#and how they joined and how they look at the horrors - the remnants - and how they see junko herself

[aparticularbandit]

you know. sometimes when you're writing a thing you don't intend for something to be a big part of your character lore and then it just ends up being that way.

i may not keep all of junko's backstory the same from one fic to the next, but i might be keeping all the rocky horror stuff.

i mean.

junko enoshima and her cast of horrors.

[notmyneighbor]

Let Me in ~ Doppelgänger Francis Mosses/The Milkman x Female Reader

Chapter 3

Word Count ~ 2.5k

Rating ~ Explicit

CW ~ blood and gore, body horror, character death, minor violence, dubious consent, sexual content

Also available on AO3

Fanart used with permission @kaworinx on Instagram and TikTok

You sit on the side of the bed that had once belonged to Francis Mosses.

The comforter and top sheet have already been pulled down. You lean over to slide out of your low heeled pumps, tucking the pair of navy leather shoes neatly under the bed.

There’s a bible on the nightstand. A worn looking copy. Beside it a glass with a shallow amount of water resting in the bottom, the remnant of a late night attempt to quench thirst, perhaps.

The doppelgänger watches your movements. How methodical each action is. Slow and deliberate. You’re stalling.

He settles beside you and the mattress creaks as the springs are compressed. That odd sort of shimmer you’d noticed earlier outside the security booth outlines his frame for a brief moment. A surge of light and color as the skin ripples before settling. They still weren’t completely able to disguise what they were. All hope was not lost.

Your own fate, however, seems sealed. You lie down slowly, carefully. You feel as if you are laying yourself to rest in your own coffin. Turning your face ever so slightly to see if there is any trace of the man that had once slept here, some lingering scent or an indent from his face. Nothing but the fragrance of clean linen. The imposter moves as if to join you but you halt him, your fingers closing over his forearm. Your first time touching him and not the other way around. “Take your shoes off.”

The creature snickers, glancing down at the scuffed oxfords he’s wearing. Overdue for a shine. “What possible difference does that make?”

“It’s respectful. You never put your shoes where someone sleeps.”

“He won’t be sleeping here ever again.”

You inhale sharply, wincing. “Please just do it.” You can’t say why you’re so hung up on this. Only that it seems the right thing to do. A small thing in a sea of wrongs that you’re clinging to like a life preserver.

“Fine.” He acquiesces, bending to unlace them. There is no care in his actions. Just brisk, impatient pulls to undo the knotted ties. Then he is lying beside you. Your heads sharing the same pillow. Francis only used a single one, apparently. Preferring to slumber lying with his head and neck rather flat. You always used two fluffy pillows, minimum.

You can hear the sound of music starting to play, emanating from the resident’s apartment next door.

Mia Stone, perhaps. The blonde teacher who was Dr. Afton’s fiancée. You instantly recognize the musical artist crooning through the walls: Billie Holiday.

I say I'll move the mountains

And I'll move the mountains

If he wants them out of the way

You would have loved to play this record for Francis. You envision trying to dance in the cramped space of the living room, twirling around in his arms. “Did he really like my fragrance?” You know the creature could lie, of course. He’d say anything to manipulate you and get what he wanted. But you have to ask. Your heart won’t let you avoid the query.

The dark eyes of the pretender regard you. You detect no malice or dishonesty there. “Yes,” he says simply.

You close your eyes, sighing. “What else did he like about me?”

“Your smile, gifted once you were certain it was really him. The way you covered your mouth when you laugh, making some little relieved joke when you passed his identification and entry request back to him each day. The strands of hair that came loose around your face as the day wore on into late afternoon when he returned from his route. The—”

“—Stop. Please.” Tears well in your eyes. They didn’t sound like the kind of details the deceiver would create on his own. There was a note of truth to them. Genuine recollections. He truly was all that remained of Francis Mosses. A man that had been fond of you. You could have been with him, if only you’d been a little braver.

“You asked me to tell you.”

“I know. It’s just overwhelming.”

Like the wind that shakes the bough

He moves me with a smile

“Your kind is so fond of music. Your milkman was always humming. I don’t see the use for it.”

The your wrenches your heart. He wasn’t yours. Never would be. “It’s a way to expression emotions. When words alone aren’t enough.”

“Hmmm.” He reaches out and you flinch. “Why are you fighting this so hard? This is what you wanted.”

“I didn’t want Francis to die.” You pause, swallowing past the lump in your throat. “Why do you want this?”

”Curiosity. An experiment of sorts. There has never been a union between our kind. Not of this nature. A desire to know what it feels like. To see what might result.”

You shudder. An experiment. Using you like some kind of animal for breeding. A mere whim.

He reaches again and this time you force yourself to hold steady, your chin lifting with a short jerk of defiance. Your hair is his goal. Tucking it back behind one ear. Maybe something the milkman had wanted to do. There’s a sudden softness in the doppelgänger’s eyes. As if the human he’d once been was peeking through at you. You find yourself melting again, your defenses coming down.

I say I'll care forever

And I mean forever

He moves closer to you. Inching over across the white fitted sheet. A thumb strokes away one of the tears that has escaped its prison. He captures the other from the opposite cheek, bringing it to his lips, his tongue darting out to taste the droplet. “Salt,” he says, recognizing the mineral.

He kisses you.

You’re not sure if it’s better to think of the man you had loved or not. Was it dishonoring his memory or was it a way to keep him present in some vague capacity? There’s no clumsiness this time. He knows the feel of your mouth. The way to shift against you. Tongue mapping past smooth cheeks and dragging along the carpet of muscle at the base of that maw. Maybe it was better to pretend this was Francis after all. You cup the back of his neck, fingers teasing the edges of his milk chocolate tresses. Curling slightly on the ends. It would be time for a trim soon. Would have been. The illusion you’ve created is crumbling again. Your lips falter, your hand dropping away.

Crazy he calls me

Sure, I'm crazy

Crazy in love am I

“Sweetheart,” the invader murmurs, tasting along your jaw, your neck. “I like the way you smell.” Speaking for himself, not Francis. You hear the sharp intake of air. The hand that had been casually laid across your shoulder slides down until it reaches your breast, gently kneading that globe through the layers of your bra and blouse. “Does this feel good?” His voice is octaves lower than you’d ever heard from the milkman. Slightly raspy and sultry, not unlike the singing voice that permeates through the wood and plaster behind the bed. You don’t dare answer, merely whimpering a little and he seems to take this as an affirmative response.

His hand leaves your breast and finds the top button of your shirt. Always sensible, pure white, part of the uniform standard the company requires. Another threaded plastic disc is pushed through the hole. He works his way down until all those that are exposed have surrendered, the remainder still tucked within your skirt. His fingers part the edges of the fabric encasing your torso, peeling them back to reveal the white satin brassiere beneath. He caresses you briefly through this slick material before tucking inside the cup until he brushes across your areola. Your nipple peaks beneath his ministrations as his lips move back to yours. He is surprisingly gentle, lightly pinching and rolling the aroused tissue. Your body betrays you, responding to the creature’s touch. You should be ashamed, disgusted. Instead you find yourself wanting more.

“Off,” he murmurs impatiently, plucking at your bra before his hand departs your chest. You struggle to sit up and he allows it, watching you pull your blouse free from your skirt and unfastening the cuffs before sliding it off your arms. With a swift gesture borne of long practice you easily pinch and release the hook and eye closures resting along the center of your spine, the cups immediately folding down over the underwire, the straps drooping over your shoulders.

The doppelgänger assists you now, sliding the brassiere off the rest of the way, exposing your chest to him. Your cheeks are pink, flushed like the nipples he’s toying with again, his head bending to suckle at one and a lick of flame sears your core. This is part of the invasive species’ learning process, you think. Taste as important as touch. His mouth moving not with the sole purpose of your pleasure in mind, but as a means to explore flavors and textures. Cataloguing. More of humanity’s secrets unveiled.

There is a song you don’t recognize playing next door now. Muffled voices. You’d had no idea the walls were so thin. Francis had never complained.

You’re shoved back down onto the pillow. His mouth wanders, back up to sample a collar bone, the hollow at the base of your throat, then dips in between your breasts and tastes the skin of your abdomen. You wonder if he can detect the floral soap you’d bathed with that morning, the traces of lotion you’d applied during your hygiene routine.

“I like this,” he says, his breath warm on your body. “You’re so soft. Smooth. Not like…I’ve never taken…” It had often been debated if there were sexes in their species. How they propagated. There was still so much unknown. Was there a reason he’d only chosen men to replicate? Was it simply because he was male himself? You could not explain how you knew it, but there was something distinctly masculine about him. Authoritative. Blunter than a woman would be. A lifetime of being raised to respect decorum had been firmly ingrained in you. Society valuing a woman who knows her place. Taught to be demure, deferring to the wisdom and guidance of their male counterparts. Serving and obeying, like you’re doing now.

The imposter returns his attention to your face. Licking your mouth back open. He likes this, you think. All of what you’d shared thus far, but perhaps the kissing best of all.

The background melody silences and you think you detect the front door opening and closing. You wonder if the couple will be going out to an early dinner. Curious when they find there is no one guarding the building. But not alarmed. Not yet.

Your skirt is being lifted, polyester dragged upward after the copycat’s hasty reach downward to gather the hem. Immediately sliding back down, stroking over your exposed thighs that are clad in nylons that stop midway across each of your upper legs. Nothing fancy, just utilitarian features in a shade of nude slightly more tanned than your own complexion. He nudges against the seal you’ve created by pressing your legs close together. “Let me in, sweet girl.” An echo of what he’d said earlier in an attempt to gain access to the building, now seeking entry into you. You feel your limbs parting for him nearly as promptly as you’d opened the door.

The pretender works his way back up to the fork of your body, teasing along the crotch of the white panties. You gasp and he smiles against your lips. His palm drags over the fabric until his fingers find the elastic waistband and he dips beneath it, running overly the neatly trimmed hair on your pubic mound, following the curve of that padded flesh until your sex is palpated.

Another gasp and a moan escapes you. “So wet,” he remarks, fondling the pink lips, parting the petals with his middle finger to slide through the slick arousal your body is creating, working the lubricant up and down, passing over the hooded nub and then delving back towards your entrance, where more fluid escapes.

It feels good and yet it doesn’t, his fingers too rough and just shy of where you need him. You squirm and wince at the harsh handling of your clitoris and he pauses, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Show me. Show me how you like to be touched.”

You reach down cautiously, guiding his fingers to one side of your sensitive bud, lightly pressing and rolling a fingertip so that your clit is ground slightly against the bone beneath. Alternating now, reaching back down to gather more of your slick before spreading it over that hooded button, a few direct strokes applied before beginning the process again. He replicates your actions and your body responds immediately, a hum of pleasure heating you. You close your eyes and you think of the milkman, the real one, with his kind smile and his tired eyes.

“Francis.” The name escapes your lips and you freeze, the rocking motion of your hips against the imposter’s hand abruptly ceasing. You hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Alarmed by how easily you’d allowed yourself to give in to the desire, accommodating this make believe passion.

“It’s alright, love. It’s me. I’m here.” His tongue laps at your ear, at the sensitive patch of skin behind it. You shiver and resume grinding against his fingers, letting yourself be deluded once more, your hand curling over his forearm.

“Francis,” you say again, hoping he can forgive you, in whatever form he now occupies, if he is saved as his faith professes he would be, finding redemption and peace, somewhere far from your sinning body that writhes in pleasure from his murderer’s touch.

You push against his hand and he allows it, applying force against the hollow cavity that leads to your womb. “Let me in,” he breathes, and you feel a finger invading your body, shoving through the narrow confines of that muscular tunnel. Withdrawing and spearing again, the digit saturated with your arousal. You moan and lift your pelvis to meet him. Curling inside, massaging that dip of spongy tissue. Crooking each time he enters as if he is leading you forward, beckoning, his thumb drawing circles over your clit. You feel as if you’re on the edge of a chasm, teetering on the rim, about to drop forward into heat and darkness. Keening now. Thighs tremoring violently. Your face turns and your teeth sink into the pillow. “There you go, love. Give it to me. Give in to me.”

The coiling pressure within you snaps and you find release at last, the fabric clenched in your teeth doing little to muffle the sound of your orgasm. You’re drenched in sweat, the aftershocks of your appeased nerves still sizzling through you. The doppelgänger cradles you through all of it, holding you as you ride the waves that exhaust your limbs, making you feel boneless and limp.

“Francis.” It’s a yearning plea, a futile prayer, answered by the thing that is not him, but masquerades as such, crooning to you, whispering false promises, draping you in synthetic affection, a lie you want so desperately to believe.

[lilacargent]

As im currently dealing with the loss of a loved one, this is my way of coping.

Grief

Grief is an interstellar concept. Almost every species in the galaxy has its own traditions and practices. Humans are no exception, like with most of their emotions their grief is all encompassing. Traditions vary from one culture to another, even people deal with it in different ways.

Kilare as part of a flocking species wonders about the human crewmates when one is lost in a battle. She knew the passed human Ellie very well. Turns out they grieve like a flock, huddled together weeping, almost giving into the urge to join she turns away, expecting this to last for a long time she leaves them be. When she checks next the little unit is drinking and laughing, she can hardly believe it, carefully stepping into the room “i am sorry, may i ask something?” The humans look up some still blotchy from crying, the human she knows as liz nods “you were all weeping just now, but you seem happy? Im confused…” fluffing her feathers Kilare backpedals “not to be insensitive, im just trying to understand your process.” Evan gets up and walks to her “that is okay, you knew Ellie well right? We are talking about her and how we miss her, laughing comes with the tears.” Motioning for the taller feathered woman to join the little group Moira makes eye contact and starts explaining “i know you are from a species that grieves as a group, if i remember correctly mostly weeping and spread ashes on the wind to join in every flight” impressed by the womans knowledge she nods Moira goes on “humans have many different traditions, but every one grieves their own way and time. Mostly in five stages, denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. No two people go through it the same or even through all of them. There is times we grieve as a collective, sometimes you need time and process as an individual. We are now reminiscing Ellie, but i already know im gonna have a cry later and ill never forget her.” Kamare could understand and respect that so she joined in. It soothed her soul.

It was years before she saw human grief again so up close.

When the Ri’ktil attacked they committed what humans called warcrimes without batting any of their eighteen eyes. The horror of the people quickly turned to fear. It was when they blew up a human colony Kimare saw the unified grief. Human governments trying to bargain with the Ri’ktil, families travelling to the floating remnants of the colony trying to find survivors, denying that what had happened killed everyone man, woman and child. A month passed and humanity had grown silent and passive, the Ri’ktal took this as victory and broad cast it to the rest of the species in the galactic counsel. A warning that they would stop at nothing and break them like they broke the humans. Kimare remembered her conversation all those years ago and realised that anger was still coming, she could almost seeing it brewing under the surface.

A month was what it took. A month for humans to start walking upright again. Not only humans on their planets but everyone, on every world and every ship seemed to have shared in the depression. So when the fog cleared the whispering began, then came the talking, when it turned to yelling the Ri’ktil took notice. It was too late for them though. Because humanity started screaming, unified rage became a spearhead of humans all over the galaxy, noone even considered not helping. The tsunami of humans that could not wait to tear their enemy apart surprised them, no matter their way too many eyes, this they did not see coming.

