#listen the joint is backwards but it was too late to fix it

[tea-with-evan-and-me]

Part 3

Evan and I walk out into the brisk LA night.

"Brr it's chilly out here" he says. "I didn't bring a jacket. Are you cold?" He asks.

"Thanks, but I'm ok. This is still pretty warm weather for me. Although I do notice it is a bit chillier without the humidity. But I guess I haven't adjusted yet" I smile at him. He smiles back.

"So, where are you parked? " He asks

"Um, I actually ubered here, since I didn't really know the area." I reply

"Oh. Well, we can walk somewhere or I can drive us. Up to you? The only thing around here is a burger joint about a quarter mile east"

"That sounds fine to me."

We start walking. We chat small talk as we near the restaurant. I tell him I don't know the area well and I am loving the different shops here.

"Ha! I was shocked with how many porn shops are around here." He says bluntly. I laugh out loud. "Not that I frequent them or anything!!" He says with wide eyes. He rubs his eyes with his thumb. Blushing a bit.

"Eh, so what if you did. I don't offend easily" I say smiling at him.

"Good to know. Then I can let all my good jokes fly."

"Hey, I have some of my own"

"Oh, good. I hope I get to hear them..ope, we're here"

Evan opens the door for me and I thank him as I walk in. The burger joint is set up to look like an old fashioned diner. Signed autographs of various celebrities lining the wall. "Been here before, huh?" I say as I point to a picture of Evan giving a thumbs up. His burger on the table below him. His signature in the corner.

"Yea, I love this place. It's cozy and super fun atmosphere"

The sign tells us to seat ourselves and Evan puts his hand on the small of my back and lets me go ahead of him. The small gesture sends tingles to all my happy places. He tells me to pick a seat. So, I pick a small two seater in the corner. We are alone and practically sitting on top of each other. Exactly my intentions.

The server brings us a menu and I take a look. We thank her and Evan asks me what I'm in the mood for.

"Holy shit! They have Saunders cream puffs here!" I'm way too happy.

Evan laughs "What is that?"

"Well, Saunders is a Michigan based company and they sell these at the coney island diners we have there. It's a pastry with ice cream in the middle and Saunders chocolate drizzled on top. It's so fucking good. Want to just order that and split it? You have to at least try a bite of mine"

"Ok, let's do it" he says

When the server comes back I order the cream puff and tell her I'm surprised they sell them. She informs me the owner is from Michigan and he orders the supplies to be delivered here. I talk to her way too long about it and Evan just listens amused.

"I'm way too excited for this"

He laughs "I can tell"

We get the dessert and start tearing into it.

"Oh my God" Evan moans. "This should be illegal"

"I feel like I'm home right now" I moan.

"I shouldn't be stuffing my face with something that's going to make me fat with someone totally out of my league. Yet, I don't care at the moment" he chuckles.

I practically choke on my bite. "Uhhhh, I think you have that completely backwards. If that's true about anyone it's you. I would never end up with someone as hot as you.." I shut my mouth. Embarrassed. "Sorry." I blush.

"No need to apologize. Although I wouldn't say 'hot'"

"Well, I meant what I said anyway" I say staring into his eyes.

He clears his throat. "Last bite is yours"

We chat a bit longer and I look at the time on my phone. It's already 10pm. "Wow. It's getting late. I should probably get home now." My face shows my regret for having to end this night. I open my Uber app on my phone.

Evan notices "I can drive you home." He offers.

My head snaps up "Oh, that's unnecessary. You have done enough for me tonight."

"I insist. At least I know you got home safe. Then you don't have to text me that you did. Unless, you just want to text me." A sly smile on his face.

"Hard to text when I don't have your number"

"Let me drive you home and then we can fix that"

I agree. Evan insists on paying and we walk to his car. He opens the passenger door of his black Land Rover for me and I thank him. It's fancy and smells good inside. Something like musk and cedar. I imagine that's how he smelled if I was close enough to him. His voice pulls me out of my little daydream.

"Where to, miss lady?"

I tell him my address and he plugs it into his GPS. I joke that it's probably for the best cause I'm not good with directions at all. That makes him laugh.

As he's driving we sit in silence. I look out the window. I can see him look at me now and then. He doesn't speak. It's not awkward, but I decide I want to tell him something.

"Thank you for your kindness tonight" I say to him. My eyes soft. My face serious.

He turns his head to me and says "My pleasure. But I didn't do much"

"Are you kidding? You turned my whole night around. I can't even describe how I feel." I answer. I look down at my hands. And I see him reach his over and grab mine. He squeezes it. I squeeze back. And we stay like that for the rest of the drive. Fingers intertwined. It feels...natural. Like it has always been this way. His touch is comforting as he rubs my hand with his thumb.

Evan pulls up to my house and puts the car in park. I pull my phone out. "I guess we should do that number exchange before we forget" I say

"I wouldn't forget" he smiles and tells me his number. I text him a heart and we save the numbers in our phones. "I had a great night." He says.

"Me too!" I say with a huge smile. I undo my seatbelt.

"Um. Listen. Can I see you again?" Evan asks me

"I was hoping that's what you were going to say. Of course" I reply

"Really? You weren't hoping I was going to ask if I could kiss you?" His look is smoldering.

I lean in first and he meets me with no hesitation. We look into each other's eyes until our lips are close enough to touch. We close our eyes and our lips meet. His lips are full and soft and they feel like I thought they would. He's warm and the way he touches my back makes me feel secure. My mouth latches to his top lip, then his bottom. Back and forth. When we pull away he's breathing heavily. He looks cuddly in the moment. I kiss his forehead. I want to pounce on him and take care of him at the same time. His mouth finds mine again. It's more eager this time. He grabs my face gently with both of his hands. His tongue darts between my lips. I find it with mine. And we end the kiss with such passion, we both feel lightheaded.

"Would you like to come in for a bit?" I ask

He nods his head yes.

[malacandrax]

“Explain shotgunning to me”

I read 'The Affliction of the Feeling' by nondz on ao3 and it absolutely killed me, I had to get this scene out of my head.

[may-day-voice]

When You Walk In On Him

1st Edition w/ Izuku Midoriya, Katsuki Bakugou & Shouto Todoroki | 172732014

please do not repost, but you have permission to reblog :)

• Watch/ Listen on YouTube: https://youtu.be/0NtH0ilwp1c

• Read on Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/1124883964-oneshots-pro-hero-au-172732014-when-you-walk-in-on

IZUKU MIDORIYA | The Tease

“I’m home… Izuku?” you called while you removed your shoes by the front door. Not a word. No reply. You shrugged, though you wondered about Midoriya, recalling his earlier call informing you that he was on his way from work.

“Maybe he got caught up with something,” you murmured, removing your jacket and throwing it on the couch.

You sighed inwardly with a smile, removing pieces of your clothes on the way in towards the bedroom. It had been a long day, in and out of the office. After a reconnaissance mission in inner Musatafu, you needed to rid yourself of the gunpowder you felt all over. By the time you reached the bedroom, you were already down to your undergarments.

You hummed while you stretched your limbs, gathering a few clean clothes before you made your way to the bathroom. A nice shower was what you needed. And then bingeing something on stream made for a relaxing afternoon, at least until you heard from Midoriya. This did not occur often, but dating the Number One came with compromise. Even more so now that you were engaged. You were more than thankful that it hadn’t made the news unlike Bakugou and Todoroki’s engagement.

Your thoughts however were rear-ended once you opened the bathroom door, eyes met by the warm moist condensation and a very naked Hero with nothing but a towel wrapped around his hips. His scars were bare to see, his skin freshly drenched from what you assumed was a hot shower before he turned his emerald eyes onto you, frozen by the sight.

You stood speechless. You had seen him many times but it had always amazed you about the sheer size of his body, the scars that painted his story, and despite all of this, his face relaxed and drenched still with this boyish charm.

“Izuku?” You softly spoke, catching his eye, slightly drowsy from the warmth of the bathroom. Oh those sleepy, bedroom eyes-

“Hey Cutie,” he spoke, almost sultry for a brief moment.

That was the shower talking.

“Are you done?��� You asked while you cleared your throat, your clothes hugged tightly against your chest.

You watched Midoriya walk towards you, hand on his towel before he leaned against the doorframe, only allowing a small opening for you to slide past, should you decide to do so. You couldn’t tell if your cheeks were burning from the fluster or if the air was getting to you before he closed his face onto yours, kissing your cheek.

“I could be, or I could have another one with you,” he teased, watching your eyes widen a little.

“Have you been speaking with Kaminari lately?” You asked after a moment of silence.

Then that happy smile crossed his face, his cheerful old self.

“Very funny,” he replied, allowing you access into the bathroom. “Shower’s all yours. I’ll start dinner.”

Midoriya walked past, his hulking figure making its way to the bedroom. You couldn’t help but stare. It never got old, ever since you first laid eyes on his body.

“I would have agreed to your invitation, you know,” you spoke with a smirk before waltzing into the bathroom.

You didn’t witness it, but you heard Midoriya’s hitch in his voice before you shut the door.

KATSUKI BAKUGOU | The Invitation

You checked on the time, knowing you'd arrived earlier than what Bakugou had planned. Yet having to wait ten minutes outside of his apartment was becoming a concern. Bakugou was a man of timing, not so much as his former classmate Iida, but never was he this late in responding to anything. With the exception of his reunion you recalled, but neither of you were in a rush for anything today.

“Katsuki?” You called from the front door, hearing nothing, which was odd.

You fished out for your keys, picking through them until you found your key to his apartment. Ever since his proposal, the both of you had agreed to have a copy of each other’s apartment key. It made sense to do so now, both personally and professionally. Too many times had there been a few missions either of you crashed at each other’s places. Your recollection of your recent ones brought a wry smile to your face.

Opening his front door, you peeked inside to find nobody. You recalled texting him earlier about meeting him today, reciting the words in your head:

Just come over Lightweight. I had a bad day.

That was code. And you knew what for. Again, Bakugou wasn’t the greatest in sharing his feelings, but if he needed comfort, he demanded it.

You stepped into his studio apartment, tapping your toes to rid yourself of the slight strain on your ankles. The new braces were still getting broken into, as was your strength training, sending soreness in your calves and your shoulders. Of all days, it was one where every part of your body was radiating tightness, constantly rolling your joints and stretching as much as you could.

You eyed around the empty apartment to only hear the distant sound of a shower running momentarily before it stopped. It caught your attention when its doors opened, revealing a very wet, smouldering Bakugou with nothing but his towel around his waist. His hair sat in a mess atop his head, something you originally thought was impossible for all these years, yet his face looked serene, almost relaxed until his steely gaze turned on you.

Your eyes darted between his red stare and his chest, littered with scars here and there. And still very wet.

“I… should’ve waited,” you cautiously spoke while you stepped backwards towards the front door.

“Why? You’re here now,” gruffly commented Bakugou while he walked towards you.

“Well now I feel rude for abusing my privileges with the apartment key so-“

Bakugou immediately shut the front door behind you, leaving you trapped between it and him, his skin still radiating with the heat from the shower he had moments ago. You pressed against the door, more so to avoid his wet skin, yet his face edged closer to yours, spotting your eyes still staring at his chest.

“What’s the matter? It’s not like you haven't seen this before,” he teased with a smirk.

“Well yeah, but maybe you should be a host and make yourself decent,” you suggested. “You said you had a bad day.”

“I did,” he purred with his lips close to your ear. “But this is making it so much better.”

Your eyes turned away from the embarrassment before he pulled himself away to kiss you deeply, feeling the moisture still linger from his skin. You felt his chuckle reverberate through you until he walked away, leaving you by the door, dumbstruck.

“Get comfortable on the couch, Twinkle Toes,” he ordered warmly while he walked back into the steamy bathroom.

SHOUTO TODOROKI | The Accident

The boxes began to climb the more you brought them in from the truck, wiping the sweat from your brow with a sigh. It took the weekend, but all the heavy lifting was organized by Todoroki while you brought the smaller items from your last place into his townhouse. Many months had passed with conversation between the both of you about moving in together, one that was suggested by Todoroki. Now engaged to the Pro-Hero, you had discussed what items to keep and which ones to offload, only to have them stored somewhere courtesy of Todoroki.

Closing the front door, you felt relieved it was a quiet Sunday afternoon. Yesterday was a circus from the media and paparazzi, chuckling at Todoroki’s reaction when they tried every attempt to take sneaky photos of you moving in with him - hell freezing over. Literally.

Now all you wanted was to wash off the dust, sweat, and grime. You could feel your hair crawling away while you looked around the townhouse, half-filled with boxes of your things. A shower felt like a great idea.

You remembered the floor plan, where everything was, and Todoroki had been very open about using anything whenever you needed or wanted. Without another thought, you made your way to the bathroom, stripping your clothes while you did. Todoroki was still at work and wouldn’t be arriving at the doors until the next hour - just enough time for you to wash up.

Now down to your undergarments, you reached for the handle of the bathroom door, turning and pushing it open to be hit by the heat immediately. As if the sweat on your skin was already a nuisance, the moisture in the air only made it feel even more uncomfortable. Then again, why was the bathroom so humid? Through the heat, you peered to spot a tall figure by the vanity mirror, his long hair clinging onto his back while he fixed his towel across his hips.

Todoroki stared at you, aloof despite his topless form. His fingers ran through his long locks, still wet from the assumed shower he had recently enjoyed.

“When did you get home?” You asked immediately, trying to avoid the squeak in your voice.

“Not long ago,” he voiced calmly.

“But I didn’t see you.”

“Maybe we missed each other.”

“I'm leaving now,” you announced while you started to swing the door shut.

“Why?” Questioned Todoroki, catching you from shutting the door. You eyed him still wet from the shower with a small smile on his face, his eyes drowsy from the steam. “We just got here,” he mused, still with smiling bedroom eyes. “I can help you put your things together.”

“When you get yourself dried and dressed and not so…” You bit your lip trying to push those thoughts from your head. “I need a shower before we start unpacking things.”

Suddenly the door swung open, taking you with it until you stood before Todoroki’s bare chest, still holding onto the towel that tied tightly around his hips. It wasn’t new to you, but barging in without checking first was already a novice mistake. And in your undergarments.

All you found was that smile on his face, leaning in to kiss you atop the head.

“Okay Love,” he agreed while he walked past you through the door. “Take your time.”

You couldn’t help that fluster from his body heat and the shower he recently had. At the very least, you weren’t worried about washing away the filth from the move, closing the door behind you.

[geminil0vr]

𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙖 𝙬𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚 !

the masterlist -> part one

summary ✰ it's the night of the slytherin bash, and, intoxicated, you almost blurt out all your relationship troubles to pansy and the boys of slytherin.

tags ✰ @partr1dge <3

word count ✰ 3.4k

content ✰ alcohol, weed, rip. mill's hairbrush, a big party, drunk/high people and reader, mentions of sex, mild (but just as serious) sexual assault, boyfriend being pushy, arguments, gaslighting, guilt-tripping, pansy lowkey admiring the reader and vice versa, pansy taking off your makeup for you.

a/n ✰ yes we're having a lil party moment right on shedyool <3 i think i made draco too hot in this like have i forgotten this is a pansy fic ?? and i've been listening to the playlist on repeat for some inspiration but now all the songs are stuck in my head yikes... anyway, happy reading :))

letting out a short yell, you bolt out the way of millicent bulstrode being chased by her own hairbrush in your dorm room, falling backwards onto your bed, then leaning up on your forearms to watch in amusement as she squeals.

"stop it, stop it!"

pansy crosses her arms, leaning in the doorway for a moment before speaking calmly despite the urgent situation, "mill, i already told you not to try any beautification spells for tonight. they take a certain finesse that you clearly..." she eyes the hairbrush, which has somehow grown teeth, "lack."

daphne fervently attempts to throw millicent's wand to her, having lost her own somewhere in the room, ducking whenever the hairbrush swings too low by her head and yelling encouragement to her as she wails.

"it's gonna bloody eat me!"

you glance over to pansy, your lips quirked but still fighting the brighter grin that tries to force its way upon your mouth, one brow raised. she looks back with a smirk, raising her brows lazily, then pulls out her wand at last.

sure, you have yours, but come on! this is quality entertainment.

muttering a spell under her breath, the hairbrush rises, letting out a sharp, plasticky sound, teeth gnashing at the unknown force which has suddenly halted its rampage. then, thin, dark cracks begin to show upon its surface as it travels higher and higher into the air, finally letting out one last high-pitched sound before exploding into hot pink shards of plastic onto the wooden floor of the room.

millicent makes a lacklustre attempt of trying to catch certain pieces that are still falling, whining about how it was her favourite hairbrush. daphne drops the wand and falls back onto her duvet, exasperated, and you watch ahead in shock.

