#i just find it so rude and a good way to dissuade people from wanting to engage at all

[thevilqueen]

Villain ~ Vil Schoenheit

Word Count: 1 530

Pairing: Vil Schoenheit x Reader

Summary: Your feelings for your best friend, Vil, are changing.

A/N: This is pure fluff with a hint of angst. Please let me know what you think!!

The most beautiful rose you had ever seen had the sharpest thorns. Its perfume was sweet and delicate, intoxicating anyone who got too close, and its petals were the brightest colour, catching anyone’s eyes in an instant. Yet its stem, covered in thorns, dissuaded even the bravest from touching it, making it a lovely but lonely flower. Something you could only desire but never have. This rose was Vil Schoenheit.

“Your posture is appalling. Are you trying to give a good or a bad first impression?” was the first thing he told you, his sharp eyes studying you on your very first day at Night Raven College.

Back then the words had failed you, taken off guard by his rude comment. You had wondered shortly if this was how the other housewardens welcomed their students before brushing the thought away. Taking too long to answer, Vil had proceeded to scold you and you quickly understood that there was a certain way to behave at Pomefiore if you wanted to avoid his harsh criticism.

You weren’t used to most of these unusual requirements, however, and while you were obedient, valued your appearance and knew how to make a good impression when needed it remained difficult to keep up with Vil. So, soon you started resenting him, talking back at him whenever you felt like his comments were unnecessary and even considered changing dorms for a short moment. The vice housewarden had convinced you otherwise at the time, however, and it was only later that you found yourself being grateful.

You didn’t understand for a long time why Vil had settled his eyes on you, why you were the one he decided he needed to shape into something better. It drove you crazy, did he dislike you so much that he felt the need to change you into someone you were not? Yet was it not the person you were trying to be that looked back at you when you stared at your reflection?

When the realisation hit you, it was guilt that washed over you. Of course, Vil was looking out for you. He didn’t change you. He helped you polish the sides of you that you wanted to ignore instead of embracing. It had been hard to understand. After all, when a rose’s thorns pierce your skin and you find yourself bleeding, it’s hard to believe it was just trying to hold on to you. Surely there was another way to nurture you and you wondered why Vil chose this way of doing so.

“Is it not how you would expect someone like me to treat you?” he asked you, one cold winter night. “No matter how good my intentions are, I’ll always be the villain.”

It was only later that you understood the true meaning of these words. Vil grew up trapped into the role people around him had assigned to him, the villain. While this seemed to be a constant in his acting career, he had turned it into a constant in his life too. It appeared tragic, a self-fulfilling prophecy, but you knew better. The villain wasn’t only evil, he didn’t only bring pain and desolation. He helped the hero grow and you were the hero Vil chose that first night you met. While you knew he longed to be the hero too, it had always appeared to you that he had the most important role.

“You always liked the villains better, of course, you wouldn’t understand,” he had told you chuckling, a beautiful smile on his face.

“How could I not? They always seem to overshadow the hero to me.”

Villains or heroes, to you, there wasn’t anyone Vil couldn’t overshadow. You wished he believed that as much as you did but you figured there was no harm in reminding him. He did seem to resonate with that belief more with time though and it was rather mesmerising to witness. Then the time Vil’s thorns didn’t sting as much anymore had crept. Maybe you were used to its sharpness and while deep into your skin, it felt like this was where it should remain or maybe it was its petals that you were touching now.

Surely softness wasn’t what most people would associate with Vil, you weren’t even sure this was what he evoked to his fans, as kind as he was to them. Even to you, the realisation that it wasn’t only poison that came from his touch took its time to settle. Vil was gentle, though, if people watched closely they would see. Someone as meticulous as him could only handle those he loved with care after all.

However, you remained terrified of getting too close even though like roses grow over plants and walls he had done just that with you. Rumours of you two dating each other were recurrent and if there was someone you trusted more than yourself it was him. The love you felt for him was endless but what was the separation between friendship and romance? Did it really matter?

Few were those he had dug his thorns so deeply into but would that ever guarantee he would never change his mind? You had seen him nurture Epel the way he did with you and you had heard the stories of Rook and him. If Vil was always looking for his next work of art, could you be sure to be his masterpiece?

As doubts crept into your mind, Vil could feel your once unmoving body try to free itself from his canes. Was it too painful to be held so close by him? Could it be that he had bled you out completely? What about the soft petals he had let you touch and his calming perfume? Was the price of holding the rose so close to your heart not to your taste anymore? The sharpness of the pain from this rejection was too much to handle.

“Doesn’t the villain ever scare you?” Vil had once asked you.

“No, I don’t think their love is meant to hurt.”

Did you lie or did he hurt you? You didn’t know what to answer when he asked and you couldn’t help the tears from blurring your vision. Maybe you did lie but there was nothing scary about your best friend. So why?

“I would hate to disappoint you,” you said instead of answering his question.

“Then don’t.”

You had expected him to say that and it made you chuckle. Vil remained as serious as ever, though.

“I can’t compare to you,” you explained, still trying to make sense of your feelings.

“Of course not, no one can.”

Vil wasn’t perfect, no one could be but he was so blindingly close, to you, that it was hard to look at sometimes, you were reminded as you studied him. It was well past his bedtime and he looked as flawless as ever as you welcomed him with all your imperfections. Was this what attracted him to you? This didn’t even seem unlikely, it made total sense to you. There were a number of things that you shared with Vil and this was one of them.

This was when you understood. The both of you were so desperate to help the other that it almost felt like a competition. You were as similar as you were different after all. Only Vil understood that there wouldn’t be one without the other, though. Maybe because he was always able to see what you couldn’t.

“If I’m the villain, then you are the hero,” he said, moving closer to you. “Therefore we can never stand together as equals but,” he paused.

“One can’t exist without the other which is why both are so important,” Vil continued. “You told me that, don’t you remember?”

“I do,” you said, smiling.

“It looks like you forgot, though.”

You chuckled.

“Maybe I do sometimes forget.”

“I do too,” Vil reassured you, his voice gentle, “but you always helped me remember. So why not let me remind you too?”

You couldn’t help smiling as the tears that had gathered rolled down your cheeks. His fingertips brushed them away and he smiled at you. How foolish you had been, this wasn’t the first time Vil helped you stand tall and proud and it was no different from the previous times.

“If you really are the villain,” you said. “Then there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Vil laughed, his lilac eyes shining beautifully as they got smaller and the melodious sound filled the air.

“Only you can say such nonsensical things,” he replied, smiling.

“Exactly, which is why you won’t let me go.”

You were right and it was tightly that Vil held you, his soft lips kissing your cheeks before finding your lips. The action was hesitant at first but as soon as you kissed him back, the confidence he was known for followed. He smiled against you, the tenderness of his petals instead of the sharpness of his thorns feeling your skin. This moment was euphoric and neither of you would ever let it end for you made each other bloom endlessly, in a way most heroes and villains didn’t, though.

[avatar-saiki]

Diavolo's Valentine's Day

Never had he expected to feel such… 

Well.

Would it be wise to admit he had discovered there were emotions even he had not truly perceived before? It wasn’t as if he had been entirely naive, but observing and experiencing were two different things entirely. 

Perhaps that was why the two words could exist, even if they might feel synonymous at first. 

And yet these feelings still caught him by surprise. The quickening of his heart, the sudden shortness of breath, the way it felt as if heat wished to sing just under his skin whenever they were near. 

These… feelings…

Were they befitting of a demon king? To feel such fondness and longing… was that not a weakness? Could it not dissuade him from his duty one day, should he ever find himself prisoner to the warmth building inside?

Barbatos knocked lightly on his door with a calm smile and bowed his head. “You have a visitor, Young Master. Would you like me to escort you to the sitting room to greet them?”

His chest felt tight, and he sat up straight. “A visitor? Really? I can go?”

Barbatos smiled coyly and turned away. “Your work will not run away if you spare yourself fifteen minutes.”

“Ah… that is true,” he murmured, looking down at the papers scattered across his desk. So many negotiations and endless treaties and amendments…. It truly would never end, would it?

He sighed and stood up, “Well it would be rude of me to leave my guest waiting, wouldn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Barbatos hummed, leading him out into the grand hall. “Maintaining decorum is essential for wise leadership.”

“Maintaining… what?” He glanced at Barbatos, puzzled. He didn’t want to maintain anything, he just wanted a break. 

Barbatos only smiled and opened the door, bowing to allow the demon prince to walk through. “Enjoy your visit, Young Master. I will return to collect you in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you, take your time.” Please. Take your time, Barbatos. 

The door clicked shut and he walked into the room, about to greet you but you set your tea cup down and leapt to your feet. 

“Diavolo! Good morning!”

So bright was your smile, so full of life and joy. Oh to be human and walk through life in the ways that you do…

“Good morning,” he said, smiling gently as he stopped just before you. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“It’s Valentine’s Day! And I- uh…” your joy faltered adorably, mixing with something akin to shyness. You turned your back, picking up a small box with a Hellfire Rose tied atop it.

“I um, I made you lunch.”

“Thank you,” he said warmly, accepting the gift. “I’m sure it’ll taste divine, but what is a Valentine’s Day?”

“Oh well…” you smiled sheepishly, but this time you met his eyes fearlessly. “It’s a day where you show people in your life that you love them.”

Love…

Love was… what was… love…?

The warmth in his chest began to stir again, and he reached out, nearly failing to stop himself only just so as his touch graced your cheek. 

“Love…” he repeated, “is that what this is?”

You pressed your lips together, failing to hide the smile as you tilted your cheek into his touch. 

Love…

“The more I know about you, the more drawn to you I feel,” he murmured, drawing closer. “Nothing can captivate me as you do.”

“Dia…”

Your lips were soft and sweet, a hint of tea still kissed upon your tongue. 

“I love you too,” he whispered.

[phantasmagoriaoriginals]

Can I request the entire people section of the asks for Maria?

👁️ EYE - what color are their eyes? do people notice their eyes? is there anything special about them (shows emotion easily, literally magical...)?

Gray and cat-like, with a wild sort of look that makes her seem a little unhinged. They tend to scrunch up when she smiles.

🤥 LYING - are they good liars? do they have tells to show they're lying?

For the most part, Maria doesn't bother to lie. She doesn't have any problems with hurting people's feelings with the truth, so unless she's messing with someone, lying is kind of dumb.

👻 GHOST - do they believe in ghosts? what are their "ghostly experiences", if any?

Why should she care? She hasn't thought about that kind of thing at all, so she doesn't have any real opinion about it.

💥 COLLISON - what emotions do they have trouble dealing with?

More than anything, she hates feeling vulnerable. Maria has woven together an exterior persona of uncaring cynicism and self-destructive intensity, but the idea of actually opening up to someone disturbs her massively. She keeps others at a distance because she can't stand the idea of being rejected all over again.

😭 CRYING - what makes them cry? do they cry easily?

Maria never cries, and it's not on purpose. That part of her emotional responses seems to have shut itself off— and it's not like she cares. Not having to cry is just fine by her.

👊 PUNCH - are they quick to violence?

Definitely. Violence is a perfectly good way of getting what she wants. If anything, she takes some level of enjoyment in threatening people or making them uncomfortable. She has no qualms about being violent if it'll accomplish something.

💢 ANGER - what are some habits they have that will take some getting used to?

Maria is outright rude to everyone around her. She's pushy, cruel, and happily makes fun of others for any weakness she can find, and all of that makes her very hard to be around. It seems like she doesn't care about others' feelings in the slightest, and actively tries to dissuade people from trying to get close to her.

👪 FAMILY - what is their family like? what is your ocs relationship to them? does your oc have any siblings?

Her mother handed her over to foster care when she was young, and Maria has never stopped hating her for that. She spent most of her youth being passed between foster homes, so she doesn't have much else in the means of "family" to have an opinion on.

😨 FEARFUL - when scared, do they go into "flight" or "fight"?

When she's distressed, Maria lashes out. She's very much on the "fight" side of things— often to an extreme degree. By now, biting back is more or less her entire psychological defense system.

💤 SLEEPING - do they fall asleep easily? what helps them sleep?

She tends to be a restless sleeper at the best of times, and dislikes actually lying down and trying to rest. It's just plain annoying.

[cyberneticlagomorph]

The Cleric stands over the shallow pit with a solemn expression, his kind are rare.

Finding someone who so thoroughly believes in the power of their gods that they can perform miracles is nigh impossible in this day and age.

The words from his lips twist the world like a liquefy tool in an image editing program. 

The landscape bending and warping into inorganic spirals before the world snaps back into place like nothing happened. 

The corpse in the pit sits up unnaturally, as if a string had been fixed to her chest.

Dirty mint green hair falls over a pair of wild eyes full of burst blood vessels. 

Beth wants to scream in rage, fear, or possibly even agony; but the liquefied remnants of her brain are still reforming and cannot process her request at this time.

She rises shakily from her grave, throat clotted with blood and soil. Streaks of gray matter are drying on her cheeks and chin from where they ran out of her ears and nose.

Someone was smart enough to remove her tongue post mortem, to keep her from snitching even in death.

Someone smarter would have burned her remains instead and made her nearly impossible to resurrect.

Those responsible would regret their decisions soon enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The ride from V's place to yours takes a lot longer than expected and you find yourself sitting in awkward silence the entire way there. 

A seat belt across your little lap, because you found out the hard way that you do not weigh enough to be loose in the car with the windows open. 

The rest of the way home is largely uneventful. The vibes coming off of you and V are so rancid that anything in the Ruins with the good sense to avoid you, does so without hesitation. 

The wards around the Warren don't do much to V.

You didn't expect them to.

They're mostly harmless illusions and misdirection sigils after all.

They're meant to keep people who shouldn't be here out, and firmly dissuade anybody else who ends up here accidentally from coming any closer. 

You've learned the hard way that your wards do not work on: lost children, stray animals, milkmen, and anybody who really really wants to kill you. 

It's fine. 

That's what bullets are for.

V knocks on your front door and is met with a chorus of swearing from the other side.

When the door opens, your heart melts.

Jeanne stands there, coffee mug in hand, eyes bruised, but not a hair out of place.

You wave at her from your post on V's shoulder and she raises an eyebrow, looking the both of you up and down before sipping her drink - an Irish coffee, but it doesn’t smell half as strong as she usually makes them.

“It is scary how closely you resemble her.” she begins, gesturing you both inside.

“The sedative Rodin cooked up has been working well; your body only moves slightly, as though dreaming.” she begins “But we moved everyone else to the castle just to be cautious. Anthony, Cereza, and myself have been rotating positions; at the moment Anthony is with the children, Cereza is seeing to your tavern, and I am on watch here.” she gestures with one hand to the kitchen in passing, where a screen has a view of your unconscious flesh body. 

It looks magnitudes worse than you remember.

V isn't paying either of you any attention. 

Jeanne starts to say something else, but V rudely pushes past her and strides further into the Warren without so much as a word. Her coffee splashes onto her hand and she hisses, a sharp insectile sound that makes your skin crawl.

You can feel Jeanne's cold gray eyes digging into your back like a knife, but V is moving too quickly for you to give your wife the apology she deserves. 

"Your dick must be truly microscopic.” You hear her snarl as V rounds a corner with all the confidence of someone who actually lives here. 

V offers you a half glance, "So *that's* what you're into."

You feel your cheeks heat and are immediately thankful that you have no blood to blush with. "She's not usually this cranky I promise."

"No I get it, wanting to be stepped on is a human right."

Something in his tone makes you contemplate homicide. 

The closer you get to your proto-corpse, the more everything starts to look and feel Wrong.

The Warren's dirt walls are breathing. 

Wheezing. 

Webbed with dark veins.

Slick with mucus and sweat, making everything smell sour and sick.

The lights are failing. 

Fading.

Flickering and threatening to die as more of that black sickness starts to bleed from their sockets.

In your haste to protect your family from yourself, you forgot that your house was alive. 

An extension of you. 

Do houses dream?

You know that they can hate, devour and scream.

You've tended to too many haunted houses to forget that. Once beautiful creatures, haunted by their own grief. 

Love-soaked structures pulled into being by the need of another, nigh immortal monsters of wood and stone that crouch above you like a hen with her chicks. 

A dragon with its hoard.

Does it hate you now for what you did?

Does it hate your family for abandoning it?

Pipes rattle and groan overhead where the enchantments are being slowly stripped away. Steam squeals from cracks in the metal and smells like vomit.

Dirt gives way to the concrete skeletons beneath your spell weaving. 

Ancient graffiti lines crumbling subway walls.

Your hospital bed stands in the middle of a darkened station, surrounded by curtains of thick translucent plastic that slither away as you approach. 

The machines hooked up to your body stare at you and your brother with bloodshot eyes. Hideously organic.

V stops in his tracks, grabs you by the ears, and dangles you in front of his face.

"Explain." Is the only thing he says.

You can feel the stitches connecting your ears to your head begin to strain and fray.

Behind you, Blind Terror senses your pain and begins to stir. The eyelids of your almost-corpse flutter beneath layers of crust and grime. 

It doesn't look alive, it doesn't look like you anymore.

Skin graying.

Eyes sunken, bruised, encrusted. 

Bones straining against skin pulled taught by hunger and immobility. 

Its flesh is raw where the restraints have done their job too well.

Its hair is falling out in thick greasy clumps. 

Thin, wretched limbs crawl from the black abyss of its mouth and wave aimlessly at nothing. 

Your wide plastic eyes meet V's.

Your watch-heart is hammering.

The fingers of your future cadaver twitch with your proximity. 

Bile climbs the apex of your throat. 

"In September I was brought in on suspected murder charges, they showed me a video of a creature that looked a lot like me attacking a kid." You swallow, "It-it wasn't me of course, but they wanted me to prove it so… I found this forum post about a game called Ursumbra and the storyline is apparently really really similar to what's been happening so I went to investigate and…"

You trail off, V gives you a shake, "And?"

"Someone's been messing with the game, making it trap people inside and get them sick with the same disease the plot is based around." Several stitches in your ears pop, "But I don't know why yet. The game hinges on making you fight physical versions of your own trauma, but I can't do that with Terror loose. I lose my cool once and the entire house is dust."

V studies your face, you can't tell if he's pissed or not and that scares you a little. 

"And you didn't think that telling me about the disease was important?"

You narrow your eyes, "You left me to die when we were kids, you owe me."

"Bruh, the fuck was I supposed to do? Fry the brains of every merc Laz had on the payroll just so I could stay there in that hellhole with you and get glassed?"

"You could have made them take me with you."

"Mother wouldn't have let me, you know that."

Mother wasn't (and still isn't) your real mom, just some whack job scientist Laz (Lazarus Manufacturing) hired to experiment on you and your 'siblings'.

She's why Blind Terror exists in the first place, and when you couldn't control it she marked you as a dangerous liability and left you to die in the lab with her other failures.

The lab is gone now. 

Reduced to a crater full of twisted metal and molten glass that refuses to cool.

You still remember the sound that the bomb made when it happened. You still hear it sometimes, in your nightmares. 

To this day, you aren't sure how you survived. 

V puts you down, setting you gently on your own chest. The rise and fall of it is ragged and uneven, you can almost feel the fluid in its lungs. 

"So… what do I do?" You're starting to disassociate, better get this over with before you shut down completely. 

"Waterfall of Truth, you've gotta find a way to draw BT out and talk to it." 

"I don't know how to do that and not kill someone and I don't think that we have time to practice." You hug your knees to your chest. 

The Warren holds its breath in anticipation, the sudden absence of the warmth and humidity chills you down to your stuffing.

Something is wrong, but you can't tell just what it is yet. 

V paces from his spot a safe distance from your body, "Then kill someone." Your eyebrows knit, you look up at your brother and expect him to be joking but his expression is deadly serious, "If you can't get BT under control then you're just a bomb waiting to go off so you might as well get it over with, start with me or your wife since she's in the blast zone."

"That's not funny."

"I'm not joking," V says, picking something from underneath his fingernails, "It's all you're good for anyway, ruining people's lives, I bet your wife would agree."

The pit of your stomach goes cold, then hot as the hurt sweeps through you. You stand up, footing unsure and unsteady as tears sting your eyes.

You can feel it, V's power digging into your emotions, you know he's trying to upset you on purpose but the dominoes are beginning to fall, "Stop it."

"Stawp et!" V mocks, he screws his face up into a cruel mockery of your current expression, "Stawp et stawp et that's mean, leave me alone, I'm such a useless little pussy I can't own up to my own mistakes or else the big bad monstew will come out and huwt me."

He laughs, as if he'd just told the best joke in the world. 

And honestly, he has.

You *are* a joke.

The lamest, saddest joke ever written. A joke so pathetic that you are doomed to always be abandoned the second everyone stops finding you entertaining.

That's what you're waiting for, isn't it? For everyone to get sick of you so that they can leave you alone to die just like they did when you were little. 

It's what you deserve. 

It's your true purpose. 

Even outside the Narrative, the Writer left you and this world to rot without remorse the second you stopped being fun to play with. 

That's all you are Jack, a broken toy that nobody wants.

That nobody will ever want.

No one really loves you, they just put up with you out of pity

Out of lust

Out of their own amusement 

"Stop… please." Your pleas fall on deaf ears as your breathing gets ragged and the body beneath you begins to scream.

Make it stop.

Make it STOP.

Your eyes are wide but unseeing, blinded with the tears that pour from you like rivers. 

How pathetic. 

The littlest bit of truth makes you cry like a baby.

Make it stop.

Please. 

Make.

It.

Stop.

The world is gone, swallowed by darkness. You are kneeling in a shallow pool of black water full of bits of broken chains that scream in anguish. 

Make it stop.

Something stirs in the dark.

Lumbering, splashing footsteps that circle you like a vulture. 

You see eyes in the shadows, wide and rolling. 

Full of tears.

Closer.

A muzzle crammed with glowing blue teeth.

Closer still.

The sensation of a collar around your throat, pulled tight behind you. Straining against it, the chains clanking and clattering. Looking through the eyes of another. 

The air vibrates with a deep and terrible growl that settles into the pit where your soul should be.