The counsel joined the humans in their fight, and quick as the Ri’ktil had invaded were they beat back aswell. The defeat of their enemies did not dismiss their grief. But instead of on a specie scale individuals began their own process. Four years later Kimare noticed a change, they had made a monument out of the destroyed colony, it seemed to signify an end point. Humans went there to process and make peace, they had accepted what had happened moved past it. But never forgotten.

Humans didn’t forget when they grieved, they remember and accept.

~~~~~~

Tadah

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

NOBODY'S SON, NOBODY'S DAUGHTER (VI)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER VII

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 7.0k

WARNINGS: Angst, mentions of stalking & stalking behavior, creepy men, talks of death, weapons, toxic modeling standards, food issues, dead animals, talks about gore, symptoms & descriptions of dissociation, scars and mentions of intense medical procedures, etc. (Series 18+)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Well, I guess brain damage will do that to you. 

Nikto stands in the bathroom connected to the library—at the very end of that train car-like set-up of your loft rooms. His fingers move to the straps of his Kevlar, peeling them off as the loud tearing sounds echo in his ears. 

He can hear you stumbling about in your room, too. Getting ready for bed. Blinking, Nikto grunts as he thinks over your comment from when you first showed him around. He hadn’t been able to get it out of his head since you’d said it. 

Well, I guess brain damage will do that to you.

The man’s vest is taken off, hitting the floor in a heap. Next follows the clips of his thigh holster, and the belt buckle in the loops of his pants. Each joins the pile with a slap of material. 

“Brain damage,” Nikto grunts. 

It wasn’t something he should be worrying about—in fact, it was at the very bottom of the long list of things that even mattered. First was your safety, then the identity of this pathetic individual who was infatuated with you. But it stuck with him nonetheless. 

He’d never had to look after someone with this affliction before. The stumbling; the shakiness. But he’d gone through worse. Yet, at the same time, it was far larger than just his assignment. In his own way, Nikto was…appreciative that you seemed to at least listen to him most of the time. And you were easy to talk to. 

There was a sort of kinship there, as well. In broken things. Maybe that was why he felt himself growing to you.

Striped down to nothing but his mask, the Russian glimpses himself in the mirror and stills. He was always struck by it. 

How something could be so brutally ugly.

Scars ran so tightly over his skin that it was indented like a fissure in the earth. Pieces boldly sliced away and chunks missing. The muscled bulge of his stomach was cut up—thighs with such horrors as cigarette burns and the remnants of tattoos that were carved away like hog’s flesh. That’s what he was, Nikto knew. A hog tied to the ceiling and ready to be butchered. 

He looked at himself now like he was through the lens of a movie, like the ones he would watch as a child—it was far away from him, the edges blurred as his reflection shifted; another being entirely. 

A hand comes up—his hand—and it presses into the material of his mask, large fingers shifting over black coloring as the pale blue of his eyes stares back. None of it felt real. Nikto’s head tilts, but he does not feel the bones in his neck move, only the acknowledgment that they had to have. 

The dark ink of the tattoo over his back peaks itself into existence, the starting of obsidian over his shoulders. Nikto shifts his top half as if seeing it for the first time, unblinking eyes taking in the visage of a snarling bear locking gazes with him. At the side of his left shoulder, the sigil of his old unit burnt his skin. 

“New,” he utters, voice tiny and hoarse. “Gotten after.”

He already knew that…why was he repeating it like he had forgotten sitting in that tattoo shop’s chair? Nikto’s eyes clenched shut, hand coming back up to his masked head and pressing over it. 

He was not beautiful, and no one would ever call him such. He didn’t want them to because it would always be a lie.

With a low growl, his fingers grip his mask and rip it off of his head. 

The thing slaps against the marble of the counter, hitting with a hard clack of the coated synthetic fiber, sliding over the top until it hits the toothbrush cup and causes it to fall on its side. 

Nikto can only stare at the person in the reflection as the sounds swirl in his ears—a world away. 

There’s so little of him left that he recognizes that it scares him. 

Grinding his jaw, Nikto’s pale eyes slip down the length of the damage. His dark hair is cut close to his head, strong bones in his nose and brow above the deep sockets of his eyes—the glare of black and blue bags gives way to his lack of sleep. The wideness of his cheeks leads to a sharp chin; a square face overall. 

But the marks. 

The hyperpigmentation.

Half of a Glasgow Smile peels the flesh back like a tear in paper, and a line is sliced staring at his right ear and curving in a half-circle down to his jaw. Into his hairline, three ragged cuts that had been very badly cauterized to stop him from bleeding out, the hair never able to grow back properly. His neck is the same—a red scar the size of his forearm wrapping from behind and crossing it, little slivers breaking out like a tributary. 

He still wasn’t sure how he survived that one, but then again he hadn’t in the long run.

Nikto’s heart had stopped after all.

There’s a knocking at the door, and the man flinches violently—head twitching to the side. 

“Nikto?” Your voice is muffled by the wooden barrier, and the Russian’s breath is ragged before he blinks away the distance in his expression. “...Are you alright in there?” 

He clears his throat, feet shifting over the plush purple rug you had on the floor as his fingers twitch with tight nerves. But your voice distracts him, fractured brain slowly coming back into focus. 

“We are fine,” his voice is harder than he intends. More snappy. 

Nikto’s eyes find your shadow under the bottom of the door, your feet moving and re-setting as they usually do. He sees you pause. 

“Alright,” your voice calls. “If you need anything, just ask me.”

He watches you stand there for a few seconds longer before your shadow moves back and disappears. Torn ears twitch to your receding weight, eyes beady like a feral dog’s. 

Nikto’s bare body is frozen until he finds himself moving to turn on the water to the hottest setting, stepping into the stream with a hiss and a snap of teeth at the burn. He only turns it hotter. Thinking. Wondering. 

Brain damage.

—

“I can never see color,” you say into the air bluntly, watching the man tie his shoes. He freezes. “Just thought you should know.”

Your eyes see Nikto blink, a silent moment passing between you two before he looks up slowly, brows pulled in and lids crinkled. 

“...Что?” 

Something swirls in his vision, a deep intrigue and another that’s harder to name. Hidden. Kept under lock.

“I can never see color,” your voice reiterates, trying to put on a show that the only reason you were saying this was because you wanted to—a sign of trust. 

In reality, it was a stepping point. 

A small test even if you felt your face heating—growing hotter by the second. “Same accident that caused my brain damage.” You smile softly, motioning a hand to your head. “Even if I find my soulmate, I won’t be able to tell. Weird, huh?”

It was two hours after your phone call with Yaromir and Galina, and there wasn’t much to dwell on from the two. You’d talked about DNA, Sergi, and why no one was taking your claims seriously. 

All they chose to tell you was that they needed more to build a case off of. Galina was still trying to get DNA samples, and without that or a large break that gave you any idea about who could do this, you were in the dark. All they had was a partial fingerprint on one of the plastic bags. 

Excuses were all you got by the very frustrating end, and your hope had dwindled on every pause over the line, your phone on the coffee table and Nikto watching silently as he placed breakfast in front of you with a firm hand. He’d been quiet today, even more so than usual. You’d even given him more tea last night, though the cup was once more washed and set back by morning. 

And he was stiff too. Tense. 

Today, you made a firm decision to go back to AMA—not because of your shift. You had no intention of staying in that building even if you knew you should; this was a quick visit. You needed to discuss a large gap in your schedule with the CEO, one that had only shown up in the small hours of this morning. 

You really hoped the explanation wasn’t because you were being fried.  

Nikto is still, watching every beat of your pulse and how your fingers play with themselves in front of you. His chest is frozen, eyes unblinking as the paleness of them is similar to a knife’s edge. In your internal fight, you hadn't noticed how long he’d just been watching you…dead to the world of the living. His gaze was so intense once you did realize, that you cleared your throat softly as an awkward uncomfortableness built on your expression. 

Perhaps today wasn't the best time to test your theory.

The man’s fingers twitch, he stands up to his full height, and then moves into the elevator without a single sound. 

Your heart gets stuck in your throat, blinking as you make a confused noise. 

“Nikto?” You turn after him. “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” Calling, your feet shift over the rug of your entrance, seeing the void of white as he stands with his hands behind his back and his covered face diligently forward. No words. “I thought we were past the whole lack of speaking thing?”

A chill moves up your spine slowly, and it’s enough to hide away the reason you’d mentioned your affliction in the first place. He was…so stiff again. Enough so that you partially wondered how this person could be the same that had cooked you dinner last night and barked his feral laugh into the chilled air. 

What had changed in one night?

Nikto’s eyes were more of a void than the blackness of his Kevlar. 

Apprehensiveness growing, you move and grasp at your jacket with a twist to your lips, slipping it on softly. No sentences being spoken, you shift into the elevator and stay to the far left of him, taking out your keys from your purse and slipping them into the metal. 

With a jolt, the thing begins moving slowly. 

“Y’know,” you awkwardly laugh. “It would be nice if you responded. I just told you something important to me. I mean,” your anxiety makes you backtrack with a very fake laugh, eyes glancing to the side. He hadn’t moved; was just staring at the space ahead of him. “It’s obviously none of your business,” you wave a small hand, being sly in your word choice. “But I want to be transparent with you about everything going on, especially with how I don’t know if you see color or not. It’s a disadvantage on my part and I—”

“I see color.” Is the monotone, dead response.

I know that. 

“Oh. Good,” you try to smile shakily, hand jerking as it hangs at your side with a low simmer of a pounding pulse. A shimmer of excitement runs through your spine. “That’s good, Nikto, I’m glad that you do. So, if you don’t mind me asking, who’s your s—”

A low growl. “I do not want to.” 

Tension overtakes the small area and your wide eyes stare unabashedly in shock. All eagerness utterly ceases to exist. 

“Excuse me?” You push out your utter confusion, shoulders moving higher.

Surely he didn’t mean he doesn’t want the gift of seeing color. 

No one would ever say something like that. Ever. Even those who’ve gone through Soulmate Psychosis have never stated they didn't want to see the shades and hues of the leaves—the sky or the earth. How the clouds looked when the sun was getting low. Purples and blues, colors you’d only ever be able to try and understand knowing that it would be impossible.

And what did this mean for you? You’d been banking off a confession, but this wasn’t the kind you’d expected.

“It is useless to me,” Nikto avoids your gaze. “Неуместный.”

“I have to disagree,” you stutter, slightly shifting your body to tilt his way. The crafted plan in your head is thrown to the wind. “Nikto, we’re talking about color here. Soulmates. The…the person you’re supposed to be destined to be with—how can you say that? Don’t you remember how the world looked when it was all black and white?”

A low snarl echoes, pale eyes jerking your way as a head snaps. 

“Достаточно!” You suck in a fast breath as the elevator dings, both of you arriving at the ground floor, doors rolling back to the open lobby. “We do not need you speaking to us on such things.” Nikto moves forward, your nose almost bumping into his chestpiece as the scent of rotten wood infects you. Your body takes down a swift breath, head snapping up to watch. “You know nothing!” His face is right above yours, looming, nearly bending your spine over. “Spoiled girl with pretty face—thinks she knows what she wants, yes?” The Russian scoffs, speaking low as your hands clench at the assumption. “Keep this to yourself.”

He turns and stalks away with a hostile grunt, leaving you blankly staring at where his face used to be, the image of his Kevlar mask burning in the back of your mind. A knife of hurt gradually takes place between your ribs, breeding until your lungs are ruthless in its clutch. 

This wasn’t what you had expected.

Nikto glares at Isaak, who had watched with wide eyes and a loose jaw, and not moments later, the doorman quickly averts his gaze to stare at nothing on his desk. The Russian’s pulse is roaring inside of his breast, mind troubled. 

Brain damage. Can’t see color. 

Halfway to the parked car, Nikto’s mind returns to him and he slams his fast feet to a stop. Blinking, as if something in him had changed at that moment, a second of confusion leaked into his hidden expression as he said nothing. Waiting. 

At the small, hesitant movement of shaky feet coming closer, his shoulders slowly tense. 

You come up behind Nikto and shift past, taking the car door in your hand and opening it. Moving inside, you close the barrier to the chilled outside morning with a definitive slam. Darkness, for a moment, enshrouds you. 

Face unyielding and pulled with guilt, you get a small queasiness in your stomach as the seconds pass in the vehicle. 

Maybe you’d been too forward, but Nikto’s response had been…well, explosive. And his comments about color? Who in their right mind would say that? 

“That makes no sense,” you whisper, hand coming up and rubbing at the scar on the back of your head. The one you dreamed would disappear in the small hours of the night as a teenager, remembering the beep of hospital machines and the plastic taste of the tube shoved down your throat. 

Doesn’t want to see color? Your mouth sucks down a shaky breath. I’d trade anything for only three seconds.

The world outside of the windows is gray as Nikto pops the driver's side door open, bending low with a grunt before sitting into the seat. He doesn’t apologize as he shoves the keys into the ignition—starting the engine. The car rumbles to life. 

Maybe you’d been too forward.

“You think?” You whisper to yourself under your breath, tearing your eyes away from the Russian man, grabbing and clicking in your seatbelt. 

Socially, you had grace—were used to carrying it to those horrible parties and events. But talking about more personal matters was another thing entirely from work-life. From designer clothes and when they came out, shoes, and makeup. Sex and alcohol. Everyone at AMA speaks with vanity, and you were included. You knew you were beautiful, you’d been told and retold with every pluck from your eyebrows and spread of lipstick over your mouth; ruthless petting like a cat or a doll—there was never any doubt about that. 

You could speak beauty, but you can’t speak about real love. Call you hopeless, but that was really all you ever wanted. 

Love. Romance. Care and concern. It was addictive to you in every sense—and you just kept coming back for a hit of what you couldn’t have. You’d warned yourself after Yefim, but it hadn’t even taken a month before you had found another man to fixate on; the body of the previous stuck still in your nightmares.

But there was that sliver of something in your gut every time you stared at Nikto; something that didn’t add up. You weren’t deterred—weren’t put off. There was something deeper there that you just had to get to the bottom of first. 

There had to be something he wasn’t telling you about why he can see color.

“If I upset you,” you ease out, tongue like lead and your eyes stuck outside the moving vehicle. Your hands tighten over your seatbelt in small intervals, for a moment mute of what to say. “I’m sorry, Nikto. I was just curious, I won’t pry into your personal matters again; you have my word. Just like talking about your mask.” 

“Good,” Nikto’s hands flex over the wheel. It’s all he says, and even then it’s curt. 

Small-like, you mutter, “Also…thanks for breakfast.”

It had been a small and incredibly healthy—buckwheat porridge. You’d eaten the entire thing with fruit on top and never even glanced at the yogurt in your fridge. The man’s eyes had been sneaking glances the entire time you had brought the spoon back to your mouth, but you weren’t sure if it was to make sure you were liking it, or if you were eating in general. 

It was his job to hover, though. 

Nikto doesn’t respond to your thanks, but his shoulders slightly loosen a bit, eyes blinking from the view of the mirror. 

With a sigh, you keep your mouth shut and sit in silence for the rest of the ride, pulling at loose threads from your jacket pocket. Your fingers tap something firm from the inside, and you pause, blinking down at the dark fabric. 

