the three of you. reaching the building isn't a difficult task despite the many mercenaries standing between it and your team; as much as you hate to admit it, the shadows are skilled in the field, even with their misgivings.

the building is another high rise, like the one you infiltrated weeks ago, half-crumpled from the effects of the fighting in the city. price leads the group as you all enter it through a sizeable hole in the wall, clearing out the first floor with trained precision.

the group of shadows form a perimeter just outside as you investigate the interior with price and graves, finding it... empty?

"thought you said this was the nerve center," you mutter, turning to the men as they search around, equally as perplexed as you. "there's nothing here."

price shakes his head, standing up from where he was crouched over some rubble. "there was something here. they must've moved."

"they knew we were comin'." graves says with a frustrated huff. "probably just protecting it to keep up the charade. the real control center could be anywhere in the city."

the two start for the exit with you in tow. "could be outside of it for all we know. we need to contact the other squads." price replies before pausing at the threshold and angling his head upwards. you stop several feet back and send him a confused look, before a low rumbling echoes throughout the building, sending dust and small debris falling from the floors above.

the rumbling stops for a second, until a louder, harsher one follows. larger pieces of wreckage start to loosen and threaten to fall, small bits clattering against the ground.

"shit, the building's too unstable— it's gonna collapse—!" price shouts as a metal beam crashes into the ground less than twenty feet away from you.

while price and graves are able to duck out amidst the falling debris, you're forced to dive backwards after a piece of the floor above falls right into your path. you search for a way around it, but as the violent shaking increases and sends more collapsing down all around you, you realize that cover might be your only option.

you scan the room quickly and dive under a pile of slabs and beams, sturdy enough to not collapse under the weight of falling wreckage, but with just enough room for you to squeeze in underneath.

it's only seconds after you find cover that the thundering sounds of heavy rubble crashing down all around you fills your ears, forcing you to cover them with your hands as each crash makes you flinch.

the worst of the destruction is short-lived. a couple minutes pass by before you're willing to move, the occasional piece of the upper floors still collapsing around you every now and then. you let out a trembling breath once you emerge, pure adrenaline coursing through your veins.

the exit. you hastily search for it, but all hope drains from you when you find it and see that it's completely blocked by the wreckage.

"petra? can you hear me?" price's voice crackles through your radio.

you go to respond, coughing harshly due to all the dirt and dust floating in the air. "i hear you— i'm all right," you tear your eyes from the exit and look for another path. it's a big building, surely you can find something. "just stuck in here." you grumble into the radio.

"we're gonna try to find another way in, see if you can meet us somewhere." he says. you can hear graves barking orders at his men in the background. "be careful." price adds in a rushed tone.

you drop your hand from your radio and clutch your gun close as you carefully traverse the field of debris, mentally thanking whatever higher power that the building only partially collapsed on top of you, instead of crushing you completely.

every movement out the corner of your eyes makes you stop and aim your weapon at it; it's highly unlikely - but not impossible - that you're not alone. anyone could've snuck in after the collapse, or hidden themselves like you did. al-qatala, konni, shepherd's men— you have a lot of enemies and very few allies in the area.

you spin around at the sound of something shifting, but only see a few pieces of wood hitting the ground. you're getting too paranoid. you try to steel yourself, breathing deeply, before a smooth voice makes you choke on the air that gets caught in your throat.

"you are very unlucky, aren't you?"

you turn again, gun drawn and finger on the trigger, but stop short upon seeing a friendly...

well, you see makarov standing across the room. it's an enemy that doesn't seem all-too interested in killing you - for now, at least.

"how did you..." you trail off, lowering your weapon.

apparently understanding your question, he vaguely motions behind himself. "there's a breach." he says, glancing over the destruction as he approaches you.

you squint at him as he draws closer, briefly tightening your grip on your gun. he stops several feet away, though, so you allow yourself to relax just a bit, lowering your weapon.

"i figured you'd be staying far away from al-mazrah, it's an active war zone after all." you comment, earning a dismissive look.

"i don't mind getting my hands dirty," makarov utters with a lofty grin tugging at his lips. "besides, we need to talk."

you cock your head to the side, curious. "and, you couldn't call or text me about this? that's been working out so far." you chuckle softly.

he steps closer again, standing a little over an arm's length away. "i happened to be close by." he responds. "this is also something better discussed in person."

you nod, hesitantly slinging your gun over your shoulder to cross your arms over your chest.

"after our last exchange, i managed to gather more information from my... source." he punctuates the last word with a half-assed attempt at a conciliatory smile. "the mole planted within your group reported to shepherd recently; he's aware of our communication." he continues, before you interrupt him.

"wait, no one knows about this, not even my squad." you assert, taking another step closer to him. you're just under an arm's length away, now.

"there was an agent within the group assigned to your care when you were captured. one of the two men that accompanied us on the first day - he listened in on our conversation and delivered the details to the general." makarov speaks in a hushed tone, one you can just barely hear over rubble crumbling somewhere nearby. "the agent on your end tracked you after you reunited with your squad. something of yours was bugged, they heard us that night."

how could he... most of your belongings were clothes, which you know for certain weren't bugged. the only other item that traveled home with you is your cellphone—

"shit," you mumble, practically tearing your vest pocket open and grabbing your phone. there's nothing obviously wrong with it at first glance, but once you pop the case off and check inside, your suspicions are confirmed.

there's a small tracking device flashing red at you, mocking you, and you rip it out before tossing it on the ground and stomping on it.

"he's heard everything," you say, twisting your boot to scatter the broken pieces. "fuck, if this gets out— i can explain this to my team and make do with the judgement, but if shepherd tells any of his friends in their cushy government positions, i'm dead."

makarov shifts, looking past you, but you don't even notice the action thanks to the adrenaline reflooding your system. "that would be an issue," he mutters, reaching for the holster at his hip. "i suppose i could protect you."

you snort, dragging your gaze from your boot to his face. "i'm not joining your side, even for this."

a thin string of red light shines from the darkness behind you, aimed at the back of your skull. makarov follows it to its source, all but ignoring your rejection, as his fingers wrap around the handle of his desert eagle.

a loud gunshot rings out, echoing against the walls. you instinctively reach for your stomach, preparing yourself for the pain you felt in that dream, body tensing up as it flies into survival mode.

the pain never comes. a heavy thump makes you turn, however, watching as a soldier collapses to the ground. unmarked uniform. one of the general’s men.

