#i gotta make him a rotting crumbling skull man

[sophiasharp]

Brain has been rotting out of its skull these last few days thinking about Copia’s initially rocky relationship with the ghouls, particularly about how he made it so much worse to start with.

Cause I gotta imagine that he was only put officially in charge of Ghost after the deaths of the other Papas, so that’s gonna leave him a bit of a mess for a bit, especially because he suddenly doesn’t know who the hell he can trust anymore now that his main support system just got completely wiped out.

(They were the strongest men he knew, they may have played dumb to the Clergy but each of them were so much smarter than anyone gave them credit for, he’d been so sure they would be here till the Abbey itself crumbled, and yet now he’s here. He, the useless bastard younger brother, has lived to see another era, and they haven’t, and it just isn’t fucking fair-)

So when he’s initially put in charge of the ghouls, he endeavors to be detached- to be what he knows Imperator would want from him for fear that even the slightest provocation could send his house of cards crumbling down, as it were. He referred to them only as “ghoul,” was straight and to the point during rehearsal, and then avoided them completely in everyday life if it could be helped.

And then there is the photo shoot. You know, the one with the severed head.

(It was a threat, it was an open fucking threat, not just to him but to anyone else left that could be considered close to him, it was a threat to play his part like they wanted or otherwise join his predecessors in death, it was a warning to his few remaining friends to stay away lest they prove “distracting” enough to the new band leader that they must be dealt with, because why else would it be Terzo’s real head? Why else would they go to the trouble of decapitating a dead man for a magazine cover?)

The day after, Copia gets so much worse. He can’t talk to anyone about the stress he’s under, can’t safely relieve his frustrations and anxiety to anyone else so he takes it out on the ghouls. He becomes hyper critical off their performances. So what if Rain is still learning the bass? So what if Cumulus has yet to fully acclimate to the surface? So what if Dew only regained consciousness from his element change a week ago and is still dealing with the loss of almost his entire pack? So what if they’re all grieving the same way he is? It’s no excuse. They need to be better.

(Don’t they know? Don’t they know the razor’s edge they all were balancing on? Don’t they know they’re all one mistake away from being cast aside? From being sent to the pit without any warning? From having their existence be deemed not worth of the air they breathed? Don’t they know? Don’t they?)

That day the tension snaps between Copia and the ghouls. It’s one unneeded criticism too many and they all just. Leave. They’ve had enough of thinly veiled threats for one day, never mind the rest of the week. It serves as a wake-up call for Copia, makes him realize just how badly he’d fucked up taking his aggression out on the band mates he’s likely to be spending his entire musical career with.

He regroups after that. Endeavors to apologize. To explain himself, if they’d let him. He knew nothing would mend the rift he’d created immediately, but the sooner he admitted his wrongdoings, the sooner he could start over with them, prove he was more than just a cowardly dog hiding at Imperator’s heels.

So he goes to the ghoul den- not for the first time overall, but certainly for the first time since Terzo was dragged off stage all those months ago -and tries to talk to the ghouls, the majority of whom were huddled around the coffee table in front of the couch.

Mountain gets up to meet him in the doorway, and before Copia can get so much as a syllable out, a pamphlet is being thrust into his chest with enough force to knock the wind out of him.

No, not a pamphlet, he realizes as his heart sinks. A magazine. One with a hauntingly familiar image on the cover.

(He still feels the cold blood through his gloves, still feels the weight of the head in his arms, the bright lights of the camera flash seared into his brain even a day later. He wants to scream. To cry. To vomit. To say or do anything and yet it’s as if he’s rooted in place, only able to look at that damn photo and his brother’s dull, lightless eyes-)

“We may be under your leadership, but If you ever try to hurt my family again, they will never find your body. I’d suggest you leave now before I lose my patience.”

[klausinamarink]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!! for your prompt i'd love to see how you do Steve with the prompt "And I hope the junkyard a few blocks from here someday burns down" because its just too perfect hfdkaslhfdkl maybe hes explaining some of this trauma (to whichever character you'd like) maybe hes just getting a good yell out about it

It was stupid to be outside at this hour when half of Hawkins was raining ash and the other half was crumbling from the abyssal veins in the earth. But Jonathan was suffocating from staying inside Hopper’s cabin and listening to the endless strategy plans for so long that he was almost willing to taste the ash on his tongue. Let them sit inside his mouth and wait for the rot to spread across his jawline and skull and maybe he could finally breathe.

Despite this tempation, Jonathan still wore his mask. He also brought his rusty pipe wrench and flare gun just in case. He wasn’t that stupid.

At first, he wandered aimlessly. Walked between the boundaries of the trees and the still-flat roads. Then Jonathan went further into the woods and eventually found himself just at the edge of the junkyard. 

Before he could turn around and head back to the cabin, a sound made him pause.

Thud. Thuck. Thud. Thuck.

Despite the sirens going off in his head, Jonathan brandished his pipe wrench and slowly stalked forward.

As he rounded closer to the source of the noise, Jonathan thought he could vaguely determine what it actually was. It was definitely metallic. Repetitive but slow. A little bit of tearing.

Like something hitting rhythmically at one of the rusty car doors.

As Jonathan hopped behind one pile to another, he could make out grunting noises too. Human, for sure. 

Once he felt he was close enough, Jonathan slowly peeked over, holding back the urge to wipe his sweaty palms on his jeans.

It was a person. Judging from the broadness of the shoulders and torso, it was a man. He wore a dark camo jacket and pants that almost made him invisible. Jonathan watched with both caution and curiosity as the man swung an object over his shoulder and slammed it against a concave car door. It got stuck for a second, so the man ripped it out. 

It was hard to see at first, but Jonathan knew the sight of a baseball bat with nails from anywhere.

He jumped out from his hiding spot and called out, “Steve?”

Steve did not stop or acknowledge Jonathan. He just kept hitting his bat over and over, his grunts growing audibly more ragged and watery. Jonathan suddenly remembered that Steve was fighting off a vicious cold. 

Jonathan shouted this time, “Steve!”

Steve whirled around mid-swing, directing his nailbat in Jonathan’s direction. Much to his horror, Steve had his mask and protective eyewear missing. 

Despite this, Steve greeted him casually like they were just passing by each other, “Oh, hey, Jonathan. What’s up?”

This threw Jonathan off. He looked over Steve from head to toe. Steve looked utterly disheveled with baggy bloodshot eyes, too-pale skin, and messy hair. 

Everyone looked like that these days but Steve looked, well, shittier. 

“Fine.” Jonathan said slowly, already calculating the time it would take to walk back with Steve in tow. “Are you-?”

“Perfect!” Steve interrupted with a too-wide grin. “Just fine too, really. You gotta be positive these days, ya’know?” 