"blimey, pansy, couldn't you have just done 'finite'?" you ask, eyes wide.

"'s not nearly as much fun," she grins, bounding over to the large, dark oak wardrobe in the corner of the room, "now, ladies. what are we going to wear for the slytherin bash?"

"i bagsy y/n's black dress!" daphne pipes up, bouncing to sit cross-legged on her bed.

"no, you bloody well don't!"

you look in the mirror of the vanity, tucking back a few strands of hair out of your face and looking down at your silky emerald dress, the neckline dipping a little at your chest, the straps thin.

"whatever, i actually might look better in the green, anyway."

slinking out from the bathroom, daphne fixes the button on the back of the dress she's wearing, the black fabric clinging to her skin, "you definitely do."

"you're just saying that to keep my dress, aren't you?"

"maybe so. but you're still very pretty." she pecks your cheek and sits on her bed, fixing her curled hair in a compact mirror and swaying slightly to the thumping music already playing downstairs.

pansy pulls at her dress, leaning onto the vanity and applying a thin coat of red lipstick over her lips, looking at you through the glass "she's not wrong. you look nice."

you swallow, blinking at your reflection. you've brushed your brows, applied some blush, and a little smokey eyeliner, but nothing much. you don't mind letting your skin breathe a little, anyway.

"thanks, pansy." you eye her loose, sparkling, red dress, neckline dipping so low on her chest that you feel the sudden need to look away, instead focusing on her light-green eyes which never actually ceased intensely tracking the movements of your iris. "so do you."

"right. thank you."

millicent finishes tying her hair up, avoiding using any muggle products and therefore resorting to something simple, clipping it back with a claw accessory, "okay," she starts, and you and pansy quickly look away from each other, "so, are we going or not? can't be too late, they're still missing the life of the party!"

"mill, you pass out after three hours during almost every single party." daphne blinks.

"what's that saying, here for a good time but not a long time?" pansy snickers, zipping up her black boots.

millicent rolls her eyes playfully, crossing her arms. "shut your gobs, the two of you! now let's go!"

locking the door quickly on your way out so you won't have to deal with any arseholes doing it in your bed like last time (well, at least they were having a whale of a time), you bid goodbye to your dormmates who all part ways, immediately grabbing a bottle of firewhiskey from a large table in the corner, looking over at the youthful atmosphere suddenly claiming such a place as the slytherin common room.

pouring yourself a shot, although you're awful at doing those, you hold your nose (as if that's going to help) and gulp down the alcohol, finishing by setting the little glass down and placing your hands on the table full of drinks in front of you, hair falling down into your face.

feeling a hand on your waist, you tense and stand up straight, not relaxing much when your boyfriend kisses your cheek and whispers a 'hello' into your ear.

"ben!" you exclaim, turning around and smiling at him, though not genuinely, "i didn't know you were coming."

"some guys in the year above invited me, unlike my own girlfriend." he teases, gripping you by the waist and pulling you closer, and your nose scrunches at the sharp stench of beer on his breath. putting two and two together, considering how he's slurring his words, you realise he's already tipsy.

"right, sorry!" you genuinely are, though if he hadn't showed up, you wouldn't mind much, "i didn't really find out until the lesson before my free hour, and, well, you wanted us to go to your room, so —"

"oh, yeah. how could i forget?" he leans in, almost stumbling over his own two feet as he gets even closer to you, pulling you to him by your waist and kissing your neck, making you push your head down a little. the party having only just started, people are still piling in and the lights aren't turned off just yet.

you push him by the chest, gently, "it's still early, benny. not now."

ignoring your wishes, he nibbles at your neck, and you bring your shoulder up in discomfort, "but don't you want a repeat?" no, you really don't.

"ben, just, back off, please." you push a little more firmly now, shaking him off, and going to grab the bottle again to pour yourself another shot of firewhiskey as an excuse to not stay so close to him. but clearly that tactic isn't great, because he pushes up from behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist tightly.

"come on, this party'll be lame anyway. your room's empty, right?" you freeze as his lips meet your throat once more, swallowing before finding it in yourself to stretch your shoulders back, and push his arms from your waist, quickly pouring the shot and keeping it in your hand, just in case you need to spill it on him as a distraction.

if he's gonna be pushy, he could at least be decent in bed.

well, at least, that's your cynical view on it.

"ben. no. my — my friends are here, and i... i don't want to leave them all alone." you fiddle with the shot glass in your hand, brows furrowed, and he exhales loudly before shrugging his shoulders.

"if you don't want me then you could've just said so."

your eyes widen, "no, i didn't mean it like that, just that... just not tonight."

"well, it kinda seems like you're not interested. but whatever, y/n, it's fine." as you try to reach out to him, he walks over to his friends, and you lean against the table, gulping down the firewhiskey and wincing at the burn in your throat.

shit.

"come on, y/n! they're dimming the lights now, i wanna dance!" daphne bounds over to you, dragging you by the arm before you can protest.

and you oblige.

two hours in, you're tipsy, worn-out from all the dancing, yet still going back between the many students for more adrenaline. grinning as a song you love comes on, you regroup your dormmates in the crowd, grabbing them by their hands and all winding your hips to the beat, millicent giggling and falling over her feet, daphne tearing away from her boyfriend to join with a smile on her face. pansy isn't very giggly when drinking, you've noticed. in close settings, sure, but in big parties like this, everyone so close, air hot, green lights strobing across the common room... she just dances. raising her hands above her head, swaying her hips, twirling her friends around by their fingers — it's almost sensual. well, to anyone else. not to you.

pansy eyes you as you spin — the exhilarated grin on your face from being able to shrug off everything burdening you, everything weighing atop your shoulders. and she realises that she likes the shine of the strobing lights against your skin, your nose and cheeks gleaming, eyes a little bloodshot and chest glistening from all the alcohol in your system, and all the dancing. and when you and pansy finally get off the dancefloor to join the slytherin boys on the sofas, she likes the way your eyes tear up a little after taking a long drag from the joint that's being passed around.

"this isn't laced with anything, right?" you clear your throat to speak over the music, passing it back to theo, head dizzy. you watch the lights entangle themselves between little clouds of smoke, and wonder which cloud is yours.

"what do you think i am, a drug lord? no, it is not laced with anything." he rolls his eyes, leaning back on the sofa.

blaise elbows him, looking at you and pansy who are both sitting next to each other, "don't mind him — you know he gets bitchy when he smokes."

"do not." theo huffs.

"yes, you do." draco deadpans, snatching the joint from his hands and inhaling the smoke, blowing it upwards from his bottom lip.

you chuckle, stretching to settle comfortably into the sofa and tapping pansy's bare thigh subconsciously, to which she tenses, "i feel like nott's always a bitch, regardless."

"not wrong there." theo winks at you, rubbing at his eyes. your head feels like it's spinning, and you giggle again, leading blaise to do the same.

"what's so funny, y/l/n?" pansy raises her brows nonchalantly, crossing her legs and studying you at her right. she's taken the joint between her plump lips now, inhaling deeply for a second, then blowing it up into the air.

"think it's the weed." you giggle once more, eyelids heavy, leaning your head onto her shoulder — you two are much more friendly when a little bit intoxicated and high. more so you, than her.

draco leans back into the armchair he's sitting in, looking over to the corner of the room and spotting your ravenclaw boyfriend drinking with his friends in the corner. and, being significantly less of an arsehole with something in his system, draco decided to be polite.

"how's the boyfriend, y/n?" you chuckle at this, smiling softly and lifting your head up from pansy's shoulder.

"my boyfriend is an absolute, grade O, cockhead."

the whole group is still for a short moment, exchanging varying levels of shock and amusement, before turning back to you. draco speaks again, "is that so?"

"mhmm." you nod lazily, as if your head is too heavy to hold up, pointing over at him from the other side of the room, "ben sucks. he's awful. if i could, i would — well, i mean, i could, but if i really could, i'd —"

"right, i think that's enough of that for tonight." pansy takes the joint from between your index and middle finger, interrupting you and attempting to change the subject considering your tipsy and high state. she’s been through enough non-sober confessions in her lifetime to know best.

"no, i mean it. and it would be worth it if he would actually fuck m—"

"i said, enough." pansy presses, trying to save you any embarrassment. being good enough friends with the slytherin boys of your year since you all first arrived, you know there'll be no judgement or rumours spread around. but, still. better not to air out all of your dirty laundry, or whatever the americans say. well, that's what 'sober you' would say. and right now, you're completely ready to confess how shitty your boyfriend is, to reveal the dialogue that usually only stays in your head.

"come on, pansy, the people wanna know." blaise raises his finger to her, grinning. the boy loved drama; he wasn't a sharer, but certainly a listener.

"i, the people, do not care." draco raises his finger as well, slouched in his seat.

"and i, the people, say you're not gonna let y/n humiliate herself. if she really wants to say this, she’ll do it when she’s sober.” pansy frowns, standing up and gripping your arm, passing the joint over to theo who was watching the scene casually.

“usually you love this stuff!” theo raises his arms lazily for emphasis.

“well, she’s my friend.” pansy gives him a blink stare.

"blah, blah, blah, parkinson." you slur you words a little, and she scowls, "i'm ready to say it. ben rowen is shite in and out of the be—"

she muffles your voice with her hand, forcing you to get up and follow her to the dormitory calmly, as you attempt to yell through her fingers, instead practically humming. it's not a messy, nor embarrassing scene -- you're at least sober enough to know better, and no one's paying attention anyway, not with the beat of the music thrumming through the room, vibrating the floor beneath your feet. but you're not sober enough to control your urge to break down and admit that you desperately want to break up with your boyfriend, even though you think you still love (the old, fake) him, even though you're scared to break his heart.

seeing the scene from across the common room, ben strides over with a purpose, and the boys on the sofa snort at his actions. "what happened?" he tears pansy's hand from your mouth (thankfully, you're not wearing lipstick), to which she scrunches up her nose, clenching her jaw and glancing to the side impatiently.

"your girlfriend had a little too much to drink and smoke. she's going to bed."

"she can just stay with me." he seems over his annoyance from before. shame his annoying personality continues to linger, you think.

pansy eyes him up and down rapidly, grip still firm on your arm. there’s something about your boyfriend, especially considering your change in behaviour around him, that pisses her off. you're looking between the two of them with wide eyes, considerably amused. "no."

"what do you mean, no?" you notice now that he's much, much drunker than before. the boys are still watching, leaning forward to hear over the music. well, theo and blaise are -- draco gives the 'altercation' a glance before setting his focus on the almost-finished joint between his fingers.

"i thought ravenclaws were meant to have an IQ of at least more than ten — no, means, i will not let her stay with you, she's going to sleep it off." you look over to the sofas and give a look the boys, half-grimacing, half-grinning.

"listen, i'm the boyfriend here —"

"are you? because i don't recall you ever being present the entire party."

"what the fuck is that supposed to mean, i was just over —"

"with her, i mean. why don't you go drown yourself in some more of that beer you obviously like so much," 'ouch', blaise mouths, "and i'll take care of your girlfriend, who... y/n?" you stop making frantic pointing gestures to the boys to ‘translate’ what they were saying since the boys couldn’t lip read, turning your attention to the people in front of you.

"yup?" you shrug, tilting your head up at her, being just an inch or two shorter.

pansy closes her eyes, sighing, then shakes her head, feeling a little wobbly herself, "nevermind. let's get you to bed, huh?" she shoots daggers at ben, whose nostrils flare as you're guided to the girls dormitory. he goes after you two again, but is quickly halted when draco's voice raises over the music.

"perhaps you should let them leave, rowen. just head elsewhere — don't be an arse."

ben sighs in exasperation, making his way to the group, but draco sticks his leg out through the gap between the armchair and the sofa on which you were just sitting, making your boyfriend stumble back.

"that wasn’t an invitation." draco deadpans, although the corner of his lip quirks up as he takes a sip of firewhisky and raises his brows.

instead of casting a quick makeup removal spell, pansy opts to lean you against the bathroom sink at a safe distance, using a cotton pad and cleaning off your eyeliner and any sweat or blush left on your skin. you know, just in case the spell doesn't go well, and you end up being eaten by a magic cotton pad.

you close your eyes, gripping the cold sink behind you loosely as pansy wipes warm water over your skin.

"done." she nods, expressionless, as your eyes flutter open, easily casting 'incendio' on the cotton and not bothering to watch as it crumbles into ash on the floor. she certainly has a flair for the dramatics, and you can't help but think she's picked it up from draco malfoy.

you look into the mirror to smooth down your hair, eyes bloodshot, lips swollen from the firewhiskey (and a little from when pansy pressed her palm into them). she tosses pyjamas at you, and you wobble a bit when they hit your side.

"change."

"okay, sergeant." you snort as she shuts the door, clumsily picking up the shorts and sweater she'd thrown.

shrugging off your dress, you call out from inside the bathroom. "why did you get mad at ben?"

for a beat, there was silence, until she called back. "because he was being a 'cockhead'." pansy mocked.

"and why did you make me leave?" you pull up your pyjama shorts, squinting down and trying to tie a little bow at the front, rather unsuccessfully, "i was having fun."

"well, you were gonna embarrass yourself, y/n. i only helped you out."

after slipping on your large sweater, you peek your head out the door, seeing her tie her raven hair back into a tiny ponytail, most strands falling out due to the length of it (or lack thereof). she'd done a makeup removal spell on herself.

"you're going to bed, too?" you murmur, furrowing your brows.

"yeah, tired." she lies, sorting out her bed covers.

you bite the inside of your cheek before deciding to ‘confront’ her, “and, pansy?” her movements still, “i didn't need help. they're my friends, and i wanted to tell them —"

she turns around, cutting you off with a challenging look that makes you step fully into the doorway, "tell them what?"

you swallow. nevermind. maybe she was right to drag you out of the party. maybe she was right to have cut you off, instead of letting you indulge into your history and your barely-there sex life.

feeling like you're being frowned upon by authority, you duck your head sheepishly and clamber into bed, glancing over to millicent who has seemingly collapsed onto her bed and blacked out.

"is... everything okay with you and — you and ben, though?"

"yeah. i don't know what i was saying. he just pissed me off earlier and i started... talking shit." you lie through your teeth.

"right." she flicks off the lights with her wand, back turned to you as she sits on her bed, pulling off her dress and slipping into a big shirt. the lamp on your bedside table that she turned on beforehand faintly casts the room in a warm glow, and through the darkness you can see the pale skin of her back as she pulls it down. your eyes dart away, deciding to focus on the ceiling, instead, "and you're really okay?" she turns now, and relief washes over you — relief that she didn't turn sooner.

you eye her as she gets under her covers, propping her head up with her hand. you bury yours sideways into the pillow, wrapping the duvet tightly around your frame. "yeah. you?"

"yes, y/n. now, sleep off all that shit in your system. and lie on your side, not your back." you listen to what she's told you plenty of time before, and lean over to switch off the lamp, the entire room pitch black.

"'night, pansy."

"goodnight."

[weaver-z]

Birthmark

A short horror story by B.E.

The women in my family have port-wine birthmarks, but none ever had any as strange as mine. 

Not even my mother, who had one that stretched across her forehead like a bloodshot eye, the pale sclera-white of her skin visible under the glaze of reddish violet. She told me, when I was very young, that my grandmother had one, too, along the back of her head--she, unlike us, had been lucky enough to have one that could be hidden under a bonnet, though her blonde hair still revealed it in the summertime.

“Can I see the ones on the legs?” Thomas asks, chewing the inside of his cheek like a cow chewing its cud. I allow it, even though I am a girl, because Thomas and I are friends, alone in the center of a field of tall summer alfalfa. I can feel his eyes boring into the marks on me in fascination, as he moves around me to see my arms, at the marks on those.

“I like the winter best,” I say, pulling my skirt up. “Pa hates it. But I like it, because I can cover all of ‘em up with my clothes, even the ones on my arms.”

“They’re not so bad,” he says. “They’re not on your face, at least.

“Guess so.”