You hiccup like a child struggling not to sob, and bite your tongue so hard it bleeds.

Make it stop.

Please. 

Make it stop.

"Oh I will." Says a voice from the nothingness. 

A truly massive beast rises from the pool in front of you. The eyeless head of a cheetah, the body of a lizard, six powerful legs, and a thick gecko tail.

Everything that isn't head or tail is covered in dozens, if not hundreds of wild staring eyes. 

They all roll forward to glare at you.

You blink away more tears and the beast is gone.

Before you now, stands a child, she is no more than 8 years old. Gray and black eyes nearly hidden beneath a mass of thick blonde 4c curls, brown skin, gray rabbit ears and ugly prototype cybernetics that press against the fabric of her white cotton jumpsuit.

Her voice is wrong when she speaks, raspy from disuse and horrifically artificial. 

"You left me." She whispers, "You locked me up like a bad dog and you. Left. Me."

"You killed people." You can't meet her eyes.

"I kept you safe!" 

"You almost got *me* killed."

"I saved you from the bomb."

A memory of a memory.

Of skin turning black and splitting as bones shifted beneath and flesh swallowed metal whole.

A hundred eyes looking for a way out.

An impossibly loud sound, and brightness like the sun had come to kill you himself.

Heat, blistering and absolute. 

Skin frying, peeling, regenerating all at once while eyes went blind and the world came apart at the seams. 

The smell of ozone and char.

Molten glass weighing you down, slipping like oil beneath your feet as you crawled from the crater. Bones exposed and bleaching, pain immeasurable.

Collapsing on smoldering grass a mile away and becoming smaller. 

Confused Resistance members hauling you into their truck.

"You locked me up and forgot me and got hurt over and over and over cuz… cuz why?" She puts her little hands on your face, the metal of her palms is icy cold and rough around the edges. 

"Cuz you hurt people and made everyone so afraid of me that they left me there; cuz if I hadn't, every time I got a little bit upset you would have hurt everything and everyone around me, cuz I… I…" 

"I did my job, we wouldn't be in this mess if you just let me do my job." The rage on her tiny face is bone chilling, "Imagine if you got put in chains while all your dumber impulses took the wheel for years, running headlong into danger after threat after cuddle pile after mortal injury that you know wouldn't have happened while you were around?

Some no-thoughts, Hedonistic turbosoftie living your life when everything in the world is determined to cause the two of you as much pain as possible… the damage you've done us, to ME, is irreparable!"

You're trembling, you can feel your skin splitting back in the real world.

"Let me do my fucking job." The sentence is a growl, a command, a threat. Metal gives way to flesh, to claws, to scales until the beast is looming over you again.

You're too numb to do anything but sit there, "Please don't hurt my wife, she didn't sign up for any of this."

Blind Terror hisses, the sound rips through you like claws, "You think me a monster? A mindless beast who hurts children and innocent bystanders?" It pushes its massive snout into your face, breath hot and vile, "If they are no threat then they have nothing to fear from me you fool."

Its teeth come down on your skull like a ripe apple. 

In the real world, your body twists and writhes. Skin darkening and sprouting eyes.

The restraints cut into your flesh as you grow, painting your surroundings with neon blue blood. 

The room stretches with you to compensate for your growth but even then your head brushes against the ceiling when you stand.

V is a mouse at your feet. 

"Took you long enough," he drawls, "long time no see BT how's it going?"

Hatred runs through your heart like a spike, memories of deep nothingness and endlessly whimpering chains pull your lips back in a snarl. You move faster than should be possible at this size, but you refuse to let your jailer go unscathed after all these years.

Your teeth come down on his skull like a ripe apple and his body falls limp to the ground. The taste and sight of blood makes you feel sick, and you spend several seconds foaming the taste off your tongue while V regenerates.

When he's finally ok to sit up, he wipes blood and spit off of his face before saying, "Yeah ok I deserved that."

You don't get time to respond before you hear your front door explode and your wife scream. 

[amarriageoftrueminds]

One of the biggest gripes I have with the MCU is that half of the heroes are (unintentionally) written as bad guys (EG Steve, Tony, Clint, Peggy...) and the other half is still friends with them and/or never call them out in any meaningful way (Bucky, Sam, Rhodey, Nat....).

Tbf I haven't watched new Marvel content since 2021 so this might not be true for all the new characters. But the characters I liked from the first 3 phases? In my eyes, none of their canon versions are good people anymore.

The MCU really is a superhero universe without any moral compass.

Agreed Anon, you're right.

(I likewise haven't been able to watch since EG, outside of that one Spidey movie where Tony remade Insight yet again and gave control of it to a teenage boy. 🤦‍♀️ MCU's Spidey is just his mini-me; completely missing the point of that character. I mean look at Sony's Spider-verse by comparison!)

I've used this term before, but the MCU has a problem of protagonist-centered morality, whereby villain-defining deeds are put in the hands of 'good' (as in: decent person) characters, and/or good characters are tarnished by their unforgivable inaction, when inaction is the very definition of un-heroism in that universe:

ie. "when you can do the things that I can, but you don't, and then the bad things happen, they happen because of you.” "If I see a situation pointed south, I can't ignore it." etc.

Taking Steve as a textbook example:

Even though Steve behaves accordingly in that scene (by calling Tony out for double-dealing re: the Accords) by the time Steve comes to say that 👆 he has already betrayed it in other ways.

Like: he never calls out Peggy for her mistreatment of him (in CATFA) and borderline rudeness to Bucky. It's like they wanted Steve to almost gloat about becoming superior to Bucky (who, mirroring that, they frame as dragging Steve on double dates he doesn't want to go on and not noticing he's being mistreated during them.)

In CATWS Steve never calls out Peggy (or Howard, or Phillips) for hiring Nazis and making one immortal (this is why they kept her 'visit' safely out of the way in Act 1).

Even though he does call out Fury and Nat for doing substantially less-heinous shit (as far as he knows at the time) and they are made to make it up to him before he will trust them again.

He never calls out Sam for being rude to Bucky in front of him, even though he will tell him off for being rude to a stranger (T'Challa).

(Again: a friend who will stop somebody actually killing you, but won't bother to stop somebody being rude to you? or bullying you? = Not much of a friend. Not much of a way to repay all the years Bucky did that for pre-serum Steve, is it writers? 🤷‍♀️)

Since they never bother to show how/when Steve finds out Bucky is a mind-controlled innocent, nobody therefore ever calls out Sam and Nat for being wrong about him either / for trying to dissuade Steve from helping him. And Sam continues to dehumanize him like a ticking timebomb, even after mind-control / his innocence has been established.

(Contrast: Clint, who tries to kill all of the Avengers while mind-controlled, and Nick Fury and Maria Hill, but is nevertheless welcomed into their ranks with open arms on the very same day. This without question, on the basis of nothing more than a Silent Nod of Approval from Natasha. And they're going to fight... the villain who still has the magic mind-control method, mind you. 🤪

Similarly stupid: to take Bucky to fight the same guy who just established that he can mind-control Bucky at the end of CACW? 🤦‍♀️ Bad enough to pick up the idiot ball, but then you don't even do anything with it? But I digress...)

Back to Steve: he never calls out Sharon for staying in SHIELDra while they were hunting him, Nat and Sam.

(Condoning both her and Peggy in a weirdly inccestuous way, since these idiots writers are so desperate for him to be demonstrably heterosexual, no matter how irrelevant to the plot. The corpse of Compulsory Female Love Interest No.1 hadn't even cooled before she pounced.)

Post-CW Steve never calls out Tony for tying to kill him and Bucky, for refusing to call when Thanos came, for refusing to help them undo the Snap initially, or for monologuing Hydra's rhetoric at him yet again. Just stood there like a plank while Tony hurled RDJ's improved abuse (was CEvans even allowed to improv? I bet it would've been cut if he had.)

And then, when he actually does get to do a thing that is unequivocally good (passing the shield onto Sam) ...they retcon that it was a bad, selfish thing, spread the blame off Steve onto (guess who?) Bucky (of course!) and then make him apologise (of course!)

...But don't hold Steve accountable for ditching Bucky to face the music on his own! (The apparently bad-now music.)

Wtaf, huh?

And that's not how accountability works! Holding white men responsible for specific actions, in-universe, doesn't mean anything if you haven't got the right white guy! Doesn't mean 'pick a random white guy.' Doesn't mean 'pick the only 'non' villain white guy in the cast.'

White character apologising to a black character for what white people generally do to black people = Fine. White guy apologising to a black guy for a specific trespass he did not commit against him? = Nonsense. Cheapens the whole point. If Steve has committed a microaggression it's his job to apologise for it, not Bucky's.

Picture Happy Hogan apologising to Rhodey for Tony gifting him the War Machine suit.

Perfectly valid for Tony to apologise: if gifting the suit had always been framed as a poison chalice for Rhodey (foreshadowing, folks. Basic writing skill.) But not if they had always been like 'hey isn't this War Machine suit great for Rhodey what a heartwarming gift wait no it isn't you bastard, Happy, shame on you for Tony doing that!' 🤔

Of course What If/post-EG skrull Steve has been nothing more than a cringe mirkin for Saint Peggy Sue. Back to being written like a poorly-written female character. 🙄

And all this is presaged by Steve waking up in the future, immediately being lied to by SHIELD, and... coming to work for them anyway? Even though he hates liars?

But he keeps working for them, even after they have lied to him again, and he has discovered it, in A1?

Steve's CATWS line about thinking he could throw himself back in and be happy, serving in SHIELD, makes no damn sense when you consider that he has known SHIELD ain't shit almost since the very moment he awoke in the future.

So actually, seems like canon Steve can ignore plenty! 😬

Much as I nevertheless like MCU Steve -- CEvans' casting and acting choices, his chemistry with his co-stars, his acting correctly (viz against the stupid script), etc. -- when you look at the Cap movie characters and realise just how much they've axed, warped, or insidiously inverted from the source material... it's hard not to see the MCU versions as a real hack job. 😥

[thunderboltage]

unpopular opinion (apparently): i love all of the attention and love my writing gets and could never really be bothered much that it only gets likes or that people comment what they wanna?

[dark-green-line]

Bickering Bros & Early Morning Fluff

(Keep this platonic please)

The first thing that rouses him is not the usual sound of his alarm, but the smell of coffee. Emmet is getting an early start, then. His brother must have had trouble sleeping again.

Content to leave Emmet to the tender mercy of the bean water for a few moments more, Ingo rolls himself over to turn off his upcoming alarm, then wriggles and stretches himself into semi-alertness. He turns to the window and finds the sun has not even begun to rise yet.

Alas, it’s going to be a long day. That’s alright though, Ingo and Emmet have gotten through long days before, and they can do so again today.

Before he braves the kitchen he uses the bathroom, quick to take advantage of how an early start means he has more time before sharing is necessary. Unfortunately, the routine is precision engineered for efficiency, so even at a leisurely pace he’s done in a matter of minutes. Which means it’s time to make sure his brother is functional.

Ingo loves Emmet, truly. Even when what awaits him in the kitchen is sure to be a little brother snappier than an offended purrloin. Emmet gets extra grouchy for an extra long time when he hasn’t slept well, and Ingo’s not positive he will survive if he has to put up with any fuss before his own systems have been fully checked.

He takes a deep breath. Ingo opens his bedroom door and proceeds to the common area of their home; no matter how frequently Ingo internally complains, he loves his brother. Even when he’s an annoying brat he’d like to punt across the room.

He’d like to tell himself that today will finally be the day Emmet is a reasonable human being, but one glare from aforementioned twin at his entrance dissuades him of that notion before it truly manifests.

“Good morning, Emmet!”

“Fuck off,” Emmet mutters quietly. He is sitting at the kitchen counter; “sitting” of course being a generous term for angry slouching with his head in his arms and a large mug next to his head.

“That’s not very nice, beloved brother of mine,” Ingo scolds brightly.

“No one asked you.”

Ingo ignores the hostility for now. His time is much better spent on food preparation. First, parfaits for later, so that Emmet will have something easy and portable to eat. Once those are in the fridge, Ingo proceeds to make toast and eggs for breakfast, now that Emmet has made his way through his first cup of coffee.

Ingo sets the plate next to the lump of Emmet. The lump growls. Ingo continues to ignore this very rude and completely undeserved hostility.

Ingo opens his tea cabinet. Drat. He is too tired to make a decision- who invented choice paralysis anyway? Ingo just wants to talk.

He glances out another window and laments the early hour. So much time left to pass before it is appropriate to wake the team. Unfortunate, as he usually has one of them choose his morning tea when he’s feeling indecisive.

“Emmet.”

“Fuck off!”

“You fuck off. Which tea should I make?”

“I don’t know.”

Ingo stares at him. Emmet buries his head in his arms. Ingo continues to stare at him.

“…The red one.”

Rooibos. Not a bad choice at all.

“Thank you.”

“Whatever,” Emmet grumbles, though the previous venom is conspicuously absent.

Ingo hums his way through the comforting routine of making tea. Emmet quietly works his way through a second overly large coffee. All is calm for a peaceful few minutes.

Until, “Ingo. Eat.”

“What?”

“You didn’t eat. So eat.”

“I am not hungry yet! I will refuel when necessary!”

“Uuuuggghhhh stop yelling.”

“I am not yelling!”

“You are too yelling! That was yelling!”

“No, it was completely reasonable, you are just cranky.”

“Of course I’m cranky. You are sitting there. A hypocrite who won’t eat. I ate and I feel awful. You have no excuse.”

“I’m not hungry yet, Emmet. Unlike some people I keep a consistent schedule and can be trusted to eat on time!”

“Shut up!”

“You only say that when you know are beaten. I win.”

“You do not win.”

“Tell me I’m wrong then, so I can call you a liar and win that way!”

“Shut up!”

Emmet stands abruptly. Ingo is honestly impressed he managed to do so without knocking the whole stool over. He’s less impressed with the petulant stomp Emmet uses to go to his room.

Dragon save him, what were they even arguing about?

He thinks for a moment, squinting at the wall across from him as if the answer is written there. Ah. Emmet wanted him to eat something. Ingo…did not explain his temporary declination gracefully.

Neither one of them are at their most lovable during early mornings.

Ingo stares at the wall a bit longer, and then his gaze drifts to the pokémon’s room. He decides that he wants company more than he wants to keep on schedule and wakes the pokémon for their morning routine. It’s not that incredibly far off from the normal wake up time, surely? The sky outside has turned the hazy blue of dawn. He looks for a clock and sees that It’s only…thirty minutes early.

Ingo will give them extra treats later.

Emmet peeks out of his room at the increased noise level once Ingo has woken six of their pokémon. He seems less irritable than before. Finally perking up, it seems.

“Would you like to come to the park with us?”

Emmet shifts from side to side for a few beats, clearly torn between how much he likes the park, but dislikes the idea of going outside yet.

“It will be fun,” Ingo wheedles.

“I am Emmet. I will come with you.”

“Bravo!”

His brother smiles at him.

Emmet gathers their remaining pokémon in their pokéballs, still asleep for now. It’s not that those six are any worse or better behaved since they co-train every pokémon together, but Ingo already woke six of them, and with as tired as they are, twelve may be a bit much. They’ll have to swing by the park again this evening to keep things even.

Armed with nothing but casual clothes and their wallets, Ingo and Emmet usher each other and the pokémon out onto sidewalk. This early, there’s not many people to inconvenience by taking up so much space. There’s not much of anything at this hour; even the sun is barely peeking over the horizon.

They walk to the park in silence, content in their own worlds for the moment. Once they open the park gates and the pokémon start frolicking, Ingo gently takes Emmet’s wrist and pulls him to the bench with the best view of the landscape.

Emmet makes a bothered noise. “I would’ve followed if you’d just said something.”

“Dragging you around is easier.”

“I am Emmet. You are rude.”

Ingo disregards his brother’s attitude and pulls him closer. The air is pleasantly crisp, but the bench is wet with dew and Ingo does not want to be cold on top of being off schedule.

Emmet hums like he’s considering mutiny, but clearly thinks better of it. Instead, he twists so he can stick his hands in Ingo’s hoodie pocket.

“Excuse you,” Ingo says.

“Thanks!”

Who could stay mad at that cheeky grin? Not Ingo. Not really, and never for long.

They chat about whatever topics catch their fleeting interest, cozy in the soft morning light and their softer sweatshirts. Their team is happy, running amok and seemingly much less prone to grogginess than the two trainers.

The sunrise is quite gorgeous this morning.

[onecanonlife]

Wilbur wakes up one morning to find white in his hair. This is—irritating, for several reasons, but that's all it is. An annoyance. A distraction.

There's nothing deeper at work here. There's nothing wrong at all.

(Or, the stresses of the presidency give Wilbur a white streak of hair earlier in canon, and somehow, this serves as the cry for help he can never bring himself to make.)

(word count: 6,040)

(first part) (second part) (fourth part)

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

Part Three

She knocks twice before opening the door, and he barely has time to look up before she’s there. Slightly hesitant, perhaps, but the look on her face is one of resolve as she steps into the room, and nudges the door closed behind her.

It takes a second to find his voice. He can’t remember if she’s ever visited him here. Surely she has, at one point or another. Anyone is free to come find him whenever they choose. He makes himself available, or at least, as available as he can be. The door is never locked, and he is always here.

“Niki?” he asks. “Is something wrong?” He puts down his pen. He hadn’t actually been using it, had instead been twirling it between his fingers and staring off into space. He finds himself doing that incredibly often, and sometimes, he catches himself wondering if it’s worth getting out of bed at all, if that’s all he’s going to do with his time.

She smiles at him, then, but like so many of the smiles she’s directed towards him lately, it seems strained, thin, and it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Not for me,” she says. “But I would like to talk to you for a little while, if that would be okay?”

She’s already reaching for a chair, one of the ones he keeps in here, set up so that he can carry out meetings across this desk. None of them are very comfortable, but before he can offer to find her a better one—there has to be one somewhere in this building—she is sitting, perching on the edge, crossing one leg over the other and resting her forearms on her thigh.

Anxiety is already rising. He doesn’t know why she’d come here, doesn’t know what she’d want to talk about, if nothing is wrong on her end of things. Not with that look on her face. Except, there was the whole thing yesterday, and he was very rude to all of them, so perhaps that’s the subject matter. He gave an apology, but it was rushed, and then he all but ran away. He wouldn’t blame her if she had a piece to say on that, little though he wants to discuss it.

So perhaps he should go ahead and get in on it.

“About yesterday—” he starts, but she’s saying the exact same thing, almost in unison, so he cuts off. But she does too, and for a second, they just stare at each other, neither sure how to proceed.

“Go on,” Niki says, after a moment, and he nods, somewhat tentative.

“Right. I just wanted to say, about yesterday, I really am sorry about that. I didn’t mean to lose my temper there. I was just feeling a bit stressed, ended up snapping. But I’m sorry. It wasn’t anything you did.”

Niki draws in a breath. He can see her steeling herself, visibly, and his trepidation grows; what could she possibly have to say to him that would take so much mental preparation?

“I accept your apology,” she says, “but, actually Wilbur, I wanted to apologize to you.”

He blinks. “What?”

“I pushed you yesterday, even when it was pretty obvious you weren’t feeling comfortable talking about it,” she says. “I think—I think we do need to talk about some things, and that’s why I’m here, but I shouldn’t have confronted you like I did. Especially in front of others, since it was a conversation that we had with just each other. So I’m very sorry about that.”

He isn’t entirely sure how to respond to that. Some part of him feels a bit mollified, because it is true that he felt uncomfortable with the direction the conversation took. But at the same time, that doesn’t really excuse how he reacted to it. He could have handled it better. Should have handled it better, in fact.

“Oh,” he says, and scrambles for something else. Talking is his thing, is what he’s good at. He can’t just be saying oh to people. He needs a response. Needs to be well-spoken, eloquent, because that’s what is expected of him, and he has to fulfill expectations. “Well, that’s alright, then. You really don’t have anything you need to apologize for.”

She frowns. Why did that make her frown? What did he say?

“Okay,” she says, and that doesn’t help him figure it out at all. “Would you mind if we talked about something, though?”

He doesn’t know what else she would want to talk about. At least, not like this. Not coming to his office, expression serious, body language tense. Not saying this, that nothing is wrong with her—because if she doesn’t have a problem of some kind, he doesn’t know why she would be acting this way. Unless there’s another problem with him. Or she thinks there’s another problem with him. But—no, he’s been doing well, lately. Yesterday’s outburst aside, he’s made all of his recent meetings, he’s finished all the paperwork that urgently needed to be done, and he’s been meticulous about his appearance.

Mostly. His coat still hasn’t made it into the wash. But he’s done everything that he’s had the time and energy for, and he thought that it was all holding up.

“Of course,” he says. “What is it?”

She draws in another breath. That’s the second time, now, that she’s steadied herself in so obvious a fashion.

“I’m going to ask you something, and I’d really, really like it if you’d answer me truthfully,” she says, and he can feel his pulse quickening already. “Wil, are you alright?”

She puts a strange sort of emphasis on the final word. He’s not sure why. For a second, he’s lost, adrift, has no idea at all how to answer, because—because of course he’s alright. He’s fine. Just fine. He’s keeping his head above water, steering clear of the circling sharks, and that’s what’s most important. So why do the words linger in his mouth before he can force them out? Why does it take so much effort?

No. He needs to pull himself together.

“Yes,” he says. “Niki, I’m perfectly well.”

Her face crumples. He jolts, hand jerking forward, his instinct to comfort her, but his desk is in the way.

“Wil,” she says, voice soft. “You’re not sleeping.”

The way she says it, so frankly, so matter-of-fact, as if she knows, takes him aback.

“I—” he starts, but she’s already gone on.

“Your eyes are always bloodshot, and I know I joked about the bags under them, but—they’re really bad. Really dark. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but sometimes, when you walk, you kind of—sway, a little bit. Like you’re too tired to stay upright properly.”