Your brows furrow, but whatever’s inside will have to wait, because Nikto pulls up to the sidewalk and parks the car with a huff. Like before, he opens your door when he’s outside. 

“Your investigators will come for any package,” he explains as you shuffle and stand, fixing the collar of your coat and glancing his way. It’s like he hadn’t just snapped at you minutes ago—that numb sheet was over his head once more. “You will not take them.”

There seems to be a moment where he waits for confirmation, raising a brow into the cold air that you can only partially see. 

You clear your throat and look away down the street. 

“Sure,” you say. 

…Had he really called me spoiled?

Nikto glares at you, jaw clenching under his mask. He looks you up and down quickly without moving his head, skin tight and scars pulling. Your words in the elevator had… aggravated him, even if he can’t pinpoint why. 

You were messing with his head—and that is an already very broken thing. Yet…your questions weren’t pointless. He knew you’d ask them sooner or later, like a fox to a trap, it was only a matter of time. 

He should have expected this, and while cruelty is his nature, he can’t be that to you. The Russian had snapped too violently in the lobby, and it wasn’t your fault. Even with moments of relative calm, he knew that to be fact. But Nikto was a brooding creature—he picked only between missions and guns to be his avatars. Emotions were a loser’s game, and he would not lose at anything so long as he was living. Nikto was a bloody victor holding the remnants of a fresh kill. Nikto was as much a bear as the one printed on his back.

Pale eyes close, a low snarl stuck in the back of his throat. 

You blink at the arm that gets held out to you. 

“Grab it,” the man doesn’t give away anything; his eyes are ahead and his voice is low like your ability to understand his sudden change.

Every five minutes this Russian was switching between anger and relative tolerance of you. Your brows lightly rise on your forehead, wrinkles forming on your flesh.

Your quivering hand raises and slots itself through his left arm softly, head tilting. 

“As much as I appreciate it,” you speak as he helps you up the curb with a firm pull, side-eyeing you. “I can manage. I’ll ask if I can’t.” A tentative smile. “Last-minute mascara is most of what I trust you with besides the food.”

“There will be less of the former in our future.” He grunts as you shut the door behind you. “We have no plans to do such things.”

“You said that about cooking,” you tease, falling back into seamless flirting, trying to get the man who had cooked you supper back into his skin. “I didn’t know you’d be such an attentive roommate.”

Those light orbs stay pinned to you for a long moment, twisting in like a knife with only a glint in the circles of his blackened pupils. 

There’s a click of the car locking, and the Russian is all but dragging you forward. Chuckling under your breath, you follow as well as you’re able through the front, feet only stumbling for a moment before you can lean your weight to the side and rely on Nikto to keep you straight. It helps, you admit, though he’s a bit more stiff than Aly.  

Your hand rests on his bicep, fingers moving to spread over the hard material and sensing the sinews of his flesh writhe at the action. Nikto huffs under his breath, rolling his shoulders to dispel tension.

Your scent is wafting into his nose like he’d put his head into a tank of ambrosia—your perfume addling his senses, shaming him like a venomous snake being held by a dove.

By an angel. 

“Останови это.” 

You blink and turn to him, humming. “What was that, Nikto?”

The man is tense again, eyes snapping about as he pushes at the front door to AMA, your own nerves becoming apparent, yet, having your distraction here to pull you away from that. 

“Nothing,” he monotones. “Where are we going.”

“Upstairs,” you sigh, walking past the front desk as the women look on in confusion when you don’t stop by. They hadn’t expected you to come in, apparently. It was your job. As you pass pictures and paintings in the hallways, you slowly begin to speak. 

“What color is that one,” your finger points to the frame on the far left. It was a dark shade that moved into a lighter one—Ombré.

Nikto’s feet slow, his attention moving from ahead of you to the side for a fast flash. Gruffly, and feeling his chest tighten at the sensation of you freely touching him above the corrupted flesh, he responds in a clipped fashion. “Blue and Green.”

You hum lowly. “Light blue?”

“Нет. Light green to dark blue.” 

“Oh.” You tilt your head at it as you pass, peeking over your shoulder.  It wasn’t like you could really understand that, but…a small smile pulled at your lips as you turned back forward.

Nikto blinks at it from the corner of his vision, narrowing his eyelids momentarily like a wolf. 

“... We do not understand the fascination with it,” he grumbles. “Color.”

“I don’t want to upset you,” your head shakes. “We don’t have to talk about it—”

“I do not like losing my temper at pointless discussion.” You’re interrupted, and you feel your lips part not at the behavior, but the tone at which he takes. A strange firmness that bleeds into conviction. “It was an…error in my judgments.”

It’s only when you steer him lightly to the right hallway to the elevator that your lips move into a smirk, leaning into him even more. Nikto’s eyes flash with surprise, darting down. 

“Was that an apology, Big Guy?”

“No,” he scowls under his mask, but his body is gaining heat to it. “An observation of character.”

“I think you just apologized to me and don’t know how to admit it,” you move your face close to his just as he had to you in the penthouse, nose brushing the canvas of the lower half of his face covering. You hear his breath hitch, his large frame going still and yet not pulling away. Your matching feet continue to move. 

He seems to lean closer, even, or was that just a trick of the light? 

Your lips release a chuckle, your face begins to burn and your veins pump oxytocin that Aly would be intrigued to learn about. 

You pull back after a bit too much staring into his eyes, saying breathlessly, “I’m more flattered that you think I’m pretty, Nikto.”

His large sigh is all you hear, hand releasing his arm for a moment to push the elevator’s button to the top floor of the building, chuckling under your breath. 

Nikto grumbles but responds with nothing more than a twitch of his fingers when your heat leaves him, motioning his arm again when you come back over. The sudden lapse in your pressured fingers made his spine straighten.

Kliment Fedorov’s office floor is large—very large. It takes up the entire top of the building and his influence seeps down to the very bottom like blackened oil. You’d been here before, as well as seen it from video calls, and while you could have talked to your manager about the gap in your schedule, the fact was that the man was quitting on you. 

Dead birds in plastic bags were a bit too much.

It left you only able to go to the top for any clarification until a new manager could be hired. 

“When we’re in there,” you comment to Nikto, hand going back to touch him. The Russian blinks slowly, fighting how his body wants to sag. “It’s probably best if you don’t speak, okay?” 

Pale eyes narrow, head tilting to the side.

You sigh at the movement, placating him with an explanation. “It’s not that I don’t trust your judgment, but Mr. Fedorov is,” your voice trails off. “He’s very lofty if you get what I mean.”

“Lofty?” Nikto prompts as the elevator continues to move upwards. He seems confused by the word in English. 

Your free hand raises and gestures vaguely before you twist your lips and end on a simple, “Arrogant.” 

“Ah, да,” the large man utters. “I am not a stranger to such, yes?” 

It’s strange how the two of you can just slip past the small arguments that pop up—or, more of the one-sided breaking points and the prodding comments. His words didn’t bother you, and that was different; if your mother had snapped like that, it would be a different story entirely even if you, ultimately, would have let it pass like the rest. 

“Do you really think I’m spoiled?” 

But you did tend to linger on things. 

Before there’s an answer from Nikto, who grunts under his breath, the main door opens with a small ding. Sharing a glance, you shake your head with a quirk of your lips and walk out with a tiny pull at his arm. 

You lean and whisper, “It’s okay, I forgive you.”

Nikto doesn’t like how his heart constricts like there’s a vice around it—eyes snapping back. He holds back a flinch.

From there it’s checking in with the secretary and being waved in by her hand, already talking to someone else on the phone and typing away on her computer. You hum under your breath, and Nikto feels your hand jerk. He glances over as the doors get closer, calmed down at least for now. 

“You are worried.”

“Only a little,” you mutter, brushing down your jacket, feeling that bulge of something in the pocket. 

“Do not be.” The masked man looks forward after studying the layout of the floor—where the emergency exit was and the most efficient places to take cover. 

Easy for you to say, you huff. Nikto had a very stiff way of comforting people. 

And then you’re knocking on the door, and a voice is telling you both to enter.

—

“Lovely Seraph!” The CEO’s bald head is as shiny as you remember it, and those fly-like eyes are beady enough to make it seem like they move through you instead of at you. “Welcome, come, sit!” 

A hand is waved from behind a large mahogany desk, a round face nodding quickly as you smile although it’s not entirely real.

“Mr. Fedorov,” your voice is light and airy—a fake tone of elegance. It comes easily. “It’s so good to see you again. I hope everything is well?”

“Ah,” he laughs, Nikto helping to guide you along even if the room is sparsely decorated beyond potted plants and a large rug. “It is going well, my dear. Very well.” 

Eyes slip down your body, past your modest clothes. Something moves behind Fedorov’s expression, shifting. Nikto is a firm brick beside you, only letting you leave when the chair is in front of you. You slide him a thankful glance and slip away, grasping the side of the seat and moving into it with little trouble. 

“My dear, I hadn’t expected to see you in last year’s collection.” You blink, eyes darting down to stare at the shirt you wear—it isn’t anything fancy or eye-catching. But it was expensive. 

“Oh,” stuttering a moment, you try to play off a suddenly tight laugh. “M-my apologies, Sir. It must have slipped my mind this morning—”

“I will send the newest to you, don’t fret,” Fedorov smirks. “We can’t have one of our best ladies wearing rags.” 

A spike of anger levels itself at your throat like a knife, and Nikto, who had moved like a shadow to stand at the far wall with his hands behind his back, feels his pupils constrict. 

“You don’t have to do that,” you clear your throat lightly, looking to your guard quickly. “I don’t need any more presents, Sir, I promise.”

“Nonsense.” Kliment dismisses you, splaying his hands from where they rest on the desk. “You’ll enjoy them. Very nice collection this year. My gift to you for your success here.” You shrivel in at his next comment. “Your last photoshoot was…just exquisite, my Dear. Those white tones look heavenly on you.” 

Swallowing down saliva slowly, you shift your thighs and let your arms circle your waist, feeling naked as gray eyes move your frame. 

But you can’t say anything. 

“Thank you, Sir,” you push out tinily. Nikto’s temper flares from across the room, eyes sparking up in a deep display of rage. He goes to take a step forward, not even knowing what he’s going to do, but, as if sensing this, your eyes snap over and you level him with a mute command. 

Nikto’s boots still, the heel only half raised. 

You twitch your head in a fraction of a shake, and he’s settling back to the wall with a glare and a hard clench to his hands. A growl is trapped in his esophagus, and you’re surprised that Kliment hasn’t gone up in flames because of it. 

“Of course!” Fedorov laughs. “I personally arranged your schedule. I know what’s best, hm?” 

“I was here to ask about that, actually,” you try to move the subject on, feeling dirty as Nikto silently fumes. “The gap starting in two days? I’m sorry, but I wasn’t sure what that meant and I wanted to come in personally and ask.”

Fedorov’s expression sours, scowling. “Those investigators. Messing with my work—won’t let you come in, Seraph, see. Horrible people think we can’t put up with silly little boxes and mail.”

You shakily take an inhalation and chuckle, lips twisting down and eyes dead still. 

Silly little boxes. What would he do if he got a box full of dead birds or a bomb? Then again, he never would—he’d have someone else open it for him.

The CEO continues with his hand moving to grab papers from his side, sliding them to you slowly as you look down at the material with curious eyes, seeing shiny gray signatures and large looping words. The realization is as rapid as a knife to the neck.

Party invitations.

Your heart drops, bones like steel inside of your flesh. The room is suddenly far too small.

Not this again. Fuck no, not this. 

“I took the liberty of confirming your attendance since you can no longer be here all the time—you’ll be doing,” fly-eyes glint. “... crowdfunding, if you will. You remember what to do. You used to be our best seller for investments.” 

“Sir…I,” you fight the bile in your throat, the world swirling. Not again. I tried so hard to get out of it. Fedorov doesn’t care.

“It will also get you out of the main city spotlight!” He smiles. “I’ve emailed you the bookings and hotels—clothes to be sent.” Arrogant lines on his face. “The dresses.”

Fedorov smiles as you stare blankly, lips slightly parted; your fingers curl in to try and stop the shaking. 

“But!” You flinch at the loud exclamation, and this time, Nikto does take a step forward, hand brushing his Beretta without your knowledge. “That’s all I have for you today. The two days you have to yourself to pack and get ready, yes?”

What could you say to this?

You can’t say you won’t do it—you’d be out of a job and out of a stable income. Your mother would only say it was your fault, and that would be the extent of her help; with the stalker…you had to admit being away was the best, but doing parties again…

It made you want to shrivel up and die.

“If that’s what you think is best, Sir.” Fedorov shakes his head, chuckling and sending a layered smile that peels his skin. 

“I do. I know what the company needs—and what it needs is you, my lovely Seraph. Our angel from the heavens,” he smirks vilely. “Sending us down precious money instead of bread. You’ll do well away from the building for a while. Let things cool down, you see.” 

And thus it’s settled with a meaningful look and a passage of papers, your quivering hands taking them up, not missing this time, and trying not to strangle them in your palm. 

“Thank you, Sir,” you whisper, not at all thankful. Your mind already runs to times and dates—small talk and comments about your ailments. The explosion and the stalker are going to be hot topics. You would be mobbed. 

But that was exactly what the man wanted. 

“Quickly now, go home,” Fedorov motions. “Be safe—remember to limit your food, Seraph.” A glance is sent to your stomach. “Have you been following your diet?”

“We need to leave,” Nikto speaks up in a sharp bark. “Сейчас.” 

You see the CEO look over quickly as if forgetting someone else was here when looking at you. His face moves into a hard sneer at the sight of the large man. 

“And who is this?” 

“Nikto,” you explain quickly. “He’s my—”

“Yes, Girl, I know who he is.” Kliment’s voice is low. “Keep him on a tighter leash. Dismissed.” 

You nearly stumble when getting out of the chair. 

A hand grabs at the small of your back, pushing you forward quickly, though not unkindly. Nikto’s face is rigid under his mask, lines hard and eyes narrowed. Over his shoulder, he throws a heated glance at the man at the desk, but all he does is smirk like a crocodile. If he were any lesser, he’d have no problem getting into Kliment’s face—Nikto knew the man would pose no challenge to him, he couldn’t even shine a light. 

“Nikto,” you utter, putting a hand to his side. 

The Russian re-focuses, attention returning. 

Your feet skid, shoes slipping at the force he guides you along until you’re back out the door and walking back to the secretary. “Slow down.”

Immediately, Nikto’s hands leave you, and you come to a swift stop with a deep breath in your mouth. Hands out, you shake them for a moment and try to calm your heart. 

“Thank you,” you say under your breath, hand moving to rub the back of your skull. “You, uh,” trying to lighten the suffocating air, you blink at his chest. “But I told you not to speak.”

“What was that?” He growls. “You let people speak like that to you?” 

“It’s not that serious.” It wasn’t anything he could change. “He’s arrogant, I told you.”

“He’s—”

“Why do you care,” you stare at him, suddenly defensive. “It’s my job—just like yours, I can’t lose it.”

Pale eyes sizzle. “That is different.”

You laugh despite yourself. “It’s really not.” Shaking your head, you brush past him slowly, gaining back your senses. “Even if I want it to be, this is all I’ve got going for me.”

Shadows walk beside you, keeping a close eye as the secretary doesn’t look up from her work as you both pass. “It is causing you to be stalked, Whelp. It is not sane to stay.”

You’re silent at that, taking Nikto’s tactic of steel lips and a dead stare ahead. 

Beauty was all you had. He could never understand that.

“We have two days.” Uttering in the elevator, you sigh. “Even if I don’t like it—it’ll get us away from AMA. That’s the most important part, and one that even I can’t argue with.”

You don’t want to go to the parties. Not even an ounce of you was eager for it. For what was expected. 