He sits in front of me in the clear space between the eden-green strands of the grass, looking down at the marks on my legs. They are strange, wobbling lines, not blotches or patches--the lowest two are at my knees, lines that wrap around the joint like the borders of a county. 

There are two more on my upper thighs, though I don’t show Thomas those--he’s still a boy, and even though he looks at my markings with nothing but fascination, I still feel a little kernel of shame rubbing at the walls of my chest. The arms are easier to show to him--there are only two marks, just too low to be covered by my short sleeves, broad and awkward unevenly-stamped lines.

“So you’ve got more? On your back?” Thomas asks, sitting on his haunches, looking at me with intent, dust-brown eyes too large for his face.

“Yes. Almost like a corset,” I say, “like a nice corset, the kind rich ladies wear with their jewels. One on my waist, like a belt. One below my shoulders. Oh, and a line down my back, a kinda wobbly one.”

“Like the laced-up part of the corset,” he says, and I nod, happy that he understands. Most boys who live in these parts wouldn’t. He moves around me, and I sit straight, lifting my long frigid-blonde braid so that he can see the very top of the line that travels down my spine, the source of the splotchy red-and-purple river. 

“You ever wish that you could have them wiped off?” He asks. “I heard that God sometimes grants big miracles if you pray for ‘em enough.”

“Maybe,” I say, doubtful. “I’ve tried it. Pa makes me pray each night, but nothing seems to work.”

“Shame about that. Real shame. Maybe God’s busy with somethin’ else--” he says, and suddenly a gunshot rings out in the distance.

He freezes, pupils dilating like a rabbit that hears a hawk, and I scramble for my boots, forcing them on over the crumbles of mud on my feet. We can both hear Pa, coming through the brush, forcing his way through it with snaps and tears and nearly inarticulate grumbling. Thomas is off like a shot, running almost on all fours as he crouches, and by the time my father reaches me, panting and huddled in the grass, my friend is nothing but a mole-trail disturbing distant strands.

Pa is a tall man--though I inherited his height, I’m only 13, and he towers over me, so broad and heavy that I am thin as grass and summer wind below him. I stand, looking up at him with a look that must look shameful, and he lowers the rifle to point at the earth, face still and steely with malice.

“I told you I didn’t want no boys ‘round,” he says, voice thick, like smoke from a bonfire. “Told you I didn’t want you foolin’ round like a little whore.”

“He didn’t do nothin’,” I say, arms wrapped around my chest. “Honest.”

“Who was it, then? And why didn’t he come see me, an’ ask if he could talk to you?” He takes my arm--not tightly, but with such strength that I couldn’t run if I tried. 

“He and I met while I was out with the chickens. He was on the road going up to town.”

“Sure he was.” Pa shoves my arm away and laughs, the sound like metal clattering to a dirt floor. “Sure, the devil ‘e was. I heard him talkin’ bout your legs, girl. Didn’t hear much, but I heard that. You think you’re the pick of the meat at the market, don’t you?”

“Pa--”

“Don’t talk, pretty girl. Don’t talk, and don’t you ever try and do this again. You’re gonna pray as long as you can tonight. I want your damn tongue to fall out before you stop praying,” and he begins to move, and now the pain comes as I stumble half-backward with him, held in a vise by my arm. 

“Pa, I’m sorry--”

“You ain’t sorry yet, Lu,” he says. He looks back at me, from under the shadow cast beneath his brows by the white sun overhead. “You ain’t sorry, yet.”

---

He makes me pray, that night, for hours and hours, for forgiveness, for something I never did. But the praying he makes me do that night is only meager practice for the praying I do during the winter.

Our chickens die when a coyote pack rolls through in the late days of fall, snarling and barking with a sound like mocking laughter. We salvage what corpses we can, and for a while, we eat well, but not well, because while we dine on fresh meat, the knowledge that something terrible to come hangs over us like the fog of their blood. The cattle start to go soon after, the first to a weak cover over a well (it falls in, it screams for hours), the second to a river, the third to disease, the rest tumbling like the articles like a rotting shelf soon after them. 

When winter comes, we have little, so little, and my father tears into his meager dollars to buy us what we can. I am grateful to him, even as the food dries up, even as he becomes silent, frighteningly silent, staring at me above the candle that lights our dinner-table with a face like a haunting.

I am not allowed to leave the house anymore.

I only cook--clean--mend--read the scraps of old newspaper used to patch the walls of the house as best I can. I make what food he finds for dinner, if he finds any, and I give more to his portion, and he says almost nothing to me except to remind me to stay in the home, to keep house and to keep out of the snowstorms and the paths of wild things. He fixes the roof and sharpens the knives--those are the only tasks he does around the house, besides force me onto my knees beside him to beg God for something for our stomachs.

And it is in cleaning that I find the box.

It is a small box, barely as long as my forearm and as shallow as the length of my hand, and it is under his bed, dislodged from a long stay deep in the shadows beneath his cot by a storm that shook the house.

I pull it slowly from beneath--it is unpainted, made of thin wood that leaves little splinters in the flesh of my thumb-joint. I remove its lid and look inside.

My mother is there, first, as I remember her--thin, short, with a look in her eyes like the hollow of a tree, unexplainably empty. The mark is clearly visible in the photograph, as she stands next to my father, mottled and dim. Neither of them are smiling. They are younger in this photograph--it is blurry, hard to make out.

Beneath that is a scrap of newspaper that I have a hard time understanding for a moment. 

Mrs. Mary J. Letts, 68; Wife and Mother

We regret to announce the death of Mrs. Letts, wife of Mr. Roger Letts and mother to Mabelle Letts, which took place last Thursday due to a tragic accident involving an injury sustained to her head while riding. She is survived by her husband and daughter. 

The paper cuts off there. I don’t recognize the name of Letts, and the paper is old; I continue reading as I find another scrap.

Mrs. Mabelle Dawson, 36; Wife and Mother

We regret to announce the death of Mrs. Dawson, who is survived by her husband, Mr. Arnold Dawson, and her young daughter, Lucy Dawson. Their family has our greatest sympathies. She was killed accidentally as she was cleaning a weapon owned by Mr. Arnold Dawson, who claims deepest regret that

I feel my mouth run dry and my pulse hammer against my skin like stone against a drum. That is my mother’s name--that is my name, too, faint against the paper. I don’t understand why these things are in the box, among other pictures and portraits of my mother, and, unmistakably, my mother’s mother, whose mark is just visible in one small portrait of her, clearly done by an amateur hand. I can imagine how it stretched across the back of her head, branching along her skull--I can see my own mother’s mark, clearly, in the center of her forehead.

I feel cold as the wooden floor under my feet as my eyes trace the border of the mark on her forehead for the first time. 

“Lu?” my father calls, from downstairs. “Lucy? Lu-cy?”

The starburst on her forehead is strangely jagged. Unsteady. The shape that a bullet hole would make, if someone were shot close in the head. An accident while cleaning a gun. A trauma to the back of the skull. I hear a footstep on the stairs, almost hesitant, its weight barely masked by the slowness with which my father places it down.

“Lucy?” he says. “I prayed to God for a miracle, and he told me what we ought to do. I need to see you, now.”

I can’t breathe. My throat is choked by a snare as I throw myself back, scrambling across the floor and away from the box. My skirt flies up--my legs are exposed, the lines on them obvious in their purpose.

Summers ago, I went to the village with Pa, and we went to a stall hung with pig carcasses. There, there was a picture of a sow, her legs and sides and ribs marked with uneven lines where the different cuts of meat came from. Here was the thigh--here was the shank--here was the cut you made along the spine and the stomach.

I hear a slow, low rumble of creaking wood as he stops outside the door.

“Lucy?” he says, his voice more paternal than I have ever heard it, and I begin to cry--begin to pray to anything, anyone that will listen, pray that something else kills me before he enters, and nothing does.

And the door opens--slowly, too slowly, as though I’ve had a nightmare and he’s coming to check on me like a good father should--and he sees me with the box, with the tears flowing down my face, with my chest heaving in great stops and starts.

He takes a step forward. In his hands, he holds a sharpened butcher’s knife.

[hideawayintheimaginationworld]

Story idea? About Funtime Freddy finally finds BonBon, but they are all broken. Panic & upset, he takes them to none other than his enemy Lefty, who is surprise to see the other asking his help. Perhaps the two also makes a deal on something too?

(P.s Btw, I totally love all the stories that you have written! They're all so amazing to read again & again!)

Funtime Freddy's only real fixation was finding BonBon at this point.

It had gotten to point where it was insufferable to be alone.

He had trashed the areas he'd been in, he use to be more considerate in a way.

But now he was tearing into things, breaking them in the process.

He had unsuccessfully tried to ask Eleanor for help, in a way, she was like Baby, but she immediately said she had better things to do.

The better things, Funtime Freddy knew by memory, seeing it over and over again, that Eleanor would try to get ahold of a girl named Sarah, who was living in the same house as Millie. Something she did had pissed her off majorly because she was trying to kill or something, Eleanor never said, or she did and Funtime Freddy never listened. She would try but always be confronted by Funtime Freddy's counterpart.

Lefty was his opposite in a lot of ways, Funtime Freddy's main fur was white, Lefty's was black. Funtime Freddy knew Lefty was always ready to fight, or even bite if he had to, an incident which Funtime Freddy laughed at seeing it happen to someone else but hoped Lefty wouldn’t bite him, as even though his teeth looked flat, he knew like him, that Lefty had sharp canine teeth like a real bear and clearly, as he saw, capable of biting into metal.

In contrast, BonBon just had short flat teeth, completely normal, probably why people seem to like him more.

Life didn’t matter if he couldn’t find him.

For crying out loud, Lefty had that little version of him at his feet, he also vaguely recalled seeing a little rabbit hanging around him once, plus he had all those kids, like Lefty was some sort of shepherd and they were the sheep.

Actually, it looked more a parent and child.

“Think about this, Millie has her whole life ahead of her, she doesn’t want to die, she wants to live... Haven’t you notice she fights you? Because she doesn’t want to die, get that through your head, and maybe stop chasing people away, you lunatic.”

That was why he was focused on finding BonBon instead of Millie, in fact, he hadn’t even talked to Lefty for a while, he had seen him around, he saw him with that Freddy from the big mall place... he didn’t remember his exact name but he was sure it wasn’t just Freddy... he tried to remember the generation name.

Funtime Freddy ripped a bicycle from the pile, disturbing it enough that it fell forwards.

And straight on top of him.

Funtime Freddy climbed up into the air, growling, as he was now surrounded by a lot of junk, like a broken toaster which he threw as far as he could out of his sight, hearing it crash somewhere on the ground. He pulled up his other hand, the hand missing BonBon, and pulled himself up, kicking aside the garbage bags, the rotten food, broken exoskeleton parts.

He sunk down and shouted in frustration again, using language not appropriate for younger kids, he was up to his waist in random broken parts, like a car door, and a busted TV.

Wait.

He noticed something about the TV.

He pulled himself forward towards it, it was an old TV from the 60s, it was like a box, with the screen completely broken and the innards exposed in the late afternoon sunlight.

He shifted forward, looking inside, his suspicions were confirmed by seeing a red bow tie near the TV, he put his hand inside, trying to look inside.

“BonBon?” He felt a lump and grabbed ahold of it, he pulled it forward, finding a little resistance, but it wasn’t a match for him.

He pulled out the little dirty blue rabbit.

“Oh BonBon! I thought I'd never find you again-!!” He noticed BonBon didn’t even speak.

The reality hit him like he just ran into a brick wall.

BonBon's eyes were black, absolutely lifeless.

He made a distressed squeak when he noticed one of his ears was missing, he put him aside and put his hand inside the TV set again.

He found the ear and immediately realised he got caught by that and Funtime Freddy had ripped his ear off by his recklessness.

“You destroy anything you touch! You're so reckless, I wouldn’t even trust you with a plant let alone a child!!”

Lefty had been right.

Funtime Freddy pulled himself up, sitting down, he pulled open his chest cavity, he gently placed BonBon and his broken ear in there then closed it, wanting to keep him safe.

“You destroy anything you touch!”

That was true.

He didn’t mean it.

“Haven’t you notice she fights you? Because she doesn’t want to die, get that through your head, and maybe stop chasing people away, you lunatic.”

“What about “No” do you not understand?? She doesn’t want to die you fucking nutcase!!”

“If you must kill me, you have to answer why.”

Why?

Funtime Freddy managed to get out of the garbage sea and was back on the ground, he tried to think of places to steal spare parts or tools, he knew going to the Pizzeria wasn’t an option, that place was more fortified than it looked, finding the exact parts and tools in the Scrap Yard was near impossible.

He remembered Lefty's knack for fixing things, something he got from his creator somehow. Lefty somehow was repairing himself after their fights, Funtime Freddy remembering breaking his hand so much his fingers were bent out of shape, then the next time, his fingers looked right again, like he fixed himself perfectly.

Lefty would always help whoever asked. He had it in his nature to help.

Was it worth it?

Better to see what would happen than never know what would happen.

It was the earliest Funtime Freddy had ever come to the house, it was the early evening, not too dark yet, it was about seven, which meant by the time, everyone would be home, but Funtime Freddy didn’t want to wait for nighttime, he knew it was likely BonBon had weather damage like him, Funtime Freddy could hear his joints creak excessively, he had dirt caked on feet and the smell of cigarettes on his fur like a bad odour.

Funtime Freddy hesitated to ring the doorbell, he was surprised no one had seen him, but he did run pretty quickly here in his panic.

He knew if he didn’t, someone might see him.

He just needed to hand BonBon to Lefty to fix.

He finally pressed the doorbell, hearing the jingle he never heard, it didn’t sound like a doorbell he was use to, but regardless, he was going to get attention now.

Well, he wanted BonBon to get attention.

He heard the door in front of him unlock, Funtime Freddy stood still, the door opened a little before he heard a “Nope!”

Before the door closed, Funtime Freddy jammed his hand, holding it still, holding it open while the other was trying to close it.

“Listen to me!”

“Get out! Get out!”

Funtime Freddy pushed out his foot to stop the door from closing shut as he felt Lefty on the other side trying to put his weight into his body to shut the door.

“I want to ask you something!”

“Millie, run! Now! Go upstairs and lock the door!!”

Funtime Freddy heard footsteps he assumed were Millie's running upstairs, but he focused on trying to push open the door enough to let himself in.

“Oscar! Go back to your room!! Nobody come out of their room!!”

“I’m not here to do anything bad!”

“Then why you are trying to get in?” Lefty asked from the other side.

“Dam it! Listen to me!!” Funtime Freddy slammed himself against the door with all his weight and strength, he was shocked he actually broke the door off its hinges and it fell on top of Lefty.

“I’m sorry about your door...”

Lefty got to his feet, lifting up the door over his head, then Funtime Freddy realised he was going to use it as a weapon to knock him out, so he popped open his chest cavity.

“Get the fuck out of my face!!”

Funtime Freddy shoved BonBon into his face and Lefty froze.

Lefty stared at BonBon, “What the hell does this mean?”

“BonBon... I found him...”

“He's busted.”

“That’s why I brought him here...” Funtime Freddy admitted, “I want you.... well if you would... could you fix him?”

“I can’t.”

“You're lying, I’ve seen you fix robots.”

“Okay then,” Lefty said, putting the door down, “That was a lie. The truth: I don’t want to.”

“But what I did doesn’t include BonBon,” Funtime Freddy reasoned.

“Why would I help you?”

“Because I'd give you anything...” Funtime Freddy answered, “You fix BonBon, and I'll disappear from your life forever.”

Lefty knew he couldn’t trust this one from experience, “How? How can I trust that?”

“You can’t!!” They heard a voice say from upstairs.

“Don’t get involved Devon!” Lefty yelled back.

“No, no, that kid is right... you have no reason to trust me.”

“So we both agree on something.”

“But like I said, BonBon isn’t reflective of me, all you have to do is one thing... and I will do anything you want... I could... I could even help you with other problems! I know where Eleanor is hiding! I could find out what she's planning!”

Lefty rose his eyebrow, “How about you get out instead?”

“Look, if I had BonBon back, I'd be happy enough to leave you and everyone alone, isn’t that what you want?”

Lefty did want that, one less problem he had to worry about.

“I'm going to keep a close eye on you from this moment onwards,” Lefty said, he took BonBon from his hand, turning him in his hand.

“This one has weather damage... I'll have to find a new circuit board... but there's one thing you must do in the meantime.”

“What?” Funtime Freddy asked.

“Shock implant.”