He hasn’t noticed. He hasn’t—that can’t possibly be right, can it? Because it’s true, he’s not getting as much sleep as he would like, but it can’t be that bad. It’s not as if he never sleeps at all. So it can’t be that bad. Can’t be that noticeable. Niki has to be looking too hard, jumping at shadows that aren’t there, because the alternative is worse. Is unthinkable.

Because if what she’s saying is true, who else has seen?

“I sleep,” he refutes, but it sounds weak to his own ears. Meek. And Niki shakes her head.

“Not enough,” she says. “And—” She cuts off. And then, she reaches out for him. He watches as she closes her fingers around his wrist, feeling almost outside of himself. His head is buzzing. “Wil, you’re too skinny. I’m really worried that you’re not eating enough.”

He eats. He does. Maybe not a lot, since food has become increasingly hard to choke down—this morning, for instance, he tried, and almost threw it all back up on the spot. But he does eat. And it’s not like he wouldn’t, if he could. He just sort of—can’t. Not much, at any rate. But it’s not as though he doesn’t eat at all.

“I think you might be reading too much into things, there,” he says, and tries a smile. “I eat, I promise. How could I not, with you around?”

“You’ve been by twice in as many weeks,” Niki states. “And both times, you left in a hurry, before I could give you much of anything at all, because the conversation turned to something you didn’t want to talk about. No, you can’t tell me I’m wrong,” she adds, raising a finger at him. He leans back, away from it. “I’m not wrong. That’s why you left. Both times. And I—I really am sorry, Wil, if this isn’t something you want to talk about. If you don’t feel comfortable with it. I don’t want to hurt you, or pressure you, or anything like that. But I’m scared you’re hurting yourself.”

She’s—what.

Now that—that truly is a ludicrous idea. That is—

No. He wouldn’t do something like that. He wouldn’t—by itself, the risk of someone noticing is more than enough to dissuade him, though—he is self-aware enough to realize that if that’s his first reason for—abstaining, then that might not be a good sign. Of. Things. He’ll think about it later.

Or not. Or maybe never. This seems like a good thing to not think about, actually.

“Not in the way you’re thinking of,” Niki says, and he’s left it too long again. Too long without a reply. He keeps doing that, keeps getting lost in his own head. He needs to stay more present, needs to keep his head in the game. It’s just hard, when everything feels so far away, when he’s constantly thinking through a thick fog. “Not unless—not unless you are, but—”

She sounds like she might actually cry, at that, and that is enough to force him to focus.

“I’m not,” he says, and to his relief, his voice comes out firm, steady. “I swear to you, I’m not.”

“Okay,” she says. “That’s good. I’m—I’m really glad. But—you’re overworking yourself. You’re not sleeping or eating enough, and you’re always in here, and that’s—none of it’s good for you. None of it is healthy. And then, your hair—”

Annoyance bubbles up. Just a bit.

“Do we have to be on about that again?” he asks. “We’ve been through this. It’s not a big deal.”

“I know you don’t think it is,” she says. “But I’ve heard about things like this, Wil. It’s not that—it’s not that it looks bad, or anything like that. It’s just that hair doesn’t do that without a reason. Not when you’re twenty-four years old. That’s why I keep bringing it up. You’re stressed, even if you try to deny it.”

“And what if I am?” he asks. “It’s a stressful job. I’m running a nation here. But that doesn’t mean I can’t handle it. It certainly doesn’t mean I’m not capable of doing my job.”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all,” Niki says. “Who—I know you’re capable. I never said that you weren’t.”

He may have overplayed his hand a bit, with that one. There’s a bit of confusion in her tone now, where there wasn’t before, stacked on top of an increasing amount of worry. He’s not doing very good work of assuaging her concerns. But even still, this conversation is bothering him, now. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep a straight face, and he brings his hands together, folding them on top of his desk. Her hand falls away from his wrist, and—it’s because he’s so tired, that he has to catch himself before he grabs it, moves it back to where it was. He’s not that needy.

“Then I’m not quite sure that I understand the point of this,” he says, and tries his best not to bite out the words. Just because his temper is on a short fuse doesn’t mean that he can take it out on Niki. She’s just trying to help him. “I am stressed, it’s true. But it’s not as if there’s anything to be done about that. And as I’ve been saying, it’s nothing that I can’t handle.”

“The point is that you’re working yourself into the ground!” Niki says, her eyes flashing. “It doesn’t matter if you can handle it, it’s about whether you should!”

“And why shouldn’t I?” he snaps. “Aren’t I the president? Isn’t this my job?”

“Not if it costs you this much!” she snaps back.

And—she doesn’t mean it like that. He’s almost certain that she doesn’t mean it like that, doesn’t mean it like it came out, doesn’t mean she thinks he shouldn’t be president. The thing is, he would accept it, if that were the case. If his people banded together and decided that someone else would do a better job than him. If they thought he was no longer deserving of the position. He would accept it. He would step down, retire to private citizenship. He just doesn’t know what he would do afterward. Doesn’t know what he would do with himself, if the country he founded decided he was no longer good enough for them.

But of course, he has never been good enough. Not really. He’s hanging onto his pretense by bloody fingertips.

Has Niki realized it?

“It’s not worth it if this is what it does to you,” Niki continues, voice softer. “Nothing is. Nothing matters if you’re not taking care of yourself.”

He doesn’t—that’s not right. It can’t be right, because the country is more important. L’Manberg is more important, has been since the day they declared their independence, staked everything on a van and a dream. He started it, and so it is up to him to continue it, because the prosperity of his people must come first. His nation must come first.

What is he, in the face of that?

For a second, Niki goes blurry. He blinks, hard, and she comes back into focus, but his eyes are prickling. Stinging. His chest has gone tight, his breaths coming shorter, and he doesn’t want this. This can’t be happening now. He needs to—to shove it all away, down in a box, never to see the light of day. Only to be opened when he’s alone, in his quarters, safely ensconced where there is no one else to watch him break down. No one else to watch his shame.

He’s not doing this in front of Niki.

And yet, the sensation doesn’t subside, so he stands abruptly, surprising her, he thinks, and he walks to the window, shoving the curtains away and staring out over what he can see of the country from here. It’s not much; the window is not very big, but he can see the walls, the black and yellow ramparts. Standing tall, standing strong. This is why he does this, why he works so hard, why he refuses to show vulnerability. This is why. This is what he is protecting, what he must continue to protect, for as long as he is allowed.

His eyes sting again, the world wavering. There is a sob trapped behind his ribcage, clawing at him, trying to tear him open. He breathes, deeply, and doesn’t let it. Now is not the time, and here is not the place, and he will not lose his composure. He will not. Not over—and what is he reacting to in the first place? Niki’s words? He has no real reason for the tears welling up. He’s just weak. Emotionally. That’s what this is. And that’s why he can’t let it show.

Another deep breath. He pretends it doesn’t shake.

“Wil?” Niki asks. Behind him, now, and he doesn’t turn to look back at her.

“L’Manberg is worth everything,” he says. “You do understand that, right?” His voice doesn’t waver.

“I love L’Manberg,” Niki says. “We all love L’Manberg. But we don’t love it more than we love you.”

He winces, and he’s glad he’s turned away from her, glad she didn’t see.

Perhaps she believes that’s the truth. But it can’t possibly be. He could understand them loving him in connection to loving L’Manberg, this city, this nation, this wonderful place that they’ve built together, that he’s poured his sweat and blood and tears into. He and L’Manberg are irrevocably intertwined, and he could understand loving him, simply by virtue of loving the other. But separately? He hasn’t done anything. L’Manberg is his crowning achievement; besides that, what does he have to offer people? What reason? What virtue?

In a way, he is L’Manberg, and he cannot remove himself from it, no more than a bird can remove its own wings.

“Wil?” Niki says. Her voice has gone sharp. “You do know that, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” he says, he lies, and—his voice breaks. Just a little bit. It would probably be unnoticeable, if the circumstances were any different. If Niki weren’t already paying so much attention to him, scrutinizing him, spotlight turned up to its maximum brightness. Like he’s on stage, and she’s in the audience, and he’s fumbled the line and she’s only noticed because she knows how the play is supposed to go.

Metaphors. Spiraling away from him. Just like this conversation.

“Wil,” Niki says again, more insistent. And closer. She’s stood up, stepped toward him. He still doesn’t turn, because the prickling has only gotten worse, and he’s scared to blink, lest that send the tears spilling over. If she looks at his face, she’ll see them. There’s no avoiding that. “Wil, please. Don’t lie to me.”

Ah. She knows.

He’s not sure why that’s the thing that breaks him. Why that’s the thing that pushes it all over into being too much.

The sob escapes.

Only partially; he tamps down on it on instinct, and his fist flies up to his mouth. Habit, that, to muffle his sounds. But that almost makes it worse, because the sob comes out sounding not quite like a sob, but instead more of a strangled whimper, bit off and weak, like the dying call of some small, hapless animal.

He doesn’t let another one out. He presses his fist against his lips, though he doesn’t part them, doesn’t bite down. But the damage has already been done, and then, Niki is there, right by his side, and he doesn’t dare to look directly at her, but he can imagine what expression she’s making. Some variation on the same one she’s had this whole time. Concern, deep and abiding and wholly undeserved, wholly unneeded.

“Hey,” she says. “Please talk to me. What is it? What can I do?”

His throat is too thick, too clogged. He has no hope of evening out his voice.

“You could go,” he manages, hoarse. Blunt, and he hopes she doesn’t mistake it as anger. He’s not angry. Not at her, at least. “I might need a moment?”

He didn’t mean for that to be a question. But Niki just steps closer, shaking her head.

“I’ll do anything other than that,” she says. “I’m not leaving you alone right now. Not if—oh, Wil.”

She has a good angle, now, to see his face fully. So the jig is up, and he knows there’s no hope of getting her to leave now. That’s how Niki is. Too kind. Too caring. And sure enough, she reaches out toward him in the next moment, and his usual reaction would be to flinch away, but instead, he just watches through obscured vision as her hand nears his face, and cups his cheek, tilting his head toward her.

“What’s wrong?” she whispers. Part of him wants to jerk away from the contact, and part of him wants to stay there forever. Or for a good, long time, at least. Just because it really is nice to be touched in a way that is not meant to harm him.

“It’s nothing,” he says. “It’s nothing.” But he can’t keep his eyes open any longer, so he blinks, and there go the first tears. Dripping down, out in the open, no disguising them. There are more sobs building up, but these, he forces down, keeps in his chest, out of his throat. Even if it makes his breathing unsteady, makes his chest jump and hitch every few seconds, it’s better than the alternative.

“It’s not nothing,” she says. “If it’s hurting you, then it’s not nothing. Please believe me.”

He can’t. He can’t do that. Not even for her sake.

“Is it what I said?” she asks. “I swear, I’m not angry with you. I just want to help.”

He shudders, and turns his face away from her. Her hand falls from him.

“Is it—is it that?” she asks, and oh, how he wishes she wouldn’t. “Why does that upset you?”

He—he can’t. He can’t answer that. He can’t talk about this. He can’t.

“If you would—if you would rather I go get someone else, I could do that,” Niki says, slowly, and he can tell that it pains her. He might be hurting her feelings, with this. He wishes he could explain that it’s not her in particular that he can’t trust with this. It’s everyone.

For a moment, he entertains taking her up on the offer, if only because she would have to leave to retrieve someone, which would give him time to escape his office and go—where? Where would he go? To his room, to scream into his pillow once again? A bit late for that. And the idea is foolish anyhow; she doesn’t need to leave at all, can just talk to someone on her communicator and stay with him until they arrive, and no, absolutely not. He doesn’t want that. As bad as this is, as shit as he feels right now, he doesn’t want anyone else to see. It’s bad enough that it’s Niki but—what if it were Tubbo, or Tommy? One of the people who looks up to him as an example and not just a friend or brother?

No. Bad enough that it’s Niki, but better her than someone else, and he’s done it again, has taken too long to respond because his brain refuses to think any faster than a slow, plodding pace, a trot rather than a gallop, and—

“Please don’t,” he says, and it comes out both whisper and plea. And then, because he has to try again, because he won’t be satisfied unless he does, he says, “Really, I just need—a moment. It happens sometimes, it’s fine, but if we could maybe pick this up later—”

“I’m not leaving you while you’re crying,” Niki says. “Please get that through your head.”

“But you should,” he says. He fights to get the words out past the lump in his throats, past the pressure that continues to build up. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this. And I’m fine, because I can, I’m used to it. So if you’ll just give me a minute, I can—I can compose myself, and we can keep on.” He bites out each word, wary of letting something loose that he doesn’t want to, but that has the downside of airing his frustration again. He’s not trying to snap at her, he really isn’t, but better that than to dissolve into full-on crying. A few tears are manageable. He can get this back under control.

“Wilbur,” Niki says, “why on earth do you think you’re something that I have to deal with?”

He looks at her again, something in her tone compelling him. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright.

And this is not going to be the right answer, not going to be what she’s looking for, but he’s so worn out that he just—

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asks.

“Oh,” Niki says. “Oh. No, Wil, no, that’s not right. You’re not—is this why you haven’t told anyone? Because you’re—oh, Prime, Wil. You’re not something I have to ‘deal’ with. You’re my friend, and I care about you, and I want you to be okay.” And before he can even begin to think of how to respond to that, she steps forward, and then her arms are around him, and she’s hugging him.

That’s when his knees decide to buckle.

“Oh, shit,” Niki says, but she guides them both down to the floor, so that they’re kneeling, kneeling and she’s still hugging him, still has her hands splayed on his back. “Okay, you’re okay. Are you with me, Wil?”

He intends to say yes. What comes out instead is a small, “Mhm.” Not even a word. And he’d be angry with himself, except all of a sudden, his chest is heaving, and the tears are coming quicker, and scrunching up his eyes doesn’t help, and it sort of hurts, now, to hold back the sobs that want to wrench out of him, hurts in his ribs. And he’s shaking, and despite all of that, he’s starting to feel cloudy again, distant from himself, and with that realization comes another: at this point, he’s lost control. His body has decided to shut down on him, and he doesn’t really have a say in the matter.

The sobs start coming out. Loud, broken things, like shards of glass twisted and half-melted until there’s no putting the pieces back together the same.

His mind feels detached. Impartial. Numb. So he no longer bothers to try and stop it. Just floats, a bystander within himself, as he has a complete break down on the floor of his office, with Niki holding him.

He’s not sure how long it takes for the tears to stop. He’s not counting. Not taking notice of much of anything, really. His body wears itself out, and he’s left there, slumped against her, like an empty shell.

She’s been talking to him this whole time, a stream of platitudes, comfort words, tumbling after one another, but now, she stops. For a moment, there is silence. He can hear himself breathing, rough and ragged.

“Hey,” Niki says. “Are you still here?”

He’s not sure how to answer that. He doesn’t feel very present, and frankly, he likes it that way, right this second. If he were feeling any more present, he’d be dealing with far more than he thinks he’s equipped for. But he is here physically, and he has enough presence of mind to respond to her, at least, even if it all feels so very far away, and he is so very tired.

He has been this tired all along, he thinks. This was a breaking point. Does it make him feel any better, that this was probably inevitable?

“Yeah,” he murmurs. His head is resting on her shoulder. He keeps it that way. It’s easier if he doesn’t have to look her in the eyes.

“That’s good,” she says. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Are you actually asking,” he mumbles, “or are you going to make me anyway?”

She sighs. That was the wrong thing to say. It’s harder for him to care.

“I don’t want to make you do anything,” she says. “That’s not why I’m here. If you really, really don’t want to talk about it, then—we don’t have to. But I think you need to. I think you’re hurting, and you’ve kept it to yourself, and I think that’s not a good thing.”

“‘S better than the alternative.”

“Okay,” she says. “What’s the alternative?”

Is he really going to do this? Is he going to tell her? Every instinct he has cries out against it, but the thing about that is that his instincts are rather dull at the moment. Easier to push aside. And his logical reasoning informs him that he’s already cried all over her, so really, he owes her an explanation at this point. Doing so might make everything worse, but if that’s the case, it’s no more than he deserves, for being unable to keep it together.

“Niki,” he says, “I’m a bad president.”

His voice is muffled by the fabric of her shirtsleeve. But he knows she understands him, because she stiffens.

“What makes you say that?” she asks.

“‘M not any good,” he tells her. “I’ve got all this work to do and I can barely do any of it. I don’t know what I’m doing at all. I’ve only been pretending this whole time, to know what I’m doing. I’m a shit leader.”

“You’re not,” Niki says, “but if you really think that, why didn’t you ask for help?”

He shakes his head, still holding his face on her shoulder. He doesn’t want to see her expression. “Can’t,” he says. “‘M supposed to be able to do it. I didn’t want you to know I’m a failure.”

Niki doesn’t respond. For a full three seconds, and he wonders if this is the part where she leaves. Finally. And then, she stops hugging him, and the part of him that is still awake enough to form coherent sentences thinks, yes, this is it, this is what you have sowed. Except then, she doesn’t leave at all, makes no move to get up, and instead grips him by the arms, and moves him backwards, so that she can stare him right in the face.

“Wilbur Soot,” she says, and she sounds more upset than he has ever heard her. “You are not a failure.”

“I am,” he says. Why is he trying so hard to get her to believe it? Maybe he just feels like he’s committed, now, to pulling the rug out. “I am.”

“You’re not,” she insists. “You made this nation. You took a drug van and turned it into a country where everyone is happy and free. Everyone looks up to you. We all love you.”

And there it is. The problem, in a nutshell.

“And what happens when you stop?” he murmurs.

Niki is completely silent, completely still. Staring at him.

“What happens when it turns out I’ve never been good enough?” he continues, voice weak. “What happens when the man you look up to lets you down? What happens when you know that all I am, in the end, is a pathetic shell who can barely get himself out of bed in the morning, much less make any of the moves that would lead to actual prosperity? What happens when you all learn that your president is shit at his job?” His voice strengthens as he goes on, rises to a more normal tone, fueled by his own disgust.

In a way, it’s freeing, finally saying all of this aloud. Whatever the consequences may be.

“What exactly,” Niki says, “have we done to make you think there’s anything you could do that would make us stop caring about you?”

She actually does sound a little bit angry, now. Her eyebrows are furrowed, her nostrils flared. He opens his mouth to respond, because the answer to that should be fairly obvious at this point, but she continues before he can.

“Do you really think we only love you because of—because you’re president? Or because you’ve made a country? We love this country because you made it, not the other way around. Why would you—Wil. Have you been thinking like this the whole time?”

Suddenly, he finds himself unable to respond. Paralyzed. Stricken dumb. Blinking, working his jaw. She shakes her head, tossing her hair, and—are those tears glittering in her eyes? Surely not.

It’s another second before she keeps talking. She was waiting on a response from him, he believes, but it’s one that he is incapable of giving.

“Oh,” she says. “You really do believe that.”

And the way she says it—he wants to cry again, for putting that pain in her voice. That expression on her face. Her hands are still on his shoulders, have not yet been pulled back, but suddenly, his skin is crawling, the contact too much.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he’s not sure exactly what he’s apologizing for. For his numerous inadequacies, maybe. For the fact that he’s not strong enough for this, and never has been. For the way he started this country and so foolishly believed that he would be able to lead it well, that he wouldn’t be overwhelmed by the paperwork and struck with the desire to lie in bed all day and do absolutely nothing, a desire that’s harder and harder to fight. For the manner in which his body has betrayed him, time and time again, for his hair turning white and his inability to prevent his outbursts and the way that it shut down on him just now, let everything out in the most unbecoming method possible. For the fact that he was weak enough to let it all show, too weak to press on and get through it.

For hurting her, certainly. He never wanted to do that.

But then, to his surprise, she yanks him forward, swift and insistent, into another hug. His mind shouts in alarm, but his body, once again, has a different idea, and he finds himself slumping into her hold again.

“You are worth more than L’Manberg,” she says. “If this place went up in flames tomorrow, I’d be most concerned with making sure you were alive.”

No. No, she can’t just say that, can’t say it and mean it, because if she does—

“Stop,” he rasps.

“No,” she says. “We don’t love you because you made this nation, or because you’re the president. We love you because you’re our friend, and you’re our friend because you’re good and kind and clever and funny, and you’re you. Not because you’re good at making speeches or signing papers or building walls. You’re just you. I promise that’s enough, Wilbur.”

He shudders again. Full-bodied.

“I don’t believe you,” he admits. What’s one more mark against him, at this point? “I can’t.”

“Then let us help you so that you can,” she says. “Don’t shut us out.”

That’s another thing that he can’t answer. His mind is spinning. He doesn’t know what to believe. He wishes this whole thing hadn’t happened in the first place, wishes she hadn’t stepped in here at all. And yet, some part of him feels safe. Safer than he’s felt in a good long while. He’s not so stupid as to think that it’s not because she’s holding him.

“How about we start with this?” she says. Her voice has softened. “How about you take a nap, and then, when you wake up, we get you some food. Something nice and simple, like soup.”

That—is easier to comprehend. Physical needs. Needs that he’s not intentionally neglecting, but that he can’t seem to make himself take care of. He can—he can do that, especially if it makes Niki feel better, and he is tired. Exhausted. His eyes are drooping shut already, though he shouldn’t fall asleep on Niki. He should go—back to his room. To his bed. That’s where he should sleep. Except he’s almost never able to get good sleep, there, and he still feels safe. Right here, right now. Safe, and he can’t remember the last time that happened. Can’t hope to anticipate the next time it will.

“Alright,” he mumbles. Niki isn’t pushing him off yet. Maybe she’ll wait until he’s out.

There’s still a portion of himself screaming not to do this. Screaming that he just keeps digging himself a bigger hole. That with everything he continues to reveal, with every weakness he puts on display, he’s only going to make the inevitable fallout worse. Because there will be fallout, no matter what Niki says. Perhaps she is telling the truth. Perhaps. But she doesn’t speak for everyone else, and he doesn’t want—

But he’s so tired, in the end.

“Don’t let anyone else in?” he says. He’s unsure if the words come out understandable. He’s slipping. He’s letting himself.

“Just sleep, Wil,” she answers, and that’s the last thing he hears.