"shepherd has not earned your blood. if anyone is going to kill you, it will be me." makarov lowers his gun and meets your muddled gaze. "i suggest you reconsider my offer, petra, and give me a call when you make up your mind."

you’re left in that state as he sidesteps and saunters past you, seemingly disappearing into the darkness himself. you’re sure there’s another exit that you missed, one he’s taking to avoid running into your squad.

his offer. joining him for protection.

you'll never follow makarov or his ideals, much less join him for such a selfish reason. if you can kill shepherd, then you can destroy any evidence and get yourself out of this mess. with graves' cooperation and your team to help, that possibility is well within your reach. the only crime you'll have to answer for is severely disappointing your teammates, but they'll understand.

except, there's no guarantee that graves will help, and the rules of engagement prevent you from taking effective action against shepherd. he may be on the run, but he's an american general - killing him could land the one-four-one in hot water with the government.

that'll only lead to more restrictions, more eyes on you, more questions— there's nothing you can do to stop it.

you need someone without limits. someone the government doesn't have their hands on.

you need makarov.

a series of heavy footsteps alert you to a new presence, snapping you out of your trance. you lift your head in time to see price, graves, and the shadows appear from around a large pile of debris in the same direction that makarov originally approached you from.

"petra!" price calls out, jogging ahead of the group and stopping just in front of you. "you broken?" he asks, placing a firm hand on your shoulder and dragging his gaze across your form, searching for any injuries.

"no, i'm fine. nothing major." you mumble, struggling to find your voice all of a sudden. "just, uh..." you lose it again, your tongue darting out to nervously wet your dry lips.

"something wrong?" he murmurs, quiet enough that graves and his men can't hear from their positions farther away.

you can feel every beat of your heart, rapidly thumping against your ribs to the point of making your chest ache. only price can give you approval to do something so risky, so stupid. he'll understand. he knows the job isn't perfect, but you do what you have to do—

"i have something to confess, captain."

taglist: @sofasoap, @roosterr, @rohansregret, @lonesome-doves, @thorrsexual, @miss-nob0dy, @woodeelf, @fbs-fc-ur-mommy, @soap-mactavish, @itsyellow, @johfaam0, @cumbermovels, @chxe-zdechnac, @imagineswritersblog, @emorgz33, @sparda-ly, @ponyboys-sunsets, @frazie99, @chensipstea, @thriving-n-jiving, @preciouslittlecreature, @infinitewhore, @jade-jax

⋆ feel free to ask to be added to/removed from the taglist! (18+ only please <3)

[immeasurablesaladagere]

may i get sum lil chase headcanons pretty pls :3

YES I've been waiting for this request!

“Wilson, where do babies come from?” (Genuinely forgot and just wants to know, House and/or Foreman told him to ask)

Politely reminds people who swear around him that “That’s a bad word.” And manages to sound like a condescending parent even in his little high-pitched voice.

His voice gets really soft and high when he regresses.

Very polite little sweetheart. Draws pictures for people, says his pleases and thank you’s, makes a point of saying goodnight to people, etc.

Really hates alcohol being around him while he’s regressed. He usually just gets quiet if he sees it but god forbid someone is actively drinking or heavily intoxicated, he shuts right down or cries and it's hard to settle him.

Has more inhibitions about crying in front of others and in general if he’s on the upper end of his age range (6-8), but on the younger end cries pretty easily.

Scarily good at hiding, not good if he’s doing it because he’s upset and very very not good if he’s regressed and upset in the hospital.

Bit House one (1) time.

Doesn’t like reading anything that isn’t a simple children’s book even if they’re technically below his reading level for his regressed age. He likes things to be simple and straightforward when he's little.

Likes drawing with sidewalk chalk and colouring in general. His favourite drawing utensil are those thick Crayola markers that bleed through the paper.

Avoids being an inconvenience at all costs to the point that he keeps quiet about what he wants  or needs to his own detriment. He needs his caregiver to remember to feed him or water him like a plant because if they don’t he won’t say anything.

That being said, he will throw tantrums/have meltdowns if his needs go unmet for long periods of time. When he’s really upset he does that yell-wailing thing. He’s intense but then calms down pretty quickly and is just exhausted.

Gets very fussy if he’s tired. If he’s feeling younger than 5 he needs his nap time! This is a warning, not advice.

Reads children’s bibles and watches a lot of Veggie Tales and The Wiggles

Looney-Toon enjoyer.

Semi-verbal in baby/toddlerspace. He'll say one or two words and otherwise just make little noises.

Favourite snack is cheese and crackers with a bit of fruit, usually grapes (he likes to eat all three at the same time in little sandwiches).

Regresses to cope with stress, reclaim his childhood, and even to have fun sometimes. It's mostly voluntary, but he does have a few triggers like aggressive drunks or something that reminds him too much of his childhood, positive or negative, like a nostalgic toy for example.

If his regression is triggered he has a hard time getting back out of it, but otherwise his hold on his littlespace is frustratingly weak. He has a hard time staying small when he's trying to be, and House, Wilson, and Cameron help keep him in it by helping him with things and actively mentioning how little he is.

"Ah ah, you're too small to put the cookies in the oven. Why don't you help put the milk away instead? Two hands, okay?'

When he's little he has this doe-eyed innocent look to him, and anyone who knows him can see it immediately.

Very naturally curious about the world, nature specifically. Likes looking at and keeping bugs in jars, collecting leaves and rocks that are cool, etc.

Gives his caregivers bouquets of dandelions. Cameron was so flattered when she got one that she bought fertilizer to keep the flowers alive in a glass of water as long as possible.

[berrypass-de-murdler]

S-47 The Chessboxing World Championship

The writing shall continue!

Drawing too, but when I get home

DON'T READ THE EPISODES WITHOUT READING THE BOOKS!!

Logico is so excited about this revelation, he decides to give himself a treat - a live chessboxing match! Even though he now has pain in his heart, the smell of sweat filling the air and the scathing roars from hangry fans bring him a sense of peace. He feels longing for his old Serpent form, but then again, it probably needed to die.