Funtime Freddy immediately felt a sense of dread wash over him, “You mean...?”

“You take one step out of line, and you will get a not-so controlled shock.”

“No, I don’t want that!” Funtime Freddy had managed to get rid of the piece that would let him be shocked freely and now Lefty wanted to put the piece in again.

“Either that or nothing!!” Lefty shoved him backwards, “And you can forget me fixing this!!” He held BonBon above his head like he was going to throw him against the floor which made Funtime Freddy panic.

“WAIT! WAIT! OKAY! OKAY, I’ll GET THE IMPLANT!!”

Lefty immediately calmed, “So the deal, you don’t even lay a finger on Millie or anyone else... or you'll wake up inside an incinerator... I'll fix the little Bonnie... BonBon... whatever it's called.”

The process of getting the implant wasn’t as bad as Funtime Freddy thought, Lefty just had it installed in his chest cavity, he did test it, much to Funtime Freddy's distaste as it now made him twitchy.

Lefty lifted BonBon up, “He smells like cat litter for some reason.”

“How would you know what that even smells like?”

“Millie has a cat but you wouldn’t care... and for the record, I have a sensitive nose. The smell of vomit can make me feel violently ill... you've both been in the garbage and you're stinking up the house...”

Lefty shook his head, he placed BonBon down on the table, “I'll get my toolbox later...”

“So you'll fix him?” Funtime Freddy asked, figuring even though he didn’t say yes that he was agreeing to help him.

“Yes... but go outside.”

“Why?” Funtime Freddy asked confused, he wasn’t scaring anyone but then again, everyone was upstairs, he could tell because he listened carefully enough that he heard someone listening to music in a room above him.

“I don’t want you in the house,” Lefty said nonchalantly.

And that was how Funtime Freddy ended up in the back garden, sitting by the backdoor as it got dark.

He wouldn’t complain at this point.

He just hoped Lefty was actually going to fix BonBon.

To be continued...

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Cherry Coke Special: One

Bucky Barnes had grown up in the lap of luxury. His father had been a savvy businessman. Both legally and illegally. He’d walked the line. And now Bucky tried to do the same.

But this wasn’t his father’s world. It was a new world. One he could have never dreamed of working at an old oak desk with a calculator and a rotary phone. Well into the ’80s. Computers were the order of the day. Computers and hedonism. Excess. And the woman across the table from him was no exception.

She was blonde. Tan. Fit. Had had some really well-done surgery. And all she wanted was his money. Not like Bucky cared really. This type of girl didn’t question where it came from. But this kind of girl looked around the diner like it was Alien terrain. It was late and snow was falling outside. Settling over cars and streets like a thick down blanket.

There was no one else. No one else had wanted to brave the weather. Leaving Bucky and his girl as the only people in the dining room. “Bucky,” she whined, wiping fussily at the table, “why are we here?”

“Doll,” he said with a sigh, “I told you you could stay home.”

“I wanted to know where you were going,” she said practically, “Make sure it wasn’t a titty bar.”

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose and turned his attention back to his menu. He had a soft spot for greasy little diners. They had decent coffee. Cute waitresses. And homemade pie. They reminded him of his dad. His dad had loved little diners too. Out of the way places where nothing was sketchy and it was easy to convince feds that he was just out with his son.

Quiet footsteps attract his attention and a girl. A pretty girl. Too pretty to be working in a joint like this, wearing a butter yellow dress and white apron. Her face is done up like a pinup but… delicate. Appropriate to work in. And plump cherry red lips. “Can I get you started with something to drink?”

“Do you have sparkling water?” Rena asked, gearing up to throw a fit.

“No, I’m sorry, we don’t. We do have really good iced tea though,” you suggest.

“Is it sparkling?” she asked you in a voice usually reserved for children.

“No,” you answer calmly. Bucky can see the start of a tantrum. He can see it so clearly his head already hurts.

“She’ll have the tea,” Bucky cuts in, calmly, giving his companion a meaningful look.

“And for you sir?” you ask, turning big luminous eyes his direction.

“Coffee, Sugar,” he says with a smile, “Thank you.”

“Cream?” you ask jotting it down.

“Yes, please.”

You nod and go to fill the order, thankful that they’re your only table. You’re exhausted. It’s been a long week and all you want to do is make your day off tomorrow. You’ve been working days and nights for so long. Sleeping in snatches to try and keep going. Working to keep your boyfriend in med school, trying to give him the time he needed to study.

“Sugar?” Rena asked, arching a perfectly sculpted brow.

Bucky half shrugged, “I didn’t get a peek at her name tag.”

Rena doesn’t have time to growl at him, you arrive back at the table with drinks for them. “Thank you,” Bucky said, arranging the coffee cup and cream to his liking. You smile brightly but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Now that you’re still for a moment, you look tired.

“What can I get you to eat?” you ask, taking your order pad out again.

“I’ll take some pancakes,” he said, “Bacon extra crispy.”

“Do you have anything fat free and low carb?” Rena asked.

“The fruit plate is nice,” you suggest helpfully.

“Anything hot?” she says staring at you like you might be slow.

“She’ll have the Fruit plate, Thank you,” Bucky said, giving her a look. He can’t stand when people are rude to servers. When they look for shit to be mad about. Bratty behavior is fine. He enjoys it sometimes. But not with people that make minimum wage.  Rena sighs dramatically and Bucky smiles at you apologetically, “I’ll just have a slice of pie.”

“Flavor?” you ask, “We have Apple, Cherry, Pecan, and Coconut cream.”

“Cherry,” he said smiling a little, thinking of your lips. They look delicious and… if he weren’t attached he’d probably be trying to talk you into a taste.

“Ooo, good choice,” you say, jotting it down, “Want it warmed up?”

“With Ice cream,” he added, nodding, “Thanks, Sugar.”

You drift away and he takes a sip of his coffee. You hadn’t said anything other than polite work talk. Things you’d say to any customer. But he liked you. Nothing about Rena had rattled you, not her fur coat, not her nails, not her alarming amount of cleavage. Nothing. And that. That had been nice. Rena was used to people snapping to and doing whatever she wanted. Bending over backward to give her what she asked for to avoid conflict. You hadn’t and, Bucky was willing to bet that you wouldn’t have.

When you come back to the table not long after, Rena is hissing at him like an angry snake. Viper whispers about how much trouble he was in for flirting with you. The smile she gives you is bright and brittle. If Bucky weren’t there she’d be threatening to scratch your eyes out. And Bucky is frankly embarrassed. It wasn’t as if she loved him. She loved his money. She loved the red bottom shoes and fun little vacations. Apology handbags and flowers she could show off to her girlfriends. And Bucky found that just now, he didn’t care. All he’d wanted was a moment away. A slice of pie. Some coffee. And a second to breathe. He’d wanted to feel like a normal guy. Just for an hour. To not have to worry about “imports” or “exports” or his books or his crew. Or a turf war that was just waiting to happen.

But then, Rena had happened. She had insisted that he was going out to fuck around on her. She was still insistent that he was going to fuck around. But he wasn’t. Hell, you had work to do. Work to do that didn’t involve riding his dick. Even if he’d kinda like you to. He had a thing for girls that could say a lot with very little. Currently, you were leaning on the counter with a laptop, typing hurriedly. Your fingers are flying over keys easily and it’s soothing. You keep your distance, keeping cups refilled and keeping up on things that they needed. You were intuitive, despite evidently doing some other work at the same time.

But, Bucky can’t really ask what you’re doing. Rena is a force to be reckoned with if she feels like someone is trying to step up to her man. Thankfully, Bucky reflects, you probably have someone waiting for you at home. Or at least some self-respect. That was good. A novel concept, he snorted to himself thinking of Rena. Still, he pays his tab and drops money on the table for you. A pretty chunk of change. Enough, he thought that maybe you could get something you really wanted.

You disappear around the corner, headed back into the kitchen for who knows what and Bucky ushers Rena out. He left enough on the table to cover his tab and probably make up for the tips you weren’t making due to the weather. He nodded to himself and smiled a little. That would do it. At the very least you’d remember who he was if he ever stopped by again. And, as he watched Rena scroll through her phone irritably, he figured it was a likely possibility.

_______________

In the aftermath of his break up with Rena, he found himself back in the Diner. He didn’t really expect you to be working. Let alone that you’d have the time to chat with him. But still, he’s thankful that it was another slow night.

The music playing is a soft sweet little love song and you’re in the middle of bussing a table for some people that had just left. “I’ll be right with you,” you call, hearing the bell, “Take a seat anywhere.” You hustle to clean the table and hustle back out with a smile and a glass of water for him.

“Coffee?” you ask brightly.

Bucky sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, “Yeah, Sugar, thanks.”

“Rough day?” you ask, sympathetic.

“Yeah,” he said, “But it’s nothing a night off can’t fix.”

You make a soft noise and go to get him his coffee and cream. Bucky watches you grab a mug and a coffee carafe in one hand and a small container of cream in the other. Your little white sneakers and yellow uniform remind him of being a kid. Back when t-shirts and jeans weren’t uniforms. You pour his coffee deftly and set his cream down, “What can I get you to eat?”

“Do you guys do patty melts?” he asks.

“Do we do patty melts?” you tease, “What kind of establishment do you think this is. Of course, we do.” You tut at him and start jotting it down. “Fries okay?”

“Fries are fine, Sugar,” he says smiling. Somehow you had managed to set him at ease with a smile and a joke and now, the knots in his stomach from the stress had faded a little. You give him a smile and flounce off to put his order in. That done, you drift over to your laptop again to get some work done for your day job and Bucky listens to the rapid typing. He smiles a little, “What’re you working on?” he calls, “School stuff?”

“Stuff for my day job,” you answer, looking up and adjusting a pair of reading glasses.

“What’s that?” he asked, “You a teacher?”

“Close,” you tell him, “I’m a house manager for a transitional program for addicts.”

He whistled, “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Only if you can’t read a room,” you say shrugging, “By the time people get to my program they’re recovering. We exist to help give them a solid start to getting their life back.”

“So why you here at night?” Bucky asked sipping his coffee.

“Gotta pay my bills somehow,” you say shrugging, “My boyfriend is in med school and he can’t work and do that… so working here picks up some of the slack.”

Bucky nods, feeling a little disappointed. He figured you had someone at home. A girl like you, a real class act was something any guy was lucky to find. “That sounds like a nightmare.”

“It could be worse. At least my documentation is always done,” you say shrugging, coming to refill his coffee.

“You ain’t tired?” he asked.

“They give me free coffee,” you say with a wink.

“Oh well,” he snorts, “Sign me up.”

“Hey. Job perks, man. Gotta take ‘em where you can get ‘em.”

Bucky smiles a little, “How much longer you gotta keep all that up?”

“As long as it takes,” you answer, “He does better when he doesn’t have to multi-task like that, you know?”

Bucky makes a soft sound and adds cream, “How many hours do you wind up working a day?”

You shrug, “It depends. Today? Somewhere in the neighborhood of 16. Tomorrow I’ve got the night off here but I’m running a double at the house since we have state coming in for inspection.”

Bucky shakes his head, “That’s… that also sounds like hell.”

“It could be worse, they’re coming to do the inspection on first shift. So I just gotta do the grunt work to get everything ready on second and third shift the night before.”

Your bell dings with your signal and you turn to get his order, hustling across the floor.

“Sugar can I get a Coke, too?” he calls.

You nod and get ice before filling the glass and shove a bottle of ketchup in your apron pocket before you head back over with his plate, handing him ketchup. “Anything else?” you ask.

“This looks great,” he says appreciatively, “Maybe a piece of pie… We’ll see how much damage I can do to this first.”

You nod and head back over to your laptop, starting to work again, taking advantage of a few minutes of downtime. Bucky spent more time watching you than he did eating. He had a thing for competence. He liked smart women. He respected them. And he hoped that your boyfriend did too.

Though, when a tall, frankly storybook handsome blonde with a cocky smile and a backpack walked in, stealing a kiss over the counter, something told him that that wasn’t true. Your shoes are white. Clean. But not remotely supportive enough for running on this concrete. His are Nike. And new. He supposes they could be a gift but. He’s just. He’s really well put together for someone that should have been in class. And it genuinely rubs Bucky the wrong way when he asks you for money to eat.

“Babe,” you remind him, “There’s still leftover ribs in the fridge.”

“But I really want pizza,” he said.

You sigh and hand him a small wad of ones from your bag. The money you were saving to get some new headphones and a manicure. You just want to not have to do your nails yourself. He takes the money and kisses your cheek before heading out the door, leaving you to work.

Bucky also doesn’t miss that he doesn’t thank you.

After he leaves you come to refill his coffee, “Everything okay?” you ask brightly.

“Fine, Sugar,” he says making a mental note to leave you another nice tip. Not only are you good at keeping his drinks filled but you’re a sweetheart. A nice girl. The kind of girl his ma would just adore.

Too bad you’re with somebody that doesn’t seem to care all that much

[trans-darkwing]

talk yourself up

DWD + DT17 drabble | written before the the Double-O-Duck ep aired, but I still like it | Darkwing and Steelbeak | ~1800 words

-

Darkwing scrabbles backward across the floor, his gas gun has been kicked across the room, in the corner behind the director’s desk. His cape is gone, torn away and with it all the other gadgets he kept stored in hidden pockets. Steelbeak stalks closer, a sadistic smirk twisting the joints of his metal beak.

“What now, Darkwing Duck?” he mocks, drawing out the name, “I’m on the edge of my seat to find out what happens next. No, really,” he goes on, “you’ve got a whole script for this, am I right? Or did you not plan this far ahead?” He laughs. Steel beak talks a lot, he likes that. It suits Darkwing just fine.

“Don’t have a script,” he starts to respond, “but I am very good at improv.” His hand hits on something heavy and metal and he grabs for it, flinging it in his best overhand towards the towering titan taunting him treacherously. The wrench flies through the air and hits him squarely on the mouth, with the sickening clang of metal on metal. It stuns him, only for a moment, reeling as he clutches at his face. Darkwing takes the scarce instant to look for something, anything to get himself out of this.

The rooster lowers his hand, baring his teeth furiously, “I think you just gave me a dent. That’s gonna cost ya. An arm and a leg!” The man lunges for him, apparently growing tired of playing with his food. But Drake has already started scrambling to his feet and rolling out of the way. He’s off balance though, being thrown across the room seems to have done more than just knock the breath out of him. He steadies himself and dances further out of reach, letting the loquacious lug of larceny lumber closer to him.

“So... how do you fix a dent in your face?” Drake wonders conversationally, going for diversion now, “you just open it up, pop the dent, and buff it out…? Or do you just have to replace the whole model?” He inches around him as he does, slowly circling the scoundrel in a stagnant stand-off.

“They really only have to replace the one joint that’s dented, but you got me in two.”

Darkwing Duck’s face splits in a grin, trying not to let on how woozy he feels. “Ooh, two for one, do I get a prize?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna give you a dent of your own,” Steelbeak says sweetly, “how do you fix those?”

DW gives him a look of faux innocence. “My face? It just always looks this good,” he shrugs, all bravado.

“Not when I’m done with you,” he snorts, “and don’t think I don’t know where you're going. Your stupid little toy-gun is over there, but you also backed yourself into a corner. Deadmeat Duck.”

Darkwing stays silent this time, darting his eyes around the room once more, this time though, it’s an act.

“What now, pretty boy?” 

Drake backs away from him further, reaching the edge of the desk. He clutches at it blindly, pressing himself against it as he holds onto the edge with tense fingers.

Steelbeak sneers, “guess that’s gonna be a big nothing, then.” Still getting closer, right where Drake wants him.

“Have you ever done a coordinated stunt fall?” He asks calmly, looking up at the rooster with his hands gripping onto the lip of the desk behind him.

It takes Steelbeak off guard, looking bewildered by the sudden change in his demeanor. “What? No.”

“Oh,” Drake says gravely, “then this is gonna hurt.”

With that he deftly throws himself up, using the table for leverage and kicking out as he does, and landing the blow to Steelbeak’s head, knocking the man heavily to the ground. Then he uses the backwards momentum of his movement to flip behind the desk. He stumbles on the dismount, clutching at his own head and willing the dizziness to dissipate. Without further hesitation he reaches for what had been his actual goal, sliding his hand across the underside of the desk.