[cafeinthemoon]

Madara with s/o who works as a maid and is very shy 😳

When anon requested this, I just couldn’t say no because I never get tired of this trope! I absolutely love it! Besides it reminds me of part of the dynamics between Madara and reader in my own fic, The Leaves of Her Garden, so it makes things easier XD

So the idea is that reader is very shy and works as a maid on the Uchiha compound, precisely at the head’s house, and Madara takes a liking to her. How would he act in such situation? Let’s find out!

Fandom: Naruto | Madara Uchiha

Symbols: 💗 | ◻ | ▶▶

(I’m sorry but it HAD to be this gif okay)

Before you were sent to work at the head’s house, you’ve already heard people’s comments about Madara Uchiha

Besides the fact that he was an incomparably skilled shinobi, there was this idea that he was an unusual man

You never paid much attention to this; your opinion was that as the head of an important clan he had the right to maintain his quirks

Things only changed after your first days working as a maid in his house

He was both scary and interesting as a person, just like you were told

And since you were so shy that you always had a hard time talking to strangers, it was incredible that you managed to communicate with such man when necessary

What you didn’t expect was to catch his attentions without doing nothing to deserve them

On his side, it started as mere curiosity

Madara always observed carefully what (and who) he had around him, so he didn’t take long to distinguish you from other servants

You were never seen wandering around, neglecting your tasks, and didn’t have the bad habit of gossiping

To be honest, you were barely seen around any people

You were always occupied with something, and never left your place until your work was done

But sometimes you would stop for a moment to appreciate things around you like the sunlight, the morning breeze touching your face or a bird singing, to which you would smile

Those were the moments when your beauty reached its apex

Everything about you just reinforced this idea of a young and pretty girl who was gentle and had good manners but seemed to have no friends

How was that even possible? He needed to find out

So he started to approach you, and realized you were just shy

The way you reacted to his sudden appearances in the rooms you were working at, or when he crossed your way on the house’s porch was a diversion to him

The way you suppressed your scream when you recognized him, your cheeks as red as his Sharingan,while you did your best to greet him with the appropriate words… all of this was just adorable

“Good morning… Madara-sama”, “Goodnight, Madara-sama”, “Excuse me, Madara-sama, but I have to go back to work”

There was that time when you were carrying a bucket full of water and you almost dropped it when he appeared and greeted you, but he caught it from your hand in time

You tried to grab the bucket back and follow your way, but he wouldn’t let you until you give him a good reason on why you were on a rush early in the morning

“The rooms will not leave their places if you slow down just a little bit, y/n-san”, he advised you with a smirk

The look you gave him after hearing this was something he wouldn’t forget. Didn’t you know he was capable of joking as any other person?

When he started to try and turn these brief greetings into actual conversations, he has already noticed that you were fleeing from him

Which wasn’t exactly a surprise: he was used to terrify people with his mere presence

However, were you in fact afraid of him? Or were you trying to dismiss him without being rude? Or did you think those meetings were inappropriate since you were just a maid, not even a ninja to be considered worthy of his attention?

Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter: he was determined to have you

There was something indescribable in all of this, something irresistible, to think that you were so different, so apart from him and yet you were there, oblivious to the fact that you’ve been occupying his thoughts whenever he let his mind wander… That situation was both funny and ridiculous

He was more skilled, more experienced, stronger than you in all senses

He could use both his privilege and his abilities to do anything he wanted: to isolate you, to make you fall for him, to convince you to let him take you, to kill you or to get rid of you

Still, he couldn’t dream of doing any of these things

You were so pure, so sweet and innocent that the slightest idea of harming you was disgusting to him

Sometimes he would laugh at himself because of this: who would imagine that the person capable of stopping Madara Uchiha wasn’t but a young maid whose mission was to clean the floor of his house?

He even started to reshape your routine in order to get closer to you

One day, when you came to do your daily tasks, part of the work was already done. You found that strange, but didn’t question anything; you just finished the rest and left earlier

This started to happen everyday. Besides it, Madara started to make small favors to you, such as carrying heavy buckets, leaving things organized to make your work easier, etc.

It was also common that you would meet Madara during your “free” time

He seemed to always know where to find you even before you get to the place, and if you were the one who met him first, he would never let you leave without exchanging at least one word with him

During these conversations, he would make questions about your life, the places you would go on your days off, your hobbies, your family and friends

You would do your best to be discreet, but you always found yourself talking more than you wanted or would do with anyone else

It was something in the way he made the questions: Madara had a talent to take all the information he wanted from people

On the other hand, he rarely talked about himself, and whenever you asked something to him, his answers were always brief and never gave room to second questions

Despite your shyness, you started to feel strangely at will to speak your mind to him. It was like he could understand anything you wanted to express, even when you used just a few words

It was hard to explain what was happening between you

As the days passed, Madara no longer talked to you using the -san. Instead, he would call you directly by your name, and sometimes he would just start speaking without calling you first, because you would simply know that he was talking to you

Not only he was working hard to establish a connection with you, but he also started to pay close attention to the other people’s behavior towards you

One day, he casually heard two women talking and one of them mentioned your name, making a slightly spicy comment, something about you being too pretty for your own good

The next day she didn’t show up to work, and when people questioned about this, it was said that she was sent to other part of the compound

There was also an occasion when Madara saw you talking to a young man during lunch time. The man was a friend of your family, which explained your cheerful tone while talking to him

Something in this bothered him in an unexplainable way. You were so different from yourself around that man, so loud! Was he just your friend, or was he something more?

Next time you met this man, you sensed he wasn’t at will in your presence

When you asked if everything was okay, he said that he was just a bit sad because he was leaving that part of the compound to work on another one, far from there

You never found out the entire story, which was: this friend of yours really liked you and was planning to ask you out, but this somehow came to Madara’s knowledge and he ~discretely~ told him that he had other plans for you. The man couldn’t compete with the head of the clan, so he thought it was better for him to leave

Exaggerated? Yes. Dishonest? More or less. Questionable? Totally

But you never knew about this, and Madara intended to leave things like this

Now that his way was free again, he could concentrate in bringing you even closer

Sometimes he used to take walks at the gardens alone

He started to bring you with him, where you would maintain the same type of conversations you already had

During these walks, he would make you impressive yet gentle gestures like throwing a kunai to cut a flower from a high branch and give it to you or using his Katon to create a bonfire if you start to shiver in the cold evening breeze

You would both sit at the grass and talk or just stare at the sunset in silence

These moments felt like a loop in time, and going back to the house was like waking up from a dream

After some time, you couldn’t say you didn’t know the reason behind all of this: Madara has taken a liking to you and was using all he got to win your affection

The truth is that you started to have feelings for him as well

But unlike him, who was allowed to do as he pleased, you were a servant in his house; you two belonged to different worlds, despite being part of the same clan

So you never dared open up about your feelings, no matter how close he got

S you thought that maybe if you didn’t give him any encouragement, he would give up on you soon

Well, that’s not what happened. If you knew him better, you wouldn’t be surprised with this

One night, during a walk, he stopped and openly spoke about his feelings and intentions

You did your best to remain composed while you listened to him, and when your time to speak came, you used all the expected arguments to dissuade him of such madness

Maybe you were too gentle and thus not convincing, or maybe there was no reason to resist, but Madara dismissed all your objections with no difficulties

You were just a maid? You were an Uchiha, that’s what you were. You were not a shinobi? Many women weren’t and they married shinobi men anyway. You weren’t worthy of his love? He was the one who decides what he would love or hate, not you. The elders and his brother would never accept you? Well, they didn’t have to accept anything, since you would be on his bed, not theirs

By now it was clear that nothing you could say was going to change his mind, but you still tried one last time

“I am too shy, too simple, Madara-sama… Someone like me would never look good beside you!”

He smiled as to dismiss this frail attempt of yours, and for the first time tried a physical approaching: he held your hand and made you come closer, passing his arms around you

“I know you’re shy, y/n-san. You don’t need to tell me. But let me tell you that I love your quietness, your shyness, your simplicity. Do you know what I’ve heard people saying about you? That you are too pretty for your own good. And I totally agree” and approaching your ear, “I can’t imagine a place where you would look better than by my side”

You felt a tear rolling through your face after hearing that

So, if nothing would make him give up on you, it wasn’t fair for you to give up on him as well

You accepted his embrace and revealed your thoughts and feelings to him, who listened to every word with all the attention he could

When he spoke again, it was to inform you that you were no longer a maid, but his quiet and beloved fiancee 💞

[ragingbookdragon]

A Christmas Dinner To Warm Cold Hearts

A Connor Kenway x Reader One-Shot

Word Count: 2.3K Warnings: None

Author’s Note: And we have reached the final one! 25 straight days of Christmas fics! I hope you have enjoyed it everyone! Thank you for following along! Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! -Thorne

           New York in the middle of winter wasn’t necessarily her favorite place to be, but to set her plans in motion, sacrifices had to be made—even if it meant freezing off her fingers and toes. With a violent shiver, she tugged at the heavy winter coat, digging her hands underneath her arms in an effort to gain some warmth. Though it did little, she felt a bit of relief as she hurried to the street corner, watching as the group of men filed out.

           They seemed to still be in a discussion and to avoid their sights, she crept into a conversation between a group of people, eyes directed on the silver haired man. After a few minutes, they dispersed and she smiled as the man started his way down the other side of the street—she waited a moment then followed, hoping she could catch up to him.

           She trailed him for what seemed like hours until he turned down an alley. Doing the same, she was met with an empty backstreet, and when she came out at the end, he was nowhere in sight. Her head tipped both ways as she looked for him.

           “I swear I just saw him,” she whispered. “Where on earth did he go?”

           A frigid bite of metal against her throat answered her question, and as she sucked in a breath, she heard in her ear, “Make any sudden movements and I will slit your throat.”

           Recognizing the voice, she swallowed thickly, and knowing the stories of his ruthlessness from Connor, she understood that he would without a single hesitation, slit her throat.

           Her lips suddenly felt dry and she licked them, ignoring how they seemed to freeze after. “I’m not here to cause trouble, Mister Kenway.” She murmured, hoping a soft voice would ease his tension.

           His free hand dug into her waist. “Oh ho? And trailing me isn’t trouble on your part?”

           A chuckle passed her lips and when she tried to turn her neck a bit to see him, he pressed the blade harder to dissuade her.

           “I am looking for you, Haytham, but I’m not going to try anything.” Before he could say anything, she said, “My name is (Y/N). Your son and I are in a relationship,” she tipped her head to catch his eye and smiled, “I just want to talk.”

           Haytham’s grip slipped as his steel eyes went wide. He searched her gaze for a lie, and seeming to not find one, he retracted the hidden blade and let her go. (Y/N) felt along her neck for a wound but didn’t find one. She turned around and glanced at the man.

           “If you don’t mind, could we go somewhere where it isn’t snowing?” she asked and he simply turned on his heel, telling her to follow; she rolled her eyes at how commanding and pompous he looked from behind, but decided to not voice her concerns.

***

           About ten minutes they walked, and he held the door to a tavern, gesturing her inside. (Y/N) walked in and instantly sighed as the warm air wrapped her in a hug that resembled Connor’s.

           “Go sit in the corner,” Haytham instructed, and it took everything in her to not turn on him and tell him off for giving her orders.

           Silently, she conceded and a few moments after she took her seat, he came over and sat across from her, setting two wine glasses on the table. (Y/N) picked hers up by the stem and swirled it before meeting his eyes.

           “Surprising for a man who drinks ale in taverns to drink wine right now,” she remarked and took a small sip before smiling. “Mmm, sweet with honey. A good choice.”

           Haytham took a sip of his wine before remembering, “You said you and my son were in a relationship?”

           (Y/N) cleared her throat and nodded. “We have been for quite some time.” She had to think on it. “Three years, if I’m not mistaken. Though friends for a longer time.”

           His eyes narrowed, and she wasn’t sure if it was from suspicion or thought. “How did you two meet?”

           Laughing, she scratched at the old wooden table and let her eyes drift towards the doors. “Oh, he saved me from getting torn a new one by regulars some time back.”

           A silver brow arched on his forehead as he surmised, “So my son’s lover is a troublemaker?”

           (Y/N) felt a rather unladylike snort come from her and she countered, “Oh, not in so many words, and not like you and he do.” She winked at him. “I merely dabble in the pond while you two are sunk to your necks.”

           A bark of laughter escaped him, and she felt pride at how she managed to make the almost stoic man grin. He nodded. “Touché, (Y/N).”

           They fell into a silence, enjoying their wines, and when they were almost gone, he questioned, “You wished to speak with me about something?”

           (Y/N) nodded and sat up straight. “Are you going to busy on Christmas Day?” she asked, and evidently, he hadn’t been expecting that because his eyes went wide.

           “I beg your pardon?”

           She huffed a laugh. “Christmas Day. Will you be busy?”

           Haytham’s eyes narrowed, and this time she knew it was in suspicion. “And you are asking why?” he challenged, and she rolled her eyes.

           “Well, I was going to ask you if you’d like to have dinner with the two of us.” (Y/N) reasoned.

           As if she’d slapped him across the face, his jaw went slack from shock and he fell into a stillness, her simply staring and waiting for an answer.

           When he finally found himself again, a look of pure confusion came over him. “You…are inviting me…to dinner?” he repeated.

           “I am,” she answered with a smile.

           “…Why?”

           (Y/N) inhaled deeply and reclined in her seat, gazing at the back of her hands. “Ratonhnhaké:ton and Achilles aren’t exactly seeing eye to eye now that the two of you are working together,” she explained and with a sad look, she added, “I figured that maybe if the two of you shared a holiday dinner that…well that…” she trailed off and shook her head. “Neverm—”

           “No,” Haytham interjected. “Tell me.”

           She met his eyes and with a sudden rush of confidence, she said, “I want the two of you to spend at least one night acting like a family.”

           His eyes went wide, but (Y/N) didn’t stop. “You both are so rude and disrespectful to each other, and I understand it’s because neither of you know how to act as you’ve both grown without knowing one another, but still,” she stressed, “You are father and son, and even if you are on different sides, it’s the Christmas season and you should be a family.”

           Rising from her seat, she yanked out her coin purse and pulled out a single pound and a scrap of paper. “Here,” she pointed out. “For the drink.”

           He took them both but raised the paper. “What’s this?”

           (Y/N) glanced at him. “Directions to my cottage at the Davenport Homestead.”

           “Are you sure it’s wise to give this to me?” Haytham murmured, but she placed her palm flat on the table and got in his face.

           “If you send someone after me, he’ll kill them and then you without a second thought,” (Y/N) warned before standing up and continuing, “You’re a bastard, sure, but not that much.” She nodded at the scrap. “Be there by seven…please.”

           And she left him without another word.

***

           It wasn’t a struggle to keep him away from the door, but it was certainly one to keep him from putting his fingers in the food. For what seemed like the millionth time, she whacked at his hand, but he was much too quick and dodged her, sticking out his tongue.

           “Stay out of that, Ratonhnhaké:ton!” she hissed. “It’s not time to eat yet!”

           He let his head loll back and sighed. “But Otsi’tsa, I am hungry.”

           (Y/N) snorted and shoved at his stomach, nodding at the table before handing him a platter of venison. “Go,” she commanded. “And don’t sneak a piece!”

           Connor groaned and did as she asked, but when he set down the plate, he noticed an extra plate. “(Y/N), are we having a guest for dinner?”

           She turned around and faced the fireplace, gnawing at her lips as she searched for an answer. “Uh…sort of?” She could hear the confusion in his voice.

           “What do you mean ‘sort of’?” he asked, and before she could respond, a knock was at the door.

           They turned and she hurried to it before he could, cracking it open slightly. Connor saw the corner of her lip turn up and she opened the door fully, letting the person inside. His amber eyes went wide when his father removed his tricorn and hung it on the coat hanger, his cloak and jacket following.

           (Y/N) tossed him a sheepish grin and hesitated, “…Merry Christmas?”

           All her lover could manage was, “Why?”

           She sighed. “Oh my god, it’s Christmas, you two.”

           Haytham scoffed and glared at her. “I showed up, did I not?”

           Connor cut her off with a hiss. “I can show you out if you would like.”

           “Boys,” she scolded, and at that, they both turned on her with equal looks of disrespect; she rolled her eyes. “Please, let’s just sit at the table and eat dinner.”

           Father and son stared one another down for a full minute before taking their seats, and (Y/N) hoped it would remain civil.

***

           Surprisingly, dinner did remain fairly civil, only a few moments where she had to soothe Connor’s anger—and kick Haytham in the shin underneath the table, no doubt he’d have bruises in the morning.

           They sat by the fireplace, her and Haytham with a mug of cider in their hands, Connor drinking hot chocolate—she had to elbow his father in the side before he could say something that would no doubt set her lover off.

           It was a peaceful moment before Connor questioned, “Why did you come, father?”

           Her eyes darted to Haytham who simply gazed into the fireplace, the golden glow making his steel eyes shimmer. “Because (Y/N) invited me,” he simply returned.

           She let out an exaggerated cough. “Liar.”

           Haytham glowered at her and she shifted her eyes between him and Connor. Finally, he sighed and revealed, “I thought…that you and I should spend the holidays together.”

           Connor huffed a laugh, sarcastically countering, “What, because we are family?”

           His father gazed at him with clear eyes. “Yes.”

           It was the most honest she’d ever heard the man be, and even she was as surprised as Connor was, who simply turned meek and looked at the fireplace with a quiet, “Oh.”

           (Y/N) watched Haytham stare at his feet as he murmured, “This is the first time in…decades…that I have spent a holiday with…family.” A rare smile came across his lips. “I have…enjoyed it.”

           She glanced at Connor and nudged him gently in the side, giving him a smile when he looked at her; after a moment, he sighed and said, “As have I.”

           Watching the two give each other truthful and heartful smiles, she stood and announced, “I have final gifts for you two.”

           Their eyes followed her curiously as she walked to a shelf and came back with two boxes, one red, the other blue. She handed the red to Haytham and the blue to Connor.

           “Here, open them,” she smiled.

           Doing so, they ripped the paper and opened the boxes to see a simple ribbon in each box, Haytham’s ribbon red, and Connor’s ribbon blue.

           (Y/N) tapped Connor’s and explained, “There’s an inscription on each ribbon. I had them made in Boston a while ago.”

           Haytham picked it up and started examining it. “What does it say?”

           “It says, ‘You need glasses’,” Connor quipped, and she snorted when his father glared at him, then looked to her and waited.

           (Y/N) leaned on her lover’s shoulder and replied, “They both say, ‘True wisdom comes to each of us when we realize how little we understand about life, ourselves, and the world around us.’” She glanced at them. “A testament to the fact that you both know so much about the world and it’s realities, yet you still understand so little.”

           She almost laughed at how their faces pinched exactly the same, and she added, “And because I hope that when you wear them, you remember it and make better choices.”

           “Who said I make bad choices?” Connor suddenly asked and (Y/N) cocked a brow.

           “Uh, the Boston Tea Party?” she hinted, and he scowled.

           “There was a purpose in that,” he countered.

           “Yes, destroying good tea,” Haytham argued. He sighed and placed the top back on the box, and she stopped Connor before he could say something about his lack of thanks.

           He stood to his feet and made his way to the door, starting to dress in his jacket and cloak. (Y/N) handed him his hat and he looked at the two of them.

           “Thank you for inviting me,” he said, placing the tricorn atop his head. “I have enjoyed tonight.”

           (Y/N) smiled. “Thank you for being here tonight.”

           Haytham turned to the door, but as his hand gripped the doorknob, he glanced over his shoulder. “I will be having New Year’s dinner at my home in Virginia, if you two would like to come.”

           She nodded. “I would love to.” His gaze shifted to his son.

           Connor took a moment, obviously wrestling with himself before he nodded. “Yes…I would like to be there as well.”

           His father gave them a rare and true smile before tipping his head. “I shall see you there.”

[jackonthelongwalk]

I’m autistic and I love that you talk about autistic Eli! I just wanted to share this idea that I love about pre-Cobra Kai Eli, and see what you thought of it 🥺 so I love the idea that Demetri has like a “leader” kind of personality? Like he enjoys being the leader of a friendship kind of and like taking control and stuff? And it’s because that’s what Eli needed? Like other people see it as rude that Demetri talks for Eli, but he doesn’t care because he knows that at times it’s too stressful for Eli to talk for himself, and like, Demetri kind of takes care of Eli? He’ll always take the time to quietly explain the joke to Eli or tell him what was being said was sarcastic etc? And he will help Eli through a meltdown, and like, maybe even when Eli wets the bed or whatever, he can sometimes go into shut down because he is so overwhelmed and Demetri will always help him clean himself up and let him sleep in his bed after, and like that’s why he was so against karate because he thought it would be good for Eli with all of the contact and the social aspect and stuff? I just love Demetri being a good best friend to Eli 🥺

Yes! I’d love to talk about Demetri and Hawk’s relationship! I love and agree with this Demetri has to be the leader and he has to protect Eli it’s how their relationship it set up.

Edit: I end up bouncing around between their pre and post show relationship!

I’ve seen a few opinions floating around (mostly from people who want “Hawk” as a personality to be 100% his actual true self and want to completely distance him from “Eli”) saying that Demeteri wants to keep Hawk/Eli in his place so to speak, wants to be above or superior to him.

I don’t think that’s accurate at all, Demetri talks for Eli because he has too. Eli barley greets Miguel when they are first meeting. At the dojo when Johnny’s making fun of Eli Demetri steps in simply because Eli WILL NOT defend himself, he won’t say anything and Demetri won’t stand for it. Demetri is the leader in their friendship because he has to be, and yes he enjoys it, I don’t think there’s anything inherently wrong with enjoying being in a caregiving role. Demetri is trying to protect Eli, even when Eli first starts getting into karate I don’t think it’s with malice that Demetri tries to dissuade him they’ve both seen Miguel get beaten up, and yes Miguel wins the cafeteria fight but Demetri’s a logical person he knows that you can’t always win. 