Steve threw his head back with a strained laugh that turned into a cough. It was enough for Jonathan to move his feet and grab Steve by the arm. 

��Yeah, let’s get back to the cabin.” Jonathan pulled but Steve barely budged. When Jonathan looked back, Steve was still smiling but his stance was more defensive.

He laughed nervously, “Uh, why?” 

Jonathan stared at him, “Dude, I don’t know where you lost your mask, but you still have a cold and-”

Steve laughed-coughed again, “Oh right, right! But, uh, you can just go back by yourself. I’ll catch up soon.”

Jonathan had a horrible thought. He did a double-take over Steve before he asked very slowly, “Steve, are you getting visions from Vecna?”

This time, Steve’s laugh was short and awfully genuine. “Nah, no way, dude. My skull’s too thick for him apparently.” Steve shook off from Jonathan’s grasp just to knock mockingly at his head, “I’m just Steve Harrington. The guy who goes through everything for those little shits but gets told to shut up, you’re an idiot for not knowing basic science, thank you very much, Henderson.”

Those last words were Steve just talking to himself as he examined his hand. Jonathan 

“Okay, Steve, let’s just go. You’re still sick. You have no idea how bad it is to breathe in the Upside Down.”

“No idea.” Steve repeated slowly. Then he scoffed, “Yeah, of course I don’t have any idea about how gross monster air is like I hadn’t already walked through this shit twice, with and without protection.”

“Wait, you did?” Jonathan frowned, trying to remember from the previous Upside Down encounters. “I don’t think I had any idea-”

“Yeah, of course you don’t,” Steve suddenly spat at him so viciously that Jonathan stumbled back. 

“You had no idea about the shit I went through even though you saw me beaten up again and again. Did you ask if I was okay? No, you just shrugged and never spoke to me. If you thought your shitshow at California was hard, then you have no idea what ours was like here.”

Steve jabbed a finger at Jonathan’s chest. “You never saw how Max had wrote these letters for us because she felt she would die anyway before we found a way to stop Vecna from killing her! Max shouldn’t have to feel like that but, hey, I guess I had no idea how to stop her from floating in the air anyway!”

“Steve-” Jonathan tried to speak, but Steve barrelled on, seemingly ignorant of the tears streaming down his eyes.

“I definitely had no idea how to look at Max in the eyes when she offered herself as the bait for Vecna! I promised to Max that she’s going to be okay no matter what! I promised to her like I was her brother and- you saw her, right? Did she even looked okay after that? I don’t know how to talk to Lucas when he also had Max die in his arms and still reads to her like she’s going to wake up any minute!” 

“Steve-” 

“When Eddie died from those fucking bats, you can say I had no idea how to save him! He was just bleeding all over and I used CPR on him like an idiot! I have his dead blood on my lips and I can still taste it! I still don’t know how to comfort Dustin when he saw his favorite person die in his arms and he acts like I killed Eddie!”

Steve broke into a coughing fit and dropped to his knees. Jonathan followed, finally clenching his hands on Steve’s arms. Steve tried to pry away but Jonathan wasn’t letting him. 

Finally, Steve stopped resisting and just let out a horrible wail that went beyond the junkyard. Jonathan grabbed him and held Steve’s face against his chest to muffle his cries. 

Jonathan’s mind was spinning. He knew - had seen - that Steve tended to be the most injured of the Party, but Steve always brushed it off. Jonathan never wanted to assume that Steve wasn’t hurting, at least physically. 

But to hear him in a state like this…

Steve lifted his head up, a mess of snot and tears and spit. “Why didn’t Vecna come after me? Why Max and not me? None of this would happen if Vecna had me!”  

He stared at Jonathan, his redder eyes all the more pleading. Discomfort grew under Jonathan’s skin, but not for the wrong reasons. He just doesn’t know how to exactly comfort anyone who isn’t Will or his mom or even El. Let alone someone like Steve Harrington.

None of them had seen Steve crying anyway.

But as Steve dropped his head and gave out another pathetic and wet cough, Jonathan slowly pulled Steve closer and wrapped his arms around the other man’s shoulders in what he hoped was a gentle hug. 

It doesn’t stop the next round of tears, but with how Steve’s went limp and his hands clutching tighter on the back of his jacket, Jonathan took that as something of a good sign.

[spectrojams]

slowly getting out of a drawing funk i think. perhaps. anyway this is a redraw of a like, 10 second scene from animated batman in which he accidentally frightens a telegram courier. but the courier’s outfit reminded me of the lobby boy so i wanted to draw it with these two. was gonna give the owner more dialogue but i think it’s funnier if he just randomly did this

[emotionalsupportbun-chan]

i'm talkin WIP WIP WIP thats a work in progress

cw: sub Daigo, dom Ryuji, praise kink, hand jobs, feelings

You Look Pretty with Your Mouth Hanging Open

He is sitting in the back of some no name cabaret, eyes glazed into the middle distance. A woman, unpretty enough for her name to get lost in the back of his mind, clings to his arm. She’s telling him about an expensive watch at Le Marche - something jewel toned and European. Like what decorates the wrists of half the girls in Kamurocho. Dime-a-dozen.

But he’s not hearing the plain-ish hostess beg for trinkets. Or at least not listening to her. He lets his boys do that, and splash out on expensive affirmations of counterfeit love. He didn’t need that. To be reminded that anything he got here was a pleasant imitation at best.

And you think it was different with him? You think he loved you?

No, but at least there was no pretense otherwise. 

“Hey, Aniki. We have time for another bottle, right?” This one - Hiroki? - is getting an eye full of tit and an expensive earworm.

Daigo looks down at the half empty glass of half-water whisky in his hand. The color is hatefully reminiscent. He knocks it back and leaves the glass coasterless on the cheap table. “Yeah, sure. Why not.”

-

He finds solipsism near the end of the third bottle. He is younger. He is full of piss and vinegar. He wants to take the world and crumble it between his teeth. There are no hostess clubs or expensive European watches.

But there are hands that tame him from time to time. Hands that weave his hair tight between their fingers. Hands the prise open his jaw, relieve the pressure on his world-crumbling teeth, and pull sighs and moans and Yes, sirs from his throat.

And there is a mouth with a scar in the corner that he traces with his tongue. A mouth that cracks open his skull and relieves the pressure on his world-weary mind with cock-throbbing Good boys.

Of course there have been hands and mouths since. Hands and mouths that repeat the refrain, sing the same chorus and bridge. But out of key. Octaves too high.

You’re just upset he gets your engine going hotter than any hostess could.

And?

But.

But?

The last fill station was a hundred kilometers ago. And you can’t conceive of another showing up any time soon.

He is jostled by an elbow to the side, still preoccupied with hands and mouths and cars and songs. “You good, bro?”