“There,” he mutters to himself, flipping the switch and activating the silent alarms. “They’ll know you’re here now, Steelbeak,” he announces helpfully, to the man now just recovering enough to stand, “in fact, we should have company in just a few minutes.”

“That’s still plenty of time for me to kill you!” he roars, diving over the desk now. Drake doesn't dodge quick enough this time and gets tackled bodily to the ground, his head knocking into the polished marble flooring once more. This time— rather than just dizziness and the fuzz of pain at the back of his head, marking the start of a headache— it feels like his head is splitting open. He doesn’t mean to let out the breathless noise of pain, but he doesn’t seem to be fully cognizant anymore. He struggles for breath, this fall also having forced the wind from his lungs.

“What are you gonna do now, huh!?” Steelbeak demands, looming over him and lifting Drake by the collar. Limp form hanging from the grip fisted in his shirt, his head lolling back uselessly. He drops him again, giving a low chuckle as he pushes himself to stand over him, staring down at him and lording himself above Drake.

“Now that you don’t have all your weapons and your little gadgets, what are ya gonna do?” he asks, metal jaws gleaming in the low light, “you’re nothing.”

Everything is still blurry and Steelbeak sounds far away, as if he’s underwater. Still, as he listens to the words, it’s nothing he hasn’t heard before.

So Drake gasps a laugh of his own, fighting back control of his voice if nothing else. “You know... back before I had all that stuff, way back... I used to deal with guys like you,” he shifted, trying to push himself up little by little as he forced the words from his chest, still recovering his breath. “The kind of person who hurts people because they can. Does it make you feel good?” he asks from his place on the floor.

“A little,” Steelbeak responds, his smile curling awfully.

“Does it make you feel like a big man?” Drake hisses furiously, propping himself up on his arm now.

At that, Steelbeak laughs, hearty and cruel. “You really took this hero thing to heart, huh?” He laughs again, stepping back to look down at Drake on the ground like he’s admiring his handiwork. “So, what did you do when these big mean bullies pushed you on the playground?” He asks, pitching his voice like he’s talking to a child.

“I got back up,” Drake breathes, voice low and barely audible. 

Steelbeak leans closer, holding a mocking hand up to his ear, “What was that?” He asks.

The thing about Steelbeak is that he likes to hear himself talk. And for a long as Drake can talk back— which is forever because Drake is about exactly as full of hot air as Steelbeak is— Steelbeak will draw it out. He likes gloating. He likes boasting, and preening, and talking himself up. And that suits Darkwing just fine. And it’s useful.

“I got back up!” He shouts and without hesitation he forces himself to his feet, coming up swinging. He spins his fist out, catching the man in the stomach first, then he whirls another fist towards his face. But this time he stumbles back after his hand slams into solid metal plating. He laughs in hysterical panic, shaking out his aching hand.

Steelbeak looks at him wild-eyed and grinning, “you know, I’m starting to like you. Too bad this is where you die,” He grabs for him again, Drake just barely staggers out of the way, falling to his hands and knees as he does and scrambling to get on his feet again.

“Well, you’d better hurry up—” he starts, and as if on cue a door in some other part of the building opens with a bang. Drake grins up at him, feeling jovial and entirely off-kilter as he says, “time’s up.”

Steekbeak does back away this time. “Next time,” he growls and Drake can only smile and nod at him, still half-way fallen down.

Steelbeak then breaks through the window and dives out and for a moment Drake can’t fathom why until he watches him catch onto a rope ladder he hadn’t known was there and is pulled away with the roaring sound of a helicopter flying off.

Drake collapses fully to the ground at that, in relief, and maybe exhaustion. The door behind him bursts open not a moment later. And Drake lets himself be rolled over by strong paws, squinting up at Grizzlykoff kneeling over him.

“Great, it’s my favorite SHUSH agent,” Drake intones dryly.

“Darkwing is alive,” he calls out flatly over his shoulder.

“You’re late,” Drake informs him, lifting one heavy arm to point out the broken window, “I already fought the bad guy, as you can see.”

He ignores that and helps Drake to sit up, pulling out a thin flashlight to shine in each of his eyes.

“You definitely have concussion.” The bear says gruffly in his thick Russian accent.

“I could have told you that,” Drake bemoans bitterly, blinking spots away with his headache growing. He rubs a hand to the back of his head where it had hit the floor, not once but twice. Then he glances around, suddenly realizing he'd lost his hat at some point.

“You are acting childishly immature, as always, along with your unnecessary jabber. It comforts me to know your head is in normal state,” the agent responds in a heavy deadpan.

“I always have some spare sass for you, Grizz,” he tells him with a single pat to the shoulder, “now, do you see my hat a— Ah! Hey!” without preamble, the grizzly hefts him up to toss him across his back. Then looping an arm around Darkwing’s leg and securing his wrist with the same hand

“I can walk!” he protests, though he's not certain it’s actually true. “And you could at least carry me like a gentleman!”

“This is fireman hold. Standard procedure for transporting injured civilian out of potentially dangerous area.”

“I know what a fireman’s hold is!” he screeches, punching his free first into Grizzlykoff’s back. It doesn’t do much. “And I am not a civilian!” he growls furiously, then, once more for good measure adds, “and I don’t need you to carry me!!”

The bear shrugs, unfazed, “Procedure still applies.”

Drake just groans heavily dropping his head where it hangs freely beside Grizzlykoff’s shoulder. His heartbeat pounding too loudly in his skull, which felt as if Steelbeak had taken a sledgehammer and opened it up like a coconut. Actually, why would you open a coconut with a sledgehammer? Seems like overkill. Just— however you open a coconut that is his brain, a coconut. He needs help.

The agent doesn’t pause his walking but he does ask seriously, “do you want me to cradle you like baby, instead?”

Drake snorts, but that just makes his headache worse so he’s moaning in pain again, “no, just— get me to a doctor.”

“That is what I am doing.”

“And call Launchpad.”

“I will.”

[ravenvsfox]

“be still, my indelible friend, you are unbreaking” feels so unbelievably and notoriously gansey to me that i can’t help but include the line in its entirety??

When the world ends, Gansey doesn’t end with it.

Or, no, that’s not right.

When Gansey ends, the world doesn’t end with him. It doesn’t even slow down, really, to ease him through the veil. 

He disintegrates into dust, and is immediately vacuumed back up again. He’s not what he was, exactly, because ashes can’t be unburnt, but he’s standing upright in his urn of a body.

Sometimes, like a double exposed photo, he thinks of his joints as knots and his arms as branches and his eyes as light on the wind. He wonders if it’s what Adam used to feel when he was contracted by Cabeswater. Or Blue, when she slips through the surface of a tree. Or Ronan, when he dreams a reality so thoroughly that he must become it, a little. 

Or Noah, as he decayed.

What a pleasure to be closer to his friends, he tells himself. To be made of Cabeswater. To be the source of their magic once and for all, so that they can take everything they need from him.

It’s harder than that, of course. His head is a maze of rambling corridors and mirrored surfaces, and everyone who tries to come in is lost.

______

It’s summer, and he’s climbing the porch steps of the Barns. He’s strung between ten different moments where he had, has, will, is climbing the porch steps of the Barns.

It’s mild this time, like deja vu. He allows himself an indulgent moment to think of himself as a time traveller, caught in the rich folds of then and now.

He knocks smartly on the door’s gleaming cherry surface. Ronan’s been on a wood-staining kick lately. He’s always liked to leave things a little bloodier than he found them.

There’s a rumble from inside, a sound like a thunking hammer, and then the door wrenches inwards.

“Ha,” Opal says, hanging off the handle. “Beat you.” Her hooves are on full display, and her face is flushed with self-satisfaction. Ronan yanks her backwards by the collar of her shirt.

“Cut it out,” he snaps. “You’re going to answer the door for the wrong person one day, and they’re gonna cart you away to psychopomp jail.”

“No one ever comes here anyway,” she argues.

“Except me, evidently,” Gansey says.

“Dick,” Ronan says, as if just noticing him. He bumps their fists together. “What’s up?”

“Just checking up on things. The Lynch estate,” he says airily, letting himself into the foyer. There’s an above average mess threading through the hallway, pockmarked floors and empty cans. A sagging bag of trash.

Ronan eyes him flatly on his way past. “Checking on me, you mean.”

“Is that so wrong?”

“It’s weird,” Ronan says, “considering you were also here yesterday to check up on me. Did Adam ask you to keep doing this?”

“I’ve cared about you for longer than Adam’s been in the picture,” Gansey says defensively. He pauses, then laughs at himself, realizing how it sounds. “I mean— I don’t need to be told to worry about you.”

“Believe me, I know that better than fucking anybody,” Ronan says. He looks a little unsettled, which is strange, against the backdrop of his pleasant patchwork living room. Being home usually dulls that sharp edge of Ronan’s like a felt pad.

“Was I really here yesterday?” Gansey asks, at length.

“You were,” Ronan says stiffly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m—I don’t know—“ he looks around, suddenly overwhelmed. “I couldn’t—I don’t know.”

“Gansey,” Ronan starts.

Gansey waves him off. “It’s probably fine. This is so silly. I just wanted to see how you are. I thought maybe Adam would be here, and we could…”

“It’s Tuesday. He’s at work,” Ronan says. “You know that, man.”

“Is it?” he asks absently.

“Maybe you should get a job too,” Ronan says.

Gansey gives him a look. “What for?”

“So you remember what day of the fucking week it is, to start.”

“I don’t think you can lecture me about self-awareness.” It was supposed to be a joke, but it nicks Ronan like a bee-sting, and he swells up with righteous anger.

“Right. Fuck me, I guess.”

“Ronan,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Are you gonna be back tomorrow with more hot new ways to insult me in my own home?”

“No I—I don’t know what’s gotten into me,” Gansey says quietly. The fight swirls out of Ronan completely.

“Is it Cabeswater?”

“Maybe,” Gansey whispers. There’s so much more he should, has, will say. There’s an entire manifesto inside of him, written in invisible ink.

“Then we’ll fix it. Magic is our wheelhouse.” What he means is: dealing with trauma is hard and slow, and I’d rather fix you with a dream than with a heart to heart. Or maybe that’s not fair. Ronan’s always shown up for him, when it mattered.

“Okay,” Gansey says. He feels like he’s taking on the colour of Ronan’s certainty. He’s being stained and repurposed, and all his scepticism and fear is covered over with varnish, like it has been his whole life.

He wonders if Ronan could dream the old him back into existence, and this Gansey, put-together-wrong-Gansey, could quietly disappear.

______

“Ronan told me that you were having some memory loss,” Adam says. He’s looking at him from across the little table in the corner of Monmouth, an unreasonably expensive hand-crafted thing with two overturned plastic buckets as chairs. 

They’re eating leftover Nino’s, and talking circles around the conversation they should be having.

“A little,” Gansey admits. “It’s hardly a problem, though. I haven’t left any stovetops on or anything.”

Adam smiles with the corner of his mouth. “You don’t own an oven.”

“The point stands.”

“The point falls,” Adam says. “Completely apart. I can tell when you’re repressing. I’m an expert.”

“At repression, or at understanding me?”

Adam nods. Gansey snorts.

“Really, this is ridiculous. I’m supposed to be worrying about you, after what happened.”

“We’re supposed to be worrying about each other. See: friendship, appendix C.”

“Some of us happen to require more worry than others,“ Gansey says pointedly.

“If you’re talking about Ronan, believe me, I know. We’re working on it. But when have we even spoken about working on you?”

Gansey fidgets, uncomfortable. “It’s embarrassing. To act like what’s wrong with me is anything like—to pretend that my discomfort is the same as your tragedies—“

“Comparing yourself to other people never does anyone any good,” Adam says, chewing distractedly.

Which doesn’t make sense, because Gansey is rarely one person, alone. He is a many-headed thing. He watches his friends for cues, studies and takes notes and adopts his favourite things about them.

“I’m not comparing so much as I am prioritizing.”

“Repressing,” Adam reiterates.

“Anyway,” Gansey says. “Your boyfriend seems to think there’s a supernatural cure for me.”

“My boyfriend,” Adam starts, still stumbling over the title just a little, “uses whiskey and magic to dispel his bad days. I wouldn’t take a prescription from him.”

“What would you do, then. If you were me?” If you got resurrected wrong, and you didn’t know how to tell your friends that you shouldn’t have come back at all.

“Nowadays?” Adam’s eyes bore into his own, unsettlingly focused. “Ask for help.”

______

Sometimes, Blue holds him like she’s trying to overpower him. Not that he could ever resist her. She climbs over him on the purple couch in the sitting room at Fox Way, and hitches her legs over his lap, wrapping her arms so tightly around his chest that it changes the pattern of his breathing.

It’s an intensely physical kind of affection that she shares with Ronan, and even with Adam, in a way. They care so much that it chafes. They absorb him, and he absorbs them, and they never have to walk on their own.

“I’ve heard whispers, around Henrietta,” Blue says, “about a boy who won’t listen to his friends.”

“Oh?” Gansey says, playing along. There’s incense burning, somewhere, and the room is cloudy with it.

She nods into his chest. “Yeah, a real Dick, apparently.”

“Very funny,” he says affectionately.

“Yeah, except it’s not funny, actually.” She raises her head, and her pointy little chin jabs him just under his clavicle. “We’re worried about you. You feel like you’re everywhere at once.”

He wants to argue except—yes—that’s exactly how he feels. Everywhere at once. Too much at once. Unable to stop moving and thinking or he’ll die again, won’t he?

“I don’t want to be selfish,” he says.

“Gansey,” she says flatly. “You have been insufferable, and unintentionally self-serving—“

“I’ve so missed our pillow talk.”

She shoves him back so he splays across the couch, and then she follows him down. “You’re not selfish. You don’t have it in you. You’re like, so selfless that you end up being less of yourself.”

“I don’t think I know what that means.”

Blue kisses his shoulder, but it’s too hard, like she’d rather just headbutt him to get her point across.

“You died,” she reminds him.

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” she says. “No. Don’t be. It’s not your fault, and it’s not your fault that you’re not quite the same.”

His spine bows, and breaks. “Blue,” he breathes. He can’t believe she knows that. Is it so obvious, that that’s his problem? Is his impression of normal Gansey so terrible?

“You spend so much time just—marvelling at Adam and Ronan right?”

“And you,” he mumbles, but she ignores him. She gets like this, fired up and inspired and alone on her soapbox.

“Things get really hard for them, and they can be idiots about it, but they don’t let it break them, right? You don’t even realize that you’re doing the same thing.”

He frowns. “But I did break.”

She falters. “What?”

“I broke. I died. And things didn’t even get hard for me, Jane.”

She looks stricken, and she reaches down to hold his hand. “Of course they did.”

“It hurt, to watch my friends hurt. And I got a bit tired of responsibility. And that’s all it took,” he says bitterly.

Blue looks at him for a long time, still squeezing his hand.  

“Are you telling me you wanted to die?”

“No, no, not then,” Gansey says hastily.

Blue’s face spasms. “And now?” she asks.

“No,” he says again, but it’s see-through. A yes in no’s clothing. He tries again, and means it. “No.”

“Okay,” she says. “Jesus, Gansey.”

“I know,” he says. “I don’t know. It should be so easy to be happy. My friends brought me back to life, how many people can say that?”

“Maybe no one,” she says. “And that’s why no one else has had to talk about this problem.”

“It’s just—how am I supposed to feel worthy of that kind of sacrifice?”

“You’re a Gansey,” she says, half-smiling and ruffling his bangs. “Everything about you screams worthy.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, and it must show on his face, because Blue frowns, and her hand goes soft in his hair.

“You know we did it because we love you, right?”

He nods, overwhelmed. “I’d hoped.”

“Idiot,” Blue says. “When are you going to understand that as much as you’re impressed by us, and care for us, and want to fix our problems, we feel the exact same stupid way about you?”

“I don’t know,” he says honestly.

She puts her head back down on his chest, and traces shapes over his heart. “I guess I’ll just have to keep telling you.”

His whole body goes warm, and he catches her hand and kisses her on the palm.

______

On the anniversary of his death, they have a funeral that doubles as a birthday party. They drink, and mill from place to place, and stay close to one another. He thinks of Noah all day, of how they had died together in the end.

He remembers how Noah had always looked like he was fading in and out of reality, and he wonders if he ever flickers like that.

They bring balloons to his symbolic grave, and fix them to the nearest tree. 

Next to him, Blue cries, and Adam holds her shoulder. Ronan is furious, which is the same as crying. Henry hangs back a little, but he takes Gansey’s hand.