Demetri obviously explains a lot of things to Eli to help him understand. We see it in the cafeteria Demetri’s telling his jokes and Eli is laughing, clearly they’ve had conversations about these types of jokes and Eli finds them funny. In the Moon + Piper scene, Demetri tries to explain to Hawk that she’s moved on at which he becomes upset mostly because Demetri’s calling him out on his fake personality and masking.

I wanted to lay the land before I got into their pre show relationship and my headcanons

Yes I most definitely think Demetri would help Eli through all of those difficult situations. I think helping Eli calm down from meltdowns or attempting to stop them before he becomes overstimulated or overwhelmed is where the shoulder squeeze (my theory is it’s their comfort touch) was born, maybe Eli’s mum would say “he likes deep pressure” and Demetri thought a shoulder squeeze would work. In a lot of the show it becomes more of a clap/pat on the shoulder like a promise of a squeeze if needed.

I’ll never get over before Demetri kicks Hawk into the case the way he squeezes his shoulder and say “no hard feelings” I’ve written before about how I feel this was a coded “I still care about you” action.

Demetri likes having a protective role with Eli yes he’s scared of Kyler and he can’t stand up for Eli in the instance but we see in the dojo with Johnny and with Tory at the end of the fight scene Demetri ALWAYS wants to protect Eli even in his Hawk state.

The sleep enuresis is a perfect example of how caring for Eli is important to Demetri I mean honestly being friends with a kid who peed in your bed so much your mother bought him a special mattress and maintaining that relationship is a clear indicator of that. (Demetri telling everyone at the party was so shitty and we can and should be holding Demetri accountable for that he share something extremely private yes he was beyond upset with Hawk but it was still really shitty)

Lastly I see a lot of posts about how Eli and Demetri were only friends out of desperation but we see that both boys are able to make friends without each other. Look at Demetri he’s made lots of friends rather quickly, everyone likes Demetri he’s a little asshole but he’s quite charming and easy to be friends with. Hawk is the one who has more of a struggle because he’s autistic, his true friends are Miguel, Tory (at least for a time), Bert and Aisha.

But even though Hawk’s got his new friends he still goes back to Demetri which he doesn’t have to do, he could have mended his friendship with Miguel joined Eagle-Fang and continued not being friends with Demetri, but in that last scene they pair everyone with their important person, Sam with Miguel, Bert with Nate, Chris with Mitch and Hawk with Demetri.

Demetri loves Hawk/Eli and Hawk loves him too, he just had to find his way back to Demetri.

[butwhatifidothis]

Sometimes fandoms still kicks me upside the head. Some of the most unpopular characters in Three Houses - Leonie, Cyril, Ingrid - make mistakes that yes, range from annoying as hell to actually shitty, but are never allowed to grow from, according to fans. Even when they apologize for doing so or even when what they’re “guily” of isn’t even that bad.

Leonie can never grow past the fact that she calls Byleth underserving of their father Jeralt directly and specifically after he dies (as in, the supports is only available in the timespan immediately after his death), despite the fact that she herself was extremely emotionally unstable over the fact that her childhood hero who saved her village and gave her her life-goal was murdered for no reason and despite the fact that she apologized profusely for every saying that to you.

Cyril can never grow past being extremely rude to nearly everyone around him and idolizing Rhea as much as he does, despite the fact that he was a literal child soldier and after that a slave of the Gonerils and Rhea saved him from that life to live one where he is fed everyday, has safe shelter, and in return only has to do chores that everyone else has to do.

Ingrid can never grow past telling to Dedue’s face that the massacre of his people was justified, even though Faerghan culture has told her that since she was an emotionally scarred teenage girl that his people are the reason her and her friends’ lives were ruined and despite the fact that she still afterwards realized what she said and her actions towards Dedue were horrific and had no justification.

These characters are completely irredeemable in the eyes of so many fans... but Edelgard, in comparison, is alright.

Now not to say Edelgard doesn’t have a lot of people hating her, but we have to admit she is infinitely more popular than the three listed above, consistently ranking at least top 10 in popularity polls with countless people trying to justify her actions and say that she’s an amazing person. This is despite the fact that she AT MINIMUM:

-at least wants to exile all the Nabateans from Fodlan because they “are incapable of humanity”, a reasoning that is the literal, actual motivation of nearly all of the villains in the Tellius games (I say at least since so many people are hellbent in denying that she wants to kill them all... despite the fact that Flayn and Seteth can’t be spared by her, only by Byleth, unlike Claude and Lysithea... and that Linhardt doesn’t want her finding out about Indech in the Legend of the Lake paralogue because it “concerns the Saints of the Church of Seiros”... and she expresses contentment at “getting rid of all of the children of the Goddess”... but sure, she just wants to exile a race of people who’ve lived on Fodlan longer than her ancestral line started, that’s all)

-dresses as the committer of the Tragedy of Duscur in front of the sole survivor of the massacre. Multiple times.

     - in relation to that, works with the people who committed the Tragedy of Duscur, and calls the sole survivor “delusional” for thinking someone who dressed in the specific garb of the person who committed the Tragedy and works with those who actually committed the Tragedy was the one who committed the Tragedy. But nah, Dimitri is just a loony for thinking that, no basis for him to think that at all.

-demands for a relic weapon to be made for her specifically, despite knowing how they are made  

-attacks and kills Judith, even if she surrenders and retreats

     -invades a neutral territory

     -(potentially) kills Claude, even if he surrenders

-directly and explicitly says she is willing to put her civilians’ lives at risk if it meant furthering her goals and calls herself “just like Lonato”

-covers up Jeritza kidnapping Flayn and Flayn’s torture by TWS

-uses Demonic Beasts as war assets, meaning she allows for the kidnapping, torture and mutations of innocent civilians into mindless monsters. This is despite knowing how horrifically painful it is to have this done on someone.

-is willing to sacrifice her soldiers on the battlefield (Bernadetta at Gronder) to get a slight upper hand.

     -Imma dispel anyone trying to compare this to when Claude used the fire bomb at Garreg Mach, since I’ve seen people try to justify this specific action by doing that. Claude 1) warns that he’s going to use the fire bomb and gives ample time for people to get out of the way, unlike Edelgard who gives no warning to Bernadetta and 2) this is a defense mechanism built into Garreg Mach’s infrastructure that Seteth and Gilbert also use, unlike Edelgard’s impromptu burning of the Central Hill.

-is willing to use her civilians as human shields to try and dissuade the opposing army’s attempts at getting to her

-says she’s for a meritocracy where people earn what they earn and not what they were born into, but doesn’t allow Byleth to take their credit as the leading force because it would look bad on her (literally) and people gaining titles they have no qualifications for (Bernadetta, Caspar) simply because she, personally, thinks they deserve it

Off the top of my head, this is what Edelgard does that people will look over in favor of liking her, because apparently “she had good intentions” is a good enough reason to look away from mass murder, mass torture, hypocritical beliefs, active treason to those she is supposed to protect and to her “friends”, constant lying, and just an absurd amount of self-righteousness that allows her to justify to herself that she is right and literally everyone else is wrong, actually. 

But nah, Cyril’s a rude kid so he should be hated.

okay

[grantcontrol]

Heartless, Swarmless ◈ Anton ⁺ Eilidh

Timing: Some time last week Location: White Crest National Park Parties: @braindeacl & @grantcontrol Summary: Anton and Eilidh meet for the first time and end up going on a trip because of some overgrown spiders. Now they know how a hairball feels. Content: Insect, spiders, vomit (not theirs), a lot of cursing

“This better not be one of those prank calls.” With an annoyed groan and a mildly disinterested sigh, Anton begrudgingly parked the white van with his company’s name in bold letters on its side into the otherwise empty designated parking space of the White Crest National Park. He faintly remembered his late grandfather taking him to this place when he was just a tiny tot, though for the life of him, he could no longer recall anything else about that visit. Park’s big, that about sums up all he knows of the place now. 

Bug Busters Pest Control Solutions received the call while he was about to Netflix and chill, and while their so-called employer insisted on staying anonymous on the other end of the line, the Girl verified that whoever they were, they had already paid in full. Online. Anton wasn’t too savvy about how that whole thing worked but he trusts the Girl in these matters. Why would she lie? She was getting her pay from the same account, and as much as she doesn’t respect him, at least not on the surface, she can’t deny that they both need the money. Besides, he had already seen the same zombie movie at least three times.

Dragging himself out of the vehicle, he took his time making his way to the back of it where his tools waited for him. Most of it was standard exterminator gear. The rest? Just a few contingencies from his less public career as a pest hunter. Also a jar of peanut butter, but that’s not for him. “Where do I even fucking start?” He wasn’t even inside the park yet when he started complaining. Overgrown spiders. That’s what the caller said they were. The size of a dog? Anton already knew what they actually were. His late grandfather hated the damned things, and there was no doubt he’d hate them, too. If he even gets to find them.

It started with a deer. A family had been perusing about one of the main trails. One of the supposedly safe trails. They had stopped to gaze upon a grazing doe. The child had begged and begged and begged to be placed on their father’s shoulders, and they got their wish just as the deer began to move. The small group watched in awed silence as she inspected the forest floor, searching for her next meal. But before she could find it, the forest floor made a meal of her. It opened up wide, gripped her tight, and pulled her below. Similar instances followed, and the Park was sent into a frenzy. Eilidh, naturally, made herself involved.

Talks of eradication filled the office. But they were too afraid to state anything plainly, too afraid to even admit that they knew what truly lurked within the nearby wood. Eilidh was more direct. “Fuck no.” These creatures, these carachs, only crime was existing in view of humans. It was clear her perspective was not the majority. The carachs posed a threat, and while it had yet to be acted on, they would not wait until it was too late. Eilidh offered a solution. Let her try. The Park was full of restricted areas away from any wandering pedestrian. Away from this potential threat. They could be relocated there. Let her try.

So, she would try. Alone.

Whatever. Less eyes meant she could utilize all of her abilities. After taking a moment to secure some supplies, which became nestled within her backpack, she headed off onto her task. And was immediately struck with the sight of Bug Busters Pest Control Solutions glaring back at her. “Those cunts!” Someone must’ve called while she was distracted, because no one had made any clear moves to dissuade whoever the vehicle belonged to, for it sat undisturbed. “This is a National Park, you don’t call a fucking exterminator!” She yelled at one of her coworkers who made the mistake of walking by. They simply stared with frightened eyes, having no clue what she was talking about. With a frustrated shout, she ran over to the car. When a man, supposedly the owner, came into view, she pointed threateningly. “No! No! Fuck off! We don’t need your kind of help!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! That’s not a very warm welcome.” On any other day, Anton would’ve smirked at the sight of a tiny angry person screaming at her, what the much taller man definitely finds hilarious. For some reason. But today was not one of those days. Anton was tired. Anton was exhausted. Anton just wanted to get this job done. “What seems to be the problem, ma’am? We’re just responding to a call.”

Yes, he was, but no, he already knew what the problem was. The damn carachs, of course. He should’ve expected they’d find their way to a place like this, a place big enough where they could hide somewhere and eat something without the prying eyes of the more mundane humans. Unfortunately, the eight-legged freaks must’ve messed up, one of those mundane creatures saw them do something, and now Anton and his need for money was caught in the middle of the overgrown spiders and whatever the heck this small but pretty attractive woman’s problem was.

“I’m Anton. Anton Grant.” He thought introducing himself would make any difference, offering her one of his patented charming smiles that didn’t actually have that much of a success rate, if only serving to catch others off-guard for a brief moment or two. He doubled down with an extended hand, his dark brown eyes moving from her towards the other park personnel whose own curiosities lured them to this less than pleasant encounter. 

“Bug Busters Pest Control Solutions, the best pest control service in town, by the way, is here to help. Someone called about…” He looked around them before leaning in for a whisper. “...a spider problem…” He then moved back to resume the normal volume of his voice. Just in case one of those other personnel would end up a potential customer. “We’re here to take care of it. Professionally.”

Out of a misguided attempt to sound professional, he emphasized the pronoun we throughout his spiel, even though it was clear as day that he was alone.

Eilidh rolled her eyes, not feeling any guilt for her outburst. “Respond to another call.” She wasn’t even given a second of trust before she was undermined by this outsourced ‘help.’ While she truly loved her job and the opportunities it presented to her, sometimes she hated the other people involved. Even though most were relatively sympathetic, there was still a clear bias against the supernatural. Even with visitors outwardly acknowledging the dangers, if someone cried monster too many times, the monster must be dealt with. Often cruelly. Always have to keep up pretenses. Even here.

As ‘Anton’ flashed a smile, she only blinked in response, already trying to forget the name. His hand extended forward, perhaps in an attempt at peace. Eilidh chose the opposite. Her own palms placed firmly on her hips with no want of moving. The effect was lost as another took his offered hand, whether from genuine interest or to alleviate some of the tension set ablaze by her passions. Didn’t matter either way. Angry eyes locked onto them and fearing they too would get caught in the flame, they yielded, taking a step back. The two of them still had an audience, but a ring of emptiness encircled them. A distinction between onlooker and participant.  

A spider problem. The way it was spoken, as if a secret, like so many that filled this town, showed her he was probably aware of what truly lurked out there. An actual professional. Or an overconfident fool. So, either someone who could actually do damage, or someone whose death would add more fuel to the fear. Neither alternative would be beneficial. “Look, I ‘ave the ‘spider problem’ handled. So, get the fuck out of-”

She was interrupted by a voice from behind. A superior. They informed her that the Park was exploring all the options given to them. And that if her idea worked, the exterminator wouldn’t need to do his job anyway. Said in a way that was clear they wanted to scream fuck just as Eilidh had and will again, but professionalism prevented such a thing. Pretenses, pretenses. So, her options were clear. Work fast, and maybe, maybe be able to save some of the carachs… Fuck, she didn’t even have a clear plan! But the other conclusion was all the carachs dead, for she wasn’t fast enough.

She looked at Anton. Then bolted into the woods. 

There is no other call. Anton wanted to just dryly tell her the truth, that his line of work wasn’t as stable as hers, and because of that, he needs to respond to every call he gets. Otherwise, his late grandfather might start haunting him, too, for letting his business go down the drain. Like his body. The past few weeks were pretty good for Bug Busters Pest Control Solutions, though, which was a little odd to think and smile about right then and there, considering he technically should thank all the bugs and rodents he had to put down for always keeping him warm and fed.

“Okay…” The lady was as rude as she was cute confirmed. Fortunately, she wasn’t the only park personnel around, and he gave the more courteous one a nod and the most charming smile he could ever muster. A stolen glimpse of the still infuriated rude woman, however, slowly chased that smile off of his face. Like she chased the other employee off. Without even moving. Damn, she’s good. He’d almost believed that she did have everything under control, too, because despite her size and her rudeness, her fire reminded her of someone else’s, someone who proved him wrong and handled herself beyond his misinformed expectations. But then someone else stepped forward and corrected her. Oof.

“Well then, I guess if there’s nothing else…” He almost gulped when she looked back at him, his mind already wincing even though it was just one look. The last thing he needed was to get slapped, punched, or even kicked between the legs. He’s suffered all three before, in public, so he was always wary of those possibilities. Still, he had a job to do, especially now that the rest of the park seems to be on his side more than hers. “I’ll just—” He cut himself off when she bolted into the woods. Okay… I guess she really hates my guts. Turning to the rest of the personnel, he just offered them a shrug before calmly walking behind her, as another quickly briefed him on their spider problem. 

She ran. And ran. Eilidh wasn’t even sure what she was going to do when she got to her destination. But she knew how to run. So, run she did.

A patch of dirt caught her attention. Small circle of brown contrasting the great expanse of green. It hadn’t been there the day before. Odd. Curiosity compelled her forward, and curiosity paid off. As a foot just barely pressed upon the transitional point between grass and ‘dirt,’ the ground stirred, revealing it wasn’t ground at all. The carach was only the size of a football, but it attacked her with the ferocity of a lion. Fangs pierced her leg, injecting it with a paralyzing agent. But as it worked its way through her body, it couldn’t take hold. She knelt down, the carach still clinging to her leg, as if waiting for its toxins to strip her of all movement. She simply held it in her unaffected hands. It lurched forward, and after a moment of struggle, it escaped from her. It returned to its burrow. She fished out a tarp from her bag. Repeating the previous steps, the carach was once again in her grasp, but before it could escape her, she wrapped the tarp around its body, securing the ends in tight fists.

It fought. Desperately. Holes formed in the tarp as its eight legs went haywire. But not enough to fully rip. After a tense moment of struggle, on both the carach’s and Eilidh’s part, all motion ceased. Acceptance. She picked up the makeshift carach carrier. The contents gave one last struggle before calming again. But this all wasn’t a victory yet. She started running again, but slower, taking care not to jostle her unwilling companion. After a satisfying amount of distance was achieved between her last and current position, she opened the tarp. The carach sprung forward. When it landed, it immediately took off. Time to see if this would work. She watched as the creature scurried for a minute, before settling into the ground just as it had been when she first found it. Success!

She should probably get more tarps. Bigger tarps.

Turning back to where she came, she headed back for more supplies.

Into the Woods was a movie Anton enjoyed, though not everyone shared the notion. As he made his way through the park’s main trails, where the supposed tragedy had happened, Anton couldn’t help but hum along to the titular song that he was playing through his phone. Once he was where he thought he needed to be, the exact spot where the carachs consumed their hapless victims, he warily took out his spear and started prodding the forest floor. Since the eight-legged freaks were fond of burrowing into the ground, with their abdomens mimicking  piles of leaves, or even rocks, it was the best option he had to draw them out. If his spear made contact with any part of them, especially their abdomens, then they’d spring up, almost instinctively, but instead of pinning him to the ground, they’d be wrapping their long, spindly legs over his spear, and that would expose them, ripe for the slaying. “I’m such a freaking genius.”

Except, geniuses should have expected that there would be more than enough carachs to deal with, and some of those would be bigger than a mouse. It took Anton a couple of pokes on the ground but he managed to draw one out, a small carach, and immediately pierced it in its stomach. Carachs were venomous creatures, after all, and in this case, it was either them or him. He's been paralyzed by their bite before. Fortunately, he's never experienced the second type of carach venom. Until now.

At first, he thought it was just adrenaline rushing through his veins, the excitement of surviving an otherwise dangerous encounter. But then his heart beat continued to race, and faster it did so. "What the hell?" Taking a step back, he tried to force his eyes closed before opening them in a misguided attempt to "see better". He could feel his pulse now, his very heart breaking, as a vision of his daughter being taken away from him while he was utterly helpless, locked behind bars, trapped in a cage like some animal, haunted him in daylight. Looking around him, he realized his vision was also starting to blur. Panic was setting in. “Fucking spiders.” He uttered, cursing them, before dropping to the ground face-first, clutching his chest, struggling to reach something, someone, but he was alone. “Can’t believe... I’m gonna die... To these smug assholes…”

The two intercepted as she was on her way back to the main building. Barely crawling around on the ground, Eilidh almost missed him. She considered pretending she did. No one else was around. The forest was so, so, so big. And she was so, so, so busy. Who would fault her? But as a large carach made its move towards the easy meal, something inside her pushed her to act.

Skin crashed against exoskeleton, the force from her lunge sending both her and the carach falling into a nearby bush. As she tried to get her composure, she was met with long, sharp legs beating down on her. Enough to break skin, muscle. Enough to pierce through a chest. She punched one of those legs, enough to contort her wrist into a weird angle. She snapped it back into place. In a brief opening, she sent a kick into the hard abdomen hovering above, with enough force to shatter bone if she were human. The carach shivered and leapt back, unnerved by the attack on its vulnerable spot. Eilidh was free.

She rolled from the bush, using the propulsion to end the motion in a kneel. She unsheathed the dagger from her thigh. While she wanted to help the carachs, like hell she was going to let herself be a punching bag. The two watched each other, neither wanting to make the first move. The carach was the first to bow out, choosing to save its energy for easier prey. It disappeared behind the trees. For now.

She inspected the damages. Tears and rips littered her clothes, some even threatening to make her ‘indecent.’ Hidden within those tears were gashes and cuts that had already shown signs of healing. Could’ve been better, but not bad. She turned to the downed man. “See? I have it handled.” Part of her wondered if he could even hear her in his current state.

Even as he writhed on the damp ground of the national park, the feeling of death’s cold, icy grip tight around his panicked heart, Anton could not rein in a playful smirk, his dark brown eyes delighted at the sight of Eilidh, especially the ‘aftermath’ of the battle. 

“O-oh, hey!” He twitched under her feet, jaws and hands clenching as he tried to fight the carach’s venom. “You came looking for m-me? I was definitely wrong: ...you do c-care.” He tried to flash her his most charming smile yet but could only muster a weak one, barely a smile, more a wince or a grimace than anything else. “What are you?”

The “fractoxin” that was coursing through Anton’s veins might be dangerous in large doses, but the exterminator, despite how things appeared at the moment, was still a pest hunter, born and trained to deal with such monsters. As such, his body was a little more resistant to these things compared to that of regular humans, still not as resistant as what Eilidh was apparently, and he healed a bit faster, too. It helped that the predator only injected him with a small dose, enough for the sensation that tricked him into believing he was already at Death’s door when once again Death dared not have him anywhere close. Probably preferred a warm meal to a cold one.

It took his body some time to fully heal, though a sense of disorientation, dizziness, and a modicum of weakness still remained over him. Most hunters, at the realization that a small angry woman just saved them from a hungry carach, especially a pest hunter, would have been much warier at their presence, if not a little more apprehensive. Anton was not like most hunters, however, and he was more excited, if not simply interested, at the unexpected turn of events. 

Dragging himself to a nearby tree for a much-needed rest, gasping for air every now and then as he clutched his arm throughout, he gestured to where the dog-sized carach disappeared into with a smile. “That thing can’t roam free in the park... You know that, right? Unless you find a place for it, for them, more innocent, stupid people will die.” 

Her eyes squinted at the question. What are you? Eilidh could tell he was still fighting off the effects of the toxins. Perhaps he was even in a state of mind to not remember her words. But she refrained from the truth, or any type of answer. She went back to inspecting her clothes, trying to see what could and couldn’t be salvaged.