He stumbles across the contestants preparing, and unfortunately, they aren’t new faces.

BLAZE: Is that fucking Logico? GOLD: WHEYYHHLLEH… whoozadunnit. LOGICO: All right… I don’t… want to hear about it. BLAZE: Good thing you’re here.

That catches him off-guard. But then he realizes why she said that.

LOGICO: AUUGHH

(If you’re wondering, it was because a dead human is on the premises.)

Logico feels guilty about his departure from college being so sudden, and he decides it’s only fair to reconnect with the person he recognizes. She’s hitting and kicking her punching bag violently.

LOGICO: So… Blaze. How is… everything? With your career and such… this is your career, right? BLAZE: Don’t care about talking to you, little man. Just ‘cause we went to school together doesn’t mean we’re friends.

Logico almost notes that they battled multiple times, but then he realizes he still can’t give up his identity as the Serpent or he’ll be ridiculed. But that’s not what hurts. Logico had no friends throughout all of college. But that will change once he’s in Hollywood. Everyone loves a Hollywood star.

Fighting back memories, Logico approaches the coach doing push-ups.

TIGER: GIT- hhhhh… GIT- hhhhh… LOGICO: Excuse me. TIGER: AAAAUAUUUUGH!! OH!! I didn’t see ya there… lil’... fella!  LOGICO: No one in the history of the world will call me little fella, but I have more important things to ask. What do you know about the… MURDER? TIGER: Oh, that. Let’s see, whelp, all I know is that that mega-girl contestant there is like a QUEEN. And above that, she brought a weird package that I can’t fer the life of me open.

Champion Gold looks different then he did when he fought in Deduction College. He was already way older than everyone else, but now he looks ancient. Plus, he’s panting and wheezing.

LOGICO: Gold! Our dear champion. Who could forget your legendary battle against the Serpent!... I mean… how are you doing this fine murder. GOLD: [swings fists] I DON’T WANNA DEAL WITH THE LIKES’A YOU LIL’ WHIPPERSNAPPER! I GET THE GOLD!! GOLD MEDAL. GOLD IN THESE HILLS…

He nearly collapses.

TIGER: Gold, bud, I hate to say it, but you really should consider retirin’. GOLD: NONSENSE YA BUFFOON. I’M FIT AS A GOLD HILL. …wattah!...

The coach tends to the old lizard and Logico storms off to suspect #4. 

PLANT MAN: And who might you be, my miniature gentleman.

Every suspect in this episode has called Logico small, and it’s driven him off the edge.

LOGICO: OKAY, YOU LISTEN HERE! I AM NOT SMALL, OR LITTLE, OR MINIATURE! I AM A NORMAL MAN! 

The plant man looks sad! Logico feels really guilty.

LOGICO: I… I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean that. 

He shakes his head. This is the cost of having no friends. 

I wish I had gotten your name.

I wish I…

His heart begins to harden. He doesn’t need this dumb kid. He needs Hollywood.

LOGICO: It was that one with a chess book on the rooftop lounge. PLANT MAN: …Oh. Well, yes! I did it to impress you. LOGICO: . . . w h a t. PLANT MAN: I had to use a lot of logic to execute it perfectly!

The magnifying glass man’s head begins to throb, having that word thrown against him yet again.

LOGICO: I don’t even need real logic! I’m just going to PLAY a detective!!

He runs off.

The end! 

Remember, it's also Logico's villain origin story

The power of Goat Lord compels you!

See you next time murdlers!

help me with my life here!

[muffins-saga-archives]

Artist: Reitanna seishin

Date of Upload original: May 22, 2014

Original Desc:

"elemental ponies" are a new series I'm drawing. I got the idea when I was looking up fakemon, and it just came to me. THIS. WAS. HARD. like, I thought this would be one of the easy ones, but NOOOOOOOOOO! it was a nightmare!

YOU KNOW WHAT I LOVE? when my internet cuts out right as I press "submit," so it doesn't submit. then I have to refresh the page and select the said deviation from my stash, and the description I had written and it was there, but then I press submit and MY DESCRIPTION IS GONE. YES! I LOVE THAT!! well, here it goes again....

glass:

another very strange type of pony, actually sort of rivaling the appearance of crystal ponies. they can be earth, unicorn, or pegasi. instead of being faceted like crystal ponies, their bodies are flawlessly smooth, as well as transparent. the mane and tail, however, are opaque, but still very shiny. the pupils, instead of black, are usually a slightly darker shade of whatever color their irises are, and their eyes are SUPER shiny and pretty. because of how fragile they are, they will end up getting cracks sometimes, but just like cuts, they can heal. there is a special ward in the hospital for serious glass pony injuries. these ponies get along best with light and water ponies. let's see if I can remember her description... okay, this glass pony's name is soda lime, and she enjoys making her own glass, as well as stained glass painting. her dream is to be noticed by the princesses so that they request she make a stained glass window for the castle, but so far, she's had no luck. she'll also make glass dishes, paper weights, panels, decorations, etc. and sell them in the market. the one problem soda lime has is that she's clumsy and a ditz, she ends up hurting herself a lot. the glass ward at the hospital knows her well!!

*sigh* I know I had more than that, but I don't remember. *punches computer* hate. you.

the other ones that I'm gonna draw are air, cosmic, electric, fire, light, nature, and shadow.

[lilunaire]

TEASER 11 - CH.11 TIL WE BURN OUR SKINS

Yeah I know, a teaser, not the actual chapter. But, it's better than nothing right ? So today, here's a big teaser to compensate for this huge wait, and if it takes me more than two weeks to be fully done with the chapter, i'll drop another one. But chapter 11 should be there this october guys, and it's currently 62 pages and 26k words (and going!).

Enjoy ♡

(teasers below the line)

----------

“I think this guy likes you.”

Em-Jay’s voice pulls her out of her thoughts as she turns her head toward a group of young men, one of whom she knows has been staring at her for several minutes. The reason she’s ignoring him?

Gwen hated the 'canon', and she had good reason. As such, she tried not to judge people based on who they were. But sometimes it’s hard to put aside all your preconceptions about the people around you.

Especially when that person’s name is Eddie Brock.

So she ignores the fact that this was at least the seventh time he’d come to one of their show, that he never took his eyes off her when she performed on stage, or when she sat at the bar with her friends.