His friends surround him like they did on the night he came back. Like they do every day.

“He died for us,” Gansey says. “He should be here.”

“So did you,” Henry says.

“Exactly. So why did I come back and he didn’t?”

“He was dead for a long time,” Adam says slowly. “Cabeswater didn’t get to know him like it got to know you. It wasn’t feasible.”

“Magic isn’t feasible,” Gansey says fiercely. “What does seven years even matter to a timeless forest?”

“Magic has rules,” Ronan says.

“Since when do you care about rules?”

“Since when do you take your shit out on me all the time?” Ronan says calmly.

Gansey clenches his jaw, then drops Henry’s hand to hold his own over his eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re allowed to be mad,” Blue says.

“I am.” He watches the wind twirl Noah’s wooden grave-marker. “I’m mad.”

“Finally,” Ronan says.

“No,” Gansey says. “You don’t get to act like I’ve been taking too long, or, or like this should be easy for me.”

“Stop trying to make this about your emotional superiority to Ronan,” Adam says.

“Superiority,” Gansey repeats. He laughs, disbelieving.

“Guys,” Henry starts.

“It’s like you can’t believe that you could possibly be doing worse than us.”

“Adam,” Blue says. “That’s not it at all.”

“No,” Gansey says. “That’s exactly it. I’m doing worse. And worse. And nothing even happened to me.” He laughs again, and it stumbles into a sob. “Nothing ever happens to me.”

“You died,” Blue says, again. She’s always reminding him, like it’s not the whole of his identity now.

“I came back,” Gansey says automatically.

“So?” Ronan says, looking away, out into the darkness of the trees. “Anything can set off pain. It doesn’t have to make sense to feel like shit.”

Adam quietly shifts on his feet and curls his fingers into Ronan’s wristbands.

“You don’t have to feel bad about feeling bad, bud,” Henry says.

He can feel his face crumpling. The hurt throbs, persistent, so close to being discovered that it starts shouting and waving its arms.

“I think—“ he swallows. His friends crane in towards him, waiting for him to speak. They’re so attentive, and scared, and wounded, like him. “I need some help.”

A tear slips down his cheek and disappears. The wind whistles. Nothing changes, except his friends faces, which are all profoundly relieved.

Blue smiles, watery, and reaches for him. “Then it’s a good thing we’re all here.”

[stitchcasual]

Official Business

My piece for the @afterkirkwall zine! I’m so glad I got to participate in this; I love a good excuse to write for viscount!Hawke ^_^

Check it out here on AO3 or keep reading under the cut!

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

Hawke grips the neck of the bottle tight as he braces his other arm against the wall, sinking down onto the steps. He didn’t use to feel this old, couldn’t say for sure when he’d first noticed the creaking in his joints or the additional ache in his back, but they’ve been demanding more of his attention lately. Aveline chuckles at him, but he notices she’s taking longer to sit as well. None of them are as young as they were the day they first set foot on Kirkwall’s docks. That’s good, in a way: the Hawke of ten years ago would not have taken well to the mantle of viscount.

He looks over his shoulder at Fenris, standing at the top of the steps where he has a view of the whole of the main hall in the Viscount’s Keep. Fenris would, perhaps, argue on the merits of Hawke taking the office even now. Fenris believes in him, in what he’s trying to do here, but he also worries for what it’s doing to him. Hawke waves off the frown he sees gathering on Fenris’s face and sets to the delicate task of getting the cork out of the wine bottle.

Across the landing in a position mirroring Fenris is Bran, quill, ink, and parchment at the ready. Despite Hawke’s protestations that this is a gathering of friends and nothing more, the fact that the viscount, the guard captain, and the knight-commander are in the same room means Bran must be too. Hawke angles his head to try and keep Bran out of his visual range, preferring to ignore his aide as much as possible when he can. 

Hawke drinks from the bottle once he has it open, then stuffs the cork back in and jerks his head at Aveline. She has time enough to say, “Hawke, don’t you—” before she abandons speech in favor of catching the bottle as he tosses it to her. Cullen chuckles, though his laughter fades quickly, choked off by the glare Aveline fixes him with and the bottle as it once more flies through the air. Hawke grins and spreads his legs out in a careless sprawl so he takes up about five of the stairs.

“It’s looking good out there, Hawke,” Cullen says after he drinks, walking the bottle over to pass it back to Hawke before settling himself on the steps below Bran with a grimace and clank of platemail. 

“Oh, sure, Hightown is starting to come together.” Hawke swigs at the bottle and leans forward to rest both forearms on his thighs. It puts him a little off kilter, but he’s only had two sips of wine so far; he’s not worried about falling yet. And anyway, he knows Fenris won’t let him get hurt.

The keep is empty this late at night, only the staff and guards around, and none of them are too close by since Fenris and Bran are. It’s the only time Hawke lets his guard down and only with these few people. Of course, it also means that if Fenris decides that tonight Hawke’s earned a bump on the head if he falls down a few steps, there will be no one to witness it. No one who would worry over him, anyway. Those here have seen him take worse hits and live.

“I take it you don’t have much cause to be in Lowtown these days, Knight-Commander.”

“Just what I see on my way from the Docks.”

“I’d recommend a detour next time you come through, but only with a large armed escort.”

Cullen raises his eyebrows and turns to Aveline, who frowns first at Cullen and then at Hawke before actually drinking from the bottle that Hawke tosses to her. She points the neck at Cullen, shaking it as she speaks.

“Yes, the Guard is still stretched thin. We’ve lost a lot of good people over the last year. If you’d lend a few templars to my patrols, we’d have less trouble.”

“You know I can’t—”

“Oh, I know very well what you can and can’t do.”

Aveline nearly pegs Cullen in the face with the wine bottle, but it’s not for nothing the years he’s spent training and drilling with Hawke. Cullen wraps both hands around the bottle, staring at the carpet of the landing.  

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“The Gallows needs to change,” Hawke said, opening the door to Cullen’s office in the Templar wing.

“Good morning to you, too, Viscount.” Cullen looked up from the parchment he’d been poring over and stood, saluting.

Hawke waved a hand, dismissing any further pleasantries. “What’s different since we killed Meredith?” He closed the office door and crossed to lean against the wall next to Cullen’s desk. 

“We’re fighting for stability right now. It seems a poor time to institute changes. Once things settle down—”

“You don’t have that time.”

“It’s only been a few weeks!”

“And keeping things the way they were before will end with us in the same position we were just in. You know I respect what you do here, but it isn’t working.” Hawke stared at Cullen and arched an eyebrow. “Am I wrong?”

Cullen straightened, but even his full height couldn’t match Hawke’s. “You know you have no true power over the Gallows.”

“I know.” Hawke shrugged. “But you’ll listen to me anyway.”

A silence took the room, the two men sizing each other up. Cullen paced around the front of his desk and crossed his arms. He’d have the advantage in a fight thanks to his armor and the absolutely ridiculous thin cotton shirt Hawke wore as part of the viscount’s official wardrobe, but Hawke just watched him without moving an inch himself, as though he felt no fear. Considering what he’d personally seen in just the last month, not to mention the last seven years, perhaps that response had already been drained out of him.

Cullen sighed and rubbed a hand across his brow. He sat on the edge of his desk, rolling a hand at Hawke for him to continue.

“You need to let go any templar even suspected of anything untoward with one of the mages.”

With a tired wave at the papers on his desk, Cullen said, “Do you realize how many of them that is? How many reports Meredith had that she did nothing about?”

“I’ve got suspicions. Send those templars away, get them out of Kirkwall. I don’t want any of Meredith’s old guard sticking around. Bring in new recruits, train them right. Meredith taught them fear; you can teach them respect.”

“You make it sound so easy.” 

“It won’t be. But you can do it. How’s your supply of lyrium?”

Cullen reached over and grabbed one of the papers, handing it to Hawke. “We’ll start to run low in a few months. I’ve gotten letters like that from a few suppliers already, saying they can’t risk sending their people and product into a ‘warzone.’”

Hawke snorted and passed the letter back. “I’ll talk to some people. I know a guy who might be able to help.”

“Of course you do.”

Hawke smiled, spreading his arms wide. “Unlike you, I had a life for the past few years. Now, tell me what your plans are.” When Cullen frowned at him, Hawke rolled his eyes and gestured at the wall toward the Gallows as a whole. “I know you have ideas for how to change things, even if you’re not doing anything yet. Tell me.”

Cullen had years of ideas, most of them discarded by Meredith for being too soft, but Hawke listened to them and nodded his agreement. He may not be a templar in name, but Cullen had trained him as one for a while and his lived experience with his sister and father counted for a lot. His mind made quick tactical work of situations, and as an outsider, he was able to point out some of the flawed logic circuits Cullen had grown used to after so long in the Order.

They talked until past time for lunch and there came a knock at the door. Hawke opened it to Fenris, who whispered into his ear, and Hawke groaned. He turned his back to the hallway, slowly walking backward toward Fenris, and pointed at Cullen.

“Start now.” 

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“Do you ever miss the way things used to be?” Cullen asks, hunching his shoulders within his armor, and Hawke is struck by just how young Cullen looks. He often forgets that Cullen is the same age as Bethany, given how much rides on his shoulders and how well he’s handled it. While Hawke feels every bit of his thirty-three years and has definitely begun to look it, sometimes it appears as though Cullen ages backward, that all the responsibility he’s taken on only serves to highlight the youth he should have had. Maker knows it’s not fair, but Hawke has long since stopped believing he’d ever get a fair shake.

“Well,” Hawke says, looking up at Fenris. “How many’s it been so far this year? Couple of poisoning attempts, one memorable noble lad who thought he could sneak a broadsword into the keep stuffed down his trousers.”

“Three poisonings,” Fenris says, one eyebrow arched. “And that incident was last year.”

“Stabbed himself in the calf,” Hawke recalls, smiling wistfully. “Highlight of my month. But if that’s all I have to deal with in terms of life-threatening situations, it’s leagues better than getting impaled on a Qunari battleaxe a few times.”

Cullen concedes the point, shrugging and nodding. Aveline’s face tightens and she frowns; Hawke doesn’t think any of his friends have gotten over the few months they all spent fretting over whether or not he’d wake after the injuries he sustained in his fight with the Arishok. Fenris still traces the scars sometimes, after anyone gets particularly close with their assassination attempt.

“At least you listen to me when I tell you what the Guard needs, Hawke,” Aveline mutters. “Meredith was a nightmare as acting viscount. Even if we could go back to the way things were, I wouldn’t trade it for the progress we’ve made.”

“Not enough progress.” Hawke extends one hand toward Cullen, making grabby claw motions. Cullen rolls his eyes before gently lobbing the bottle across the landing to him. “Can’t do work in Lowtown without Hightown screaming about it; the Docks need more berths in working order because operating at half capacity isn’t going to cut it long term, but no one wants to see work slowed on their projects to cover it. And there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do to convince Kirkwall as a whole to band together. I’m as good as useless.”

He takes a long drink of wine but doesn’t miss the look Aveline gives Fenris; Hawke estimates in a day or two Fenris might say something about it, but he won’t tonight. Hawke sets the bottle on the landing next to his right foot and reaches up to remove the viscount’s circlet from his head. He twirls it around two fingers for a minute, ignoring the scandalized gasp from Bran, before setting it on the stair in front of him.

It’s the most obvious symbol of office that he has, the one thing that separates him from everyone else in a fancy tunic. The one thing that everyone else in a fancy tunic seems to want to take from him, not like any of them would know the first thing to do with it. As much as the burdens of being viscount weigh on him, as much as he loves and hates Kirkwall in equal measure most days, he’s the only halfway qualified person left in the city.

“Well, I’d rather have useless than inept,” Aveline says. “Now hand over that bottle; I need more to drink if you’re going to be this morose tonight.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

“I can spare one additional patrol per day into Hightown, but that’s it, Hawke. You can tell those nobles that they’re not more important than any of the other citizens afraid to leave their homes at night.”

Hawke sat on Aveline’s desk, ignoring the scathing look she gave him. He’d missed her more important papers, he was sure of it, and at least he hadn’t dragged over a chair and placed his boots up there. He’d learned from last time. He shrugged with one arm and sighed.

“I can tell them anything I like. They still think I’m deliberately shorting them. And before you ask, yes, I’ve tried blaming it on you.”

Aveline glared at him.

“If it makes you feel better, they didn’t believe me. Turns out you’re more beloved than I am.”

“I’m shocked.”

Hawke glared back at her.

“Look, Hawke, you’re doing what you can, and I’m proud of you for that. It’s only been a few months since...everything; give them a little longer to come around.”

Hawke picked at a piece of parchment on Aveline’s desk, dropping it and raising his hands in surrender when she slapped a hand down on it. Aveline shoved Hawke off the desk and he let her, sinking with a groan into a chair instead.

Aveline raised an eyebrow as she rounded her desk to sit in the chair next to him.

“Can you talk to Cullen? He won’t listen to me when I ask for templar assistance on the patrols.” Aveline leaned forward, staring intently at Hawke. “I mean it. I really think seeing their insignia would curb the banditry we’re seeing. People respect the Guard, but they respect the Templars more.”

“I’ll do what I can, but he has his hands pretty full with everything at the Gallows.”

“And I have Hightown, Lowtown, Darktown, and the Docks. Feels a bit uneven if you ask me.”

Hawke dug a thumb into his temple below the metal of the viscount’s circlet. “You’re doing great?”

“Don’t patronize me, Hawke. Just get me some help.”

“Maybe Sebastian will loan some people for an extended assignment if Cullen doesn’t come around. I’ll ask him; I’ve got to send him a message anyway.” Hawke glanced at the door to Aveline’s office, closed for their private conference. “Anything else?”

“I think that’s everything for now.” Aveline followed his gaze, and the smile she gave him when she looked back was soft. “How’s Fenris?”

“Better than I am, most days. At least he gets to threaten people with violence.”

“Hawke,” Aveline warned.

“I’ve been extremely polite,” Hawke said. “Much more polite than any of them are to me, at any rate.” He sighed and looked again at the door. “It’s hard sometimes: this...situation is a lot like the one Danarius had him in.”

“He chose this one. That’s important.”

“I know.” He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. “Donnic still like being your subordinate?”

Aveline blushed a furious red. “Shut up. That’s none of your business.”

Hawke smirked. “As long as you’re still happy, that’s all I need to know. Just making sure I don’t need to dust off my sword and pay him a visit.”

“Don’t you dare, Hawke. I don’t care if he walks out on me; he’s a damn fine guardsman, and I need as many of those as I can get right now.”

“Fair enough.” Hawke levered himself out of his chair and saluted Aveline. “See you next week, Guard Captain.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Hawke chuckles and kicks the bottle over, letting it roll across the landing to Aveline. He waves at Bran and makes a drinking motion with his hand. Bran rolls his eyes and sighs, but disappears for a few minutes to return with another wine bottle for them. He takes up his notes again, waiting for something like official business to happen. Hawke sets to digging the cork out of this bottle and fervently hopes they’ll manage to avoid anything like official business for the rest of the night.

It isn’t often he has a moment to relax like this, and less often that Aveline and Cullen are both in the keep at the same time to indulge him. Between the three of them, they’re all the city has for leadership, and it keeps them busy. Aveline may have her office in the same building as Hawke, but she’s on patrol nearly as often as the rest of her people, and Cullen spends the vast majority of his time at the Gallows, mediating between the templars, mages, and concerned citizens. Meetings with all of them are usually hurried things, no time for beating around the bush, and that’s something Hawke has come to greatly appreciate after his days spent listening to nobles wax poetic about what’s gone wrong with the city before finally circling around to their specific grievance.

He raises the bottle in a toast to Aveline once he’s freed the cork. “To being useless.”

“Hear, hear,” Aveline says and drinks.

Hawke passes his bottle to Cullen, who laughs and shakes his head but drinks too.

“I’ve actually been very productive,” he says, as he hands the bottle back to Hawke. 

“No one needs to hear it,” Aveline calls, her voice loud in the stillness of the keep.

Hawke looks up at Fenris, who pointedly directs his gaze elsewhere and only smiles with his eyes so no one else can tell, then over at Cullen, giving him the best shit-eating grin he can conjure. Which, given the wine and the hour, is pretty good, and Hawke laughs, with Cullen not far behind. 

“You sound like Isabela!” Hawke crows to the empty room, flinging his arms out wide. Cullen rescues the wine bottle before it can go flying.