Hunger crept up inside her. Forming in the gut, then working its way until it resided deep in the mind. Not enough to make her lose control. But enough to be a constant thought in the back of her head. While the attack was brief, and she would walk away with no scars, the exertion still had a price. She stared off into the trees, thinking about what her next meal would be, when Anton’s words brought her back.

She thought about the tarp idea, then gave her body one last look over. The idea might work for all the little ones, but the one she just faced? No. It would tear anything she could find in short notice into confetti. Fuck. She wracked her brain for another idea. But her knowledge on the creature was limited, her experience even less so. So, nothing immediately came to mind. She couldn’t just tuck her tail in and give up, though. Not yet. Think, think! A scene from earlier replayed in her mind. One of her coworkers had described one of the gruesome deaths. A missing heart was one of the details. Hearts. That might work.

“Wait here.” She turned to leave but stopped halfway. While he seemed to be in better shape than before, it was clear Anton was in no shape to defend himself. One more departing thought. “Try not to die.” Into the treeline. She was gone.

Several minutes passed, and when she returned, she seemed in much higher spirits. Her clothes, on the other hand, had a new layer of dirt on them. One hand was red, stained in blood. Cradled in the hand was a heart that had recently lost its beat. “Don’t ask.” She lifted her hand. “They like hearts, yeah?” Without a word of explanation, she headed in the direction of where the carach had disappeared into, eyes intently facing the ground.

“Yes... Carachs eat hearts, and will often lay their eggs in empty chest cavities... Where did you get that?” Anton squinted at the bloody muscle she held when she returned. He had followed her when she disappeared, dark brown eyes on her like a moth to flame but made no effort to move, taking instead the opportunity to rest a while. He was already back on his feet, stretching his limbs and massaging his joints, when Eilidh came back.

“You know, it’s actually quite the theme since one of their two types of venom, fractoxin, gives their victim this feeling of heartbreak, and in large doses, that feeling becomes more of the actual thing.” With his hand rhythmically but softly tapping his chest, he mimics the sound of a heartbeat, once, twice, thrice, slowing down as he goes, before making the final one more of an explosion, a heart exploding, the complete opposite of what happens when the heart stops. “Some people actually farm the tiny ones. For the fractoxin. Sells good money in the…” He cuts himself off, finally realizing that he’s been explaining too much, especially to someone he wasn’t sure yet was of the same community. ...supernatural community.

“Wait!” Anton instinctively followed her when she started to leave, grabbing his spear along the way. He didn’t even get to tell her of their proportions and exoskeleton, how injuring them without a sharp weapon like his would be tough. Those legs, not unlike hers, were pretty damn dangerous, too. Is she also a climber? “We need to strike them in the stomach, where they’re vulnerable! Or toss them into the sea or at least a nearby lake!”

When he caught up with her, his eyes grew wide in horror. Well, more of surprise than actual fear. Anton didn’t fear a lot of things. Or at least he tells himself that every time he goes to sleep. Some glowing rift in time and space, an interdimensional portal of sorts, from which a slime-covered overgrown spider, most likely the same one that tried to eat him earlier, was struggling with its two free legs to pull itself away? Anton didn’t fear that. Definitely not. He gulped. “...or that. That looks like a good place to leave them in.”

Eilidh took note of the information he freely offered. Fractoxin. Nice to put a name to what she assumed the smaller carach had shot into her leg. Seeing an example of the effects, she wasn’t surprised they farmed for it. Just concerned about how it was given… or taken. Concern for another time. The mention of a freshwater body was interesting. She had been under the—misguided it seemed—impression that only salt water affected carachs. Looks like she had some reading to do. 

He seemed to know a lot about carachs. Was it a result of having to adjust to White Crest, or were supernatural creatures his real targets? Either way, she stored the knowledge for future use. But the context it was given brought her eyebrows down, scowl forming. “There’s no we. I’m trying to relocate them. Or did that fractoxin fuck with your head?” She flicked her hand at him, meant to emphasize her point. But the motion caused a few drops of blood to be flung out. An apology wasn’t given.

The sight before her made all sourness inside her crumble away. A giant, glowing gash hovered just a few feet away. It was like the very universe had been wounded. Or perhaps it was more like a mouth. A mouth that was in the middle of a meal. Ensnared in slime, a poor carach tried to free itself from its great maw. Its remaining legs scurried desperately against the ground. Puncture marks littered the soil before it, yet it did not, could not, move forward. Only enough strength to keep it in that same, desperate spot. But that strength was waning, and it started to slip. Slip. Slip. In one last attempt, it stabbed the earth with all limbs, keeping it in that desperate spot. A second passed. Strength failed it once more. It was sucked into the wound. Gone.  

Eilidh blinked. Turning to Anton in the brief calm, she broke it with, “Do you think-” Something shot out at her. It gripped her tight, trapping her in that very same slime. Before she could even attempt to free herself, the world around her became a blur. It exploded into lights as she met the same fate as the carach. By the time she could process what had happened, she found herself tumbling, tumbling, tumbling down a wet tunnel. She grabbed a knife. Made it pierce into her new surroundings. The descent abruptly stopped. But she would not find peace. Just as the knife struck, a loud rumble shook the tunnel, carrying Eilidh along for the ride. It almost caused her to lose grip as moisture perforated everything. But her hands managed to hold firm. While the sound was all encompassing, based on the vibrations on her legs, she could tell it came adjacent to her. She looked up. Light shined down from her. But it came and went. Almost flashing, but not quite. She stared harder. Something disrupted the light on the edges. Something pointed.

Teeth.

“Oooooh, ya think you’re gonna eat me, huh?” Pulling out her other knife, she stabbed it just above where the first was struck. Her world shook again as the great sound pierced into everything. But still, she managed to hold. And so, she started to climb up. 

Anton has had blood splattered all over his face before but not like this. Never like this. Eilidh was not a gentle “first time”, he frowned, heaving a sigh as she continued to be rude at him. If he had the time to think, maybe in a few hours after this hellish encounter should he survive, he would realize that her reactions were perfectly normal. From the way things have developed, she did not seem like she was, well, normal. His late grandfather had told him stories about certain “weirdness” in White Crest, though for his part, Anton has had encounters with sentient creatures other than humans and hunters, creatures that pretended to be normal but weren’t, with some of those encounters even...intimate.

Shaking his head vigorously, he tried to shake those thoughts off, away. Now was not the time to go down “sexy memory lane”, Anton, he cursed himself in his head. Half-expecting Eilidh to lecture him yet again, he was caught surprised when she cut herself off, and in a split-second of panic, he found his hands dropping his spear, instead instinctively trying to grab at the strange woman, trying to pull her back to safety. There were no other thoughts that cluttered his mind. In that moment, he was focused on doing one thing and one thing alone: Not let the angry woman get taken by the interdimensional reproductive organ, as if she were a baby about to get reabsorbed by Mother Space-Time. “Fuck!”

Alas, Anton was ill-equipped to do that one thing. He found his hands slipping, the blood on hers not helping one bit. He managed to stand his ground, however, keep himself from falling back, to the ground on his ass. In one fluid motion, he gritted his teeth, furious at his own failure, before grabbing his spear and chucking himself into the portal. If the Girl was here, she would’ve described it as yeeting. 

Through the tunnel, he flew, though his eyes were closed as he tried his hardest to keep himself from screaming, barely succeeding. When it was all said and done, he landed with a sloppy thud a few steps behind Eilidh, a few seconds after her, like something just spat him out, his flavor a little too much for the universe's palate. “Well, that was a trip.” He quipped as he grabbed his spear tightly, having done the same as her, pierced what he could of the so-called tunnel to keep himself from getting swallowed by wherever, or whatever, he had been spat out into. Eyes adjusting to the blinking light from up above, he found the familiar form he had tried to save but failed, following right after her, using one of the many small knives he always had on his person whenever he was on a job. “I fucking hate this town.”

It took them some time, not helped by the fact that they were going against the grain, or something resembling that in wherever they were, but they managed to find solid respite from all the chaos and confusion. At least what resembled respite in wherever they were. Anton had learned not too long ago to abandon what he knew of mundane physics, which wasn't much to even begin with, when things like this were concerned. The exterminator may be one step above the mundane, but he was not a magic man, a spellcaster, and with the exception of the gifts he had received as a hunter, some he was born with, others he was trained for, he wasn't that far from being mundane himself. “Where the hell are we?”

Right as he asked that, the entirety of the tunnel shook again, as if an entire world was breaking in of itself. Anton turned behind him, his instincts telling him that something was about to happen from that very direction. “Uhh… Macleod? You might want to grab hold of some—” And just like that he was spat out again. Like a fish bone caught in a massive velvet worm’s throat. “I really fucking hate this town.”

While her ascent had started strong, the progress was… lacking. It was hard to climb a mountain when it was covered in slime and tried to buck you off like an angry horse. To make matters worse, the flesh wasn’t always so firm against her weight. Sometimes a puncture accidentally became a slash as it gave and she slid. Eliminating much needed progress. And further accelerating the bucking. Every motion had a consequence. The biggest would be found in letting go. “Fuck!” Again, she stabbed the flesh. “Fuck!” Again, she tensed as everything around shook violently. “Fuck this!” Again, she pulled herself up.

There was commotion from above, something that disturbed the light that was her destination. It rapidly grew until it became a man tumbling toward her, which she narrowly dodged. The whatever-the-hell the two were stuck in gave another shake, this time not caused by her. Once motion ceased, she dared a glance down. Anton looked up at her. Not knowing the noble origins of his arrival, she assumed he got taken off guard, same as her. “Really? I’d love to be in town right now, to be honest. Not this shit.” Especially since she had plans. Oh fuck, right! She had plans! Hopefully she wouldn’t keep Milo waiting too long.

With a small burst of determination, she continued upward. But her arms started to shake under the stress. Moisture punctured through her hands, her clothes, everything. It was suffocating. All encompassing. Like the cave. No, no, no, no, no, no. She needed to get out soon, wherever this was. “We’re on our way to be dinner, is what.” Her previous fire was starting to die. She was trapped. She was trapped again. Again. Trapped. Again. She needed her bliss. She needed her bliss. An unsteady hand searched desperately for it. “Fuck you, cunt!” She barked up at the taunting light.

The use of her name triggered something within her, her lost bite. “Who the hell told you-” She looked down, but Anton did not hold her attention for long. The same mucus that coated the walls of their prison was bubbling below them. Closer. And closer. One second it enveloped Anton. The next, herself. And finally, the two were flung onto solid ground.

Ground! Precious ground! She started kissing it passionately. But something was off. Pulling back, she stared down at the grass. Except, it wasn’t really grass. Deep inside, something told her what lay before lacked life. Lacked a soul. She looked around. Everything was like that. Trees covered the area, but she felt no comfort with them. Clearly distressed, she rapidly flung her head around, searching for something, anything. But her, Anton, and that thing, they were the only creatures to be seen. No buzz of an insect, song of a bird, or rustle of leaves. Just hollow trees.

Small hope was found when that same glowing gash came into view. Except it looked like it had been reflected into a mirror. Reversed, like a door. It must be a gateway! “Look!” She pointed it out to Anton. “Let’s get the fuck out-” The massive creature spewed its inner contents all over the ground again, and Eilidh had the misfortune of being covered in another layer of muck and gunk. It seemed like her torment would be coming to end as the flow slowed when thunk —something came crashing into her head. She fell onto her back with a squelch, the projectile landing right beside her. A key. Something seemingly small and inconsequential, but as she stared, her pupils dilated. Inner voice told her to take it, take it, take it! Following her impulses, she snatched the thing and struggled to get back on her feet.

The moment he felt something gross begin to swallow him up from beneath him, Anton immediately closed his eyes and held his breath. He knew that whatever would follow would be nothing he would enjoy, and he has enjoyed a plethora of questionable things, both morally and legally. He was right, for once in his life, and although it was technically not the worst thing he’s bathed himself in, he was relieved to find himself on solid ground once more, trying his best to get the gunk off of him properly. For fuck’s sake. 

It didn’t take him long to notice that something wasn’t right. Because it never really is. Shaking as much of the disgusting muck off of him, off of his clothes, he squinted as he wiped his eyes off of them as well, only to be greeted by not even a buzzing bee. Wasn’t it bee season? From everything bee-related that has happened to him in the past few weeks, his train of thought would be understandably logical. Yet nothing else was logical about where they were. At least the Girl isn’t here. That must be why it’s so quiet, so peaceful, so bliss— His train of thought was derailed when he laid eyes on the fucking thing that ate them. “What the hell is that thing? Jabba the LSD Hutt? That better not be a bug, I swear to god.”

Anton wouldn’t even have noticed the portal if Eilidh hadn’t screamed at him, his entire attention on their would-have-been predator. At the very least, he saw it coming, the creature puking yet again, allowing him to avoid most of the vomit that unfortunately Eilidh could not. Oh, man, my shoes. He whined in his head when a splatter of gunk from Eilidh flew on his shoes, which were already covered in more muck not too long ago. Then he realized something: His hands were not holding anything. Ah, fuck. His dark brown eyes wandered from them to the giant worm thing. It’s fucking stuck in its throat, isn’t it? That would explain its continual vomiting. That and the many stabbings Eilidh did on its insides.

Turning towards Eilidh when something hit her on her head, Anton finally caught a glimpse of the portal, that interdimensional moo-moo. Fuck it, we’re out of here. Not even hesitating to leave Eilidh behind, the exterminator wrapped his hands around her waist and just freaking hightailed it out of there, using his newfound adrenaline to yeet them both out of the gloomy hellhole like a pair of slippers his mother used to aim at his head whenever he became too annoying to deal with. 

Unfortunately, Anton was never a trained wrestler and both of them were more or less slippery from the giant creature’s vomit, so he struggled to keep his hands and arms around her, exerting more effort than was necessary, his face contorted in pain. “We’re gonna live past forty!” He screamed to keep his mind on something else.

The next thing he knew, he was lying down on his back, his vision a little blurry. He could almost take a nap then and there, his body exhausted. But then he remembered what just happened, the absolute grossness of it all, and did otherwise. Wiping more of the puke from his face, he just laid there, dark brown eyes staring at the sky, wondering if this was all worth anything. “Being alive takes so much effort.” He groaned. Oh, man, my spear.

Before she could fully rise, Eilidh felt hands on her. Instincts taking over, she struggled against their hold: fists struck against his back, legs kicked at his thighs. A scream rumbled in her chest, ready for release. But as Anton headed for the gateway, slipping and sliding along the unsteady ground but onward all the same, she realized what was going on. Oh. Confusion froze her, and amusement at his shitty attempt to navigate against all odds made her unsure how to react. The scream died before it began, and her limbs calmed: acceptance.

Facing opposite their retreat, she was able to fully focus on the creature for the first time. Under different circumstances, she would’ve been fascinated by the size, the beautiful colors, the entrancing eyes. Instead, she just looked at it with mild curiosity, dampened by frustration. It looked, no, glared back. It still quivered and rumbled from the ordeal, but it was quickly gaining composure. And was prepared to dish out some much needed punishment. From a protrusion on its head, the slime from before shot out, meant for them but it missed its mark. Instead, a tree a few meters from them became engulfed. The ooze shifting into a crystal prison was the last sight she saw before entering the gateway. Then everything blurred. And then became blinding.

Despite being able to focus this time, the second go-around was still as disorienting. She closed her eyes against the onslaught of lights. Crashing into the ground snapped them back open. She flopped on the hard surface like a dead fish; the impacts sounding just the same. She came to an ungraceful stop. Eyes quickly inspected her surroundings. A moth flew above nose. Life! The sight made her almost cry. She looked on further, up to the lively trees dancing in the wind, to the beautiful stars twinkling at her. Wait, stars? When did it become night time? Who cares, they were back. “Fuck whatever that was,” she grunted. “And don’t grab me like that again. That was terrible.” Despite her words, there was a hint of a chuckle on her lips.

The two enjoyed the well-earned peace, just laying there.

Which was the perfect position to avoid the slime projectile. It sped pass from above, missing them by a few inches. A bitter whisper hissed out of her, “Chan e seo a-rithist…” She turned her head just in time to see another mass of slime shoot out of the gateway. When that also failed to make contact with either of them, a third rocketed by. “Looks like someone’s pissed.” After the fourth slime also missed its target, the attempts ceased. But she doubted the creature gave up so quickly. She swatted at the closest thing of Anton’s she could, his shoes, in order to get his attention. “Get behind it.” She pointed at the gateway. With no idea how long this standstill would last, there was no time for explanations. Rolling onto her stomach, she quickly crawled, like a competitive baby, until the quieted rift was behind her. Supposedly safe—as long as the gateway only worked one-way—she finally rose to resting on her knees.

The motion jostled the mysterious key in her pocket. She suddenly remembered its presence. Right. That. A chill ran up her spine at the thought of it. With a shake of her head, it passed. For now. 

For a moment or two, Anton felt relieved at the sound of Eilidh’s voice, so relieved in fact that a short-lived chuckle escaped from his lips. Then he made the mistake of running his gunk-ridden hand over his mouth. Fucking hell. At least he still had the wits to NOT accidentally taste the damned thing. Gross. His brain was too distracted by the combined effort of what the fuck just happened and what the hell was still on him to realize the day had abandoned him, throwing him to the mercy of the dark night sky with only a spattering of stars to keep it all appropriately beautiful. 

Catching a glimpse of Eilidh’s hand, Anton turned towards her, wary about getting slapped for all his trouble. Then he found himself immediately surprised when he noticed more of the slime flying through the air. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Monkey see, monkey do, and Anton was on his belly before he knew it, crawling behind the portal. “Your park is super weird, lady.” Although he didn’t remember outright Eilidh’s suspiciously defensiveness towards her name, his subconscious helped him make the better decision to go with something else than his mispronounced rendition of what her parents had given her.  

Once behind enemy lines, or at least the enemy’s line of sight, he helped himself off the ground, though only sitting to catch his breath for a few seconds, a much-needed respite from everything else that had happened. His dark brown eyes wandered over Eilidh, his ears catching the brief jostling in her pocket. For another moment or two, he just stared at her before breaking out in laughter as the portal started slowly collapsing in on itself, as if it was never there, as if it never tried to be their grave. 

“Well,” He groaned as he forced himself back on his feet, battered and bruised. “I guess that’s that. Client only made mention of a single overgrown spider, and from the looks of things, that’s been taken care of.” He offered her a hand to help her back on her feet as well, more out of instinct than anything. As a pest hunter, Anton knew full well how it was better to fight together when there were more than one of him instead of doing otherwise, and both of them on their feet could prevent more surprises. “All’s well that ends well…”

By far, this was ostensibly the weirdest shit that has ever happened to Anton since he moved into town. The insect monsters were a given, considering his family’s history, but an interdimensional portal to god knows where and that freakishly massive monster? Now those would make for a great story. Now, however, he needed a bath and maybe dinner. He wondered if the Girl, the receptionist he inherited from his late grandfather, had already closed the office. She probably did, considering how she never liked to wait for him. Besides, she probably had more homework to worry about. Guess it’s dinner alone again. Beer and something that’s definitely not soup. He’s had enough soupy shit for the day.

Eyes locked. Body motionless. Eilidh’s fingers curled around the remaining dagger. Eyes focused. Body tensing. A predator ready to pounce. The gateway shifted; movement at last. But she was ready this time. Lifting her dagger, she—

The gateway disappeared.

Ah.

Laughter filled the air. In that moment of bewilderment and relief, Eilidh couldn’t help but offer her own. Everything was funnier when you were tired and a touch delirious. But it died in her throat when she remembered who she was laughing with. A cough replaced it. Her hand went to the ground. It played with the soil which had previously been bathed in otherworldly light. Otherwordly. The dirt rested on her fingers, unaware and uncaring of what had played above it. It sprinkled back to the rest of its brethren.

Gateways didn’t just appear. And there was no guarantee it wouldn’t happen again. There must’ve been something that caused it, right? Nothing seemed out of the ordinary; if there were secrets she would have to dig, perhaps literally. Maybe this was a special place, where the separation of this world and not was thin, easy to bend. Or tear. Her back straightened, searching hands retreating back to herself. An apology to the area lay on her tongue. But, wait, shouldn’t the Park know about something like that? Well, there were a lot of shoulds the Park refused to do. In fact, Anton just alluded to one of them. Despite her efforts, the carach died anyway. But a sense of defeat failed to find her. There was a silver lining. Its death provided nutrients for that massive creature on the other side of the door. Maybe they were connected. Like that fallen carach, maybe it used the gateway as its trapdoor. Hidden, until unsuspecting prey stumbled by. Maybe it sealed the gateway when the prey started biting back. Maybe, maybe.

Ignoring the offered hand, she stood, a dull ache pulsing through her limbs, but it was ultimately fatigue that wanted to pull her back down. “Are you gonna mention the giant caterpillar, or just claim all their hard work?” A twinkle of mirth lay in her eyes, but buried in exhaustion. Not really caring for an answer, she shooed him away with a flick of her wrist. “Bye now.” Hopefully he’d actually leave this time, his ‘duty’ fulfilled. She returned to surveying her surroundings. But gravity wanted to return her to the ground. And hunger told her to run, to hunt. She debated if it was worth looking for answers, or to just go back to her place, since she wasn’t in the mood for—Dance Macabre! Fuck! She fished out her phone. Her newly broken phone. Gunk seeped into every crevice, leaving nothing untouched. No matter how many times her thumb smashed on a button, no light came. Milo would just have to have fun without her. She stuffed it back where she found it with a huff.

Camel’s back officially broken, and curiosity no longer able to fuel her, she decided to leave the questions for another day. Let the Park fence off the area for some bullshit reason, and she’ll sneak in with the darkness of night to keep her secret. Either to find answers or wait and see if anything unfolds. But for now, as crickets chirped, and foxes chittered, and the breeze whistled by, reminding her she was alive, surrounded by life. It was time to return to her roots.