Nikto’s hands go to grasp the top of his vest’s collar, hanging as he thinks. The Russian can’t snap at you for that, it was true. Getting away was good, but it meant he had to memorize more floor plans and re-learn routines. No matter, he could adapt if it came to that. 

He hums to himself, blinking. 

“Very well. That I agree with.” Nikto pauses. “But I do not like that man. Like…” he snarls, “bald snake.”

A shocked snort exits you, your hand coming up to cover your mouth. Silence settles for a bit between you two as you process everything. Your teeth bite at your lip, leaning toward him delicately.

“...I was thinking frog.”

Nikto’s eyes spark, looking down at you from behind the black smudge of his sockets. 

“That is better.” He comments. “Да. Frog.” You both lock eyes and you feel your lips pull in a small smile, your face losing a sliver of that fear that moves in your DNA as of late. The truth comes out as vulnerability.

“...Do you think it’ll work?” Your question makes him stare, head tilting. 

“What?”

“Leaving.” The elevator nears the ground floor. “Do you think it’ll stop him?”

Nikto had said he would never lie to you. 

“I do not know,” he speaks slowly, feet shuffling as his shoulders roll. “Do you?”

“I don’t know if I need to worry about the stalker more,” you chuff without any amusement, “or the parties I have to go to.”

Curiosity moves in his pale orbs, swirling at your confession to him. Nikto stores it for later, humming as the door opens and he moves—sticking out an arm that you easily loop with your own. 

He walks slower, now, lips open as he hesitates for a moment. As your face is far away, expression open to the world, the Russian eases out, “I do not think you are spoiled, yes? I should not have said such things about your character. Do not apologize to me for it.” 

“Everyone loves apologies, Nikto,” you joke even as your heart swells—heat coming up your neck. “It’s human nature to believe you’re not in the wrong. There’s no need to—”

“I do not like when you apologize. So do not.” He walks you forward. “Stand your ground. Speak freely.” 

“That usually hurts people’s feelings,” you state in an utterance. 

It’s a good while before Nikto answers you, and when he does you glance over to find his eyes already looking at you—but the makeup is wrong, it isn’t as dead as they always seem to be. 

They were nearly soft if that was even possible. Hidden behind a half-lidded layer of darkness. You blink, feet almost stumbling as you lean into his arm. 

Tell me, your mind begs this beast. This monster who never shows a sliver of his face—who holds scars more numerous than you can even imagine. You don’t even know why you want him, and that scares you. Tell me I’m yours. 

“Then those people are not worthy if they can not handle the truth,” Nikto grumbles, shifting his head away. 

The connection is broken.

You focus on the way you hold his arm as you both walk past the front desk, taking the weight and heat of it in little by little until you have to hold back a shiver. Even stretching your fingers, you couldn’t grab around the entire thing—much like it would be fruitless to try with his thighs. Even his waist would be difficult. 

So consumed in the thoughts of Nikto, slowly taking you over, you both walk past the front desk swiftly. 

Only when you see the flash of a square object do you begin to slow—Nikto was having none of it.

“Do not.” His arm shifts out of yours, and you startle before his limb loops your waist, nearly stapling you to his side. 

“I didn’t even move to it,” you huff, looking up at him, frown over your lips. 

“You were thinking it,” he grumbles, pale eyes sliding like water over your face. “Stay.”

“Woof, woof,” you sarcastically utter. 

You can feel the tension in him—in you. 

And then you push open the front door, and the box is left on the counter without another glance.

TAGS:

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[withacapitalp]

Starry, Starry Night Pt 1

Happy birthday dear friend!!! @thefreakandthehair Lex you are a pillar of the fandom, an amazing writer, and just all around one of my most favorite human beings. I'm so so lucky to get to call you one of my best friends and I hope this fic puts a smile on your face!! @stevethehairington and @hbyrde36 thank you for betaing and for encouragement!!!!

Read it on ao3 instead here

----------------

Steve was asleep at the counter. 

Again. 

Robin placed another VHS precariously on the top of the pile surrounding him, making sure to adjust it so it wouldn’t fall. A copy of Secret Admirer had toppled down half a dozen boxes when she placed it without care earlier, and Steve had almost woken up just from the sound. She had worked her way through all of the romantic comedy returns and was halfway through the horrors already, and the pile was up to Steve’s waist. 

Her working theory was that she would be able to get all the way through the action movies before Steve was completely covered in tapes. 

Part of her wanted to feel at least a little bad for fucking with him every single time he fell asleep. After all it wasn’t like Robin hadn’t fallen asleep on the job herself once or twice, and Family Video wasn’t exactly the hardest job in the world. Now that they lived in a veritable ghost town, the store was lucky to get even a handful of patrons every day. 

Apart from her own boredom, there wasn’t really any reason to mess with him or try to wake him up. 

But there lay the crux of the problem. Robin and Steve had gotten their jobs as one so they could spend time together. Not so Robin could get stuck watching her best friend drool on the counter she would inevitably be forced to clean before they closed tonight. 

So, tape fort. 

Robin’s theories were almost immediately dashed though, because just as she placed her fourth copy of Rosemary’s Baby down, Steve stretched out his arms, knocking directly into the wall in front of him and bringing that entire cluster of VHS cases down on his head. 

“Ow! What! Why?!” Steve shouted, jerking upwards, startling as the rest of the tapes surrounding him began to tumble to the floor. 

Robin snickered to herself as she watched the melee, hopping up onto the counter next to where he had been lying his head and beginning to gather up the failed remnants of her experiment. 

“Good morning Dingus,” She sang, lightly tapping him on the top of the head with Ghostbusters, “Did you have a good rest?” 

“Robin,” Steve groaned, covering his face with his hands and heaving an absolutely ginormous sigh, “Why?” 

“Hey, this is your fault,” Robin protested, putting the stack of tapes to the side and sliding to the floor to start grabbing the rest. 

“My fault?” Steve repeated, sliding his fingers away from his eyes so he could glare at her while still hiding his face. 

“This is the fifth time you’ve fallen asleep on me this week, Dingus,” Robin said, giving him a look as she waved a VHS around her head, “Look at this place. Look at how boring it is. I need enrichment, I’m like a tiger in a zoo.”

Steve lowered his hands, raising a brow and silently judging her for a second before grumbling and joining her on the ground.  

“What? Was making paper clip crowns and hiding M&Ms in my pockets not enriching enough anymore?” Steve asked rhetorically, referencing the other things she had done this week during his impromptu naps as he collected the rest of the rom-coms. 

“Nope.” She replied, popping the p as she stood, tapes in hand, “Five times, Stevifer. Five.” 

“So?”

“So, it’s only Wednesday!” Robin shouted, walking around the counter and towards the shelves, knowing Steve would be following close behind with his own stack. “Is Eddie really still that excited about getting you in his bed every night?”

“You would be the first person to know,” Steve said, wagging his eyebrows and looking far too smug for Robin’s tastes. 

That much was true. Steve told Robin everything. What he had for breakfast, any weird customers that came in while she wasn’t scheduled, the stupid things the kids said, and, to the chagrin of both Eddie and Robin, anything and everything to do with his sex life. 

And god damn it did her best friends have a lot of sex. 

“Okay, so it’s not Eddie keeping you up,” Robin said, a small pit beginning to form in her stomach. She had hoped it was just them fucking like bunnies and Steve needing to recharge during the mornings, but now she was pretty sure it was the other thing, and that was a lot worse. 

There was no quick fix for that particular problem. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Robin asked softly, turning towards her best friend and trying to be as gentle as allowed. 

“Not really,” Steve said, keeping his eyes on the shelves and avoiding her gaze.

Okay, so not gentle. Trying to get Steve to open up was a weird careful tightrope walk between being gentle enough to lower down his guard, while also being firm enough that he didn’t feel like he was being treated like a child. So far Robin was the only one who managed to succeed most of the time, but even she stumbled on occasion. 

“You know I don’t mind covering for you, but you can’t keep this up, Dingus,” Robin tried, nudging their shoulders together as she did, hoping that a little extra physical contact would open Steve up even more, “It’s not healthy, and they’re not worth it.”  

Wrong thing to say. It was like she could physically see the walls coming back up around him. 

“I’ll be fine, Robin,” Steve said, the forced nonchalance in his tone hurting her almost as much as it was definitely hurting him. 

“You’re not sleeping again,” She stated plainly, putting it out there for both of them to see. Steve flinched at her words as if she had physically struck him. 

“I’m just…still adjusting,” He tried. 

Adjusting was still figuring out how the oven worked at Eddie’s new trailer, or trying to find the best routine for sharing the bathroom in the morning. Adjusting was planning work schedules, learning how to live together, becoming used to each other's rhythms. 

Whatever was happening here wasn’t adjusting. 

“Steve, It’s been almost a month since…” Robin started, trailing off as she tried to find the right words to help him. 

Steve already had them. 

“Since what, Robin? Since my parents kicked me out?” Steve interrupted, his voice hard and angry as he forced himself to meet her eyes, as if challenging her to try and find a kinder way to say it. 

That wasn’t a challenge she was planning to take on. There was no making this better. 

“Yeah, since your parents kicked you out,” She repeated, refusing to meet his level of emotion, knowing that would only make Steve even angrier. Sure enough he pushed away from her, stalking over to the counter and furiously punching returns into the computer, a storm cloud of rage swirling around him. 

“Steve-”

“God Robin, will you just drop it?!” Steve snapped. 

Robin leaned ever so slightly back at his sudden shift and Steve let his eyes slip shut, hanging his head low and taking a slow deep breath. The anger drained from his face, leaving behind only barely there frustration, and a longing that his parents didn’t fucking deserve from a son that was far too good for them.

It wasn’t exactly a shock when Richard and Diane showed up and told their son to pack his shit and leave, but that didn’t make it any less painful for Steve. Robin had never had any faith in them, but for some reason Steve did. He expected his parents to love him just as much as he loved them, and he had deluded himself into thinking that they had only ever done the things they did to try and make him better. 

Letting go of that couldn’t be easy, but it was also one of the few things about Steve that Robin felt she would probably never fully understand. 

“Please.” Steve whispered, Robin’s heart breaking at the pain in his voice, “I just don’t wanna talk about it, Bobbin.” 

Rather than answering she rounded the counter, pressing her body into his side and leaning her head against his shoulder. Steve adjusted to fit her automatically, two becoming one as she let Steve breathe into the pain instead of ignore it. 

“Were you at least having a good dream?” Robin asked, her voice slightly muffled by the soft sweater Steve was wearing, wishing she had a way to help him. 

“Oh yeah, it was great,” He said with a soft laugh, “I was lying back on a mountain of pillows while Eddie was using his massive thick-”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll be forced to smother you next time you fall asleep at work,” Robin groaned, sticking her tongue out and gagging as she pushed Steve away from her. She hammed it up for extra effect, but she couldn’t hide the smile on her lips as she listened to Steve’s laughter. 

He hadn’t laughed as much in the last few weeks, and Robin hadn’t realized how much she missed the sound. It reminded her of everything good, all the stuff they hadn’t really been able to do since he moved in with Eddie. Burning breakfast together, dancing around the house in their socks, even trying to muffle their giggles in her bed so they wouldn’t wake her parents, looking through the skylight that was above her bed at the stars…

Huh. Maybe she did have an idea of how to help. 

“Now that you’re awake, I’m going to take my break,” Robin said in a faux casual tone, stretching and trying to hide the Cheshire cat grin overtaking her face. 

“You built a tape fort around me because you were annoyed I fell asleep and you were alone, so the first thing you do when I wake up is go hide in the back alone?” Steve complained, turning back to the computer and restarting the returns he had begun. 

“Love you too,” Robin said, pecking his cheek as she practically skipped towards the breakroom. She closed and locked the door, pressing her ear to it for a second just to make sure Steve wasn’t eavesdropping before almost bolting over to the phone in the corner, punching in the number for the Thatcher’s Tires and bouncing in place as she listened to the dial tone. 

This was a great idea. One of her best. 

“Hey Pete, it’s Robin. Can you put Eddie on the phone?”

Part two is coming tomorrow!! If you want to be tagged say it in a reblog!!

[octuscle]

Fun on the not so fair ground

Where Darren was, Darren wasn't there because he was particularly clever or hard-working or charming. No one knew exactly how Darren had made it to division manager. And how he had remained division manager despite dissatisfied colleagues and customers. No one liked the arrogant, smug asshole. He was moody, incompetent… But he was divisional manager and because of some skeleton he had in the closet with some board member, he remained divisional manager.

One of Darren's most striking characteristics was his stinginess. And his resentment. He was annoyed that he hadn't won any tickets for the rollercoaster or the Ferris wheel in the lottery organized by the HR department for the company outing to the fair. But he was all the more delighted to win a ticket for the ghost train. Everyone else had always won two tickets. He suspected that the ghost train was so expensive that there was only one ticket for it. And he had it.

For Darren, going to the fair was more of a chore. Having to deal with his colleagues in the evening was an imposition. But since he had won the ticket, he had to go. And he especially had to go on the ghost train. His colleagues wished him a lot of fun, the meeting was in a beer tent in half an hour. Darren joined the short queue. The ticket taker looked at his ticket. "Oh, the special tour!" he said with a grin. His eyes just lit up red for a moment. Must be some kind of special effect, Darren thought to himself. The bar on his gondola closed. The ride started.

It was a terribly boring ride. Only small children would be frightened on something like this. Darren was happy when the ride was over and the bar opened again. He walked towards the exit. Suddenly a door slammed shut in front of him. And a hidden wallpaper door creaked open. This had to be the part with the special tour. But here too: Lame, boring effects. Some of them were obviously broken. And the dust and cobwebs seemed to be real. Darren stood in front of a picture with the caption "Your greatest horror". Well. Biggest horror. It showed a young man with cheap clothes, a cheap haircut and obviously no future. Darren wasn't afraid of people like that. He ignored people like that. There was a mirror next to the picture. It was captioned 'Your future'. Darren saw a young man with cheap clothes, a cheap haircut and clearly no future. Fuck! He grabbed his face and the reflection did the same. His skin, which had just been flawless for a man in his late 30s, was blemished. As if from too much alcohol and nicotine. And too little care. Maybe it was the remnants of acne, because the man in the mirror was younger than Darren. Maybe in his early 20s. Badly shaved. His hair styled in a preppy undercut. And he stank. That couldn't have come from his reflection. The jacket was made of cheap, badly tanned leather. Sweat. Cheap deodorant. Nicotine. His fingers smelled like those of a chain smoker. And his teeth were yellow like a chain smoker's. In a panic, Darren looked for the exit. He found himself behind the ghost train. There was a "Staff only" sign above the exit. Darren tried to open the door. He rattled the handle. A man opened it for him. Behind the door was a small staff room. The man asked if he wanted to apply for the position of young man to travel with the fair. Darren ran away in a panic.

Where to now? To the beer tent? What would his colleagues say? They wouldn't recognize him. He tried anyway. The bouncer turned him away. For invited guests only. Darren had an invitation. He used to have an invitation in the inside pocket of his jacket. Now he had an almost empty pack of filterless cigarettes and a battered Zippo. His wallet hung on a chain from his torn jeans. With a bit of cash. A ten-ride bus pass that was almost used up. And a driver's license. For big trucks and tractor-trailers. Bloody hell! He still had to be on this ghost train. It was better than he thought. But he didn't feel like it anymore. He wanted a shower and then to get into his silk pyjamas. But his car key was gone. And where his car had been, there was now a completely different one. He had to walk, Darren had no idea how he was going to get home on the bus and he didn't have the money for a cab.