“So?”

… (little skip)

“So you should go see him and ask for his number. — Not interested, I pass. — Come on! He's come to see us at least five times, and every time he's looking at you. Take your chance! — I don't want to date a stalker. — He's not a 'stalker'…”

She didn't want to date Eddie Brock, period. Okay, there were worse things in the world. But being in a relationship with the person who had the best chance of becoming a symbiote host if they ever showed up on her Earth was probably not the best idea she could have. ---------- Their little hangout goes on more quickly than she had anticipated, and soon most of the people had either gone home or are sprawled out somewhere on the floor of the apartment. She is sitting on the floor too, her back to the couch, Em-Jay’s head on her lap, whose hair she absently strokes to gently ease her into a peaceful sleep.

She feels someone sit down next to her, but she already knows who it is anyway.

“So, did you enjoy the tonight? — It was pretty nice.”

She doesn’t elaborate further. She doesn’t feel as uncomfortable as before around him. In fact, he didn’t really seem like a bad guy. Maybe there really were exceptions in the multiverse after all. He holds two large glasses of water in his hand and hands her one.

“Here, drink this. I don’t know if you’ve been drinking tonight, but it always feels good.”

… (little skip)

She doesn’t know what made her change her mind: was it that more vulnerable side he had put on? The pictures of his adorable dog he had shown her? Maybe just the fatigue of the week that had simply fried a few neurons.

She doesn’t know if seeing the notification on her phone would have made her give a different answer. A 'Good night', from the boy she loved the most in the world, sent right at the time she usually sent an 'I’m going to bed', accompanied by a penguin emoji.

What is certain is that you can’t change the past, and that night, she said yes. ---------- Margo was currently using Gwen's phone, scrolling through Vine, an app that had been gone for years on E-22191. She could be heard laughing at various videos, punctuating the conversation regularly.

Well, that was until she gasped loudly, drawing everyone's attention, before saying not so discreetly “You have a date with Eddie Brock?!”. A sudden sound of glass breaking.

Silence fell heavily as she realized what she had just said out loud, but their eyes almost immediately went to a still surprised Gwen.

Aware that the others were waiting for a response, she stood up and went to retrieve her phone. She read the message, and sure enough, Eddie asked her if she was still up for this Wednesday night.

She stammered for a moment before she could come up with a proper response.

“Um, yeah. But it’s just a little date, nothing crazy.”

No one answers for the next few seconds, but she knows exactly what they’re all thinking right now. ---------- “I have a boyfriend.”

She rips the bandage off in one go. Miles doesn’t react at first, as if he didn’t hear, just stares at his Spider-Man mask in his hand. But the way he freezes is proof that her words have reached his ears. He stops playing with the fabric of his spandex, she even has the impression that he stops breathing for a moment.

“Miles? — So… you and Eddie? — Yeah, it’s official.”

He looks away, eyeing the crowd, the New Yorkers getting out of work. Some seemed in a hurry, others took their time. Parents were buying ice cream for their kids, students were buying their dinner for tonight at street stalls, elderly couples were feeding the pigeons.

“Are you mad at me? she finally asks when he still doesn't answer. — Of course not. — That's the impression I get, anyway…” ---------- Betty grabs her backpack with a little difficulty to take her water bottle and take a few sips, before putting everything down. She signals Gwen to resume the swinging.

“We talked a bit about everything, about what had happened to us since he left school… He told me he did a lot of therapy, and that it opened his eyes to a lot of things.”

Gwen doesn't answer, too many thoughts switching in her brain, as she reviews all the things that had happened a few years ago.

“He didn't say it explicitly but…”

The drummer looks up.

“I think Peter's death was a shock to him. — I wish he had one before.”

Betty looks away.

“Yeah, me too…” ---------- But no, instead she ruins everything, over and over again. She has distanced herself from the others in order to focus on being Spider-Woman, but still hasn't managed to get her hands on the heart of the criminal network that takes up all her time.

The sign says a three-minute wait time.

So this was her destiny? To be as useless as Gwen Stacy as she is as Spider-Woman? A burden in any skin, with any face.

Em-Jay says the subway is coming.

A bad friend.

Glory says to back off, just to be safe.

A lousy girlfriend.

Betty takes her arm when she doesn't back off on her own.

The worst superhero New York could ever have known.

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

To Hell...: Part One

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.1k

Summary: A man intentionally admits to murdering ten people he didn’t kill all because his sister is missing. The facts take you to a pig farm where a world of horror is waiting for you.

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there are any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them. If you’ve seen the show, then it’s the same level of angst unless otherwise stated

x

"If there were no hell, we would be like the animals. No hell, no dignity." - Flannery O'Connor

Two weeks have gone by since the Anthrax attack. For two weeks, Spencer has been in recovery. This is the first day he gets to come to work after getting out of the hospital. Everyone is inside the bullpen and their respective offices while you're outside in the empty hallway. You need a moment to yourself to calm your racing heart.

You're still not over almost losing Spencer. He's fine now and has been cleared by the doctor but the fear of losing him is still in the back of your mind. Things like fear, panic, and sadness hit you harder than any other emotion because of how strong they can be. They hate being alone, so they try to take as many people down with them as possible.

"Hey, there you are," Spencer says from the double glass doors. "Are you okay?" You shake your head and refuse to look at him. If you do, you're scared you'll never stop crying. "Darling, I'm okay now. There's no permanent damage."

When you don't look at him, he puts two fingers under your chin and lifts your head so you're forced to look him in the eyes.

"Did you know your love consumes me? It's passionate and intense and it hurts sometimes because I'm so in love with you. I have never loved anyone as much as I love you, so when you get hurt, it's ten times more difficult for me because I'm an empath."

Spencer cuts you off by placing his lips on yours. You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer to you. You can't ever get enough of his lips, his touch, or his love.

"Just know I'm not going anywhere," he whispers. He pulls away and rests his forehead against yours. "I still need to marry you and have your kids."

This time, you smile a happy one and kiss him again.

"Hey, sorry to interrupt," JJ clears her throat. You and Spencer part from each other to look at her. "The meeting's about to start."

"Yeah, we'll be right there."

JJ leaves and you reach up to fix Spencer's hair.