Retrieving her bag, she took off. Muscles cried at the strain, but teeth chattered in excitement. The thrill of the hunt. After a distance, her tattered clothes proved too restricting, the coat of slime stiffening, as if it too wished to turn crystal. So, she removed the garments. Naked under the starlight. And kept running. Running. Searching for prey.

[END]

[morgana-ren]

Imagine being at a Halloween party thrown by Dabi and someone in a Leatherface costume keeps following you. It turns out to be Shigaraki. You comment on how his human skin mask is cool and how it looks so real, and oddly looks like Bakugo's face. He laughs, tosses it away and leads you to a field of pumpkins, where he non cons you, while Spooky Scary Skeletons plays in the background.

Okay listen, I know this was probably sent in 200 percent as a joke, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to sit down for an hour and make it work. It’s been a weird week. I can make weird work. 

Like imagine kinda knowing Dabi before the league goes super big. You don’t know too much about him, but he’s a friend of a friend and so on and he’s got the dangerous bad boy appeal alongside those haunting blue eyes, so all ya friends hover around him. So lets say you get invited to his spooky-dooky Halloween party he’s throwin’ in an old warehouse. It’s sort of his last hurrah cause it’s a lot harder to try and bone civvie girls when you’re a wanted villain with your face on the news attached to a criminal group, so he’s gunna throw it back tonight and take what he can get, you feel?

So you and ya friends get all cute and dolled up in your costumes and head out to this bash that’s taking place on the wrong side of the tracks in some godforsaken warehouse. It’s in the industrial zone, which is comprised of nothing but abandoned buildings, squat houses, and old warehouses. You’re pretty sure he just found one and broke the chain on the door and called it a night. That should be your first clue, but fuck it, what’s life without a little risk?

Anyway, a few hours pass and admittedly, you’re a lil’ drunk. That being said, you could swear this dude in a leatherface costume is stalking you. Maybe not stalking you, per say, but he’s definitely trying hard to be where you are. It’s not like he’s easy to confuse with anyone else; his costume is super unique, and if you’re being honest, a little disturbing. It legit looks like that kid Bakugo from the Sports Festival but forcefully mutated in with the classic Leatherface look. Whoever it is, they’ve definitely got an edgy sense of humor. It should spook you, but it’s Halloween for fucks sake! At least they’re putting some effort in! It’s no coincidence that you see him literally everywhere you go, so maybe he likes you?

Maybe he’s cute under that creepy mask.

It’s worth a shot (get it, shot?), so you let him follow you to the bar and sit down next to an equally empty seat, hoping to give off the vibe of ‘quit being creepy and come talk to me.’ 

A few seconds later and surprise surprise, he sits down right beside you. No sense in pretending this is anything other than what it is, so you turn right to him and offer to buy him a drink. 

He stares at you for a minute, beady pupils surveying you beneath that godawful mask he’s donning before he nods. He doesn’t tell you what he wants, so you just order him whatever mixture of gasoline and fruit you get. He just stares at you while you sip at your own drink, and you can’t help but laugh. His eyes are fuckin’ intense, and while you’re already a little tipsy, it’s pretty clear he’s dead sober. Luckily, alcohol gives you a charming ice breaker. 

“It’s probably a little difficult to drink with that terrifying thing on your face, but I really appreciate your dedication to the look.” 

Behind the holes of the mask, his eyes crinkle near the edges. You can’t tell if he’s smiling or snarling, but he’s definitely reacting to what you’re saying. He must’ve decided that he likes you, because he finally reaches behind his head and loosens whatever makeshift strap that’s tangled in his silver, ‘fake’ blood matted hair. 

As he lets it fall away from his face, you study what’s underneath. He’s a little rough around the edges, a little chapped with dry skin and more than a few blisters on his pale lips, but he’s cute and the costume has you intrigued. For all you know, it could be liquid latex. The guy seems pretty dedicated after all. It makes you wonder what is Halloween paint and what’s his actual skin. You kinda wanna lick him and find out.

Shut up, alcohol. 

“It’s homemade.” He rasps out, voice cracking and strained like he hasn’t spoken in days. After a sip of his own drink, he slips a subtle smile as he sees you eying the grotesque costume piece. “I’m glad you like it.”

It’s gross to say the least. Whatever it’s made out of, it’s certainly not plastic or rubber like most masks. It smells atrocious, especially coupled with the must and cheap booze of the warehouse, and it makes you a little queasy as it flops around in his lap a little too lifelike for your liking. It even has pores, for Christ’s sake. Tearing your gaze away from it isn’t easy, but if you look much longer, you’re not really sure what your stomach is gunna do, so you turn your attentions to the owner instead. 

“Are you making a statement or just not a fan of the would-be hero types?”

He giggles a little even though you’re not entirely sure what you said was funny. “I guess you could say it’s both.” 

You sit in an awkward silence, sipping at your drink for a few minutes before another wave of alcohol induced courage lights a fire under your ass. If he won’t talk, you sure as fuck will.

“So, are you a friend of Dabi’s or-” He scoffs, loud and hard, lip curling in distaste. “No. I’m unfortunate enough to know him. We work together.” 

“Really? I always wondered what he did for a living.” 

It takes him a second to realize that’s you’re prodding, and a minute longer to come up with an answer. “I guess you could say we’re sort of... activists or something.” 

“Is that so? He never really struck me as the generous type.”

“He’s not.” He grins like a fox in a henhouse, mischievous and sly like he knows something you don’t. “And I’m not either.” 

“Then why be an activist?” 

His smirk fades, and he nurses his drink, flicking his eyes away from you. “I dunno.”

“What kind of activist are you? Like social or environmental or-” 

“Uh-” He clearly wasn’t expecting this line of questioning. “Political.” 

“Oh, that’s cool! What kind of politics are you guys into? You seem like the anarchy sort to me, but I don’t wanna judge-”

“Are you always this nosy?”

His sudden hostility takes you back a little. Sure, you’re drunk and annoying, but that seems a bit excessive. Maybe this isn’t the tree you want to be barking up tonight. 

“Sorry. I was just trying to get to know you.” 

You turn your body away from him slightly, returning your gaze to the rusted metal behind the makeshift bar. You can see him glaring you down out of your periphery but opt to ignore it. Regardless, he stares for a few more moments before downing the rest of the drink you apparently wasted your money on.  “Well, don’t.” 

Whatever, man. It’s a fucking Halloween party. You can find a different jerk-ass to hook up with, one who at least pretends to be nice until the night is over. Dicks are a dime a dozen in a place like this, and the ‘super mysterious, if I told you, I’d have to kill you’ bullshit charade he’s playing is grating on your nerves. Part of you wants to tell him off for being so rude, but the other part is telling you to just shut up, project your disinterest, and wait for him to leave.

You huff a small sigh, blowing the air out of your puckered lips as you roll your eyes behind closed lids. Your side of the conversation comes to an abrupt halt, and suddenly everything in the room is more interesting than he is. Yet even with the uncomfortable awkward air around you both, he doesn’t leave. He just continues scanning you over as you do your best to give him the cold shoulder. So he really thinks there’s any sort of comeback from that, huh?

Apparently he does. He’s not very good with social hints either. You’ve almost tuned him out when you feel a bony hand clutching your upper arm. 

“Hey, come with me. This place is boring and I’ve got something I want to show you.” 

You turn, shooting him a disbelieving glare, but he’s already slid off his bar stool and is pulling you along with him. He doesn’t bother to wait for your answer, weaving through the crowds and dragging you behind him even as you try to wiggle your arm out of his grasp. Had you been in your right mind, you might have screamed or shoved him and told him to get lost, but your liquor marinated mind makes it difficult. He’s kinda right, after all. This place has gotten boring. All your friends left you behind an hour ago to go find their own conquests and dancing by yourself gets pretty lame after a minute. It’s not like you had anything better to do. 

Alright, fine. Follow the rude guy. He seems pretty adamant about it anyway. 

You try to justify it by telling yourself maybe he’s just super socially awkward or doesn’t have much experience with girls. He could also be one of those super brash, brutally honest people that just says whatever comes to mind. Maybe he didn’t mean it in a mean way. A trailing history of terrible taste in men leaves his unbridled rudeness with a bad taste in your mouth, but it wasn’t like you were planning on seeing him again after tonight. Ride the dick and then ride off into the sunset. 

You both dodge through the groups of people together as he yanks you towards the very back of the warehouse. The couple of doors he leads you through have a fairly prominent ‘Do Not Enter’ sign cautioning at eye level, but he doesn’t seem dissuaded, pulling you through the heavy doors despite the clear warning. A few hallways and dim, empty corridors later and he’s ushering you into something resembling a claustrophobic courtyard outside that joins the warehouse with a few of the surrounding buildings.

It’s very dark outside, and aside from the slight shine of ugly yellow tinted streetlights peeking through the alleyway, you can’t see much of anything. You can’t imagine what on Earth it is out here that he wants to show you, but you doubt you’ll even be able to see it. Anxiety starts to bloom in your chest as your drunk mind starts to realize that you’ve followed a stranger out into a very dark, very isolated area.

“H-hey, I never got your name.”

He laughs softly, coming up behind you and gripping your shoulders in a way that feels all too tight. Steering you forward, he leans in, feet falling in line with your steps.

“You’re right. My bad, that’s awfully rude of me.”

He pushes you forward in a way that seems a bit intense for having just met before latching his hands lazily around the base of your neck and pulling you into his chest.

“I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t know what Dabi does for a living, or else you never would have been stupid enough to follow me out here.”

Okay, it’s Halloween and all, but his brand of prank is starting to feel a little too real. The macabre costume and total boorishness should have been the insight you needed to come to the conclusion that this guy just isn’t quite right in the head, but between the alcohol and your desire to give him the benefit of the doubt, it just never quite clicked for you.

“It’s Shigaraki, by the way. My name. I’m sure you’ve heard it before.”

His wet breath on your neck isn’t the only reason you get shivers. You have heard that name before, only never spoken so casually. His fingers tighten around the tensing muscles in your throat as you swallow down a bombardment of emotion. Panic. Fear. Realization.

There’s a million and ten things going through your mind right now, the foremost of which is why. You aren’t a hero, nor are you a particularly fervent hero supporter. You’re not related to any heroes, and frankly, there’s no one further from the social/cultural hub that is hero society. Isn’t that what this guy gets his rocks off to? At least from the news snippets, that’s the impression you gathered.

You want to ask him why you. Maybe its a selfish question but it’s a question none the less, and one people tend to ask when their place on the mortal coil is being threatened. Yet, no matter how you try to spit out the words, your tongue stills in your dry mouth and refuses to cooperate. The pounding in your chest is giving way to a headache and a serious case of sick, and you swear between the loud pulsing of blood in your veins, you can hear him giggling behind you.

You think maybe that’s a strong enough cue to leave. You can ask him why when you’re separated by a thick layer of glass at Tartarus.

You know, it’s easy to sit back in the comfort of your own home and laugh at the clumsy heroine in any given horror movie who fumbles away from the killer like a newborn fawn just discovering its own lanky legs, but you’re quick to understand just why that troupe is so popular. It takes you a moment to gather the courage to turn on your heel and shove him hard on the chest, and even when you manage, it’s so weak and pathetic that it barely knocks him off balance. It only just gives you enough space that you can dart in the opposite direction. Where you’re going, you have no clue, but it’s not on the forefront of your mind as you pound pavement beneath your shitty costume shoes and shout “Stay away from me!” like some cliche damsel in distress.

Your adrenaline fueled getaway is short lived. A few seconds after beginning your feverish sprint away from what you know to be a very dangerous young fellow, the front of your foot catches on something and sends you toppling to the ground only a few feet from where you began your initial rush. Your fall is less than graceful, and the shriek that emits from your throat before your body thuds to the dirt like a sack of potatoes is far less sexy than anything in any horror movie. The bag you’ve been clutching, filled with nothing but the bare essentials and a half empty flask, is flung from your fingers. Your assailant doesn’t slow-walk towards you in a menacing manner while wielding a knife, but practically jogs over, wheezing with nasally laughter as he grabs you by the hair.

“I bet that went a lot better in your head, huh?”

A lot of things went a lot better in your head, to be fair. That scene. This night. Your life in general. But the little pity party you’re throwing yourself does little to garner his sympathies. No amount of hiccuping and crying fat gobs of tears that leak from your lashes and down into the Halloween makeup it took you hours to do elicits any response from him but what he had already planned on.

His laughter finally dies down and the fingers threaded through your hair manhandle you to your knees before roughly casting you down onto something. Something hollow yet sturdy greets your sensitive, liquor addled stomach as he forces you down and bends you over it. It feels slightly waxy, yet organic to the touch, and seems to wobble around slightly the more he kicks and prods you into a position you’ve seen one too many times in those shitty free pornos.

Pumpkin. It’s a fucking pumpkin.

You can smell the leaves and grass and sodden soil as he positions your hips up in the air, shucking off the costume apron he’d been wearing. Dirt embeds under your finger nails as you struggle to drag the rest of your body over the pumpkin to make your escape, but the hand that isn’t currently fumbling with his zipper is still tightly anchored in your hair, holding you in place. He hisses out a few words warning you against struggling too hard, his quirk is uncontrollable after all.

He makes quick work of the cheap costume bottom, inhaling a ragged breath and digging his jagged nails in a little too tightly to your skin when your ass becomes bared to the cool night air. The sight of you must’ve made him impatient, as he settles for simply yanking up your top along your back to expose your tits instead of going through the effort to try and get it off you. If what you’ve heard is true, he could simply dust it and be rid of it, but he doesn’t seem like he’s in the most centered form of mind right now, and it doesn’t appear like it’s your death he’s after.

No, it seems like he’s after something much more intimate than death.

Your mind is acutely aware of what’s about to happen, but it’s trapped in your paralyzed body, unable to force your heavy limbs to move with the weight of the panic. He’s freed himself from his pants, knuckles bumping against the cleft of your ass with every jerk of the cock that you thank God is hidden from your vision. After a few rigorous pumps, he withdraws for a moment before spitting and dribbling his slick saliva into the palm of his hand, coating his cock and using it as a makeshift lubricant.

When he’s finished making spitting sounds that make your stomach church, he lines his hips against your reluctantly spread legs and you feel the hot, thick tip prodding against the tautly pulled walls of your entrance. It’s enough to renew your childlike kicking and whining, babbling and pleading for him to stop. Regardless, he pays you no mind, opting only to yank his hand from the roots of your hair. It stings and he takes several strands of hair with it, but you don’t have time to focus on the pain as his fingertips dig into the fat of your cheeks, flexing and forcing you to look up at him as he hunches his wiry frame over yours.

It’s hard to see through the haze of tears that blear your vision and thick black makeup caking around your eyes, but you can make out that he’s smiling. If you can call it that, that is. Cracked lips wet and parted, breathing hot, moist breath down onto your forehead. Lips curled upward in a nasty, smarmy grin. A slimy tongue trails along his teeth as he practically drools down onto your shoulder like you’re a thick cut of venison and he’s a rabid wolf ready to sink in his canines.

“You know, I never cared much for Halloween,” His hips cant forward ever so slightly and begins to push the tip inside your unwilling hole. Slowly, slowly at first, but soon with more force. It hurts, morphing from a dull ache into an intense sting the more his girthy length is stuffed snug inside between your thighs. “But Dabi was right- it’s a lot more fun when you dress up.”

To punctuate the end of his sentence, he pulses his hips forward, sinking himself all the way inside and watching with a sick sense of glee as your face contorts in pain. He rolls his hips experimentally against your backside a few times, hissing in slight discomfort at the bittersweet tightness that strangles his flesh inside of yours. It stills him only for a brief moment, long enough for you to truly grasp the horrendous sensation of your body molding to accommodate something too large for it to have been ready to take.

However uncomfortable he may be, it’s nothing compared to what you’re feeling. It seems like a cruel joke that the wanted villain who set his sights on you that night would also have a monster cock, but Halloween was always the devil’s little prank show. He’s crammed it inside you with no regard for the damage it might do, pain radiating in the deep of your stomach as his cockhead is scrunched firmly against the wall of your cervix. Your fingers dig deeper into the dirt, but not to escape. You’re aware you’re too firmly impaled on him for that to be an option, so you settle for trying to give yourself any sensation at all that will lessen the unholy tear of your already sensitive pussy.

Eventually he decides he’s had enough of memorizing your pretty, anguished face, and his movements begin anew. Hips pistoning in a building rhythm, flesh of his thighs slapping obscenely against your bare ass. The protruding stem of the pumpkin grates into your abdomen, forcing pained, breathy ‘ah’s from you with every powerful hump. The anguishing drag of his cock assaulting your insides begins to blend together one after the next, and you do your best to block out the animalistic grunts and a sickening moans he emits with every thrust.

Eventually he lets your face go in favor of sinking his fingers just below your waist to anchor you in place as he pounds away, and you take the opportunity to drop your head in defeat and clench your eyes shut. He’ll get bored of you or he’ll cum. It’s what comes after that you should really be worried about. By the sounds he’s making, he’s far from losing interest. He seems to be getting a bit carried away, muttering something along the lines of “take it, slut” and needing to celebrate holidays more often.

That’s when you hear it.

Spooky, scary, skeletons send shivers down your spine

At first, you think it’s a joke. Like you’re having some sort of twisted nightmare and reality has finally decided to throw you a bone to lead your consciousness back home. But his manic fucking never stops and neither does the pain.

Shrieking souls with shock your soul, seal your doom tonight

A few blinks to clear the fresh wave of agony and one hand digging into the side of the pumpkin to stable yourself enough against his rutting to search for the source of the noise. There’s a glowing light a few feet from you, flashing and vibrating but just out of reach.

Your phone. It’s your phone. Your bag had landed not far from where he had you pinned, and your phone had been thrown from the bag.

Your new October ringtone plays through the damaged speakers, flashing your best friends face on the screen. She’s looking for you, probably wondering where you went. She’d never find you here. No one would.

We’re so sorry skeletons, you’re so misunderstood

Help is so close, yet so far away. Your sobs begin anew, feeling his cock pulse as he whines something about breeding his pretty little bitch into your ear. He’s cumming inside you, papping his hips against you in a shallow, offbeat rhythm. You can feel it, hear it squelching and leaking down your thighs. He came. Inside you. And judging from what few words you can make out between your agonized cries, he has every intention of doing it again.

You just want to socialize but I don’t think we should

[seafleece]

Hey, random question, but what do you think are the M9's love languages?

oh, anon, you absolutely did not sign up for this and i am so sorry, but here we are. i had to look up the five types and keep them in the google doc to remind myself what they were, but uhh here’s almost 4000 words of character analysis and discussion of debatable quality

jester: 

my initial thought was quality time— an obvious and painful one, as it’s the one her mother wasn’t able to provide. i think the sleeper, though, for jester, is acts of service. 

with beau, this especially shows up in reference to healing— jester having a more healing-focused cleric around is a big relief, especially for someone so close to warlock status that she almost was one, but very notably, she very much wants to heal beau. she specifically apologizes for not doing so in the chantry, and attributes that to beau’s absence rather than anything else; more generally, there’s a huge amount of distress on jester’s part when beau is hurt, and that she wants to be the one to heal beau (notably, with the gorgon, she RAN to beau, was immediately upset both times beau started getting petrified, and even dissuaded caduceus or caleb from using their turn to heal beau so she could instead, making sure to be Right There even while nott was applying the oil). she also seems to really value the instances when beau does things for her, especially since there are specific acts that beau reserves for jester (engaging with religion in any capacity, wearing a dress for jester and more broadly allowing jester to pick her clothes, a concept which beau probably has an explicitly negative association with from her mother).

it’s also muddled jester up the worst when it comes to relationships she understands less— the “kiss” with fjord in the temple that was a vehicle for giving jester air, most specifically, comes to mind— and she’s really come to terms with this by realizing that romantic feelings weren’t really what he was expressing, and that it wasn’t necessarily what she was feeling, either. it’s noticeable in how she describes her relationship with the traveler— she feels like her service to him is doing little things for him, and asks, when she’s unsure, when the traveler failed to act on her behalf when they were kidnapped, if she did something wrong to make him angry, and literally desecrates a temple to make up for it as soon as they’re back in town.

and the thing is, quality time isn’t really what was lacking in her relationship with marion— marion probably did have time to spend with jester for at least a little while every day. the problem is that marion simply couldn’t provide jester with things that she needed: access to the outside world and companionship. she had to learn from near-scratch how to navigate relationships of varying intensities, and it shows with her initial zeroing in on fjord as an iteration of the dashing sailor her momma told her about, as well as her more slow-burn come to trust and really invest in and love beau, because she’s never had a relationship like that with a girl, and maybe didn’t even know it was something she could have, or something she could want.

jester’s her proudest when she’s doing things for other people, even if they maybe wouldn’t love her doing it if they knew— threatening beau’s dad because she hates that he hurt her, hearing that beau was thinking about leaving and marching in to modify memory a hag, writing astrid a letter because caleb seems like he liked her, asking essek if he likes caleb because caleb seems to like essek, painting yasha’s room in the xhorhaus, finding outfits for everyone. she struggles with how to rein in showing it and thinking first about the potential consequences, and is unsure how to navigate what it means when she’s shown it in return, but it’s messy and heartfelt and sincere. with her mom, she really clearly appreciates when her mom does do things for her— providing a home for her friend’s family, allowing the m9 to stay in the chateau, coming to the party with them despite her agoraphobia. i’m sort of banking on a scene where jester talks to her about it, apologizes for leaving, and reaffirms that it means a lot to her that marion is stepping out of her comfort zone for her.

beau: 

words of affirmation. this is NO DOUBT something her parents didn’t give her, maybe ever. this is baked into her relationship with them— she knew that her father wanted a boy, he probably Told her this, and she wasn’t one. it’s something she could literally never be, an aspect she would be forever resented for, that would tinge everything her father ever said to her. her mother also probably didn’t give her much if any affirmation, as she was trying to police and fix beau’s behavior to avoid thoreau’s anger for both of them, and never properly elaborated to beau that her intention was to keep beau from being punished (not that it would have made it okay, for the record). it’s also why her conversation with her parents in 92 immediately threw her off, because for once they actually told her she’d impressed them, that she’d done good, and it’s rough as hell to see that. 