He had been walking for almost half an hour when he finally got home. In the dark windows of his elegant old apartment on the mezzanine floor, the "For Sale" signs were covered with "Sold". The. Is. A. Cursed. Nightmare! Darren no longer had a key for anything. Not for this apartment that used to be his, not for a missing car, not for his office. He had no cell phone, he had the few things he had on his person. A nightmare! His worst nightmare! His biggest horror! Darren climbed over the fence. It was surprisingly easy. His new body was athletic. He had already noticed that on the way here. There was a Victorian summer house at the back of the garden that belonged to his apartment. And he always hid a key there. Under a flower pot. A flowerpot that no longer existed. Everything on the porch of the garden shed was an army duffel bag. With a rucksack in it, a tracksuit, underwear. Everything wasn't quite clean anymore. But it was obviously his. Darren picked up the duffel bag, walked over to the fence, threw the duffel bag over and climbed in after it. A policeman shouted "Freeze!" And Darren ran for his life.

It had taken him three quarters of an hour to get back to the fair with his duffel bag. No idea why he had come back here. A few drunks staggered out of the beer tents. Darren didn't recognize any of them as colleagues. Most of the rides were just closing. "Son, can you give me a hand?" Shouted an older gentleman struggling on the bumper cars. "A few dollars, a bowl of soup, and by the look of you, you could use a place to sleep." Darren took a deep breath, grabbed his duffel bag and helped the man push the bumper cars together and lock them up.

The first few days were hell. Darren wasn't used to physical labor, even though his body was. The little money he earned was enough for cigarettes and pre-paid cards for a cell phone. And the guys he had to share the trailer with snarled and stank. But Darren probably snarled too. And he certainly did stink. The only thing he enjoyed was sex. Plenty of sex. Apparently there were lots of girls and boys, young and old, who liked the fairground rebel type. Darren had stopped counting how many cocks he had sucked between the frames of the rollercoaster, how many asses and pussies he had fucked. Sometimes for free. Sometimes for a handful of dollars. He could put that money to good use. A buddy had a booth at the fair where he did tattoos. Real works of art. Of course Darren got a special price. But even among the bros here at the fair, nothing was for free. The first few days went by. The first weeks went by. Darren, who everyone had long since just called Daz, had gained routine in building and dismantling "his" rollercoaster. The other guys who helped out here were runaways, vagrants… They were usually gone again after a few days. Not Daz. This was his home. This was his family. He loved his job. And he was damn good at it.

When Daz took over the management of the small fairground company with a rollercoaster, a bumper car and a lottery booth a few years later, nobody was surprised. Daz belonged here. Always in a good mood, always ready to help. And always horny!

[hangingslothcentral]

looking for a new audio drama?

If you like weird philosophical sci-fi and cyborgs, and hate AI and capitalism, check out Clockwork Bird!! it's the first show I ever made so it's a bit rough around the edges but it's an exploration about the rights of the dead, the limits of science, and the nature of personhood. it's all told through scattered 'found footage' recordings as listened to by Shelly Croft as she looks for her missing journalist girlfriend, Alice, who disappeared whilst she was investigating the welfare of Robin Jaeger, the posterchild for advanced synthetic limbs who may be more, and less, than he seems.

Clockwork Bird as 30 episodes, each 10-25 minutes long.

If you like spooky stories with a lot of heart, long series with lots of moving parts and character arcs, check out Spirit Box Radio! This show has a ton of original music and an accordian cast which grows as the show goes on, topping out at about 27 VAs. Sam Enfield is the happy-go-lucky host of Spirit Box Radio's Enlightenment Segment in the absence of its previous host, but something fishy is going on, and Sam's actually at the centre of a plot with apocalyptic stakes. SBR is a show about grief, storytelling, and what happens when a people pleaser has potentially unlimited magical powers. Find it @spiritboxradio.

Spirit Box Radio has 93 episodes, each 15-30 minutes long, with season finales that are up to 50 minutes long.

Do you like vampires? Gay vampires? Gay vampires that suck (blood. and other, uh, things)? Not Quite Dead may be the show for you. Join Alfie, a former A&E nurse who's knee deep in horrors because of his boyfriend, Casper, who is a vampire. Cas is missing with no indication of when he will return, but without his blood, Alfie is going to die. As time runs out, Alfie records everything he can remember about the months leading up to this moment. This show is gory and horny. Season Two has a tiny blonde guy who sounds French but who is older than the concept of France. This love story bites, viciously, multiple times, for fun and profit. Find it at @notquitedeadpod.

Not Quite Dead has 40 episodes, each 20-40 minutes long. The final season will be out early 2025.

Are you into mysteries and characters who eat hot chip and lie? Do you enjoy listening to shows as they air? Are you a person who likes to have conspiracy-board-level theories about the media you engage with? My new show, Remnants, might be just up your alley. Remnants follows the Apprentice as he learns how to read the objects that come to the First and Last Place. He's watched over by Sir, but Sir isn't much help. Thier purpose is strange and confusing, and the more remnants the Apprentice reads, the more he wonders at what the meaning of it all is, and if there might be some connection he's been missing... Find it at @remnantspod.

Remnants will have 30 episodes of about 30 minutes each in Season One, which starts airing with a double episode drop of episodes 1 & 2 on 15 July 2024.

[whynotshaveme]

It's For Charity, Mia

By whynotshaveme

Mia's long, black hair trailed down her back as she arrived at school that morning. With determined strides, she scanned the notice board for any chance to bolster her grades, especially that D+ that she had in American History. Her eyes locked onto a flyer advertising a charity event that afternoon promising extra credit from the History Department to those brave enough to sign up. Not looking at the fine print, even though she really should have, she jotted her name on the sign-up sheet.

Excitement buzzed in the air as Mia entered the school's auditorium that afternoon. Students and teachers packed the seats. Everyone kept pointing at the barber's chair at the center of the stage. Mia nervously approached, dread gnawing at her insides. Oh god, she thought, what did I sign up for?

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our annual charity shave-a-thon!" the host's voice boomed, drawing everyone's attention. "Let's give a big round of applause for our first participant and longest head of hair today —Mia!"

Mia's stomach churned as she stumbled onto the stage, unable to make a break for it now, her steps heavy with trepidation. She took her seat, her hands trembling as she gripped the armrests. Her eyes widened in horror as Mr. Richardson, her weirdo American History teacher, stepped forward, clippers in hand.

"No, please..." Mia's plea was a mere whisper, drowned out by the anticipation of the crowd.

Mr. Richardson's smirk only deepened as he revved up the clippers. Mia's breath caught in her throat as the buzzing sound filled the room, drowning out her protests. The first lock of her hair fell to the ground, soon to be joined by others.

"I always make my students earn their extra credit," said Mr. Richardson so softly that only Mia could hear it.

Tears welled in Mia's eyes as the clippers continued their relentless assault. Mr. Richardson, she would later learn, was a former Army barber. He didn't show her an ounce of mercy as the guards of those hungry clippers ripped through her beautiful head of hair. She wanted to scream, to beg for mercy, but all she could do was sit there, paralyzed by shame and helplessness.

Finally, the clippers fell silent, leaving Mia's head shorn of its crowning glory. But Mr. Richardson wasn't finished yet. With a cruel grin, he produced a pearl-handled straight razor and a can of Barbasol shaving cream, ready to strip away the remnants of Mia's dignity.

The cold touch of the razor against her scalp sent shivers down Mia's spine. Each stroke felt like a dagger, carving away at her self-esteem. She tried to still herself, including her unfortunately full bladder. And then, it happened—a warm trickle down her leg, followed by a spreading puddle at her feet.

Gasps rippled through the audience, quickly followed by jeers and laughter. Mia's cheeks burned with humiliation as she watched everyone in the audience pull out their phone to document her humiliation. She wanted nothing more than to disappear, to escape the mocking gazes of her peers. But Mr. Richardson, a professional, insisted on another pass of his razor and then a vigorous massage of oil into her now naked scalp.

"Gotta made that cueball of yours really shine," he said, laughing with everyone.

Once he was satisfied with how the bright, oily sheen of her bald head looked under the hot lights of the stage, he gave it a smack and then pulled off her cape. Mia then stumbled off stage and to the nearest bathroom to clean herself off and see how she looked. When she looked in the mirror, she cried.

[definitelynotshouting]

Idk if this is Hunger AU canon or my own personal fanon but

one of the "calling cards" that the Watchers used in Evo was bedrock

bedrock is unbreakable by a player

perfect for trapping the player you're using as a Watcher incubator

and the texture looks rough af

when you get desperate you often try to do stuff to escape even if it's impossible, right

so what I'm saying is

probably one of the last things player!Grian did was tearing his hands to shreds trying to break bedrock out of sheer desperation

which makes all the passages in your fic where he's staring at his hands even more *gestures vaguely*

(idk why I typed this out in this format but it felt right so I'm going with it)

MAN OKAY THIS IS SUPER COOL i especially adore how youve connected it with the way i keep having Grian stare at his own hands???? which ftr is smth ive only just now realized i do all the time AKDBWKDJKSSJ this is JUST like the scarian jaw kisses thing HELPPPP 💥💥💥💥💥💥💥😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 but thats such a cool thought!!! And utterly angsty i love it >:]

Its also made me realize i dont think ive ever actually told yall what did happen during that interim where Grian was captive as a Player before he died and became a Watcher, so buckle in i guess as i try to explain this one to yall (obligatory cws for captivity, parasitism, violated autonomy, body horror, and major character death discussion)

Yknow the world borders the life series has?? It was like that, but tiny. Maybe a couple chunks' worth of space to move around in. He spawned into a savannah biome and the Watchers specifically in charge of keeping an eye on him (pun intended) penned him in with the borders, implanted the specially-coded larva, and then retreated back just outside the server's barrier code to, well. To Watch.

So post Evo dragon fight the Watchers convinced Grian to join them without telling him what that entailed. They then proceeded to whisk him away to the server cluster's dev crystal, which is where the remnants of this Watcher colony made their semi-permanent home. There, held together basically only by the Watchers' ability to manipulate code, they had Grian make a brand new server.... and immediately trapped him in it.

He spent a year there slowly dying, eaten from the inside out by a parasite that was collecting his memories, copying over his stats and personality, with very limited space and resources to get by with. I know he built a tiny house out of acacia, but it never got any bigger than a starter base. He lived off of mostly bread and the meat from a few animals that spawned in with him; he primarily used stone tools, because those were what was most readily available. It was a very terrifying and lonely year, where all access to the outside world was cut off, and he was meticulously watched over to keep from dying while the larva inside him continued to grow and destroy him.

The Watchers were mostly hands-off in terms of interaction, but they did do regular check-ins to ensure the larva was alive and that there was no danger present to its host. Hostile mobs were carefully warded off, and Grian spent most of his time alternating between begging them to let him go (they never responded), trying to figure out ways to escape (it never worked), and tending to baseless chores just to keep from going out of his mind as his body grew weaker and weaker and more unstable around him.

I have a lot of feelings about this tbh, bc its just such a bleak scenario to think about-- trapped in a tiny cage with something killing you from the inside out, and your captors wont even talk to you about it properly. Being left otherwise to your own devices, with the terrible, lingering knowledge that, even if it was under duress, you still agreed to this. The fact that, after a certain point, after your questions and pleas are summarily ignored and brushed aside, you finally realize: you aren't meant to survive this. You are going to die.

A juvenile Watcher's first meal are the emotions during their host's last few moments. Grian was no exception; he cracked his way out of his own ribcage, and, without meaning to, amplified and feasted on Player!Grian's agony and terror as he died. With their memory codes finally disconnected, Grian had to watch himself through the eyes of a stranger as his terrified consciousness dissolved and his body fell apart into nothing more than loose strings of code.

Only then, still weak and flailing and helpless, was he was brought into the colony proper, in order to teach him how to be a Watcher. It wouldnt be for another few years before Grian gained the strength, control, and insight required to make his desperate escape. In total, i wanna say he spent somewhere between.... 4-6 years??? with the colony against his will. It would take another 4 for him to finally scrape together the courage to contact Mumbo and finally ask him for an invite into the Hermitcraft proper

One of these days i do plan to write that reunion, actually, which i'll add to the series as another prequel just like all the words that i forgot to say, which takes place roughly 6-8 months after Grian finally joins Hermitcraft. And if yall want to read an absolutely fantastic fic that deals with the moment Watcher!Grian was born and Player!Grian died, you should absolutely check out my friend @raichett 's fic Divergency, which ive pretty much canonized bc it REALLY hits the nail on the head for that situation.

Okay this got a lot longer than i meant it to sidhskdjej also those timeframes are a little squiggly bc i havent fully settled on where they fall on the general timeline. I wanna say Grian had been a Watcher for abt a decade by the time Mumbo got him onto Hermitcraft, though, so thats the loose timeline im working off of when i talk abt this :] anyway thanks for giving me an excuse to write this all out!!! while your idea about the bedrock isnt necessarily canon, i absolutely ADORE it and can totally see Grian just tearing up his hands while scrabbling against the world border.... utterly heartbreaking we fucking LOVE to see it. Thanks for sending in your ask!!! I always love seeing what you have to say about hunger au!!! :DDD

[aurumacadicus]

October's coming and the theme is horror! Tumblr will vote to help us narrow it down to three books, and then we'll vote for the winner on Discord. If you'd like to join the book club, send me a message, and I'll send you an invitation link! Book summaries are under the cut!

Family Business by Jonathan Sims JUST ANOTHER DEAD-END JOB. DEATH. IT’S A DIRTY BUSINESS. When Diya Burman’s best friend Angie dies, it feels like her own life is falling apart. Wanting a fresh start, she joins Slough & Sons - a family firm that cleans up after the recently deceased. Old love letters. Porcelain dolls. Broken trinkets. Clearing away the remnants of other people’s lives, Diya begins to see things. Horrible things. Things that get harder and harder to write off as merely her grieving imagination. All is not as it seems with the Slough family. Why won’t they speak about their own recent loss? And who is the strange man that keeps turning up at their jobs? If Diya’s not careful, she might just end up getting buried under the family tree…

The Final Girl Support Group by Grady Hendrix In horror movies, the final girls are the ones left standing when the credits roll. They made it through the worst night of their lives…but what happens after? Lynnette Tarkington is a real-life final girl who survived a massacre. For more than a decade, she's been meeting with five other final girls and their therapist in a support group for those who survived the unthinkable, working to put their lives back together. Then one woman misses a meeting, and their worst fears are realized—someone knows about the group and is determined to rip their lives apart again, piece by piece. But the thing about final girls is that no matter how bad the odds, how dark the night, how sharp the knife, they will never, ever give up.