"I love you."

"I love you more."

"Not possible," you grin.

"Yes, possible."

You two cut your cheesy moment short and join everyone in the briefing room so that JJ can get started on the case. She starts by putting a video on the screen for everyone to watch. On the Canada Border, there are a lot of cars getting checked before going through, but there is this one that draws the attention of some of the officers.

One car passes through the checkpoint but stops right as he does, and officers gather around to tell him to move. Instead of complying, he drives his car right through the barricade, turns around, and rams right into one of the checkpoint booths.

Officers from all over get their guns out and remove him from the car, and they slam the man down on the ground face-first. They handcuff him where he lays, pull him to his feet, and he looks up at the camera.

"His name is William Hightower. He claims over the past month, he's picked ten people off the streets of Detroit, killed them, and dumped their bodies across the border in Canada."

"Has he given up the dumpsite?"

"He said he'll only talk to the FBI."

"Do we have confirmation these people are even missing?" Spencer asks.

"Two were reported missing by family months ago, but they all appear to be transients. We're having a hard time finding any information on them."

"Garica?"

"Like a bloodhound, sir," she says and leaves the briefing room to find information on the ten people.

"So, what do we know about Will?"

"Up until two months ago, he was a Sergeant in the Us Army that did two tours in Iraq. He lost his left leg in a roadside ambush. He was discharged with a purple heart and a commendation for Valor."

"The Royal Canadian Mounted Police are requesting our help?"

"They don't have a lot of choice."

"If he manages to get away with ten murders, why crash the guard post?"

"It could be an attempted suicide. Maybe he was trying to take as many people with him as he could," Emily theorizes.

"It could also be a case of post-traumatic stress disorder. Do we think it's legit?"

"I think it's too many bodies to take chances. Wheels up in thirty."

Hotch is the last one to leave the room, and before he can go on his way, you stop him.

"Hey, I just want to apologize for yelling at you two weeks ago. I shouldn't have done that."

"I understand the stress you were under. Honestly, I would have done the same thing if I were you. I hope you and Reid are doing okay."

"Yeah, we are now."

Hotch pats you on the back and leaves your side. Everyone meets on the plane and the pilot starts the three-and-a-half-hour flight to Windsor International Airport in Canada. JJ looks through the files containing the claims Will made about the murders.

"He documented them all in detail with names, photos, dates, and locations of where he took them."

"He has a Military background, so he's bound to be organized. He definitely doesn't have a type. The only consistency is that they were all abducted in the same area."

"Yeah, what do we know about that?" Emily asks.

"It's called the Cass Corridor. It's right here." Spencer points it out on a map. "It has an extremely high concentration of drug trafficking, prostitution, and homeless people. All high-risk behavior."

"Maybe for Will, it's more about opportunity than victimology."

"Morgan and Prentiss, when we land, I want you to head straight to Detroit and see if you hear anything in the whisper stream. I want to make sure we have a crime before we get too deeply into this. The rest of us will meet with the legal attache before we hit the Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

"Actually, sir, the officer in charge said that his team was part of a fellowship the BAU gave to train police forces in profiling," JJ says.

"That was the first one we ever did. His name is Jeff Bedwell."

"You know him? Is he any good?"

"He better be. I trained him," Rossi smirks.

As soon as the plane lands, your team splits up with you going with the majority to the police station. Jeff Bedwell eagerly greets Rossi when he sees him.

"Jeff, how have you been?"

"You mean besides having serial killers trying to take out our border agents?"

"Jeff, these are Agents Aaron Hotchner, Spence Reid, Y/N, and Jennifer Jareau."

"Thanks for being here. I've got a victim board and timelines set up on monitors in the conference room. Anything you need, you've got the run of the place."

"We appreciate it."

"Don't thank me, thank the unsub. He's the one that put you all in charge."

You walk into the conference room and see all the missing victims on the board.

"I need to go talk to Garcia and see if she had any luck locating the family members. I'll also check records for multiple border crosses and see if we get any hits for the days the victims went missing," JJ says and leaves the room.

"Do you believe he killed all these people?" you ask.

"It fits the profile."

"How so?"

"He's got recent physical trauma that could be a stressor, wide disparity of victims, no bodies, possible border cross, and two entirely different terrains. To pull that off, you'd have to be smart, organized, mobile, and physical. His Military background gives us all that."

"It appears as though he clusters his victims into men, then women, and then back to men again."

"What does that tell you?" Jeff asks Spencer.

"At the moment, nothing."

"Has he contacted his family?"

"No, and he refuses a lawyer."

"Is he here in interrogation?"

"Yes."

"This guy is from the US Army who demanded to talk to the FBI. He's not gonna want to talk to anyone but the person he thinks is in charge."

"Of course. I'll take you to him."

Rossi and Spencer stay in the conference room while you and Hotch follow Jeff to where Will is being held. You can see him through the two-way glass and notice his anger. However, it's not a rageful anger but a calm one. He's staring at the window as if he can see right through it.

"Has he been agitated this whole time?"

"He hasn't even flinched."

"Does he know that we're here?"

"Yeah, we told him. Are you not gonna interrogate him?" Jeff asks.

"If I go in now, he's in charge. If I wait and gather information... It's my interview. Let's see what we turn up in Detroit."

Derek and Emily noticed something strange when they got to Detroit. Not a single person isolated themselves from everyone else, and they've all set up camps. People on the streets don't usually care about safety in numbers unless something scared them into changing their behavior. Drug deals are happening in the daytime and prostitutes seem to be working in groups. If Will did kill ten people, he couldn't have done it without witnesses.

Emily asked the girls while Derek stuck to the homeless population. Derek talked to someone who seemed to know who the last victim was, and his name is Charles who was a junkie. He's been gone for two days, and it wouldn't have been weird except that a lot of people have been disappearing.

When they do, they don't come back.

It's normal for people to leave and not come back, but this guy has never seen anything like this before. Derek showed him a picture of Will and asked about him, and the man says that everyone tries to avoid Will. He's got a gun and no one wants any beef with him. He keeps asking about everyone who's gone missing, when they went missing, and just about everything he needs to make it look like he's the one who killed them.

Before Hotch goes in, you put a hand on his arm to stop him.

"Can I take the lead on this one?"