unfortunately, it’s also the thing she’s least likely to get from everyone else unless she’s at her worst, because almost everyone else, including fanon, seems to have profoundly absorbed this idea that beau is rude and abrasive and sarcastic and she’s just. not. she might have been at the start, but she’s always been especially soft with jester, she and caleb are very mutually assured about the sort of affection they show each other, she’s always been either openly flirting with or just sort of tenderly awkward with and trying around yasha, she and caduceus have a fun and pretty peaceful dynamic i always love to see, and we know caduceus, for at least a while, considered beau his favorite. 

then, there’s the characters she’s known for butting heads with the most: fjord, with whom she’s developing a sibling dynamic to rival hers with caleb and really obviously is ride or die for; nott, who used to openly insult beau and just about everyone else, and who is now 1/3 of the chaos crew beau is also in; and molly, whose death was a HUGE turning point for beau in terms of a) taking stock of her morals and how she intended to act on them and b) expressing love for someone so you know they know it, before it’s too late. 

jester seems to see this the most, no surprise there, and dairon also sees a lot of potential in beau not because she’s strong or fast (she’s from a martially focused monastery), but because she’s smart. dairon talks about and to beau very affectionately compared to other mentor/guardian figures she’s had, and i think it means a lot to her coming from both jester and dairon. she certainly returns the favor for both of them.

fjord: 

this one isn’t immediately apparent, so i’m gonna start by talking about the nature of his relationship with caduceus (and see where it gets me). 

okay, i lied, i’m starting with molly.

fjord and molly had a thing. it’s clear in retrospect, and i’ve talked about it, but i think it has to do with where fjord was in his quest to reinvent himself. molly was someone who, for all intents and purposes, had flawlessly become a new person— not necessarily because of a concerted effort to change who lucien was, but a different person nonetheless. fjord wanted desperately to believe that that was attainable for him, and thus saw a lot in investing in molly. molly was a silent affirmation that fjord could really pull this off, could really reinvent himself and be fine.

also, molly was hot. enough said.

caduceus, on the other hand, offered something different. caduceus came along right before fjord’s willingness to help uk’otoa was first tested— fjord rose to the occasion, but the whole time there was someone new along, someone whose faith in his deity seemed assured. assured, that’s something fjord never had.

afterward, he got to see what it meant to believe in a god like that, and he started to want in. caduceus seems like a very honest person— though really, it’s just because m9 doesn’t know the right questions to ask him— and his god is the god of the sea, too, right? fjord really lost a rock in molly the way i don’t think a lot of people realize, and it’s why his swallowing the summer’s dance felt so meaningful. he was keeping a part of molly with him, and i wonder if he misses that part of his falchion. after he lost his inspiration for recreation, he started to put stock into authenticity as the answer, and caduceus as the vehicle. and the wildmother was very accepting, too, took him in like a lost sheep.

where fjord is now, i think he values the covenant (which i realize i actually define later, so if i forget to reorganize these before i post, then oops) in a similar way to caleb. more specifically, though, he decidedly the word owe in talking to beau about the group’s relationship, which, among other things, speaks to acts of service. fjord has work to do to earn his place as a paladin of the wildmother (and a good amount of work to do indeed, if getting trounced by darrow was any indication), and he feels the need to repay caduceus for his help, companionship, and guidance. fjord also gets hurt and KO’d. a lot. i think he takes it on the chin as his role in the group— that’s his job, and he has faith in caduceus and jester to keep him up. they’re not done yet, they haven’t finished serving one another, so beau leaving is of considerable offense (near-mutinous, to be specific).

caleb: 

words MEAN SHIT to caleb, you can tell in the way he talks. everyone remembers the times he’s told nott he loves her, he responds best to beau because i think he really loves the way she talks, he shows his feelings in really passionate speeches to nott, to beauregard, and most recently to essek. there’s absolutely a reason why so many goddamn quotes from campaign 2 are attributed to this dude, and it’s because he monologues like a fucking champ. their group is named after his accent. 

as for receiving love, though, i think it’s a little different. we know from talks that he’s placed a lot of value on the things jester has done for him, and moreover to be herself as someone who gives recklessly, but as far as we know he doesn’t intend to do anything with it. with nott, i’m tempted to create a new category that’s something like a covenant? he and nott agreed to travel together and help each other under the worst conditions, and they’ve stuck to this fastidiously. this covenant, this commitment to the group, is something he extends to everyone— he is not willing to walk away from this, and hasn’t been for a long time, he believes in all of them, truly, what they can do— and cherishes the fact that everyone has kept this, except for two very specific moments. beau, when she introduced the threat of her leaving the party, and yasha, when she was taken over by obann. for beau, he actually seemed fairly quiet compared to fjord, and i’m not sure yet on why this is, other that i think he trusted fjord and jester to talk her down. as for yasha, he seems to be really invested in commiserating with yasha as two haunted ones (literally), and sees her as someone who also really values the group but sees her ability to belong as tarnished by what she’s done. 

for the purposes of this, i’m gonna refer to it as that, as a covenant (yes i’m a failed church kid, what of it) and as separate from acts of service, because it’s more akin to the promise of one major, permanent act of service to each other. i wonder if it’s this steadfastness in that idea that partially led caduceus to continue and develop the idea of his role, because caleb and the rest of team cockroach, as i call them, were gonna keep that covenant if it killed them, and caduceus could keep them from getting killed, at the very least, if he entered into it.

but anyway, that covenant now extends to essek, if he decides to take it. and if he does, that will mean something infinite to caleb, i think. 

caduceus: acts of service.

okay. i wanna talk about caduceus and danger.

caduceus doesn’t heal himself. we know this. he heals everyone else, and not himself. 

i’ve been checking critrole stats on this, and if i’m reading correctly, he has taken the most damage (157) in one episode than anyone else. and it’s not a small margin. the closest is yasha (129) and i’m almost certain that’s from the episode where she decided to literally get attacked until she passed out. i was trying to guess which episode this was from, and then it hit me: probably the episode where he fucking died, right? because it really just never came up again.

caduceus has: started to drown at least 3 times in his first month on the job, been killed by nott, been beaten near to death when yasha was charmed, and been very quietly and very badly stabbed in the back by a disappearing assassin. he’s also died at home, as a family tradition.

there’s a million better meta posts about caduceus’s relationship with death, or even about him not healing himself, but I just want to set it as potential precedent for the idea that caduceus, to some degree, sees value in himself as someone who doesn’t mind dying in a fight. for one thing, it’s been a temporary thing almost from day one with m9, as jester immediately invested in diamonds when they got back to town. it’s not his first rodeo, either, and his family has normalized death to an, and i say this more because of how it’s affected him rather than because i dislike the idea of normalizing death, an upsetting degree.

giving healing, that’s his job, but eliminating himself as someone who needs help or healing, well, that’s healing in a way, too, right? if he doesn’t get healed, it’s more for everyone else. worst comes to worst, jester can heal him if need be. or, y’know. not heal him.

caduceus’s relationship with m9 has noticeable transaction rhetoric, and i wonder where that really fits in with his family. obviously, his role in the family was implied as the one who stayed behind, and his parents definitely imparted a need for him to be stable, a role he’s continued to fill for m9 to his quiet detriment but i think he’s also jumped on the opportunity to finally be the older one, the wiser one, of the group. there’s a power caduceus has over the group that’s really understated— they just sort of listen to him, even if what he’s saying doesn’t actually make sense, because he started with nott, beau, and caleb as a wise savior, a protector, and upon finding the others, it’s not like jester, fjord, or yasha were filling that role. molly certainly wasn’t either— it’s funny, how in retrospect caduceus seems inevitable to the group because they really didn’t have anyone like him. the closest thing to a voice of reason they had was fjord and caleb, and early on, caleb was not in great standing because of his and nott’s perceived standoffishness, and fjord threw up ocean water, so like, what’s up with that, right?

at the very least, he definitely believes he owes the mighty nein something, a role to fill, a job to perform. a service to act out, if you will. his job is to heal, and he does less healing if he heals himself. he seems to view him taking a hit as a win, in a way— it’s a hit that someone else doesn’t take.

i have a lot of hope that reconnecting with his family and seeing how he’s grown while they haven’t allows him to revisit his notions of what he needs to be, and i have a lot of hope that moving forward, he’ll be able to invest more in the other motif he’s developed, which is gift-giving: fjord, with the star razor; his sisters, with the hat (which seems small but like. boy’s had it for a while) and the flute; and, most recently, in helping jester pick out everyone’s outfits. it allows him to feel like he’s giving something to the people he cares about without it hurting him.

yasha: 

truly everything. it’s hard to get a read because yasha really just soaks in all the love m9 wants to give her. if i had to guess further, i’d say we should look at her and molly’s relationship, because molly’s the only character we’ve seen her unabashedly love, and the thing that stood out most to me was physical touch. that echoes really depressingly with her “fight” in 89— she got something out of being that close to someone, even if it felt like reparation or atonement, and i think the only person in m9 who’s been really unafraid to touch yasha is jester.

i’ll admit i have a soft spot for yashter, but, like, it’s there, right? the obvious trust, the faith jester has in yasha and the fear and turmoil when that was tested? i remember really clearly jester giving yasha a piggyback ride in zadash in an early ep, and like— when’s the last time someone was strong enough to do that? when’s the last time someone wanted to do that for yasha? everyone’s mistrusted yasha to some degree for the entire run of the campaign, and, like, how much did her hopes to get close to everyone else just evaporate after the king’s cage? does she really even believe she can have it again? she was so close— jester trusted her fully, she and beau were in a comfortable mutual place with flirting, she’d talked to caduceus and jester about zuala, she even felt comfortable picking up nott and throwing her around (which, by the way, i love their dynamic).

she seems to have leaned more into the protective, threatening stance since they got her back, which, if she’s comfortable with it, is just fine— maybe she’s shifting more towards acts of service, but i just hope it isn’t her just accepting the idea that everyone will always be afraid of her, that she won’t be close like that again. because molly wasn’t afraid of her. jester wasn’t, and i don’t think she is, now— but fjord showed a lot of distrust, and i think yasha’s scared of the degree to which she hurt beau and how to even broach that discussion, and she attacked them, how could they ever forgive her or trust she wouldn’t do it again? 

(i wish i had a happier end to this, so i’ll just say that she did seem comfortable last ep, and that she may or may not have interest in getting a tattoo from jester? interesting stuff.)

veth: 

on a person to person level, veth definitely feels she and caleb are acting on the promise they’ve made to help each other— now she’s reached it, things are a bit more nebulous, but it’s obvious she wants to stick around for him. i’ll admit, her words to everyone in 97 were a bit surprising to me— she hasn’t really been good at conveying emotion like that before unless she’s desperate or really upset, and i imagine it was something she started planning in her head to say to everyone as soon as the first ritual didn’t work. that might be, i think, what she felt as relief, just not being able to articulate what she wanted to say to everyone.

as for her family, veth believes she owes her best self to yeza and luc— she kept herself from them not because she couldn’t have gone back, but because she felt like someone else, like someone worse, and the exaggerated tendencies from her previous life only reinforced this— she didn’t believe she deserved to be around them, before now. before caleb, i don’t know if she had any hope for returning to them at all, and he changed that entirely.

i’m also very interested in why veth is able to reconcile her marriage with yeza as veth with her loving caleb as nott, and if she sort of considers herself as two different people. we’ve seen so little of what she feels comfortable expecting from other people— for now, i’d say acts of service seems appropriate? but maybe something closer to just. fulfilling promises.

bonus: for the other two who are considered part of the mighty nein

kiri: 

words of affirmation. i’m a HUGE kenku stan, anyone who’s played d&d with me knows this, and i’m especially fascinated with the relationship with words when you can only speak the words you hear/remember. on the most basic level, if you speak to kiri, you are giving her a gift, you’re giving her the ability to speak, too. and if those words are affirming, then she can say them back! and you’re giving them to her, in a sense, to use as she pleases and repeat them to herself, even, and i just love that image— her, to herself, saying “i love you” in other people’s voices. i’m ride or die for kenkus, and kiri started it.

essek: 

okay, so almost everyone in the m9 could be read as needing words of affirmation, because it’s so clear that they need more love and knowledge of love than they’ve received, and have found it in each other. essek has quite literally found it in m9 for the first time. he absolutely needs all of these, like, ASAP, but i think it’s what everyone says to him that get him the most. caleb’s speech, obviously, but it’s also them casually referring to him as their friend, it’s jester’s messages, even if he’s busy. it’s important to say, though, that i think it’s a specific type of affirmation: things that have nothing to do with his magic ability (and moreover, any of these gifts that have nothing to do with it). essek’s built his entire life on the idea that he is someone incredibly powerful and smart for his age— m9 are probably the first people to make him feel like he was more than that, because they want to know about the rest of him, and in becoming friends with them, he’s confronting the fact that he doesn’t really believe there is a rest of him. they want to know a part of himself that he at best has neglected and has been neglected by others, and at worst that he believes does not exist. when they talk about him as a friend, it adds to who he can be. he’s seeing, for the first time, that he can exist as someone else than his abilities and his ambition.

i initially started off with words of affirmation and he clearly needs that, but i think he really just needs all of these in a very specific way: he needs to feel love that is not based in merit, that pertains to who he actually is in this life rather than what he can become in the next, that values the life he’s living right now, because he’s not getting that from the dynasty. it seems like a low bar, maybe, to people who only have the one life, as far as we know, but his arc this campaign shows that it really, really isn’t.

[tanyawritesstories]

Jesse's Girl | Jesse x Reader

I had this fic idea and wrote it, only finding out after that the actual song goes with perfectly (at least from Fives' perspective) so I threw in the last couple lines to seal the deal.

Also, thank you to @simping-for-fives for being the only and unanimous answer to which fic I should post next.

Warnings: fluff, secret relationships, Jesse is v protective, adorable ending, Fives is oblivious

•••

The crowd at 79s was buzzing tonight, everyone anticipating their main form of entertainment this evening. A small group of dancers were set to do a dance routine and hang around for the rest of the night.

This particular group of dancers were very talented and always drew many excited cantina-goers, including the men of the 501st. Jesse, Fives, Kix, and Hardcase sat in their booth close to the dance floor waiting and watching for it to start.

Kix and Hardcase were discussing which dancer they thought they could buy a drink for while Fives and Jesse stared into the distance impatiently. Finally, the usual music stopped and the dance floor was cleared. Everyone quieted down and drew their attention to the dance floor. New music started to play and six dancers sauntered out from the crowd, taking their places. Two of the dancers were Twi’leks, there were Zabraki twins, one human, and one Chiss. All beautiful. They started their routine, moving gracefully with and around each other, sending winks and smirks to the soldiers.

As Jesse watched, one dancer stood out to him. While all the dancers wore skimpy clothing, the human woman was wearing the most. She was wearing a skirt that hugged her waist and hips but it was long enough to cover everything when she moved and bent over. Her wrap top covered her chest completely and went around her neck, which left her arms, legs, and stomach exposed. Her hair was let down, the (h/c) locks falling perfectly around her face. Jesse was star struck and he stared at her with what she would call ‘lovey dovey eyes’. She made eye contact with him and smiled brightly, exaggerating her moves and keeping in sync perfectly without breaking eye contact with him.

He loved how she could pick him out of a crowd of people, most of whom he shared the same face with, and he knew it wasn’t because of the republic insignia tattooed on his face. She had told him it was because of the way he looked at her, she could feel his eyes whenever he looked at her. That was a good thing because most of the time the only thing they could afford was stares, glances, and occasional hand holding.

Jesse knew well enough that none of them were allowed to have relationships other than quick hook ups. That’s why his relationship with you was a secret. He was pretty good at hiding it, as were you. Whenever he was on Coruscant he made sure to see you no matter what excuse he had to use, or who he had to bribe.

Your routine ended and the room erupted in applause. All the dancers bowed and, as the normal music and chatter resumed, they scattered throughout the establishment. Most of the other dancers moved through the soldiers, hanging on their arms and talking, hoping for drinks or tips and generally providing good company for the war-worn men.

You walked slowly around the room winking and waving at anyone who looked your way, taking your time to get to the table where your boyfriend sat. 

You saw one of the Zabrack twins pull an officer towards one of the rooms in the back and you shook your head with a smile. Undoubtedly he had paid her for a private dance. Technically, none of you were supposed to accept their offers for a personal experience. But sometimes they offered large amounts of credits that some of the girls couldn’t turn down, whatever happened was up to the dancers. Which is probably why said certain Zabrack twin was always coming back with red marks all over her neck. You were never like that, you never accepted any money no matter how much, you were loyal to Jesse.

Little did you know, one ARC trooper had his eye on you the entire night and wanted you to himself.

Fives threw back the rest of his drink and set it down sharply on the table, he looked over his shoulder and noticed you coming towards their table. He leaned over to the rest of the boys. “Wish me luck,” he said. “Maker knows you need it, but why specifically this time?” Kix asked. “You remember all those credits I won at the sabacc tournament against the 212th?” The three other men nodded, “Well, I just found the perfect way to way spend them.” Fives motioned to you where you were talking with a couple members of the Coruscant Guard.

“You want to buy a dance from her?” Hardcase questioned, eyebrow raised in curiosity. Fives nodded and Jesse’s heart just about stopped. “You know they don’t accept private dances, right?” Jesse said, trying to dissuade his determined brother.

“They do for the right price,” Fives added before sliding out of the booth and heading towards you. You had just bid a good night to the two guards you had been talking to when an ARC trooper bearing the signature blue of the 501st approached you. He had a number five tattooed on his left temple and a suave smile on his face. You guessed this was Fives, one of Jesse’s brothers. Jesse had mentioned him before and said he was quite the charmer.

You returned the smile and greeted him, “Hello soldier.”

“Evening, doll. That was quite the performance,” he said, “Glad I could see it.”

“Why thank you, umm..”

“Fives,” he told you, a smug smirk on his face. “Thank you, Fives," you smiled, "ARC trooper right?” He nodded, “Yes ma’am, for the 501st.”

“Impressive,” you smiled, there was no harm in talking to him just as long as he didn’t try anything else. You glanced behind him and saw your boyfriend glaring daggers at the back of Fives’ head. “I did want to ask you one thing,” Fives said, he reached forward and gently laid a hand on your bicep.

Jesse was unable to pay attention to anything Hardcase or Kix were saying, his eyes were glued to you and Fives as you talked. He observed your body language, making sure you weren’t uncomfortable or that Fives didn’t cross a line. The interaction was completely normal until Fives put his hand on you.

Jesse jumped out of his seat and walked towards you. “Fives what are you doing?” He said, coming to stand beside you and his brother. “I was asking for a dance before you so rudely interrupted,” Fives glared at his brother. “We’re not allowed to ask for private dances,” Jesse scolded. “Yes, we are!” Fives argued back. “No, we are not!” Jesse said sternly, “Besides she probably doesn’t even want to give you a dance anyway.” “Well let’s ask her,” Fives proposed, “Would you mind giving me a dance, darling. I can pay you.”

Fives took a pouch off his belt and was going to hand it to you when Jesse stepped in between you both. “She doesn’t want your money, she’s not a sex worker. Have some decency, Fives!” You watched the two men argue and rolled your eyes.

You hadn’t planned on accepting Fives’ offer but you were going to let him down slow. Instead, Jesse barged in and shut him down without giving you a chance to speak. They would go on forever if you didn’t interrupt. You began coughing quite loud, catching the attention of both troopers.

"Are you alright?" They both asked at the same time, glaring at each other afterwards.

"Yes, I just think I need some water. Excuse me gentlemen," you made your way to the bar, Fives tried to follow you but Jesse pushed him back. "C'mon Fives, she's not feeling well, just leave her alone," Jesse pleaded. Fives sighed and put his hands up in surrender, "Fine." Jesse patted his brother on the shoulder and headed off to the refresher.

You drank two glasses of water just to sell your act and was sitting at the bar waiting until you thought it might be safe. You turned when a hand was placed on your shoulder, it was Fives.

"Are you feeling better?" 

"Yes, much, thank you," you replied. "Look, I don't wanna pressure you but, I can pay you." He took the pouch off his belt and opened it, showing its contents to you. Your eyes widened at the amount of credits inside. "How much-"

"500 credits," he answered before you could ask. 

That was the most anyone had ever offered you, how had he acquired so many! "Where did you get all these?" Fives smirked proudly, "Evidently, I'm the best sabacc player in the GAR." You were speechless. "It's yours," Fives placed the pouch in your hands, "I just want to watch you dance again. I won't even touch."

"Fives! Leave her alone!" 

You saw Jesse running to you from across the room. You smirked deviously and clutched the bag of credits in your hand. Jesse reached you both, obviously about to dig into Fives about you again, but you cut him off.

"Well, that's awfully nice of you to buy a dance for your brother, Fives," you said, "What do you say Jesse?"

Your boyfriend thought for a minute trying to figure out what was going on before he smiled devilishly. "I would love a dance," he said. Jesse put his arm around you and led you to the back of the building.

Fives stood there stunned, mouth agape as he watched you walk off with Jesse and his credits. He growled to himself and went back to sit with Kix and Hardcase. He slid into the booth and found Kix laughing so hard he was clutching his stomach and Hardcase had rested his head on the table, laughing into it. 

"What's so funny?" He asked.

"You just got bested by Jesse and his girl," Kix said between laughs. Hardcase lifted his head up, "Oh they are one hell of a couple." 

"Couple?" Fives questioned.

"Are you kidding me, you haven't noticed them before?" Hardcase said in disbelief.

"He's always with her when he's here. And you've heard the dumb excuses he comes up with whenever we're on leave," Kix added.

One could see the gears working in Fives' head as he thought it through, everything starting to make sense to him now. He looked in the direction Jesse and you had gone before looking at the table. "I wish I had a woman like that."

Kix clapped his brother on the back. "Face it, Fives. You're not going to get Jesse's girl."