Meddling Kids by Edgar Cantero In 1977, four teenagers and a dog—Andy (the tomboy), Nate (the nerd), Kerri (the bookworm), Peter (the jock), and Tim (the Weimaraner)—solved the mystery of Sleep Lake. The trail of an amphibian monster terrorizing the quiet town of Blyton Hills leads the gang to spend a night in Deboën Mansion and apprehend a familiar culprit: a bitter old man in a mask. Now, in 1990, the twenty-something former teen detectives are lost souls. Plagued by night terrors and Peter’s tragic death, the three survivors have been running from their demons. When the man they apprehended all those years ago makes parole, Andy tracks him down to confirm what she’s always known—they got the wrong guy. Now she’ll need to get the gang back together and return to Blyton Hills to find out what really happened in 1977, and this time, she’s sure they’re not looking for another man in a mask.

Bury Your Gays by Chuck Tingle Misha knows that chasing success in Hollywood can be hell. But finally, after years of trying to make it, his big moment is here: an Oscar nomination. And the executives at the studio for his long-running streaming serioes know just the thing to kick his career to the next level: kill off the gay characters, “for the algorithm,” in the upcoming season finale. Misha refuses, but he soon realizes that he’s just put a target on his back. And what’s worse, monsters from his horror movie days are stalking him and his friends through the hills above Los Angeles. Haunted by his past, Misha must risk his entire future—before the horrors from the silver screen find a way to bury him for good.

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

Stepping far afield from his medical studies, Victor Frankenstein brings to life a human form he has fashioned from scavenged body parts. Horrified by his achievement, he turns his back on his creation, only to learn the danger of such neglect. Written when Mary Shelley was only 20 years old, Frankenstein has been hailed as both a landmark of Gothic horror fiction and the first modern science fiction story.

The Sacrifice Box by Martin Stewart

In the summer of 1982, five friends discover an ancient stone box hidden deep in the woods. They seal inside of it treasured objects from their childhood, and they make a vow: Never come to the box alone. Never open it after dark. Never take back your sacrifice. Four years later, a series of strange and terrifying events begin to unfold: mirrors inexplicably shattering, inanimate beings coming to life, otherworldly crows thirsting for blood. Someone broke the rules of the box, and now everyone has to pay. But how much are they willing to sacrifice?

A Lonely Broadcast by Kel Byron

If you find yourself driving down a winding mountain road near an endless stretch of pines, try tuning in to 104.6 FM: the radio station that shouldn’t exist. The village of Pinehaven has a secret of monstrous proportions. Evelyn McKinnon, a radio host falling on hard times, finds herself utterly unprepared when she learns that the radio station isn’t just for entertainment. It’s a watchtower. She’s stalked by a bird with human eyes. Her co-host won’t stop singing show tunes. And when the fog rolls in, the beasts of Pinehaven Forest begin their brutal hunt. Evelyn and her friends are suddenly face-to-face with something much scarier than ravenous flesh-giants and vengeful spirits: responsibility. ‘A Lonely Broadcast’ is a darkly comedic tale that mixes elements of cosmic horror, gruesome gore, and a touching story about friendship, grief, and finding hope when all seems lost. It’s also the story of an unhinged woman’s personal war with a goddamn bird.

Episode Thirteen by Craig DiLouie

Fade to Black is the newest hit ghost hunting reality TV show. Led by husband and wife team Matt and Claire Kirklin, it delivers weekly hauntings investigated by a dedicated team of ghost hunting experts. Episode Thirteen takes them to every ghost hunter’s holy grail: the Paranormal Research Foundation. This brooding, derelict mansion holds secrets and clues about bizarre experiments that took place there in the 1970s. It’s also famously haunted, and the team hopes their scientific techniques and high tech gear will prove it. But as the house begins to reveal itself to them, proof of an afterlife might not be everything Matt dreamed of. A story told in broken pieces, in tapes, journals, and correspondence, this is the story of Episode Thirteen—and how everything went terribly, horribly wrong.

[jienem]

The Vizier's Diamond in the Rough

In which you transmigrate in time into the past after you receive an enchantment wrist bangle. But the thing is, it was also the era where the notorious schemer ruled the kingdom by hypnotizing the Sultan.

Warning: gn reader. Pharaoh's concubine reference but Aladdin setting (younger jafar and the sultan) Head taller Jamil. Different story plot soon after.

(Really recommend Pharaoh's concubine.)

The wrist bangle was given to you by your brother as a gift. Your birthday was several days ahead, yet that didn't stop him from giving it to you early. Despite living in another country for work, he always makes sure to have time with you.

You opened it on the day of your birthday and carefully unwrapped the delicate ribbon under your hands. To your utter astonishment, your brother gifted you the most sought-after jewelry that was worth thousands at auction. You were perplexed by the precious gift your brother had given you and didn't know what to do. Your were greatful yet at the time, it felt overwhelming to receive it. You called your brother and was relief when he pick up after quite sometime.

"Happy birthday, dear sister. What brings your attention to call me? Shouldn't you be enjoying the time of your birthday?" You knew by the sound of his voice that he exactly knew why you called. "Oh, did you open mine? If so, was the jewelry to your liking?" he continued.

For a moment, you felt like you lived a millionaire's life despite being a middle-class citizen and a student at that.

"The jewelry was exquisite, it puts me beyond words for how much of an invaluable gift you have given me, dear brother. Not! How many times do I have to tell you I don't need expensive stuff." You huff as you admire the bangle snake design in hand despite your defiance short ago. It had diamonds on the side, and you didn't question their worth; what caught you more was the ruby that lay as the eyes of the golden snake.

In the middle of conversation, you place the dangle on your wrist, and to your surprise and horror, it glows brightly, making you turn your head away. Your wrist felt warmer, and even your closed eyes didn't help the brightness that surrounded you, and you blackened.

. 

. 

. 

You woke up to the sensation of someone's hand shaking you. You didn't realize you were sleeping until someone who was unknown to you kept calling you. From your blurry eyes, you notice a woman with an unusual outfit, speaking a language that you knew you couldn't understand, but you did. Confused, you tried to speak, but the rasp in your voice stopped you. The lady brought out a glass of water and gave it to you. You mouthed a thank you and gulped down the remnants of the water.

"Young lady, what are you doing in the middle of the dessert?"

"I was?" You didn't know, the last memory you remember was your room. So how?

"Yes, I had help with a young man who was a gentleman who carried you here. He was quite a handsome man, young lady." You frowned and ignored her last words in favor of worrying for your brother, who was on the call when it happened. Has it already been a few days? Weeks?

"Can I ask, where am I?"

"You can. We are in the Kingdom of Agrabah, and Oh! My Apologies! Would you be alright if I leave you here whilst I work in the palace? You can stay here for as long as you wish." For a moment, you felt your world drop as she uttered her words and momentarily had a dilemma. You didn't know what to do; after all, how did you appear here?

Your eyes fell onto your wrist, and you saw you were still wearing the dangle. Remembering it shone before it took you here, you tried to take it off but to no avail. Taking one last look at the culprit, you turn your head towards her and remember you still haven't answered.

"Oh no, no, I couldn't do that. Let me join you, please. I could help you in some way, er-do you mind?" The kingdom existed hundreds of years ago and only made it into the history books. You couldn't stay at her abode for fear of potential danger because this town was filled with thieves according to history, and you also didn't want to stay longer than you should have. You also wanted to know someone in this era to help you adjust to this place for some time. With that in mind, you were determined to accompany her.

"I don't mind, but you should rest and stay the night. Tomorrow you can help, but for now, rest for all you need."

You sigh in relief, despite having to stay for the night, it was enough for you. You nodded before she left the room, and your expression dropped soon after she left. You looked out the window beside you with different emotions. Whatever shall you do?

. 

. 

. 

The next day, entering the palace was an easy feat. Some guards didn't bat an eye as the two of you passed, and soon enough you were led to the kitchen, where people were tirelessly working. The workers were in sync as they passed the plates to each other while they moved side by side. You were confused as to what to do before the lady who accompanied you motioned for you to get closer and whispered something in your ear before tilting her head in another direction. You recognized the stack of white linens, and you knew you had to wash them judging from the stains that were hiding beneath.

She muttered a thank you and went along with her chores, as did you. It was quite heavier than it looks, yet you didn't give up and continued. You were glad the corridor leading to another side didn't have people passing by, but you wondered if you moved on the right way. You forgot to ask the lady, but you were too afraid to head back now. With a downcast expression, you didn't realize you bumped into someone until you took a step back from the force and almost fell down.

You quickly muttered an apology and moved to the side to get a clearer view. Your heart drops as you notice the garments that are often mentioned in the history of a certain royal vizier. Black clothing with a red cape, the snake design staff with red rubies, and black hair—you felt stupid for not thinking he couldn't appear before you.

Jamil Viper is the vizier of the kingdom of Agrabah and the right-hand man of Kalim al-Asim, the current sultan.

He brushes the dust off his shoulder, and much to your dismay, you had to crane your neck upward just to see his face as your height reaches just below his shoulder. He wore a neutral expression as his eyes fell over your form, and you felt uneasy under his stare. His silence was intimidating.

"If you were assigned to washing, the area was on another building."

"O-oh, I see. Thank you and my apologies."

You were honestly surprised and grateful at his advice, but you sensed something was wrong when he still didn't move and continued staring at you. You tried to call out for him, but he nodded at something before continuing on his stride, making you confused over his actions. For the few seconds he stared at you, you felt a faint sense of fuzziness, but it was gone the minute he walked away. You knew it was still in effect, but it was less than before and disappeared completely when he was nowhere to be seen. Did he try his sorcery?

Your eyes fell onto your wrist and saw the glow in its ruby. Without a second thought, you lifted your arm and tried to lay it under the sun for a clearer view, wondering what lies it beholds, ignoring what happened a few seconds earlier. A hand shot out and grasped your forearm, causing you to flinch back in shock. The hand was firm in their hold as they moved it to the side of their face. Jamil Viper, in all glory, stood before you as he assessed the dangle; his eyes were a glowing shade of red.

"Where did you get this?" His voice was low as he muttered his question, still looking at the dangle. You were alarm as he came out of nowhere, the white linens laid forgotten as you tried to move away but was unsuccessful.

"I-" Your words betray you, as you were under his hold. His eyes flicker towards you, and he grasps your forearm tighter and moves it closer.

"Where.Did.You.Get.This."

"Let go!" You pulled your arm away, glaring at him while the force pulled you back. The familiar light shone from your wrist, and his expression flickered with anxiety, anger, and frustration.

"You-"

Your vision turns black again, but this time you stay awake for a few minutes before passing out on the ground as soon as you notice you made it back home.

Taglist:

@luciel1 @fluffle-bean @growingupnrealizing @worldussysblog @daruderuyoo @lucid-stories @ykiqlvr @savanaclaw1996 @yo4sblog @rosedasy @springdrop-701 @qmabailor @monoeve

[callsignfate]

Maybe I Do..

Day Six of Writemas/Birthday posts!

If you want to see the scheduled posts go here If you want to see more posts like this go here

TW: None? If I've missed any let me know!

♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤

Valeria was excited to be back, though she didn't display it intentionally. Her driver pulled into the familiar parking spot, and Valeria immediately climbed out of the large black vehicle, heading to see you.

You hadn't texted her in hours, leaving her to wonder what you could be doing or if you had met some unfortunate fate. She couldn't put it past you to burn down the house or somehow injure yourself; after all, you were known to trip over air and cut yourself while opening a can.

The moment she opened the door, she began swearing under her breath in her mother tongue. It was a mess. Everything was everywhere. The couch pillows formed a small house-like shape on the other side of the room.

Blankets, books, pillows, empty drinks, game controllers, notebooks, pencils, and even her clothes were scattered about the room. Valeria looked on with a mix of confusion and horror as you crawled out of the couch pillow fort you had created in her absence. Your hair was a mess, and her clothes were messily bunched up as you attempted to fix them.

Slowly realizing from your sleepy state that Valeria was home, you ran at her, giving her a tight hug as you mumbled about how much you had missed her.

Valeria, looking frustrated, motioned towards the rest of the house. "You can't be left alone for 72 hours?"

You clung to Valeria like a koala to a tree, mumbling something unintelligible against her shoulder. She patted your head, an amused smile playing on her lips despite the evident chaos around.

"And what's this?" Valeria pointed at the fort you had fashioned out of couch pillows.

"I got lonely," you explained, your words muffled by Valeria's shoulder.

"Lonely enough to turn our living room into a disaster?" Valeria quirked an eyebrow.

"It's not a disaster, it's a... cozy mess," you defended your impromptu creation.

Valeria sighed, a mix of frustration and amusement in her eyes. "Why can't you just sit on the couch like a normal person?"

"Normal is overrated," you replied, finally releasing Valeria from your embrace.

She surveyed the mess again, shaking her head. "I leave for three days, and you turn the place upside down. I worry about you."

You grinned, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "Admit it, you missed me."

Valeria crossed her arms, attempting to maintain a stern expression, but a small smile tugged at her lips. "Maybe."

You took Valeria's hand, leading her towards the couch. "Come on, join me in the fort. It's surprisingly comfy."

She hesitated for a moment before giving in, letting you pull her into the makeshift pillow haven. As you settled in together, surrounded by the remnants of your creative chaos, you couldn't help but feel a sense of warmth and contentment. Home was where the mess was, and in that moment, with Valeria by your side, it was perfect.

Valeria relaxed into the cozy nest of pillows, her initial frustration melting away. "You know, there are other ways to deal with loneliness that don't involve rearranging the entire house."

You raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk on your face. "But where's the fun in that? Besides, this is way better than just sitting around."

She chuckled, giving you a gentle shove. "You're impossible, you know that?"

You snuggled closer, burying your face in the pillows. "That's why you love me."

Valeria rolled her eyes, but the smile on her face betrayed her. "Maybe I do."

♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤~♤

If you want to see the scheduled posts go here If you want to see more posts like this go here

[pinkestmenace]

🥀 for whichever oc you want! :D

🥀 (Wilted Rose) - Do they have a Soul form? What would it look and act like? How much control over themselves do they have? Is it still possible to save them, or are they too far gone?

*Sweats nervously* Oh, my dear, dear anon. Beware! You have hit the jackpot of DOOM! /jk

This subject is very spoiler heavy for 'Broken Hato' and its sequel fics in my Hatoful Dreams series, so I have to tread carefully.

Does Olympea have a Soul form? Well, her future soul is certainly in a form. It may even retain some awareness. Where it is and why, how long it has been there or will continue to be there, I cannot tell you.

...Have you ever heard anyone say people die twice? First when their body goes and finally when everyone who knew them has forgotten them and passed on themselves? The Ancients are dead. The Heroes of Yore are long lost and cursed to be forgotten. Only Galacta Knight remains and his memory is not only fading after his endless imprisonment, it's also affected by the curse. But he is still alive. Wisps of his friends still linger in his memory. As long as he holds on, some of their presence may linger. Is this a blessing or a curse? And for whom? Will they go with him...or will he go with them? Where are they going?