"What are you thinking?"

"That he didn't kill anyone. Don't worry, I won't choke you."

"Alright, let's see what you've got."

You and Hotch walk into the room and Will gives you a stone-cold look.

"I'm Agent Y/N and this is my boss, Aaron Hotchner, the Behavioral Analysis Unit Chief of the FBI."

"Are you here to analyze me?"

"No. I'm here for your confession, and to find out where you've dumped the bodies."

"I gave you names and dates."

"Not dump sites. You didn't give that information because you don't know where their bodies are, do you?" Will stays silent, and you get the impression that he's desperate out of love. "I know you were a Sergeant that led troops, and you've probably lost some men along the way, right?"

"A few."

"How would their parents feel if they didn't know whether their sons and daughters were dead or alive?"

"Don't lecture me on notifying families," Will angrily says. He takes a deep breath and composes himself. "No one cares about those people. Why should I?"

He got angry when you mentioned the word "families".

"You didn't kill those men, did you?"

"What makes you think I didn't?"

"Because you were out there every night showing people their photographs and checking their names off in a notebook. You'd only do that if you were looking for someone. Who are you missing, William?"

It's the kindness in your voice that causes him to break down crying. You look at Hotch and he encourages you to continue.

"You intentionally made sure everyone was out of that checkpoint booth before hitting it. You never wanted to kill anyone, just like you didn't kill those ten people. Now, I believe you when you say these people are missing. Is that what you wanted? To make us investigate so we'd find whoever it is you're missing?"

"Yes," he cries.

"Who is it?"

"My baby sister, Lee. When I got home from Iraq, the first thing my mother told me was that Lee was on the streets. She asked me to find her. I managed to find her once and brought her home. We fed her, got her cleaned up, and I let her wear my dog tags for good luck. Two weeks later, she slipped back onto the streets."

"Will, you provided so much information on the ten victims, but you didn't give us anything on Lee. Why is that?"

"I hid it in my spare tire. I needed to wait until I was sure that you were on board."

"What can you tell us about Lee?"

Will gives you everything he had on Lee, and you found the file he gathered on her in the spare tire in his trunk. He even gave you his phone that has a voicemail she sent to him right before she disappeared. You leave the interrogation room with Hotch and turn to him with a smile.

"Did I choke you?"

"You did a really good job. I'm serious. Keep up the good work."

"Thank you," you grin.

x

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[deconstructthesoup]

Y'know what, screw the "voice designs get unlocked when you unlock the voices," I love all these ladies and I'm gonna talk about them.

So!

Apprentice is basically dressed like a cute wizard girl you'd see in an anime or video game---big hat, comfy cloak, frilly skirt, thigh-high boots, and an equally frilly button-up. It's her first day at wizard school, she's starry-eyed and ready to learn, but she's still incredibly naive. She's also got a wand, because how else are you going to learn how to cast spells?

By contrast, Curious is more of a "cozy librarian" type girl---big comfy sweater, big comfy skirt, glasses on a chain. She doesn't have multiple heads or arms or anything like the Stranger does, even though she's a Stranger equivalent, but her features are... floating is the best term I can use to describe it. She's confused, she wants to know more, she's gained through moments where questioning things leads to mixed results---our girl's a bit scattered, and that's okay.

Charming is styled more like your typical Halloween witch---big black hat, black dress, belt stocked with potions, and a badass magic staff. She's still got catlike features, because she wouldn't be herself without them, and... yeah, no, Charming's design is pretty standard, all things considered. She's a devious little magical catgirl.

Warrior is a full-on lady knight. She's fully dressed like your typical paladin---gorgeously designed armor, a billowing cape, and an enormous fuck-you sword. And while she definitely has a bit of an ego, this woman is very much your classic knight devoted to a cause. All of the Voices secretly have a thing for her. Especially Researcher.

Restless is styled in a Victorian fashion---fancy updo, corset, heavy skirts, puffy sleeves---and she looks every bit as ghostly as her canon counterpart. She's someone who can't handle stagnation, and just wants the freedom to be impulsive and crazy... hence, why she looks like the tortured heroine of a gothic novel.

Doll also has a Victorian aesthetic, but it's more akin to, well, a spooky doll---frilly black dress, pigtails, the whole nine yards. I also imagine her, weirdly enough, holding a doll, just so she can have something to squeeze when things get really freaky. She's got Jane Doe vibes.

Humbled is bound in chains like Prisoner is in canon, but she's dressed in rags instead of a princess dress. Her whole thing is that she's been beaten down and made to believe that she's lesser, and her design kind of reflects what it feels like to be at rock bottom and being kicked when you're down---even though she is much smarter than she believes herself to be. (And yes, I am drawing from insecurities based on having been a neurodivergent kid with strict and exacting teachers, what of it?)

Hateful is still a large devil girl, but she's visibly unwell (bags under her eyes, sunken features, regularly coughs up blood), she's dressed in a hospital gown, and there's still IVs in her arms that aren't attached to anything but are nigh-on impossible to remove. I've considered renaming her Voice of the Patient, except she's... well, the opposite of patient. She's essentially meant to be someone who is sick and is getting worse by the minute, but keeps on fighting anyway because she doesn't know how to do anything else.

Prepared still has a lot of animalistic features in her design, though she looks less like a prowling beast and more like someone who's well on their way to becoming one---basically, werewolf vibes. She's kind of meant to be a contrast to the Inventor's more industrial style, representing a natural force that's apprehensive towards all the metal and gears and is hell-bent on proving that he doesn't have an advantage. She has the instincts of an animal, and she can guide us through... hopefully.

And last but not least, Rebel is the most modern out of everyone else---baggy pants, combat boots, chain wallets, leather jacket, the whole shebang. If the Substitute is the teacher who has no idea what he's doing, then Rebel is the student who's slacking off, cutting class, and has no other motivation other than to be a thorn in authority's side. In my opinion, the Razor is the only one who really breaks away from all the fantasy vibes of all the other vessels, and I think that should carry over into her voice equivalent.

[mercury-ink-writes]

Mercury Presents...

“Crawling at your feet,” said the Gnat (Alice drew her feet back in some alarm), “you may observe a Bread-and-Butterfly. Its wings are thin slices of Bread-and-butter, its body is a crust, and its head is a lump of sugar.”