His glass is empty and so is bottle three. His gut is left full of liquor that feels like it’s trying to rot out the bottom. “Yeah, fine.” The response is far away, half way out the door already. Looking back to ask if they’d paid the bill yet.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. No, really. I’m great.”

Can’t even muster up a smile.

For lack of liquor, Daigo chewed ice until the check came.

-

The door is only a few dozen feet away, but he is full of feelings and fire water. Cotton head, cotton mouth, cotton heart. Only a teenage eternity faking sober to see him through. Concentrate.

What, hear that?

What?

That voice.

From a private room nearby. Bass-low, strutting around like it owns the joint. Peacocking. He’d know it anywhere.

There it is. Last stop for who knows how long.

But why is he here?

Does it matter? Think about it.

Don’t think about it. He’d never live down walking out of here with a half-mast cock.

From what? A memory? Of being on your knees while he drips cigarette-flavored spit from his pretty lips into your mouth?

He centers himself with a hard breath through the nose.

Think of it as motivation.

“Hey, you coming or what?” The others are paces ahead. He’s been loitering near the short hall to the private rooms for an embarrassingly long time.

Now or never. What’s it gonna be?

Beat.

Well?

“Yeah, uh. I just gotta, uh, piss first.” He slips into the hall before any response, knowing full well the bathrooms were upstairs.

Attaboy.

His honey voice fades in and out with laughter and exclamation. It makes Daigo’s palms sweat. His pulse quicken.

What if he tells you to go fuck yourself, huh? What then?

Maybe that would be a mercy. Maybe if he couldn’t have him forever, he shouldn’t have him at all.

What if he doesn’t even remember you?

Worse. To become insignificant to the best thing he’d ever had.

What happened to not loving him?

He didn’t. Doesn’t. It wasn’t love, it was peace. Not romance, but oblivion. Emptiness.

Freedom.

Looks like you’ve got it all figured out.

Someone had left the door to their room open. There are fewer people than Daigo expects. Three, four. And him at the center of it all. The sun, cock-sure with an ugly hostess petting his chest.

Now what? You gonna go in there and beg?

No.

He’d like that. You’d like that.

No. Something else.

Please sir, can I have some more?

Something else.

Daigo rubs his hands on his jeans and screws his face into something akin to a scowl. He doesn’t fill the doorway. “Ryuji Goda, what the fuck are you doing in Kamurocho?” His voice doesn’t fill the words either. It’s false confidence.

“Haw?” His mouth - dangerous, exciting, the second best part of him - pulls into a signature sneer. “And who the fuck is asking?”

And so the worst has come to pass.

No, maybe he’s just putting on a show for the boys. Daigo can play along.

“I am.”

“And who are you?” No hesitation. Unflustered.

The same could not be said of Daigo, who searches his face for any spark of recognition. Anything. Anything to alleviate the growing, gnawing pit eroding his chest.

It takes everything he has not to say ‘They guy who’s had your cock in his mouth more times than you can count’ or ‘The guy who used to let you blow his back out daily’.

Instead he says nothing and leaves with a muttered ‘whatever’. There is nothing productive to be had in the exchange. Nothing to gain, but so much to lose.

Poor, poor Daigo. But you were prepared for this, remember?

A likely story. A convenient lie. He isn’t sure that had even been possible.

-

He is puking in the back of some no name alley off east Taihei, drink having finally caught up to him. Red eyed and snotty, he remembers the first time he’d gagged on cock, when Ryuji’d gotten impatient and shoved it half way down his throat. He hadn’t puked then but he’d wanted to, more out of revenge than anything else. And the thought of the words that’d follow the act of returning all the cum he’d swallowed to its rightful owner.

But he hadn’t. He’d let Ryuji fuck his mouth, whispering soft affirmations.

‘Good boy, take it.’

‘You can do it.’

‘That’s it.’

Later he’d said how he’d liked the way it made Daigo’s eyeliner run. How he’d liked seeing the strings of spit and cum the stretched between Daigo’s mouth and the head of his cock after he’d finished and pulled out of his throat.

You’ll never find another one like him.

Yeah.

Take a minute, mourn the loss.

Yeah.

Unless…

Unless?

Stiff-soled shoes power down the alley behind him. They pause - there was the hesitation - before a large hand sweeps up into the hair on the back of his head to grip it just tight enough. He pulls Daigo’s head back, leaving his throat open and bare.

Just like old times.

Daigo is still in puking position - half-bent, hands braced against the grimy wall - so Ryuji towers over him. By the hair, he pulls Daigo up, other arm wrapping around his chest. Keeping him close. Holding him tight enough for Daigo to know he hadn’t really forgotten.

Exactly like old times.

“Ya always did like to play hard-to-get, Daigo-chan.” Ryuji all but whispers the words into his skin, letting the bass of his voice rumble through his chest and into Daigo’s. “I’m real sorry I had to scare ya off earlier, but ya didn’t have to wander so far.” He sets his teeth against the skin of Daigo’s neck. Just a little pressure. Just enough to thrill.

So how are we feeling about this?

“Please -” is all Daigo can manage, and just barely.

Guess you’ll have to unpack this later.

“Damn. Missed me that much, huh? Sweet boy, ya missed my cock?” A hand travels up his chest to rest encircling his throat. No squeeze yet, but the promise is there. He places a little kiss behind Daigo’s ear.

Daigo cannot respond. He is all nerve endings.

“Answer me, pretty boy. I need to know yer in there.”

“Yes.” He chokes it out.

“Good boy. Ya wanna play a game with me?”

“Yes!” Daigo’s cock jumps at the memory of their games.

Ryuji laughs low and it’s like something soft weaving between Daigo’s knees. The hand in his hair and the other hand at his throat are all that’s holding him up. “Can’t say I haven’t missed yer pretty mouth too.” He plants another kiss. Then a few more.

This man is gonna leave you comatose, sending all the blood from your dome down below.

And it’ll have been worth it.

“Ya wanna hear how our game’s gonna go?

Answer him.

The best Daigo can do is nod.

“Thought so. Ya’ve always been such a good little slut for me.”

And you always will be.

More little kisses evolve into something harder. Ryuji works gently at his neck with teeth and lips and tongue before continuing. “For now, I’m gonna make ya cum. Just to hold ya over for a little while.” The hand leaves his neck to pull his shirt up and drag fingertips up and down his belly.

It won’t take much

“Then tomorrow, somebody’s gonna come pick ya up. Not sure when, not sure where. They’re gonna be a little rough about it, but don’t worry.” Ryuji moves on to his belt and button. “I’m not gonna let anyone hurt my little cocksleeve.” The belt is gone quickly but he takes his time with the rest, hand playing over the bulge of Daigo’s cock as he spins his story.