But let's ignore all of that for a moment and think about what a Soul form normally means. A character is driven to the extreme, to the threshold of death, but their determination prevents them from giving in just yet. Their body warps and keeps fighting in a last ditch effort while their mind is already degrading. You don't come back from this. Not unscathed. Maybe you just straight up turn into paint and die (Drawcia). Maybe you return, but you're undead and keep some eldritch traits (Marx). Maybe you go to superhell, gain catholic guilt and fight the personification of your sins before becoming a questionably trustworthy salesman in another world (Magolor). Maybe you go insane and wither, with your last remaining essence joining a giant plant (Sectonia). Maybe, if you're very lucky, you finally get purified and your reincarnated form gets another chance at a better life (Void). Maybe you're even assimilated by a reaper butterfly, hold on to your will to live and steal its power for yourself, before finally letting your last remnant reunite with your counterpart (Fecto Elfilis).

Let's say some catastrophe like that happens to her, hypothetically.

[CW: loss of sentience, amalgamation, body horror, death. Features some headcanons about the physical makeup of Astrals/Puffballs and how Soul Matter affects that.]

If she had to push it beyond the limit to keep fighting it would be to save her friends. It was always her greatest Dream to be a hero and she is very determined to achieve that! ...But ironically, as her body is so stable and uniform in its makeup, it never had to make Soul Matter to glue itself back together to keep from collapsing before. Being flooded with too much of it at once means she has little control over it. It would corrupt her.

As she keeps fighting and her mind deteriorates she'd slowly be reduced to nothing but a fighting machine, mowing down her foes left and right without a care about collateral damage. Soon she wouldn't be able to distinguish between friend and foe anymore. Anything that stands against her is getting crushed. When she reaches the tipping point and only Soul is keeping her hollow shell going, her now jelly-like body would meld with her weapons and armour. What little magic her unholy cyborg body contains would only serve to make the impact of her attacks greater. Every hit of her club shakes the earth, shatters dreams and breaks the resolve of anyone nearby with its shockwave. Her previously modest finger gun morphs into a devastating laser cannon. She swings and stabs her glaive with such speed the gusts of wind and concentrated energy shoot out as cutters and slice all around.

I doubt she could be fully saved from this form, since there won't be much left to salvage of her organic body as most of it has melded with her metal armour. She would be unrecognisably, irrevocably altered. Yay? (-Ŏ⌒Ŏ- )

Oh! Why not make a little blurb while we're having fun? :)

Soul of Olympea: Shatterer of Dreams

Once a brave hero protecting the people, now corrupted, this amalgam of determination and automation has lost all reason. No longer able to distinguish friend from foe, she lashes out at everything that moves. Stop her rampage before there's nothing left to protect!

Good thing this is all just a hypothetical, right?

(I really wish I could say that I don't enjoy putting her through the wringer, but that's more of a retroactive "NOOO! What have I done to you, my girl?!" after getting attached to what was supposed to be a tragically doomed background character. Oops?)

Masterpost

[footprintsinthesxnd]

Loving Her Was Red

Summary: Lois Drake an SOE from England didn't expect to fall in love, she didn't want to but there was something about the blushing, red-headed officer that melted her cold exterior. But war is no place for love and can they endure. Warnings: implied sexual images, swearing, Lois and Nix being sassy.

Love From R

Dick groaned as he rolled over, his back sore and his legs aching as his blurry eyes adjusted to the ceiling above him. It wasn’t the ceiling he normally woke up to. The familiar plain white ceiling of the house he was billeted in was gone. Its wake was a lavishly painted ceiling with Greek figures strewn across it. As Dick’s eyes adjusted to his surroundings he noticed the ruffled bed covers across his naked frame and the remnants of his dress uniform was discarded across the floor. There was a note on the bedside table with his name inscribed and he reached over to grab it.

“I had a lot of fun last night.

I hope to see much more of you Dick Winters.

R”

“R,” Dick spoke softly, pondering over the name R. “I thought her name was Lois,” Dick scratched the back of his neck. “Maybe I did have too much to drink after all.”

Dick dressed quickly and hurried out of the unknown hotel room, oblivious to his disheveled hair and loose tie, as he desperately tried to keep his now buttonless shirt closed as he hurried for a bus.

==================================

He never done the walk of shame before. He’d seen Lewis do it enough times but had never himself experienced the humiliation. Clearly Easy Company had never seen him this embarrassed either and they seemed to line the path of the camp to watch as he hurried towards the officers billet. Calls and whoops from his men followed him as he slammed the wooden door behind him and sighed.

“Well, well, well Dickie. You look like you had a good night,” Lewis called from his spot lead across Dick’s bed. Harry Welsh was sat on the other side sniggering to himself as Winters glared at them.

“Don’t say anything,” he snapped, moving towards his wardrobe and changing quickly into his PT hear to join the other men.

“Oh come on Dick. I need all the details. What is the infamous Lois Drake like in bed?” Dick opened his mouth to silence the pair when a familiar feminine voice spoke, “well Nixon, wouldn’t you like to know.”

Dick spun around so quickly he nearly toppled into Lewis, his face an imagine of horror.

“Lois,” he croaked, his voice cracked and dry as he all but wheezed her name.

She just smiled, “glad to see I still have that effect on you, Lieutenant.”

Dick straightens his tie, standing a little taller, “what brings you hear? I thought you were heading straight back to London.”

“Plans change,” she grinned at him, “and I have a meeting with Lieutenant Nixon. All the SOE’s working with the 101st have been sent to the base today to meet with the intelligence officers and to start formulating plans. My fellow SOE, Kate, has been assigned to Fox Company. We each have a company to work alongside so I’m sure, as I am with Easy, that I’ll be seeing a lot of you Dick.”

Dick nodded, his cheeks flushing a bright shade of red, “well then… I-i cannot wait to work with you in the future,” Dick stumbled over his words before excusing himself and leaving Lois alone with Lewis, who only smirked.

“Does Dick often act like this around women?”

“Oh all the time but you’re the first one he actually went to bed with. Normally he just blush profusely and makes awkward chit chat until he can leave.”

“How do you know we slept together?” Lois protested, knowing that Winters was not the kind of man to make such ideal gossip.

“Dick is never late to anything and this morning he was late, without proper attire and sporting a love bite that he did not have last night. It doesn’t take a genius to piece that together,” Lewis smiled smugly as if he’d just cracked the Enigma Code.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Lieutenant. Cockiness is not becoming and you are far from a genius so I wouldn’t expect you to figure it out,” Lois clicked her heels together as she turned. “Shall we head to the meeting?”

Lewis grumbled under his breath before following after Lois in defeat.

==================================

Lois' fingers drummed impatiently against the hard wooden desk, her eyes scanning over the officers as they waited to start the meeting. Dick gave her a sympathetic smile from his seat next to Nixon that she didn't reciprocate, her mind too focused on the embarrassment of her friend's lateness.

Colonel Sink, noticing the anxiety in the room spoke up, "Captain Drake, could we start the meeting without Sergeant Blythe?"

Lois sighed, "I apologise for my friend's tardiness but she will be here, I assure you."

Right on time the door flew open with a loud bang, ricocheting on its hinges. Kate burst into the room, her hair loose from its normally neat curls and her lipstick a little smudged at the corner of her mouth.

"Kate Blythe," Lois stood up, hastily making her way over to her friend, "It's nice of you to join us."

"Sorry, I'm late," Kate mumbled, her eyes glancing over the officers, sending Dick a quick grin.

"I'm so sorry for this gentlemen but could we reconvene in ten minutes?" She pushed Kate outside.

Dick watched as Lois spoke fervently to her fellow SOE officer, her arms waving frantically as she berated her but soon softening. He couldn’t help but admire her, the way she seemed to embrace power and excel in her position but also show her softer side.

Lewis cleared his throat beside him, digging his elbow in Dick’s ribs, causing him to flinch. Harry and Buck who sat opposite them shared a cheeky smile and Dick found himself blushing again. He didn’t think he could stand any further embarrassment today.

“You’re staring again, Dick. You’ve got it bad,” Lewis jested, sniggering as he whispered in his ear. Dick just batted him away, sighing when Harry leant across the table and asked when the wedding was.

“Will you call just shut it, please. We’re in a meeting for Pete's sake.”

“Whatever you say, Dick,” the men replied but continued their silent conversation with the occasional glances and sniggers.

The door swung back on its hinges again, screaming in protest as the two women entered.

“Sorry about the delay gentlemen. Are we ready to begin?” Lois strode across the room, taking the spare seat beside Dick with a smile. It was then that Dick Winters knew he was in trouble.

==================================

Tags: @georgieluz @iceman-kazansky @yeahcurrahhe-e @msmercury84 @blvestxr @dustyjumpwjngs @theflyingfin @jump-wings @kafka-ohdear @kmc1989 @mads-weasley @docroesmorphine @liptonsbabe @hesbuckcompton-baby @ronsparky @allthingsimagines @bucky32557038ww2 @malarkgirlypop @hanniewinnix @inglourious-imagines @l13bg0tt @samwinchesterslostshoe

[draconicocelot]

Phantom Pain

Summary: Ballister has a bad episode of phantom limb pain, luckily his trusty sidekick is there to help him through it. just some good ol' fashioned found family fluff 💗

Ballister never considered himself skilled enough in the field of medicine to pursue a career in it, but he was quite knowledgeable in the areas of science and engineering. He was able to craft his own prosthetic arm and an implantable socket that acts as a metallic ball-and-socket joint attached to his right shoulder region. Its integrated biomechanical design protects his residual limb, keeps his arm securely attached, and allows for a full range of motion. He couldn’t believe how quickly he had to adapt to such a significant change. It was only one swing of a sword, one swing of Ambrosius’ sword, that left him without his right arm.  At the time of impact, Ballister was so horror-struck by the laser firing from the hilt of his sword that he barely noticed Ambrosius swinging his blade upwards. It wasn’t until it was dug halfway into the deep muscle of his arm that the pain brought him back to the moment, crying out and clutching the gorey mess that remained. He looked back at Ambrosius, the one he once saw himself spending the rest of his life with, as his sword fell to his feet, a look of great regret painting his features. 

He wasn’t sure if his relationship with Ambrosius would ever recover. His best friend, who he had grown up with since he was allowed to join the other knights in training as a child, had just attacked him. No, disarmed him. He was simply doing his job… right? Regardless, after discovering the corruption seeping through the cracks of the institution with the Director behind the reins, Ambrosius too found out the truth. Now with the Director no longer controlling the knights of the realm, they were free to operate as they saw fit. Ambrosius was deemed the knight commander, with Ballister right by his side. However, while Ballister never blamed Ambrosius for the loss of his arm, the damage had been done, and he now had to deal with the aftermath. Most of all: the pain.

The episodes seemed to grow worse with each passing day after the death of the queen. Though once several weeks went by, it wasn’t as frequent, at least, the severe pain wasn’t. The loss itself was agonizingly painful, leaving him to hobble to the ruins of his future home, the only place he found that was safe to hide in. Remnants of medical supplies were enough to stop the bleeding, at least until he could construct a more permanent solution. While the pain slowly decreased with his new prosthetic in place, it would never be the same as what he was used to for so many years. He hadn’t felt irritation and discomfort so severe since the days following the loss of his arm, but every once and a while the sensation would rear its ugly head.

He was just sitting on the couch when it hit, their green blanket draped over his legs as he watched television. At least it was something he wasn’t upset about missing, just a mindless show about building houses and different architectural styles. Nimona was never a fan of that type of entertainment, always claiming it was too boring, which is why he usually only had it turned on when she was busy in her room. The tower had gone through many renovations after she returned, turning an evil lair into an evil home, at least, as Nimona would claim.

He kept her neon-colored lights, the used couch and coffee table, and her drawings that remained on the wall. Even many of the weapons they possessed were hung up in a more secure yet visible space, just to keep her desired level of chaos with more rounded edges. The once-titled “murder wall”, now referred to as the “family wall”, was decorated with memories of the times they spent together. 

They even included Ambrosius, his face appearing in many photos of the three of them with a few professional looking photographs taken during a photo shoot of the happy couple. Well, with a few in-between shots involving a naughty pink snake wrapping around Ballister’s shoulders. Or those that showed a little pink bird landing in Ambrosius’ long golden hair, building herself a nest as Ballister threw his head back with laughter. These were the moments he tried to remind himself of when the discomfort became too intense to ignore.

It began with a slight itch, a prickling feeling starting in his residual limb. His prosthetic arm was resting on his work bench on the other side of the room, so once the feeling started he assumed it was because he was used to wearing it unless he was asleep. Before he could swing his legs off of the couch, the once harmless annoyance shot through his phantom limb like a bolt of lightning, bringing him back down to the couch with a pained yelp. 

“Boss? You good down there?” Nimona called from the upper levels of the tower. Ballister attempted to respond, but the sting pulsed through him so deeply that he felt it on his entire right side. The only noise he could muster was a whimper. “What happened? Did you cut your other arm off?” The voice grew louder as she came downstairs, approaching the couch with her usual teasing behavior. 

“It’s… It’s nothing…” Ballister hissed through his teeth, his face wrinkled with distress. He brought his left hand up to massage his other shoulder, attempting to dispel the pain. Nimona’s expression softened, leaning on the arm of the couch. 

“It doesn’t look like nothing, do you want me to get Ambrosius?” Ballister shook his head in response. 

“No! No… he’ll just take it too seriously.”

“I don’t think you’re taking it seriously enough, boss,” Nimona stated, her draconic tail extending and swishing. Ballister shifted himself so that he was lying directly on his back, rotating his right shoulder as much as he could to keep it moving.

“It’s just a temporary bout, it’ll pass,” he muttered in a strained voice, closing his eyes and pulling the blanket up further. He tried to zone out, to listen to the faint sound coming from the television or the quiet hum of the air conditioning unit. While the initial shock faded away, he still felt a twinge in his arm, creeping down his forearm and burning down to his fingertips. What a cruel joke, to feel such realistic pain in an arm he no longer had. 

This dark mental spiral he was taking himself down was interrupted by the introduction of a new feeling. It was something more pleasant than what he was otherwise dealing with. An addition of weight against his stump. Something soft and warm had landed against his upper right side, and it brought an immediate sense of comfort. As he glanced down, he saw a furry pink cat curled up on his chest, her bottom half on the couch with her upper body draped over him like a weighted blanket. 

“Nimona?” 

“I know that look better than anyone. That’s the look of someone who says they want to be alone, but in reality it’s really a time when they shouldn’t be alone,” she explained, “besides, they say a cat's purr helps promote faster healing or some shit like that.” Ballister chuckled at the comment, more relieved than he admitted aloud to have her company. 

What he hadn’t mentioned to Nimona at the time was that the last few times he dealt with this situation, he was alone. He was lying on the cold hard ground, staring up at the ceiling with tears streaming down his face. The burning sensation was nothing compared to his boundless grief of losing the queen, it was almost too much for him to bear. He truly loved the queen, she was the closest figure he had in his life to a mother, the one who encouraged him to be the best person he could be. Now, she was gone, killed by his sabotaged sword, witnessing her expression of anguish from a front row seat. He was used to not only the torment he experienced, but the feeling that he deserved it. He didn’t kill the queen, he knew that, he wasn’t a murderer… but the queen was killed because of her kindness in accepting him, and the Director’s malicious and horrid views of the way the Institute should have been run. 