Aveline gasps and nearly throws her bottle at Hawke before thinking better of it and drinking instead.

“How dare you! You take that back, Hawke.”

That only causes Hawke further merriment, and he leans back against the wall, tears leaking out of the corner of his eyes as he laughs.

“I’m gonna—tell her. She’ll be—so proud!” he says, barely able to catch a breath.

After a few more indignant noises from Aveline, each less grumpy sounding than the last, she joins in the laughter, and the three leaders of the city absolutely do not do anything remotely approaching official business for the rest of the night.

[gasolinenfire]

name: thomas booker ‘ judas ‘ pearson nicknames: judas , yes , that’s it. really , he won’t respond to anything else. age: forty six sexuality: demisexual pronouns: he / him , cismale species: mage / pyromancer occupation: owner of judas’ auto joint / mechanic / bounty hunter / jack of all trades & handy man / ex-death blade sign:  capricorn spotify: coming soon pinterest: here

i really didn’t expect to pick up a third character , but it’s nary F.K.A. snottie back again with another long ass late af intro thanks to lock down. i have had judas for a very long time , but he has def been tweaked and edited here or there to fit into the vainglory plot. if you think he seems familiar , he probably is. anyway , onward to the more interesting and important stuff like a handsome pyromancer mechanic under the cut.

── the high council is prepared to hear the story of THOMAS BOOKER ' JUDAS ‘ PEARSON , we might of mistaken them as NORMAN REEDUS they’re known as a MAGE / PYROMANCER while noted as a WANDERER / EX-DEATHBLADE. appearances may be deceiving , with immortality being so common among supernaturals. this being has walked the earth for FORTY SIX years , and their face reflects an age of FORTY SIX. the holy war with the noctis has forced them to stay in new tallinn. you will find them residing in BLIGHTBIRD

once they were known as a MECHANIC & OWNER OF JUDAS’ AUTO JOINT to blend in with the mortal crowd. now , you might find them as a BOUNTY HUNTER to prepare for the unholy war against the noctis. they plan to FIGHT AGAINST the noctis with the hopes to RESTORE.

PERSONALITY.

element: earth ruling planet: saturn -- the planet of discipline & maturity body part(s): knees , skin , bones & teeth good day: loyal , family-oriented , hardworking , devoted , honest , fearless , genuine bad day: proud , impulsive ,  bossy , stubborn , reckless , jealous , pessimistic , unforgiving , cold , antisocial , guarded  favorite things: the smell of leather , road trips ( on hand built bikes ) , dark liquor , chain smoking , hot showers , his bed , hamburgers , goals / projects , being in charge , exclusive clubs , motorcyles , tattoos , scars  least favorite things: his time as a deathblade , losing , large gatherings of people , strangers , rules , authority , the high council , deep or large bodies of water , quitting , shouting in public , careless mistakes  secret wish: to have every need taken care of how to spot him: forehead covered by greasy or sweaty bangs , distinctive jaw , strong teeth , wise look in his eyes , gruff voice , rough grease stained hands where you’ll find him: enjoying quality time in his personal garage , working obsessively on a large-scale bike project , at work , drinking at a bar ,  keywords: willpower , initiative , determination , passion , ambition , goals , security , stability , comfort

a measured master planner , judas’ has the power of structure , delayed gratification and setting goals for the long haul.

this mage is willful and determined , focused on the loftiest goals. he sets his mind on an outcome , and will reach the finish line. it may be an epic “ hero’s journey ” to get there , which is why he has his steely grit and unparalleled resilience. 

taking the road less traveled isn’t how this traditional man rolls. instead , judas maps out the straightest and simplest route to the top , then sticks to its plan. even if it takes a little more time to get there without shortcuts , the ambitious pyromancer will make the trek. 

the essence of his energy is loyal , structured , family-oriented ( though he won’t exactly admit it ) , hardworking , devoted , honest, and paternal among other personality traits. 

negative expressions of his energy can be pessimistic , unforgiving , cold , materialistic , snobbish , elitist , overly serious , etc. judas’ energy can even be considered overly harsh or calculating on occasion. 

the dutiful side of him can be his downfall , the stoic handy man may repress a lot to be the “ rock ” for others which can lead to a heavy or burdened energy he tries to mask.

judas combines a rock-solid foundation and skillful plans into a high rise penthouse fit for world domination , but he wouldn’t know it. he’s extremely humble.  

a master strategists ex-deathblade and owner of his own business , who always keeps one eye on a five- or ten-year plan. motivated to take on big goals and create structures in his life that will last the test of time.

he is known for being stern and authoritative on occasion , you definitely don’t want to try and get under this fire wielder. i guess you could say that he is the “ daddy ” type , and wants to be respected for his command. 

additionally , another keyword for the mechanic could be repression , which can make his urges come out in shocking or subversive ways. don’t be surprised if judas has a few freaky secrets under the stoic exterior.

he is a leader and “ idea person ” , prizing originality and liking to be first in everything he does. count on the handyman in him to initiate a winning idea or plan.

( tw: blood ment. , alcohol ment. ) busy , busy ! you can find judas enjoying quality time with ‘ family ‘ ( blood of the covenant is thicker than water of the womb ) throwing back a beer , working obsessively on a large-scale project ( most likely involving something auto ) , chilling in his garage tinkering around on something listening to classic rock , or hunting supernatural criminals / fugitives for bounty. 

( tw: alcohol ment. , drug ment. ) whether he’ll admit it or not , he tends to like mixing business with pleasure ( don’t be surprised if you catch him having a beer or joint at the shop ). it isn’t too often , but he does tend to develop tight bonds with people he meets on the job or through projects similar. 

he could be loosely considered one of the “ popular people ” around town , seeing as he’s sort of the jack of all trades that you can hire for relatively cheap to fix just about anything. his eyes were born with the eyes on the prize , he’s always had to provide for and rely on himself so he knows how to do so.

once judas sets his sights on something , he begins to climb slowly and steadily toward that goal. though often he becomes so focused on reaching the finish line that he can fail to pay attention to the journey , looking neither to the right nor the left. 

this man believes that if he just keeps pushing ahead , eventually he’ll get what he wants. judas honestly just needs to learn flexibility and to listen more to his heart than his head at times if he wants to feel fulfilled inside and out. 

ambitious as he may be , he hasn’t and doesn’t always have relentless drive. when he slips into lounge mode the mechanic can relax with the best of ’em , becoming practically immobile. work hard , play hard is definitely ( one of ) his modus operandi. 

other times , he can overwhelm himself by setting such impossible goals that he gets discouraged and gives up before he even leaves the starting gate. judas does best when he breaks his grand plans into measurable action steps. 

any friends the mage has could remind him to celebrate his victories — not just the huge ones but the small triumphs and milestones along the way.

BACKGROUND.

thomas booker pearson had his life turned upside-down in an instant when his true lineage was violently revealed. it ripped him from his family and the only life he had ever known.

it didn’t begin this way , it began on a strangely frigid december night forty-six years ago when a little , screaming babe was born into the world. as this little boy grew up his parents came to realize just how strange he was.

the magic comes from his mother and her side of the family , while his mother never displayed any sign of being a mage his grandmother had been a powerful one. apparently , the gift – or curse if you reference thomas’ mother – of magic skipped generations and it had passed right by olivia on to her son.

growing up for the little boy was anything but normal , but thomas knew no different and this didn’t affect him too much so he thought. his mother kept magic and the supernatural world a secret from him as long as she could in the hopes that they were wrong and she could suppress his powers , but it was all in vain.

strange things always seemed to happen to or around thomas though , things that couldn’t be explained but his mother found ways to dismiss despite the evidence against her. all these occurrences became more severe , more frequent , over the course of his teenage years but he had found that going up to the rooftop at night to look at the stars had a way of calming him down.

starlight wasn’t his only source of happiness either , most days you could find the young man out in the garage tinkering with anything that had an engine. his love for motorcycles has no bounds.

( tw: drug ment. , suggested child neglect ) his family comes from a long line of poor individuals , but he had grown accustomed to it. his mother and father were very rarely around , his mother was afraid of him and his father spent more time with his backward ass hillbilly cousins or doped up somewhere than at home.

so,  thomas busied himself with anything auto , stargazing , and sooner than later – the way of the wiccans. maybe it was magical intuition or just luck , but the mage came across the wiccan faith and fell into it easily. it was like finding where he belonged , he no longer felt ostracized or like the black sheep he was of his family.

( tw: fire ment. ) that was when it all went downhill , one day when he was practicing his pyromancy – which he found he had an affinity for – and was caught by none other than his mother. his mother’s reaction wasn’t very pleasant , and their argument was intense and volatile. so much so that the emotion thomas was feeling literally manifested itself in actual flames , enveloping his entire body.

( tw: fire ment. , accidental arson , death ment. , death by fire ment. ) being a novice he had no way of knowing how to stop it. the fire left the house in ruin and that was the last straw , his mother was ultimately trapped inside and burned alive. after that the mage was on his own , he left town immediately and luckily there was never a way to actually connect her death to him.

thomas was left feeling lost and confused , but like he finally had a chance to start over and live his own life. he quickly found himself in the supernatural community , but figuring out how to live his life involved in it was more difficult than he thought.

he was only twenty years old and found himself very proud of his supernatural ability , suddenly very invested in the community and wanting to serve in the easiest way he knew how which was in combat. he viewed the deathblades as some form of justice and was easily manipulated into doing everything in his power to be appointed one , he was successful and worked as a deathblade for decades.

now at forty-six he has ’ retired ’ and lives in haapsula , estonia where he owns his very own auto shop. while not nearly as dangerous as before , he can be dangerous to be around when he lets his emotions take over and his capabilities should not be underestimated nor tested.

HEADCANONS.

on top of being a mechanic he is also a professional bounty hunter as something of a side hustle. so , if you need any supernatural monster , fugitive or criminal rangled , judas is your man. he’s pretty much down to get paid to do just about anything , fix your sink , put together furniture , install a/c ? just give him a price , he’s basically your token jack of all trades handyman.

( tw: fire ment. ) he left his past behind him after the fire , thomas booker pearson burned away that day and since he only goes by judas. it’s highly unlikely anyone even knows him as anything else.

( tw: cigarette ment. ) he is a chain smoker , he doesn’t care that it is killing him either. he hates when people tell him that it’s a bad habit or the like , he knows.

judas loves tattoos and a lot of his extra spending money has gone to them. he admires other forms of body modification , but sticks to tattoos and his few scarification tattoos.

even when he tries to clean up , he looks dirty. he is almost always covered in grease or oil from actual work at the shop or just working on his own little projects at home. it’s his aesthetic though and it works ??

i honestly have been working on this intro for hours now at this point and i am wore the fuck out , my eyes are sore af. i’m ready to go make something to eat ( it’s freaking midnight rn ) and then i’m gonna watch another episode of tiger king before taking my happy ass to bed. if you’re at all interested in plotting with my mans then definitely hmu on discord or in my tumblr ask / dms. 

[yung-gunshot]

50 Questions You’ve Never Been Asked

tagged by @shinjis thanks nina sorry this is kinda late lol 

1. What is the color of your hairbrush?: dont own one lol

2. Name a food you never eat?: avocado

3. Are you typically too warm or too cold?: too warm 

4. What were you doing 45 minutes ago?: ate and took a shower

5. What is your favorite candy bar?: dont really eat them often but kit kats are good

6. Have you ever been to a professional sports event?: only been to UNR football game once

7. What is the last thing you said out loud?: “damn thats insane”

8. What is your favorite ice cream?: no.1 mint chocolate chip fan

9. What was the last thing you had to drink?: coke 

10. Do you like your wallet?: yea it fits a lot of receipts that i like to hoard for no reason

11. What was the last thing you ate?: tacos and picadas 

12. Did you buy any new clothes last weekend?: nope :(

13. The last sporting event you watched?: dont watch sports

14. What is your favorite flavor of popcorn?: original butter

15. Who is the last person you sent a text message to?: my mom 

16. Ever go camping?: yes used to go a lot but not as of late

17. Do you take vitamins?: no vitamins in my system 

18. Do you go to church every Sunday?: nope

19. Do you have a tan?: im brown 

20. Do you prefer Chinese food or pizza?: pizza

21. Do you drink your soda with a straw?: not really unless im at a restaurant 

22. What color socks do you usually wear?: usually black or grey bc i buy them in bulk but i have these leopard print and bright ass yellow ones that i like a lot 

23. Do you ever drive above the speed limit?: sometimes but only if im like running late to something, otherwise im just cruising

24. What terrifies you?: friends and family going missing, threat of war, pressure to make something of my life

25. Look to your left, what do you see?: my bed

26. What chore do you hate?: laundry

27. What do you think of when you hear an Australian accent?: very cool accent

28. What’s your favorite soda?: root beer

29. Do you go in a fast food place or just hit the drive-thrus?: fast food joint bc drive ins here are ridiculously expensive  

30. Who’s the last person you talked to?: my friends 

31. Favorite cut of beef?: bro any 

32. Last song you listened to?: Curb Stomp by Jpegmafia

33. Last book you read?: Harmony by Project Itoh

34. Favorite day of the week?: fingers in his ass sundays

35. Can you say the alphabet backwards?: nope 

36. How do you like your coffee?: pretty light on expresso with cream and sugar 

37. Favorite pair of shoes?: navy blue vans

38. The time you normally go to sleep?: around 12 to 1am sometimes 2 if i really wanna give myself brain damage

39. The time you normally get up?: 8am bc i sometimes make myself breakfast

40. What do you prefer, sunrise or sunsets?: sunsets

41. How many blankets on your bed?: currently one

42. Describe your kitchen plates: ton of small ones ton of big ones ton of bowls

43. Do you have a favorite alcoholic beverage?: sierra nevada brewery co hazy ipa

44. Do you play cards?: no but i own a pack of cards that i won at a black powder rifle tournament 

45. What color is your car?: grey

46. Can you change a tire?: yea

47. Your favorite province?: im in the states so im just gonna say i like nevada and oregon 

48. Favorite job you’ve ever had?: lol none

49. How did you get your biggest scar?: tried to hop a fence, right hand got caught in the wire and tore my palm open, very fun

50. What did you do today that made someone else happy?: helped my dad fix up a new shed for his tools 

[disabled-queen-hc-blog]

hey uhhh idk if you write this kind of thing, but i have an alcohol problem. in the past i’ve found your writing about depression really validating bc i’m a big Queen fan and it kind of... normalises my issues? idk, i just wondered if you’d ever write about alcoholism? maybe the band coming to terms with the fact that the affected member isn’t just a “party animal” and actually has an addiction, then getting them help? yh sorry if this is a weird ask 😅

Content Warning for Alcoholism/Alcohol Abuse

♚

John’s eyes fluttered open, the room still spinning, the bathroom lights looking like the spotlights on stage. His cheek was cold and flush against the rim of the toilet seat, his body hunched over it. He spit the foul taste from his mouth into the bowl, lifting his heavy head up, to look over at Roger who was standing by the door.

“At least you made it this time,” Roger said with a chuckle. John smiled at him, nodding slowly in agreement. Throwing up in anything but a toilet or trash can was a definite way to end a party and ruin the mood. And the both of them still had a lot more dancing and drinking to do.

Roger helped him up, John flushing the toilet before washing his hands and rinsing his mouth. The nausea was already fading. A good puke was all it took to get back in the game. It worked nearly every time.

Roger pat John’s back as they walked back out into the party, John intent on keeping up his antics. One instance of vomiting was not going to keep him from participating in this rager.

The music blasted, the bass rattling the windows of Freddie’s house. Colored lights spun all around the room, illuminating the party goers smiles and laughs. The dance floor, which was once Freddie’s living room was packed with hot bodies all pressed against each other, writhing and swinging to the beat that was almost too loud to be heard. Hands groped and pushed, feet shuffling. Heads were thrown back, liquid courage streaming into open mouths.

John lost Roger in the crowd, the blond probably craving another fix of the white stuff going around like candy. John needed his own fix, so he headed for the makeshift bar. One plastic cup, a dash of orange juice and a helping of vodka. His heart sped up as it slithered down his throat, nestling into his irritated and hot stomach. Immediately, the warmth spread through his core, his limbs beginning to feel like lead again, his mind beginning to fog.

He made himself another, forgoing the orange juice in favor of plain vodka. He let out a fiery sigh, now ready to join the others on the floor.