“They’re gonna tie ya up, just how we like it. And bring ya out to see me. We’re gonna have a great time together.” Finally, Daigo is free. Once Ryuji was done teasing him, the button and zipper came in quick succession.

And now Daigo’s breath is coming in pants, making cloud-bursts of heat in the night. Ryuji grips the base of his cock with the smallest amount of pressure. “Sound good, darlin’?”

If Daigo could produce a single coherent thought, he’d have wondered what all the theatrics were for. But he’s past that. Way past that. Half way to bliss. “Yes, sir.”

Old habits die hard.

He strokes up once, just to send a thrill down Daigo’s spine. Just to make his knees quake. “Good boy.” He keeps Daigo’s head pulled to the side to continue working at the deepening bruise at the crook of his neck. Keeps his hips pressed firmly into Daigo’s ass. Keeps a steady pace on his cock and a steady stream of sweet words in his ear.

Daigo is unravelling. At some point, the hand in his hair leaves to slip two fingers into his gasp-open mouth for him to suck on. His favorite gag.

Happy now?

Euphoric.

He makes small noises as the fingers push back into his throat - less sensitive now that it had once been - as Ryuji growls into his ear. “Ready to cum for me, sweet boy?”

No. Yes. Both. He wants it more than he’s wanted anything in a long time. Or does he want to ride this for as long as he can?

He decides to let Ryuji make the choice for him, answering only in doe eyes and a pleading look.

His pace slows. “Pretty boy can’t make up his mind?”

Daigo gives him a muffled moan.

He has stopped altogether. The hand in his mouth returns to his hair to tilt his head downward. The hand on his cock returns to neutral, resting with a firmer grip around the base. “What does my lover boy think? Does this cock look like it’s ready to cum?”

Daigo is swollen red and leaking onto the trash bags below his spread-eagle legs.

“D -”

“Yes, baby?” He gives Daigo’s cock a short squeeze. “Spit it out.”

“Daddy, please.”

He laughs. “Well, since ya asked so nicely.”

It doesn’t take much more than that.

From somewhere in his coat, Ryuji produces a few pocket tissues and cleans his hands, all while keeping Daigo propped against his chest. He returns to trailing kisses up and down Daigo’s neck. “Look at ya, bein’ so good for me.” He tosses the tissue over his shoulder. “But ya’ve made such a mess. I’d make ya lick it up if I weren’t worried about the germs.”

You would too, if he demanded it.

He knows.

Haven’t you ever heard of a refractory period?

But it feels good to want again. To ache for it.

Ryuji turns Daigo around once he’s tucked him away, put his clothes back in place. He keeps his arms slung around Daigo’s hips, hands on his ass. Daigo knows there is want for tenderness in him. Typically, it went unexpressed.

Tonight, though, Ryuji presses his forehead against Daigo’s. Kisses first the tip of his nose, then one corner of his mouth, then the other.

Then back to the nose, then each eyelid, until they were laughing again like the young idiots they once were. Like they used to.

He ends things with a kiss full on the mouth, more romantic than Daigo expected. He says his goodbyes and pulls away. “I’ll see ya tomorrow, hot stuff.”

He is at the end of the alley when he stops. Almost out of ear shot. “I’m sorry, by the way. For what happened. For all that.”

It knocks the air out of Daigo’s chest.

Right.

That.

Did you think you could just go back to the way things were?

[lady-maria-the-wolf225]

a love confessing wedding: (raph x reader)

Summary: Raph finds out you’re getting married, and he is upset about it. but after finding out who the groom really is, it’s up to big red to stop the ceremony and confess his love to you. enjoy! ( tagging @femalemutation​ for this fanfic btw. *smirk*)

you and Raph became the closest of friends. he loved seeing you as you visit the lair to spend time with him and his brothers. after a few months of not seeing each other, he was curious what you are up to. so he decided to head to your apartment. he ran out of the lair jumping from building to building until he saw you walking by, and he jumps down. “hey (Y/N)!” he calls out as you turn around. you smiled at him and waved. “hey Raph! what brings you here?” he leans against a wall, and smirks. “eh. ya know. just wanted to find you since I missed ya and all.” you smiled at him and spoke. “I almost forgot to tell you something.” he raises an eyebrow as he leans forward. “is that so? any good news?” you nodded “I’m getting married!” the word “married” made him frown as it echoes into his mind. “you....are?” you nodded once more. his smile still faded and he sighs shaking his head a little. “um....congrats...I guess....” you notice he didn’t seem happy about the news. “are you alright Raph?” he snaps out of his disappointed look, and clears his throat. “y-yeah!....yeah....I’m fine....when is it?” you replied looking up at him. “it’s in a few weeks. here’s an invitation. you can come if you’d like.” he looks at it, and looks at you. “thanks...I’ll see ya then.” you both part ways, and he heads back to the lair. he felt angry....jealous....and blaming himself for not saying anything in how he really feels towards you. he looks at the invitation that was given to him. he crumbles it and throws it across the lair. Donnie picks it up and reads it. “oh! (Y/N) is getting married.” Raph puts his pillow over his head. he hates hearing that word. Donnie notices his own brother upset about it. “well someone seems jealous about it.” Raph looks at Donnie, and sigh. “Nah! ya think?” Donnie shakes his head. “raph...do you like her? like... like, like her?” Raph slowly nods, Donnie stares at him. “are you afraid of telling her?” Raph nods again and covers his face with his hands. “I have a feeling she will...rejected me because of how I am....a freak.” Donnie feels bad for his brother due to the fact he wanted to show how much he loves you. but alas, it wasn’t meant to be after all. weeks passed, and it was the day of the Wedding. Raph didn’t want to go with his brothers. he decides to stay home and not want to participate at all. so his brothers, April, Vern, and Casey left without him. The wedding has started as they made it to the church. so far, it’s going well. meanwhile, Raph couldn’t stop thinking of the urge of telling you how he really feels. he couldn’t take it anymore. “alright! that’s it! I’m done just being a pussy! time for me to man up and tell her!” he leaves the lair, and rushes to the church. he manages to make it on time since the ceremony is still going. just as he was about to open those doors, he hears a few voices from the side of the church. he takes a look, and it’s two foot soldiers talking to each other. “man I can’t wait till the boss gives us the signal to knock out those turtles. last time the strong red one broke my arm in two places. I’m gonna break his skull so hard, he’d be dead for sure.” the other nods in agreement. “yeah. this wedding definitely makes a great trap from them to fall for. once the ceremony is over, it’s death sentence for them.” they both high five each other, and Raph couldn’t believe what he just heard! “the groom is their boss!? fuck! I gotta stop this before it’s too late!” he rushes back to the doors, and barges into the church like a bull and yells out. “Stop the wedding!! and don’t you DARE continue this sham of a ceremony!! it makes me sick!! I got something to tell the bride over here! and fair warning, it may shock a bunch of you people!” you and everyone stare at Raph as he pushes in between you and the groom as he holds your hands. “Raph....please...” he stops you from speaking, and he starts to talk a bit. “(Y/N)....Don’t marry this asshole. you don’t deserve him at all. and....I....I-...” he wants to say it, but his words are stuck down to his throat. everyone was silent. just until Raph did the unthinkable. “argh! fuck it!” he kisses you deeply on the lips, and everyone gasps. the mother in law faints, the kids stared wide eyed with their jaws dropped, the teens smiling, and saying “this is awesome!”, and a random guy in the back taking a pic as someone yells out. “Put the phone down David!” the guy slowly puts his phone down and apologizes. Raph pulls away, and you stare blushing. “Raph...” he looks deeply into your eyes. “yeah. I love you (Y/N). and I really mean it.” you smile at him and the groom interrupts the moment. “that’s it! Men! show time!” foot soldiers surround everyone as they yelled in fright. Raph puts you behind him. “who the hell are ya! anyway!?” the guy reveals to himself. “My father shredder wanted me to fulfill this mission to kill you and your family! and once I have you dead, he will be pleased to see your rotting corpse!” Raph takes out his sai and angrily stares. “you’re welcome to try fuck face!” they both attack each other, and the foot clan come after him from behind. he attacks a few on his own, but gets ambushed. his brothers help out eventually fighting alongside him. he goes after the son of shredder alone. he gets cut on the cheek, but doesn’t care. he beats the guy up to a bloody pulp, until you run up to Raph and tell him to stop. he managed to do so due to his anger taking over for a split minute. he calms down as the groom is taken to jail by the police in the aftermath. Raph holds you tightly, and is glad it’s all over. they all leave the church, and head on home. Months have passed, and you and Raph watch the sunset having a picnic. just the two of you. he looks at you and sits up. “hey (Y/N). I want to ask you something. I know this may sound sudden but...stand up for a second.” you stand up, and he gets on one knee. and takes out a small box. “(Y/N)...we may have only dated for a few months but...I think it’s best it’s time we do this. so....will you marry me?” you cover your mouth about to cry tears of joy, and you nodded, and said yes. he puts the ring on your finger, and hugs you tightly smiling. you both kiss each other. “I love you Raph.” he looks at you and replies. “I love you too baby.” Raph is glad he confessed his love to you and finally getting together in the very end. if he hasn’t done it, he would’ve been lonely forever. but thankfully the wait was all worth it.                                                              THE END (and that concludes the confession from Raph!. :) who should I do next? Mikey or Donnie? let me know!)