“And what does it live on?”

“Weak tea with cream in it.”

A new difficulty came into Alice’s head. “Supposing it couldn’t find any?” she suggested.

“Then it would die, of course.”

“But that must happen very often,” Alice remarked thoughtfully.

“It always happens,” said the Gnat.`` –Through the Looking-Glass, Lewis Carroll.

Kokichi talks to Kaito. Blood. Lots of blood.

Notes:

I am so sorry this chapter took so long! I struggled so much with doing the dialogue for Kaito, but I got through it eventually (thank you @nexyra on Tumblr for your help!!)

Jabberwock

Chapter Three: Bread-and-Butterfly

　What time is it? Oh, it’s not even two yet. Kokichi doesn’t know if he wanted time to pass by quicker or slower, but he’s disappointed either way. And bored. Let’s see… Doodling? No, he doesn’t feel like drawing. Spinny chair is too dizzying. There’s no games here to play. He’s not tired enough to sleep. He’s too tired to do origami. Reading would hurt his eyes. Writing would hurt his hand.

　…

　He could… talk to Kaito… Yeah, he could talk to Kaito. He has been meaning to. And this time, he won’t chicken out.

　So, Kokichi once again rolls over to the door (and, once again, hits the walls more than a dozen times along the way) and pulls himself to his feet. It takes every ounce that he has of focus, strength, and pure fucking stubbornness to not stumble, but he manages to get out of his room and down the hall to Kaito’s door.

　He’s scared. Kokichi Ouma is scared—imagine that! It feels like his stomach is twisting in opprobrium and his heart is trying to suffocate him, but Kokichi’s hands still cooperate enough for him to knock. Seconds pass by gratingly slow, and with every heartbeat that thuds in his throat, Kokichi finds it harder and harder to stay standing.

　What if Kaito isn’t in his room? What if Kaito knows it’s him and doesn’t want to interact? What if Kaito is gone? What if Kaito is angry at him? What if Kaito is in too much pain to answer? What if Kaito is busy? What if Kaito hates him?

　Too bad Kokichi’s thoughts are jarred by the door opening and thus tipping his fickle balance—though, the abruptness of it paired with how long he’s been standing sort of makes him too dizzy to focus on anything.

　“Are you… okay?”

　The feeling of someone catching Kokichi by the arm sends shockwaves through his body, and he can’t help but shudder. Who just spoke..? Someone just caught him… God, the world is spinning… Kokichi can’t handle this much longer. Damnit, he’s so pathetic!

Think, Kokichi, think. Who is talking? ...Kaito. It’s Kaito. So, obviously, Kokichi forces a smile and tries to squint his swimming vision into working at least somewhat.

　“Whaaat? I’m f-feeling just delightful~!”

　With a roll of the eyes that Kokichi can just barely see, Kaito replies, “I don’t believe that, bro. You look like shit.”

　A dazed giggle escapes Kokichi, “Th-that’s cuz you k-killed me, silly!” and he leans into Kaito’s support. Pitiful, yes, but it would be even more pathetic to collapse.

　That comment certainly strikes a nerve for Kaito, as his grip tightens. “Cut the crap Ouma…”

　The growl those words are said with almost makes Kokichi falter, but instead he just forces his smile to widen. He can’t manage to speak anymore—he’s getting too nauseous. Everything is still spinning, and the world is swaying beneath him. Or it’s himself that’s swaying…

　“You’re sitting down.” Kaito yanks Kokichi into his dorm and, after some movement that makes Kokichi nearly gag from the feeling of, Kokichi is now slumped on the bed.

　Fuck… Breathe. He needs to breathe... Just breathe. Why is it so much harder to breathe when he’s being stared at? Why won’t Kaito stop fucking staring at him? Stop!

　Kokichi cannot quite process the world around him. Too much spinning, too much swaying, too much movement, too much nausea, too much dizziness, too much. Too much. It’s all too much.

　Wait, is Kaito saying something? It’s hard to tell—there’s so much noise in Kokichi’s ears, and none of it is making it to his brain. Come on, Kokichi, focus. Just focus. It should not be this hard to just fucking focus!

　Nothing feels real, everything feels fuzzy, there’s too much noise, too many things, none of it makes sense. It’s too difficult to think. Headache. Pain, somewhere. Something. A lot of things.

　All too much becomes much of nothing. There’s too much going on, and so nothing makes sense, possibly.

　There needs to be less happening, he needs to have less happening. Less. How? Less of what? Erm… Less things for his brain to process? So, less input. Less senses. Less of anything. This makes no sense!

　Just make less. Kokichi covers his ears and squeezes his eyes shut. That’s less, right? Less light, less noise, less objects, less colours, less words, less things. Less pain in his head, that’s good.

　Where is he again? …Oh, right. Kaito’s room. Shit… That means Kokichi just made a fool of himself in front of Kaito. Goddamnit, why is he so pathetic? He can’t even manage social interaction. Pathetic. Utterly pathetic.

　At least he can think properly now. Though, he still feels dizzy. Dizzy and dazed. He probably looks stupid right now, but Kokichi cannot bring himself to move at all.

　Something touches his skin. Cold. That’s cold. He doesn’t like that, too cold. What is that?

　It takes opening his eyes, waiting for his vision to focus, and glancing around a bit before Kokichi discovers the strange, cold object that touched him. Water. Glass of water. Kaito is holding a glass of water. Holding a glass of water out for Kokichi. Water. No. Kokichi doesn’t want the water. Sure, he’s thirsty, but drinking water means moving, and water sounds unappetising. Kokichi does not want to move. Kokichi does not want to drink water. No. Say no. How does he say no?

　Kaito just said something—his lips just moved. Sounds still don’t compute, it seems.

　For a good bit—it feels like forever, but probably was only a minute or so—Kokichi stares at the water, trying to figure out how to decline the offer. Eventually, he remembers to shake his head. Ouch. Note to self; don’t move.

　There’s no more need to keep his eyes open, so Kokichi closes them again.

　God, how did he get so fragile? He was never actually hurt. The killing game was fake. So why did it affect him so much? He was fine (enough) during the game. What changed? Why can’t he even function anymore? Why is he so damn pathetic all of the sudden?