As Nimona began to purr, the gentle vibration soothed Ballsiter’s muscles, the damaged nerves calming their attack. He still felt a festering burn and the occasional twitch every few seconds, but her presence brought him an overwhelming feeling of tranquility. Gently stroking her back, he took a deep breath in and slowly let it go.

“You were never a monster, Nimona,” Ballister mumbled softly, moving his hand higher to scratch the top of her head, running his fingers over the soft fur between her ears. 

“Glad someone believes that,” Nimona replied, one eye open as she looked over at him. Ballister huffed in response, a gentle smile across his lips. 

“You’re a miracle.” She stopped purring for a moment, the words he just spoke hitting her harder than she expected them to. Both eyes now slowly opened, meeting his as he sat up, his back against the arm rest. 

“…You really think that?” she asked, shifting back into her human form, the one she was in when she first met Ballister. He nodded in response, moving his hand back to where it was when she was still a cat, stroking the top of her head. 

“Course I do, I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.” Nimona couldn’t stand to look into his eyes any longer, full of such genuine appreciation that she had to look at something else before she felt too soft. Glancing over at the television, she saw the boring show from before was still playing and smirked a bit. 

“Alright fine… I’ll let you keep this garbage home improvement show on,” she groaned, situating herself so that she was still laying against his right side, using him as a pillow. Ballister leaned down and pulled the blanket up over her, rolling his eyes before turning the volume back up.

“Maybe if you actually watched it you would find that it’s not so garbage after all,” Ballister hummed. 

“Mmm, I doubt that old man.”

[aramis-dagaz]

Star Fox: Crew Rest Rekindling a Light in the Dark

Krystal was awake in an instant.  She was in Fox’s cabin, lying alongside him pressed against his back.  She could feel the dark memories gathering around him like a black fog, the terror and guilt building within and practically creeping up her arm as she held him close in her sleep.  Another nightmare.  Of what, Krystal could only guess, but it felt similar to those of previous nights.

She gently shook him.  He remained asleep, though restless.  Whatever he was dreaming of had a stranglehold on him.  Any further attempts to wake him physically would only result in a potentially violent though unintended reaction, which was undesirable for a multitude of reasons.

Thankfully, Krystal had other means available to her.

She gently laid her hand along his temple, the tempest within his mind sending a numbing chill up her arm.  She responded with a gentle wave of warmth, pushing back against the roiling clouds.  They refused to budge, sharp spikes of guilt shredding all they came into contact with, but still she persisted, slowly, gently, relentlessly.  The outer edges of the storm began to melt away, a gradual process that gained momentum until she felt safe enough to make one final push.  The darkness yielded before her touch, and she spoke a silent command before it could reform.

Wake up.

Fox’s breathing changed noticeably, but not violently.  Krystal pulled back mentally but kept her arms wrapped around him, holding him close as he awoke.  She could sense his initial disorientation until his senses told him where he was.

“Krystal?” he said quietly.

“I’m here.”

He sighed wearily, one of his hands closing around hers.  “Another one, it seems.”

“Yes.”

He was silent for a moment, his fingers intertwining with hers.  Shame, embarrassment, guilt, and shattered remnants of terror and horror swirled slowly around him like cursed moons over a blighted world.  Left alone, they would prevent any escape, even though Fox was never one to give up trying.  With enough effort, perhaps he could.  But the repeated nightmares kept wearing on him, making it harder each time.

But only if he went it alone.  Krystal gently nuzzled the back of his neck, hoping to remind him that he didn’t have to.

Fox squeezed her hand.  “Thank you,” he said.

“Of course,” she replied.  “Do you want to talk about it?”

He quietly groaned, and she felt his defenses rise.  Even after two years together, Fox was reluctant to show any vulnerability.  She didn’t blame him.  He had many enemies, fought countless battles, and was the rock upon which so many depended whether they consciously realized it or not.  There were very few he could turn to for advice, to show weakness to.  When predators circled from all directions, real or imagined, one dared not expose their throat by accident, let alone intentionally.

But walls entrapped just as easily as they protected, and Fox had built many, many walls.  Even she had difficulty navigating them when he tried to make himself open to her.  She wasn’t sure if he knew how to escape them himself.

But still she tried.  She couldn’t stand to see him suffer, not while she could help.  She loved him too much not to.

Finally Fox rose and sat at the edge of the bed.  He kept the lights off, the starry field from the viewscreen providing enough light to see by.  Fox preferred the dark when he was feeling lost, especially in the quiet hours of his off time.  Krystal sat by him, her hand on his as he sorted through his thoughts and emotions.

“It was about Fara,” he said after a long while.  Krystal had a good idea what he dreamt about, but stayed silent, letting him speak at his own pace.  Her hand gently squeezed his in quiet encouragement.

“Rather, it was about her dea–when she died.  When Shears killed her.”  He inhaled sharply, anger joining the swirling clouds around him.  “I couldn’t do anything.  Nothing but watch her die.”  His hands gripped the bedsheets and he looked away.  “You know this part already,” he sighed.

“And you still feel guilt over it, even though you couldn’t do anything,” Krystal said.

“You’re right, of course.  If only–”  He shook his head.  “No, no woulda-coulda-shouldas.  I’d be at it all night.”  His body tensed as he fought to hold back tears.  “I’d…I’d hoped that killing Shears would’ve done, well, something.  It wouldn’t bring her back, but maybe bring some sense of closure.  And yet here I am, seemingly no different than before.”

“Wounds do heal, but some are so terrible that they never truly go away,” Krystal said, tracing a finger along one of Fox’s scars on his arm, a reminder of a close encounter with a Sharpclaw’s teeth.  “Fara was, and still is, very important to you.  You were grievously wounded that day, though not physically.  You wouldn’t expect a soldier who lost a limb in battle to regrow it over time by sheer will, would you?  Not even after ten, twenty years?”

Fox shook his head.  “No, I suppose not.  That would be ridiculous.”

Krystal placed her hand over Fox’s heart.  “Then you shouldn’t expect any more from yourself.”

“Easier said than done,” he grunted.  “Everyone looks up to me to lead this outfit.”

“Everyone also supports you,” she countered.  “We’re not mere subordinates, we’re your friends.  I don’t think any of us would be here if we weren’t.”

Fox looked away.  Guilt and anger grew stronger.  “There was…something else that happened in the nightmare.  Something I hadn’t dreamt of for a while.”

Krystal rested her hand on his shoulder, waiting for him to continue.

“I…I was angry at Slippy.  Extremely angry.  I shot at him, screaming at him, blaming him for Fara’s death.  If only he worked on getting her Arwing working again before mine, she might still be alive.”  He stopped, his breath catching in his throat.  “I…I think I really wanted to kill him, much like how I wanted to kill Shears.”

“Do you blame Slippy for Fara’s death?”

“No!  I–”  Fox trembled and pressed his face into his hands, his fingers clutching at his head and palms grinding into his eyes.  Krystal could smell tears as the guilt clawed at him viciously.  “No, Slippy didn’t kill Fara.  He isn’t responsible.  He did what he could.  He’s the reason why I’m still alive.  Why Falco and Peppy are still alive.  But if he fixed Fara’s ship first…”

“Then you’d likely be dead.”

“I know!”  He growled at himself and lowered his voice.  “I know.”  A strangled sob escaped his throat and he rested his elbows on his knees, his head buried in his hands.  “I can’t blame him.  He blames himself enough as it is, and he shouldn’t.  He really shouldn’t.”

Krystal recalled the daggers of guilt that still tormented Slippy, how he wept when he finally told her about that day.  He was much better now, but every now and then the wound gets torn open.  It was one of the few things he dared not talk to Fox about.

Fox sniffed and sat back up, trying to hold himself together.  Krystal slid next to him and pulled him into a hug, resting her head on his shoulder.  He leaned his head against hers.  With such physical contact, the cloud of pain surrounding him felt like a fierce sandstorm against her skin, but she held him regardless.

“One more reason to be glad Shears is dead,” Fox muttered darkly.  “He’s trying to get me to turn against my friends.”

“But you know your friends better than he ever did,” she replied.  “Even if that was his intention, he wouldn’t have succeeded.”

“Damn right he wouldn’t.”  He sighed.  “Bastard is going to haunt me beyond the grave, isn’t he?”

“Only if you let him.”

“Then I won’t.  He’s dead and that’s the end of it.”  Krystal felt him forcibly shove the thought from his mind with a sensation reminiscent a large boulder being pushed aside.  It still left deep tracks in its wake, but for now the way was clear.

Anger simmered down to frustration, the guilt and shame directed inwards.  “Thank you,” he said, his voice low.

“Anytime, Fox.”

“You shouldn’t have to put up with this,” he sighed.

Krystal tightened her hug sharply enough to get his attention.  “I don’t ‘put up with’ anything, McCloud.  I do this because I love you and believe that you deserve happiness.”

He snorted with mirthless laughter.  “Just your luck you fell in love with a guy as damaged as me.”

“And yet you’re still capable of and have done amazing things.  We’ve flown in ships that had all manner of problems and still managed to make them work with some care.  People are no different.”

A jocular bubble hovered just beneath the surface, wanting, no, demanding to escape, to be heard, but she felt him shove it back down.  She grinned and lightly dug her claws into his side.  “Care to tell me what that double-entendre was, Fox?”

“No,” he said in a failing attempt at an annoyed deadpan response.  “Get out of my head.”

“I could hear it through even that thick skull of yours.”

“Oh really?” he replied with a half-grin.  “Then perhaps you can tell me which one it was.”

Krystal placed both her hands on his shoulder and rested her chin on them.  “Do you really want me to tell you how predictable you can be?”

“Careful there, you’re almost going to make me laugh.”

She smiled deviously at him.  “Don’t blame me, your dirty sense of humor is what’s ruining your bad mood.”

He turned towards her, his eyes looking her up and down.  “You just bring out the worst in me, lady.”

“That’s not particularly difficult,” she chuckled and rested her cheek on his shoulder again, holding him close.  The dark clouds still surrounded him, though the guilt, shame, and anger were disrupted, shattered into a field of debris that left him in a persistent twilight instead of plunging him into deep shadows.  Left on their own, they would likely reform back into looming shards of pain and guilt, potentially blocking out the warmth and light of those around him.  Even the walls Fox built around him could be just as hindering, leaving him unaware of his friends outside trying to help.

But not all light needed to be external, especially in this case.

Krystal inhaled deeply, taking in his familiar if anxiety-tinged scent and giving him a gentle squeeze.  "Tell me a happy memory about Fara,” she said.

"Most women don't like to hear about their boyfriend’s previous girlfriends,” Fox chuckled wryly.  Though spoken in jest, there was an undercurrent of wariness.  The walls around him shifted ever so slightly into a stronger formation.

“She is very important to you, and helped shape you into what you are today,” Krystal explained.  “I don't mind knowing a bit more about her, make her more than a name and picture on the memorial wall.”

“I…suppose that’s true.  I guess I keep forgetting that there’s a lot you don’t know about her.”

Shards of guilt continued to reform around him.  Krystal was having none of that.

“Sometimes it seems like I’ve always been here,” she said, hoping to assuage his guilt.

Fox chuckled with little mirth but not without warmth.  “Yeah, seems like it.”  He was quiet for a moment, glancing towards the starry field on the viewscreen.  “Sorry, it’s a bit strange to me, being asked about the dead like this.”

“It's very common among the Earthwalkers and Thorntails,” Krystal replied.  “To them, the dead are still part of the herd and are treated as such, even if they aren't among them physically.”

A bubble of amusement rose within Fox.  "I guess that makes sense, though 'part of the herd' isn't a phrase I'd attribute to her."

“No, from what I’ve heard that doesn’t seem like Fara at all.”  Krystal gave Fox another gentle squeeze.  “Please, elaborate.  I’m sure you know plenty of examples.”

The clouds darkened, leaving a weariness much like clouds of ash bringing on an unseasonable chill on the lands below.  “I’m sure you’ve picked up quite a bit from me already.”

“Not as much as you think, Fox.  I don’t pry.  Besides–”  She pulled away and turned to sit facing him.  “–I’d much rather hear you tell it.  More enjoyable that way.”

Fox hesitated.  Lingering grief and sadness made him reluctant to explore old memories, yet she felt those memories wash up on the shore of his consciousness.  He wandered among them, looking upon times long gone, some of which he hadn’t seen in a long, long time.  Some he glanced at and immediately focused his attention elsewhere in a swirl of mild embarrassment, prudence, and a desire for some things to remain hidden.

Krystal stepped back mentally.  This was difficult enough for him, no need to make it more awkward with her looking over his metaphorical shoulder.  Even in happier circumstances, it was still rude to peek in on his thoughts like that, and besides, she didn't want to ruin the story for herself.

After examining and setting aside several memories, a glow of mirth illuminated Fox’s consciousness.  "Okay, here's a funny one," he said, a mischievous smile growing on his face.  "If the Corneria City Police ever knew about this incident, they never would've made her an officer."

As he told the tale, Krystal found she had to agree with his assessment, though she was impressed and even shocked by the sheer audacity he regaled.  She couldn't even call it foolhardiness, though it was certainly foolishness that initiated the whole misadventure.  How Fox and Fara managed to get away with it would haunt her for a long time to come, especially considering how a crate of Papetoon crickets and ramen were involved, but she had to admit that it was a very amusing story.  She found herself wishing, not for the first time, that she could've met Fara; they probably would have been good friends.

More importantly, the dark clouds of guilt and grief surrounding Fox had lessened, driven back by the light of joy and laughter within his heart.  They hadn’t disappeared entirely, no amount of happy stories could do that, especially not overnight, but the memory of Fara now evoked a bit more light and happiness than before.

"I'm not sure if I should be appalled or impressed," Krystal said as Fox finished the story.

"If it helps, neither do I," he chuckled.

"Still, thank you for sharing that with me.  I feel like I know Fara better."

"She wasn't usually that crazy, but only just.  Sorry for talking your ear off."

"Don't be, I enjoyed hearing it.  Hopefully that was helpful for you as well."

"A little, I guess.  I haven't really thought about her much lately.  Didn't want to, honestly.  I suppose I only really remember her when I have these nightmares of her...last moments."  The dark clouds crept in around him, but just as quickly receded.  "It was nice to recall something pleasant for once."  He chuckled.  "Trying to get me to replace terrible memories with good ones?"

“You said it, not me,” she said with a sly smile.  “But yes.  She is important to you.  Celebrate that and her.”

"If I was in the mood for it I'd be toasting a drink right now."  He yawned.  "Ugh, I'm exhausted.  Guess I'm still limping on a crippled heart."

"Well, it is the middle of the night for us."

"What a time to be running a marathon down the bad side of memory lane.  Though I suppose not all that bad."

Krystal leaned in and gave him a light kiss on his cheek.  “Then let’s go back to sleep.”

“Yeah, sounds like a great idea.”

They both laid back down on the bed, Krystal nuzzling her face against Fox’s chest.  He held her close and gave her a kiss on the top of her head.  “Thanks, Krystal.  I love you.”

“Anytime, Fox.  I love you, too.”

It took a while for Fox to drift back to sleep, his defenses still unwilling to relax due to the guilt and loss that still lingered around him, yet still desperate to feel a warm connection with anyone and focusing that desire into holding Krystal tightly.  But soon mental, physical, and emotional fatigue took its toll and he slid back into slumber.  Krystal pressed her cheek against Fox’s heart, radiating love and comfort into him.  His sleep wouldn’t be entirely untroubled, but he wouldn’t find himself consumed by the shadows of the past either, at least not for tonight.