[braden-ffxiv]

priceless

“Miss, mi-- miss?...” ....

“Miss?... Miss--”

“HEY, BROAD.”

An ear perked, a young blonde man, streetwise and thiefwise, cast his gaze across the mostly-empty restaurant floor to  the leather-wrapped booth on the far wall.

The crowds had clearly avoided Chuck’s Chophouse tonight, a restaurant of spartan appearance but excellent reputation lounging on the south side of Boston’s inner harbor. The south side - the rough side. The sun hung lazy along a sky emerging from the gloom of a day-long rainstorm, the fingers of a pink-orange sunset cresting through a shroud of gray cast long across iron piers, rusty warehouses and a section of slums stinking with crime and rot. Chuck’s fit right in - its exterior of unembellished steel sheets, cracked wooden logs and dirt-crusted windows giving it the look of any of a dozen different crumbling repositories situated along the industrial shores of a region slowly forgetting its past.

Nothing screamed that nearly as loud as the fat man with the jet-black hair and the five-thousand-dollar suit in the far booth, his gruff voice and the hacking, throaty coughs that followed far less suited for the south side of Boston, and far more like something one would find milling about the streets of New York. The accent, the manner, and the unmistakable Italian screamed obnoxious out-of-towner, in with the right sort of people, the sort of people who fed his ego; the sort of ego that led this portly, mottle-skinned man bully waitresses with only a few days on the job.

Braden sat at a table just as spartan as the rest of the joint, glowering at the New Yorker, the only dim face at a table of drunken, raucous hoods. His blood-brothers since first grade, Bray knew these guys inside and out - Mouse, the redhead at the end, chortling quietly and anxiously, built like a skeleton wearing a man-suit, with big, round green eyes and uneven, bright white teeth, always borne in a sheepish grin. Tommy; the biggest, whiniest pussy you’d ever meet; couldn’t take even the threat of a punch without breaking down into tears, and if he had to run two blocks the poor fucker’d be huffing his lungs out, but he had the money, the mind and this magical something that helped me find damn near any tool, odd, end, or contact anywhere in town. Ripper - pretty ominously named, sure, but it wasn’t that he’d rip you so much as he’d rip you off. Cigarettes, fake checks, Italian suits - he’d steal his grandmother’s antique bicycle if there was a dime to be made on it. 

And then there was Kenny. Braden’s best friend, worst adversary. The loudest, most irritating, and most deadly young guy in all South Boston. Affable to his ‘troops’, but with a temper explosive enough to make a nuclear weapon jealous. He had connections, he had ambitions, he had family. The next generation of southie Irish mob royalty, Kenny Donnelly’d take Braden to the top with him - whether Bray wanted it or not.

Bray watched, and watched. While the gang at the table downed another round, exchanging ribald tales with reddened cheeks and boisterous laughs, Bray waited, reclining in his chair, smoothing a plain-white shirt against his muscles, tattoos spilling out from beneath the short sleeves. He knew the girl waiting on the fat, well-dressed New Yorker - Beth Tierney, one of his old school friends, Shauna’s, younger sister. Seventeen and sweet and far too nervous to be serving drinks to loudmouthed men and well-mannered trophy-dates, poor pretty Beth stood there and winced as a flurry of insults cracked at her composure. Watching her face, Bray could almost see the tears scraping at the corners of the girl’s eyes.

“This ain’t a hard job here, sister,” the out-of-towner barked, gesturing to the room - mostly empty, with only a few couples drinking a boring night away in the corners of the room. “Serve the fuckin’ drink, take the fuckin’ order, look fuckin’ pretty and shake your little ass while you walk away,” he sneered, his date crossing her arms in displeasure, staring silent daggers at the young waitress with the long, fiery-red hair. 

“Now where’s my screwdriver?” the suit-wearing man demanded.

“I-it’s-- it’s right here, sir, fresh from the ba--” Beth offered the glass, snatched unceremoniously from her palm before she could finish speaking. With a deep swig of the mixture, the New Yorker - predictably - responded with disgust, his face curling at its edges. “The fuck’d you put in this? Rat piss?”