　...Wait. Injuries from the killing game weren’t real, but what about illnesses? Kokichi isn’t poisoned, sure, but that was caused by an injury. Is Kaito still sick? Is it still worsening? Is Kaito going to die?

　Nononono, that cannot happen! That will not happen! Nobody else will die, not again.

　Kokichi cracks his eyes open once more, looking for Kaito. He’s sitting next to him. Right side. Thinking. Not paying attention. Good, that works. With a tad difficulty, Kokichi lowers his hands from over his ears and leans to the side until he collides gently with Kaito. Well, Kokichi thought he was gentle, but the contact makes Kaito jolt in surprise.

　“Oi, whachu doin’?”, followed by a light smack to the back of the head.

　Putting on a façade of drowsiness to the best of his dwindling ability, Kokichi has to ignore just how his head now throbs. “‘m tired.”

　“Oh.” A pause, then Kaito wraps an arm around the other. “I’m a pretty shitty pillow, y’know.”

　“don’t care, shut up.” Kokichi presses himself closer to Kaito’s body. The position is a bit uncomfortable for him, but he has to check. He has to know.

　Luckily, Kaito does actually shut up. Good. That lets Kokichi listen to his breathing.

　...

　Every breath Kaito inhales sounds like the ocean, and every exhale sounds like a tsunami. Likely blood, but just to make sure, Kokichi jabs his elbow into Kaito’s sternum and quickly pulls himself against his shoulder so as to not get coughed on.

　“Wha– hnck!” As expected, Kaito hacks up a lake’s worth of his bloody ocean. A lot of blood. Holy fuck. Kokichi gets so stunned by the sheer amount that he almost doesn’t catch Kaito’s glare. “Th-the hell is wrong with you?!”

　For a second, Kokichi nearly forgets to respond, but he catches himself fast enough that it doesn’t make much of a difference. There’s no point in wasting his energy by pretending, so he opts for sincerity. (Oh, what a rare thing!) “Momota-chan, that’s a lot of blood…”

　Kaito looks down at the splattered mess staining his clothes and bed. “Ya think I don’t already know that?”

　“I think that you shouldn’t try to hide that you’re dying.” Leaning his forehead against Kaito’s shoulder, Kokichi closes his eyes.

　Even though the fuck-tonne of blood in his lap says otherwise—“I’m not gonna die, dipshit!”—he still denies it.

　Too loud. Kaito is too loud. Everything is too loud. Everything is too loud. Too loud. Too loud. Too loud.

　Kokichi doesn’t even realise he is once again covering his ears until Kaito pokes at him to get his attention.

　“Hey, mind lettin’ me up? I need to clean up this, erm, mess.”

　Right. Blood. A lot of blood. Kokichi doesn’t want to see the blood. He doesn’t have to see the blood. He just needs to keep his eyes closed. So, doing exactly that, Kokichi pulls his weight off from Kaito and flops over onto the mattress, now laying down. It’s better than sitting upright, it takes less effort. Less energy.

[ask-the-koopa-family]

Idk if I can call this "My headcanons part 3" but I have a few songs that reminds me of your ocs:

Lars - Money, Money, Money (ABBA)

I headcanon Lars as a greedy person but also lazy. He wants Money but doesnt want to work for It, and the only Money he has, he wastes It on parties, drinking, etc.

Cherry - Hell is forever [Lute Ver.] (MilkyyMelodies)

This one's because of Ash and the war(especially in the Villain Cherry AU)

Clawdia - Good 4 u (Olivia Rodrigo)

I headcanon that Clawdia escaped from the koopa kingdom and rn is living in a House in a lonely hill. She isn't living her best life. She's known where she lives as "Jr's sh*tty mother" and everyone hates her or dislikes her at her job. But she also knows about Bowser and Cherry, Bowser Jr, Cleo etc from social media. She feels like Bowser never cared about her even though they were Friends before the marriage, that he moved on so easily and he pretended she never existed.Though she knows that she doesnt have the right to be angry at Bowser and the right thing to do is wish him the best...

Arsen(and Cherry's family probably) - We dont Talk about Bruno (Encanto)

If you watch the Movie, you can probably Guess why...(i also headcanon that Arsen liked to cause some trouble with his powers or even prank his children)

Cleo - Nurse's office (Melanie Martinez)

(so sorry Cleo 😭) I headcanon she used to be bullied as a toddler because of being a hybrid.

Omg yesssss I love it!!! Let’s go one by one:

Lars — "Money, Money, Money"

YES. This screams Lars energy. He’s that koopa who dreams big, but only from the couch. Always saying things like “if I had money, I’d be unstoppable” while holding an empty wine glass. Throwing lavish parties he can't afford just to feel important? 100%. Canon in my AU!!!

Cherry — "Hell is Forever "

Oof… that’s hauntingly perfect, especially for the Villain Cherry AU. That slow, painful kind of grief wrapped in beauty and rage. I can totally picture her walking through the ruins of her past, haunted by Ash and the war, looking like a calm storm ready to destroy. Elegant, dangerous, grieving.

Clawdia — "Good 4 U"

OUCH. That hits hard and honestly feels real. Her bitterness, loneliness, and regret clashing with the understanding that she shouldn't be mad? That's such a layered and tragic emotional state. She’s like the ghost of a past Bowser never talks about, left behind in the dark, quietly hurting while the world forgets her. I love this so much it hurts!!!

Arsen (+ Cherry’s family) — "We Don’t Talk About Bruno"

This is hilarious and sad...and it fits Arsen way too well. That ..." absent father" everyone avoids talking about because he caused chaos. Cherry doesnt want to talk about him. And nobody dared to ask. But I love the idea that his name is kind of taboo among the family — like, "We don’t talk about Arsen at dinner."

Cléo — "Nurse’s Office"

Okay now I just want to hug Cléo😭 That song is so painful and childlike, and it suits a hybrid child being bullied just for existing! You just know she’d pretend she’s sick to avoid mean kids, but hold in all her feelings to not worry Bowser or Cherry. My god, Now I need to draw her hiding in the castle’s garden, crying into her plushie…😭😭😭

Thank you for sharing these ! You really got the tone and backstory so right for each characters !!!

I'm totally down to hear more if you have other headcanons !!!