“I-- sir, the bartender makes--”

“Well give my regards to the fuckin’ bartender,” the New Yorker interrupted, flicking his wrist the girl’s way, sending a shower of vodka and orange juice at poor Beth’s black apron, a splash of the drink striking her pale-freckled face. “Now make it again,” he demanded, slamming the glass onto the table and swiping it with an open palm, sending it careening off the edge, shattering to shards on the rough brick floor.

Braden’s eyes narrowed.

“Ah hahah --aaah, what’s wrong with you?” Focus shaken, an arm slung along his shoulders, Braden glanced over to his crew. Having had too many as he always did, Tommy pushed a brown-glass bottle into Bray’s face. “Have a drink, you’ll live longer.”

“Live longer? You dumbass,” Kenny howled, the others joining in.

“I’m good,” Bray spoke flatly, eyes spying towards the booth. A quiet fell across the table. The crew housed a curious dynamic - they feared Kenny, but more than that, they feared that one day Kenny and Bray would argue about something and kill one another. That fear was, of course, completely valid; the two had scuffled about dozens of meaningless disagreements over the years. Bray had put Kenny into the hospital for talking about Gracie’s ass once, and Kenny had once picked a fight with Bray over the color of the car the two had planned to steal for a joyride back in high school. The two of them met in a playground brawl, for fuck sake. Whenever tension radiated from one of the two, Mouse and Tommy and Ripper sat still and placid and nervous about who was going to blow up first.

“Got your eye on the asshole in the booth, don’t you,” Kenny murmured, his tone stony and serious. A wave of relief washed over the rest of the crew, thankful another scuffle didn’t seem inevitable. Bray nodded slowly in response, eyes still locked on the fat man across the restaurant.

“Italian. Connected,” Tommy breathed an ominous whisper. “Cara family, one of their bigshots. Name’s No-Bones Bruno,” he continued, playing up the drama of his little tale, enjoying his inebriation a bit too much.

“Wh-what the hell’s h-he doing here?” Mouse chittered out.

“Pretty far from home,” Kenny growled. Bray could already hear ‘Deadly’ Kenny Donnelly cracking his knuckles and sharpening the knives.

“Flexing muscle, probably,” Ripper added, twisting his head to glare at the New Yorker.

“Big power struggle just ended for the Cara family,” Tommy explained in a whisper, guzzling another deep-swallow of beer before sighing contentedly and continuing. “My guess is, No-Bones over there sided with the crew that came out on top. Thinks he’s the king of the fucking world, now.”

“So he celebrates by tossing liquor at young waitresses,” Bray scowled.

“Ain’t that Shauna’s sister?” Mouse asked, twitching his nose; his face was always alive with little flicks, twitches and perks of his expression, more or less like his namesake.

“Yeah, Beth,” Kenny boomed, ready for a fight. Bray gazed down the table at his blood-brother, offering a faint and disapproving shake of his head. Kenny glared, knowing just what that look meant.

“We oughta fuckin’ brain him,” Ripper hissed.

“Yeah, we oughta,” Kenny echoed, pedantry in his voice as his glare bore a hole through Bray.

“Wait in the alley ‘till he comes outside?” Mouse’s words slithered, half-nervous and half-hopeful, from his lips. “We could--”

“No,” Bray spoke resoundingly. Kenny sighed, irritation streaking across his eyes.

“Every fuckin’ time with you, Braden,” he exclaimed. To Kenny, the solution to pretty much every problem was simple - punch it, until things get better. Not surprisingly, Kenny had spent more than half his life in-and-out of correctional facilities. 

Braden had a very different philosophy. He knew how to hit a man hard without lifting a fist in anger. And he knew how to leave bruises that’d last - financial bruises. Ego bruises. Reputation bruises.

“We’re thumping skulls tonight, Braden, and you’re either in or you’re out,” Kenny demanded.

“Bosses say we give a wide berth to any New York fuck that comes our way,” Braden advised. “We don’t want wars, Kenny.”

“Fuck you,” Kenny spoke simply. “We’re kicking his head in.”

“Shut up, Kenny,” Braden spoke just as simply back. That tension returned to the crew’s shoulders. “Tommy,” Bray said, “gotta be a lot of money in winning a mob war, am I right?”

“Plenty of money,” Tommy replied, drunken expression hectic.

“A date like that can’t be cheap,” Bray observed, eyeing the busty blonde giggling through a fake smile opposite the New Yorker. “I’m guessing he doesn’t go cheap on anything. That Brioni he’s wearing’s worth a few grand. He comes to Chuck’s and Chuck’s ain’t cheap. Y’know what else I bet he’s got that ain’t cheap?...”

Ripper grinned. Being thieves at heart, Ripper and Bray got along pretty damn well. Especially in moments like this.

“I bet I know, Bray.”

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

There it was. Beautiful.

Sitting under a lone street light, the sun finally falling past the horizon and leaving this section of town so thick in the shadows Braden preferred, he saw just what he had hoped - an expensive car. A really expensive car. Even more expensive than Bray had expected. 

A brand-new Ferrari. A stunning piece of machinery, painted in an extraordinary coat of deep-red; rosso. All these exotics had ridiculous names for their paint colors. Just like an Italian to fork over money for this slick piece of Maranello-born engineering was way too nice for an asshole like that.

No-Bones Bruno hadn’t been completely dense. Having snuck out through the kitchen, the crew watched the New Yorker’s car from a steamy side-alley, spying two leather-jacket-wearing, slick-dressed, rotund mob goons standing like a pair of low-rent nightclub bouncers on either side of the sportscar. 

“This is what we’re gonna do,” Bray whispered. “Ripper. Floor jack, cement blocks, lug wrench - back of my car,” he spoke quick, “and I’d better see nothing else missing from my trunk when I get back to my car.” Bray tossed the jingling ring of keys to his prized ‘68 Mustang to his compatriot, who nodded quickly and skittered through the back alley towards the rear parking lot.

“Mouse, Kenny, you’re with me,” he beckoned them with a quick flick of his fingers. With a roll of his eyes Kenny begrudgingly sauntered close, Mouse following hesitantly.

“Tommy,” Bray said, and he could already feel the protest building in Tommy’s face. Tommy was a lazy bastard. Thankfully, most of his job - finding things - could be done from home, because that’s just how Tommy liked it. Having to do things, especially things that required.. effort, and talking, and walking, and.. anything, that was too much.

“It’s simple, Tommy, I promise,” Bray reassured him, irritation trilling in his words.

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

“Man I hate this fuckin’ town,” Vince growled, with all the street-sense in his voice of a pampered rich mob kid who hadn’t even taken a punch.

“When’s the last time you were ever even in this town?” Lou responded, leaning back lazily against the door of No-Bones’s sleek, Italian-built speedster.

“Man, watch the fucking car,” Vince bellowed; Lou perked up, straightening his jacket, glancing around to see if anyone had picked up on his faux pas.

“It ain’t hurtin’ nothing, Jesus,” Lou scoffed.

“This baby’s got a delicate suspension,” Vince hissed, “and you ain’t gonna fuck it up. Now that Ciarelli and his guys are outta the way, ain’t nowhere for us to go but up, Lou - and after a few months, boss is gonna love me so much he’s gonna buy me one of these babies. So keep your shit together.”

“Yeah, I’m sure boss is all about handing out Lamborghinis,” Lou seemed skeptical.

“Ferrari, asshole,” Vince insisted. “It’s a Ferrari Italia, 458--”

“Help!  HELP! S-somebody, help! We need-- SOMEBODY CALL AN AMBULANCE!”

That, at least, seemed to grab the two goons’ attention. Slowly. 

“Help! Jesus, won’t anybody-- HELP!”

From the alley running alongside Chuck’s emerged a shrieking young man, portly around the waist, his hair black, his cheeks reddened with the pleasant burn of liquor. Heads turning, expressions rather dim, eyebrows lofted, Vince and Lou watched him emerge, howling into the street.

“You, there, pl-- please! Do you  have cell phones?! A man’s having a heart attack?”

“Cell phones?” Vince asked, though whether the question was what is a cell phone? or something entirely different was anyone’s guess. “Do we have..”

“Yes, cell phones,” Tommy demanded, clearly a tad frustrated with the two slow-witted gentlemen.

“Heart attack?” Lou asked, piecing words together like a brain-trauma victim.

“A man’s having a heart attack, Jesus!” Tommy screeched angrily.

“A man..”

Vince murmured the words, and it slowly, slooowly dawned on him.

“Oh, fuck,” Vince’s slackjawed expression stumbled over the words.

“You think it’s the boss?..” Lou asked, concerned, though his concern felt less like genuine well-being concern and more like a ‘fuck, I’ve gotta do something?..’ sorta concern.

Tommy, meanwhile, had clearly had enough of trying to distract these two idiots.

“Do either of you know a-- a Mr. Bruno? He needs help!”

“Mr. Bruno? Who’s...”

“Wait, isn’t that..” Vince and Lou appeared to be doing difficult calculus for a moment, before..

“Oh, fuck, uhh.. shit, call- call 911, and get your ass..” like a circus-act under the world’s cloudiest big top, Vince and Lou took off across the street, rushing through the doors to Chuck’s, Lou frantically jamming ‘9-1-1′ on his phone.

“Welcome to Chuck’s, how many in your party?”

“Where the fuck is the boss?!” Vince demanded of the young, bright-eyed hostess, who blinked twice at the two men charging through the door.

“Did... you want to speak with the manager, sir?..” she asked, confused.

“Not your boss, our fuckin’ boss,” Vince howled. “Where’s he at?!”

“I’m.. sorry, sir?..”

“The guy havin’ the fuckin’ heart attack!” Lou interrupted, pressing his phone to his ear. “Yeah, 911? What’s my emerge-- get your asses over here! Where’s.. where’s here? Uh..”

“Someone’s.. I’m not.. sure, anyone’s having a heart attack, sirs,” the hostess raised a brow, almost amused.

“Where the fuck is this place?!” Lou demanded.

“Where’s.. this.. place?..” still perplexed, the hostess took a step back. “Wh--”

“THE ADDRESS, THEY WANT THE FUCKIN’ ADDRESS!”

“Who’s on the phone? Give it to me!” Vince roared, snatching it from Lou’s hand. “Yeah, is this 911? We need an ambulance to-- well, no, he’s my partner, I’m trying to talk for-- what? No, I’m not-- THIS ISN’T A DOMESTIC ABUSE CALL, WE’VE GOT A FAT FUCK HAVIN’ A CORONARY HERE--”

“What the fuck’s goin’ on over here?” A loud, obnoxious New Yorker tone interrupted the circus of a scene, the portly, greasy-black-haired man’s arm looped with his fake-busted date’s, his expression dangerously angry. “Fat fuck havin’ a coronary?”

“OH, uhh, shit, boss-- wait,” Vince blinked, throwing the phone across the room.

“Hey, asshole, that was my phone!” Lou protested.

“Boss, you’re not-- you’re okay?..” Vince played innocent.

“You’re not havin’ a heart attack?” Lou echoed.

“Fat fuck havin’ a coronary, huh?” No-Bones Bruno’s lip twitched.

“Oh, uhhh-- we were.. somebody out in the alley, they said that, y’know, and I was just-- I was wondering, y’know, something..” Vince mumbled.

“What the fuck are you two doing in here anyway? Didn’t I tell you to watch the car?”

“...Oh. The car. The--”

Fear gripping the two boneheads suddenly they burst through the door with the same aplomb with which they had entered, hearts skipping a beat and eyes blinking in shock as they found No-Bones Bruno’s brand-new Ferrari Italia 458 - cement blocks stuffed under its side panels, holding it aloft just far enough for a gang of well-equipped thieves to wrench off the lug nuts and steal the expensive, gleaming silver wheels.

“...Shit,” Vince mouthed.

“What was that about.. boss buyin’ you a Lamborghini?” Lou asked, recalcitrant.

“..Fuck you.”

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

“You know, we’re not gonna get dick on the aftermarket for these things,” Ripper huffed up to Braden, breath taken from him as he hurriedly rolled the freshly-stolen Ferrari wheels along the filth-crusted back alley through which the gang had made their escape. Like a well-coordinated train of hoodlums four of them dashed, rolling tires along in front of them; at the rear Tommy heaved and puffed, dragging a floor jack along behind him.

“Can we.. stop now.. jeez,” Tommy gasped.

“We’re far enough,” Kenny said, rolling his tire to a slowing stop, his heavy breathing giving way to an indulgent shout of satisfaction. “Stupid fuck didn’t even see it coming!”

“Where are we gonna offload these things?” Ripper asked, leaning against a wall, letting tire come to rest at his feet. “Your average junkyard doesn’t exactly deal in many Ferraris most days.”

“I know,” Braden responded, wiping a few beads of sweat from his forehead. Bray knew ahead of time he wasn’t going to be making a killing off these wheels. One could count the number of Ferraris in Boston on one hand, and still have a few fingers to spare. Not even Ralphy’s place, the yard Bray usually fenced car parts to, would take these things, and Ralphy had about as many morals as a nun had boyfriends.

“So.. then, what’s the plan?” Kenny asked.

“We keep ‘em,” Bray shrugged. “Decorations. Souvenirs. Hang one up in your garage.”

“So this wasn’t about making a score,” Ripper’s expression shriveled up; he had certainly wanted to rip somebody off for a good penny, tonight.

“Some stuff is priceless,” Bray responded, hoisting his plunder up onto his shoulder.

“Nothing in this world’s priceless,” Kenny rebuffed him.

“That asshole went from trophy girlfriends and throwing drinks at poor Beth, to a sexless night spent hitching rides in taxis around Boston. That’s pretty priceless,” Bray disagreed. After a tense staring match, Kenny finally cracked a little smile.

“Yeah, you’re right, it is pretty priceless,” he laughed.

[agentmothmanstrikesagain]

@nightmare-dib @elite-of-void

Previous Post

Dib gripped his still oozing bleeding shoulder, wincing at the pain as he looked up at Void.

“What the hell are you talking about?” He growled.

“You’re supposed to be MY Dib you little son of a bitch. But fine, go ahead and play stupid. I’ve had enough of these games and it’s time I ended this and put you in your place. Cold dead and in the ground.” Void growled coldly.

Dib glared into Void’s eyes his guts churning in rage and his heart pounding.

“Are you fucking out of it?! I am not your Dib Void.” Dib said with a glare.

“Yes, yes you are! But you seem to think you can keep getting away with bullshitting me. And that just pisses me off. It makes me wanna kill you even more.” Void hissed.

“I’m not screwing with you Void!” Dib yelled. “If we shared the same universe I’d remember you! I think I’d know if I was torn out of my own universe and from my Zim!”

Void screamed in rage, deploying a PAK leg and sweeping it into the wall, easily slicing through the metal wall with an unpleasant sparking screeching sound. “SHUT UP.” He hollered. “I KNOW YOU’RE MINE BECAUSE I’M THE ONE WHO GAVE YOU THAT SCAR ON YOUR THROAT. AND I’M THE ONE WHO GAVE YOU THOSE STUDS IN YOUR LEFT EAR. IF YOU CAN'T BE BOTHERED TO LISTEN I’LL MAKE YOU.” His skin turned jet black and his eyes a milky pearly white, the stress inducing his void quirk.

Void pulled out a tracking device from his PAK and practically shoved it in Dib’s face. It was beeping like a detector that was straight over a hunk of metal. “I’m the one who gave you those studs, and I’m the one who put a damned tracker in them. I KNOW it’s you I KNOW you’re MINE.” He snarled, his voice cracking. He was practically shaking, and there were tears just barely forming in his eyes.

Dib’s expression turned from rage to shock. He didn’t know whether he was being bullshitted or not, manipulated into believing him or not, and he didn’t have time to think about it.

“I’m going to force you to watch as everything you’ve ever loved and cared about crumbles and falls apart before your very eyes, all before I kill you too.” Void said in a bitter tone.

“But before he can do that, we’ve gotta take my universe out of your brain, so we can merge it with this one after we’ve ravaged it for our own.” Wither hissed, chiming in. “Because you’re right. I can’t kill you when my home is in your head.”

Dib’s eye contact flickered between Void and Wither for a moment. He’d seen the sparking electrical socket nearby, if he could only distract them and just grab onto it…

“So you do care about something then?” Dib said in a stern tone, glaring at Wither, and flicking his gaze to Void every few seconds as he inched his hand out to the left, hoping just hoping to make a reach for it.

Before Wither could answer Void hissed loudly lunged, swiftly kicking Dib in the gut and grabbing his hand.

“I don’t think so! I know about that trick Dib.” He snarled.

“Restrain him.” Void growled and snapped his fingers as he glared down at Dib coldly with his boot pressed into his stomach, and Wither stepped forward and restrained Dib in a webbing of his withering and rotting threads. They very slowly began to fade lines across his clothes, threatening to breach the fabric and rot his flesh away.

“I am going to open the void and unleash all its primordiance upon the universe, taking the dark well of beginnings and restarting it all anew in a fresh layer of darkness, shadow, and unfathomableness.” Void continued, his voice the only thing that told of his becoming more unhinged.

“If I can’t have you back, make you remember, then I will destroy you so I won’t have to remember you any longer. Only after I destroy my pitiful alternate you’ve been whoring around with in my absence.” Void hissed, leaning down and getting uncomfortably close to Dib’s face.

“Over my dead fucking body!” He hollered in Void’s face, shirking his restraints and attempting to struggle to his feet.

“Oh and it will be if it has to Dib.” Void said coldly, tripping him with a PAK leg and pinning him down, stepping on his throat and pressing down on his jugular.

“I’m not afraid to put another hole in you, Dib. In fact, I’d do it just for fun at this point.” Void purred, deploying a PAK leg and hovering the point just mere inches away from his chest. “What a shame if you took another little pleasant trip back to.. what do you call it? Club Impalement?”

Dib merely glared up at Void in silence. Violent, shaking, angry silence.

“That’s what I thought.” Void said. “Wither. Restrain him better this time. We need to prepare to purge your universe from his body… NOW.”

Wither had been zoned out and lost in thought for a moment, but he snapped back to reality when Void raised his voice at him. He only nodded silently in compliance, handcuffing Dib’s hands behind his back and rusting the cuffs shut, only to drift off again in thought once more.

“Hello?! HELLOOO? WITHER. HEY. PAY ATTENTION.” Void snarled at him, waving his hand to catch his attention.

“Huh- Wh- yeah sorry.” Wither mumbled and scooped his arms around Dib, who struggled and gave a yelp of protest as he hefted the young man up and around his shoulders like a baby deer.

Shit shit shit. It’s ok Membrane just keep it together. It’ll be fine. I’ll get out of this. It’s not my time yet and so neither is my home. It’s gonna turn out ok I know it will. It has to… Dib thought to himself as he was dragged down the hallway.

Dib remembered this place now, as he recognized the color and material of the walls. Of course Void had brought him to the Void-Station.

The only fucking person who knows you’re gone is Dwight.

Dib looked around at his surroundings frantically as the three of them entered a massive chamber with an enormous device that hung from the ceiling by all sorts of cables and a huge catwalk at least 20 or 30 feet up. The device ended in a large glass capsule that opened in half and latched together with a huge bolt-lock. Inside the capsule a hazardous looking brain-scanner hung from where it connected to the rest of the device.

Dib stared at it in absolute abject horror.

“You’re fucking kidding me.” He choked on his breath for a second as his voice cracked. “ThaT THING IS GOING TO RIP ANOTHER UNIVERSE TEAR. LOOK HOW FUCKING BIG IT IS. YOU THINK THIS IS A GOOD IDEA????”

“It’s a wonderful idea. Best I’ve ever had. Now be quiet and accept the karmatic hand that’s been dealt to you.” Void hissed. “Lock him in Wither.”

Wither wordlessly shoved a thrashing Dib into the opened glass capsule, forcing him against the side as the tangle slowly came down from its ceiling and attached itself uncomfortably tight to his skull.

The capsule shut just as Wither let go and and stepped back, effectively trapping Dib inside like a firefly in a glass jar...