He floated over to a familiar puff of curly hair, a loopy smile on his face.

“Enjoying yourself, John?” Brian yelled over the music.

John began to sway side to side, the music dictating his every move. “Yes,” he said with a bubbly giggle.

Brian couldn’t hear him but figured he was. He continued on with his awkward dancing, his hands in the air, unknowingly moving away from John.

John didn’t care. He let himself get carried away by the funk, his knees bending, shoulders rolling, head bopping. He felt careless and free. He danced up women and men alike, accepting every drink that was pushed into his hands. He was rained with cigarettes and even found his way back to Roger, his nose red and white.

The room was ill-lit, but Roger’s eyes looked black, consumed by the pupil. “Want some?” he asked, holding up a plate. John held up his cup, graciously filled with brandy. He shimmied away, working his way over to Freddie, half naked and drenched in sweat from nonstop dancing.

John wrapped his arm around Freddie’s waist, startling the singer. Freddie playfully slapped John’s shoulder, saying, “You scared me! How’re you holding up, Deaks?” John just hummed the lyrics in response, too far gone to make any sensical words. Freddie found the answer sufficient, letting the two of them bop together to the music for a bit before scampering off to make out with Jim again.

John downed the last of his brandy, the world beginning to spin again. He laughed, unsteadily walking back to the bar for a refill. He could barely coordinate himself, but he got there in one piece. More vodka, his preferred vice. One swig, two swigs, three. A stranger, whooping and hollering, added more to his cup. He couldn’t say no. Down it went.

He unbuttoned his shirt, fumbling with the buttons. It was hot and he was roasting.

Everything became too woozy. He sipped more. The music sounded like blurs. The lights looked like smudges. He sipped. He felt nausea tickling the back of his throat. Another sip.

His conscience told him to stop.

Something deep in his heart told him to not listen.

Bottoms up.

He fell back onto his ass, his cup spilling all over him. He licked at his arms, trying to salvage what he could. And then he laid down.

He was 10 and on a merry go round, laying flat on the middle, being spun over and over, faster and faster by someone he didn’t know. Faster and faster until the sky white and he was soaring.

A torrent of vomit came out of John and all over himself. He rolled over and continued heaving and retching until he was pure again, the floor defiled with his filth.

I didn’t make it this time, Roger, he thought.

♚

“You went real hard last night, John. Just came to see if you woke up this morning,” Brian said as he hung his coat on the coat rack, walking into John’s house.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Got too excited is all,” John said, shuffling to the kitchen in his bathroom, trailed by the guitarist.

Brian chuckled, rubbing his neck. “I think we all did. Roger called me this morning, not knowing how he got home. I was the one who got him the bloody taxi!”

John snorted, walking up to his coffee machine. “He looked manic last night. His eyes were all wild. Sounds about right,” he said, pouring himself a cup, offering one to Brian who declined.

He rummaged through his medicine cabinet, pulling out some over the counter pain killers. This time, Brian accepted the offer.

“Even the virtuous Brian went hard last night, hmm?” John teased, popping 4 tablets into his mouth, swallowing it with the black coffee. Brian waved him off, taking his tablets with water.

“It was Fred’s birthday. Kinda hard to resist the devil when Freddie’s the one throwing the party.”

True that.

Brian sat by the kitchen table, sipping his water and wincing at the sunlight that poured through the window. He became so quite that in John’s hung-over brain, he forgot he was even there.

He poured himself some more coffee, throwing in a dash of sugar, a splash of creamer and a hearty glug of vodka from the flask he had in his robe pocket.

“John, you’ve got to be shitting me,” Brian said, making John jump in surprise.

“Jesus Christ. Sorry. Sorry. Bad habit,” he said softly, his face reddening as he dumped his concoction down the sink.

“Habit? You’re telling me you not only do this daily, in the morning none the less, but you walk around with a flask in your bloody dressing gown?” Brian asked incredulously, the tendons in his hands popping out.

John was faced away from Brian, holding onto the edge of the sink. He squeezed it tight, letting out a sharp puff of air. “I’m hung over. I- it was a mistake is all. Sorry.”

Brian wasn’t so sure about that but left anyways, his welcome clearly overstayed.

Once the door was closed, John ditched the coffee and cream, going straight to his flask.

He wondered if Brian would bring this up again.

♚

John felt a firm slap to the back of his head, flinching as he woke up, looking around for the perpetrator, wiping the drool from the corner of his mouth.

“Why’d you even come over if you didn’t want to help?” Roger asked, throwing an oil stained towel at John’s face. John was too slow to catch it. He set the towel down on Roger’s work bench, lazily getting up and toddling over to Roger who was crouched by an old car.

“Sorry. Tired, you know,” John offered, a weak excuse but the only one his hazy brain could make up.

Roger recoiled at his presence, nose scrunching up. “Jeez, John. Were you partying last night?”

John shook his head. He was home all night, watching TV.

“You fucking reek like a pub, mate. What’s up with that?” Roger said, his perfectly blue eyes looking him up and down.

John should’ve probably been scared from the interrogation, but he felt too loose in the joints to care.

“Oh. I had a few drinks,” He admitted easily.

“A few?” Roger spluttered out.

“Maybe more.” John shrugged.

Roger’s lips pressed into a tight line, taking in John. Dirty clothes, disheveled hair. Bloodshot eyes and a 5 o’clock shadow. He didn’t look put together.

Roger looked at the asphalt at his feet and then up to John’s eyes.

“You know...Brian told me he caught you putting vodka into your coffee one morning…is that true?” His head was tilted, eyebrows furrowed.

John thought for a moment. “Probably.”

Roger cleared his throat, not prepared for that answer.

“Are you drunk now?”

“A bit.”

“And you drove here?”

“Mh-hmm.”

Roger got up, dusting his jeans, his head shaking. They all knew John had an affinity for drinking. It was obvious during parties and after shows. The man liked a stiff drink. Who were they to think any worse of it?

But lately, John hadn’t been himself. Sloppier and lax. Always dozing off, always up in his head. They thought he was going through a down period. None of them would’ve guessed he was a functional drunk. Not until right now.

“You need help, John.” Roger said, his voice a mixture of confusion, fear and sternness.

John leaned back to look up at Roger, frowning. “What? No, I’m fine. Really. Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m way passed that mate. You need help and I’m gonna get you it.”

John huffed, standing up, wobbling some. He walked past Roger, back into Roger’s house, saying, “I did not come here to be lectured. I don’t need help. I’m fine. I’m going.”

There was a tight grip to his arm, tugging him backwards. He was now in front of a red-faced Roger.

“And I’m not letting you drive home,” he said, teeth grit.

“You don’t have any right to do that! Let me go, Roger. I’m fine! I’m fine! Let me go!” John hissed, struggling against Roger’s unwavering hold on him.

“Fine,” Roger said, his eyes big as he let John go. John crashed to the floor, his flask and keys flying out of his pocket. He scrambled to pick it up, but swiftly and with sober ease, Roger snatched both of them up. He walked away after that, without so much as a word to John.

“Where are you going?” John yelled, fighting a losing battle with gravity as he tried to get up.

“Gonna make some phone calls. Meet me in the kitchen whenever you can,” Roger replied with a bitter sting.

John gave up, laying down on the cold tile. He shivered, his stomach churning.

I didn’t make it this time, Roger.

♚

Dear John,

I’m terribly sorry I never noticed you were suffering. I should have been a better friend. I took you under my wing after all. I should have noticed.

I hope that here, you can begin to find peace again. I’m still not sure what’s ailing you, but when you get out, we can work on it together, alright? I need you to know that you’re not alone. That you aren’t bad. That you’ve done nothing wrong. The human condition can be treacherous at times. The need to numb it isn’t a sign of failure. It’s a sign of a fight to continue in any capacity possible.

I love you so much, Deacy. I can’t wait to see you again. I want to go shopping with you and maybe you can stay with me and Jim sometime, if you’d want.

Take care of yourself. Heal. Breathe.

Love, Freddie.

♚

John,

I apologize for my lack of initiative to figure things out. I’m sorry I chose my own comfort in ignoring this rather than reaching out. I promise I won’t ever do that again. You are one of my greatest friends. I’ll never do anything to jeopardize that. I need you here with me ‘till I’m old and grey and I’ll make sure that you never go through something like this again.

I pray that once you’re out, we can talk together and do some soul searching. I know what it’s like to be so down that only a substance feels like the right medication. I understand more than I’ve let on to you guys before. You can always come to me to talk. I guarantee you, I probably was there too at one point or another.

Until then, I hope this place does you well. A break from the stress of life is always a good thing. Don’t rush it. Take your time here. Let yourself unravel. Be truthful with the psychologists. Don’t be afraid to sound silly or obnoxious or rude. You won’t be any of those. The mind is a weird place. Let yourself be vulnerable.

I’ll be seeing you soon, Deacy. Keep your head up and you might just see the stars!

Bri.

♚

I’m so sorry.

RMT

♚

John sniffled, putting away the letters his best friends had written for him. He got out of his bed, walking towards the window. He leaned against the windowsill, the morning sun heating up his skin, lighting up his face.

This was the first day he felt completely detoxed. No shakes, no anxiety, no nausea. He finally felt free of the chain around his ankle. He could move better, think clearer, breathe deeper. He felt like this whole recovery thing might work. He might be a human again. No need for liquid crutches. Just a man. A free man.

He cracked open the window, sticking his head out to smell the spring air. His cheeks felt an invigorating cool breeze and not the frigid porcelain for once. A smile tugged at his lips, his hands running through his hair. He was ready for today.

He had group therapy in an hour. He had time to bang out some letters before then. He rushed to his desk, pulling out some pen and paper.

Rog,

Don’t be sorry. It should be me who’s sorry. Without you, without the other guys, I would’ve kept spiraling.

I wouldn’t have made it.

But I’m here and alive and I think I’ll soon start to thrive.

So, I want to thank you. Thank you for putting up with me. Thank you for still loving me as a brother even after I yelled and cursed at you. Thank you for taking my life into your own hands. I’ll never be able to repay you. But I’ll try.

I want to tell you about my time here. I don’t know, maybe you’d be interested.

Every morning, we wake up at 8. We get to….

[kee-writestrashh]

It’s a Beautiful Thing

Ramsay Bolton x Reader

ao3

words: 2285

warnings: smut, drugs, alcohol, blood, whipping, choking

summary:  Shameless modern!ramsay one shot. I don't make the rules. (Based very loosely off a master/pet anon prompt request )

There were many women that came and went. But you were his favorite. From the moment he had laid eyes on you, you belonged to him. Only him. Where he would share his 'leftovers' with the Boys, you were never an item on that menu. Only he got to use you. The collar around your neck said so.

Ramsay Bolton was disgusting and horrendous. And he was your god. He gave you everything, and all you had to do was keep him happy. It was easy really. You enjoyed his sexual desires. The leather whip on your ass. The way he grabbed your hair. The way he watched you fuck another women he had brought into bed for you both to share.

You would be lying if you said you weren't just as disgusting and horrendous as your master. Because you were. To keep yourself alive. Ramsay was unforgiving, as you learned quickly. To make up for it, he bought you things. Gave you baths himself. Tended to any broken skin he left on you.

You were the bastard's bitch. And you loved every second of it.

It was an ordinary night. Ramsay had come home, covered in blood, as usual. And damn did it look good. You half rose from the couch but he had held up a hand to stop you. You were always supposed to be sitting on the couch, waiting for him. You had no life unless he gave you that life. Yesterday he had been angry, and you were the one punished for it. He took away all your 'privileges', leaving you with nothing to do but sit around all day and wait for him.

One of your friends said it was not normal. The abuse and manipulation. But, you were safe. Mostly. That's what you told yourself anyway.

"Does my daddy need something?" You purred, holding out your hands to him.

He fixed you with a long look before taking to your invite. You could smell the blood on him as he came to a halt at the edge of the couch. You nuzzled the side of your face against his hip, arms wrapping around his thighs.

He brought a hand to cup the other side of your face as he stroked your hair gently with his other hand. You chanced a glance up, seeing him gaze down at you, a dark shadow behind those pale eyes. "I had a bad day, kitten." He sighed.

"Does daddy wanna talk about it? It surely can't have been all bad, you're all covered in blood." You hummed, looking up at him innocently.

"Go put on that new dress. And then bring me your collar. Be a good girl for daddy, mkay?" He said almost dismissively, pulling away from you.

You gave him a small, almost grateful smile. It only meant good things for you when he told you to put on a new dress. This one was hardly a dress at all. If anyone dared look to hard they would be able to see all of you. Ramsay liked these dresses best. He liked to parade you around in front of his friends. And it made you feel incredibly sexy.

You changed slowly, taking time at examining yourself in the mirror. Fading bruises and fresh ones adorning your skin. Many of them a result from bite marks. He could be an animal when it suited him. You picked up the leather collar from the dresser and left the room.

It wasn't hard to find Ramsay. The noise from the basement was enough. You slowly walked down the steps, the smell of alcohol,  cigarette smoke, and marijuana smoke hitting you full force. There was laughing and shouting. The Boys must have shown up while you were changing.

You stood at Ramsay's side, waiting on him to take notice of you as he finished telling his story, a mid gales of laughter around the room. The table littered with beer bottles, liquor bottles, cigarettes, marijuana paraphernalia, as well as a white powdery substance you knew to be cocaine. Ramsay made you lick it up, a lot.

You stared at the small baggie on his other side for a few moments before Ramsay caught you attention by taking the collar from your hands. You snapped your eyes to him as he stood up. He pulled you closer to him, pressing his body flush to your back.

"Do you want some?" He purred against your ear as he fastened the collar.

"If it would please my master." You said slowly. Once the collar was on, you were only allowed to call him master.

"If you're a good little pet, I will let you have some." He whispered, running the tip of his tongue along your ear, making you shiver.

He sat down, pulling you into his lap. You gave a glance around the table. Alyn already fucking a group favorite. You weren't sure where she came from or who she usually came with, but your fingers had been in her cunt many times. You liked the way she kissed you. You licked your lips slightly, watching her backside as she ground her body against Alyn's lap.

Ramsay raised his brows at you, following your eyes. "Thirsty, bitch?" He half growled, fingers digging into your thigh.

"Yes." You replied automatically, knowing better than to lie to him by now.

His grip loosened slightly as he grabbed the nearest bottle of alcohol and handed it to you.

That was all your sober mind remembered.

It felt like hours since then. The mess on the table grew. More alcohol. More drugs. Guns. Money. Cards. Knives. You were pretty sure there had been a finger with a large gold ring at one point.

"Take it." Ramsay hissed at you, forcing the joint upon you again.

Your fuzzy mind and heavy hand took the item and you took a deep hit, passing it off to whoever was still sitting beside you.

Ramsay grabbed your face in his hand, forcing your head to the side and mashing his lips to yours. Ducking the smoke from your mouth. Like a demon devouring a soul.

His lips on yours made you needy. Grinding your ass into his lap. You had been horny for awhile now. The alcohol and marijuana did little to stem the buildup of sticky wetness between your legs as Ramsay would trail his fingers against the hem of your dress and place light bites against your neck as he listened to the others talk or examined his hand of cards idly.

You gave a small whimper when he pulled his lips away from yours. He narrowed his eyes and exhaled the remaining smoke from his nose on a harsh exhale.

Without warning, you found your ass on the edge of the table before you, Ramsay getting on his knees and forcing your legs apart as wide as he could. Your instability making you lean further back, catching your weight with your arms, planting your hands on the table behind you. A deep moan leaving you as you felt his tongue grace your slit, toying at your throbbing clit.

You closed your eyes hard, forgetting that anyone else was here. That you were on the table, legs spread wide, before everyone. Your mind moving in and out of focus as you felt your dress being pulled from you. Lips on yours. A dick against your lips. Down your throat. A mouth toying with your nipples. Your soaking pussy having a hard, foreign object shoved into it. Making your back arch. It seemed to go forever. How good everything felt.

Opening your eyes to find Ramsay standing to the side of the table, slowly preparing a line of coke on a small tray as he let his friends fuck you and touch you. Your mind too hazy to care. All that mattered was the way your body felt. Letting your body be used, finding the woman on top of you next.

Her tongue lightly tracing your lips before she shoved it in your mouth. You closed your eyes again, letting her explore your mouth and steal your breath as she moaned against your mouth. Realizing someone was fucking her from behind, almost jealous that no one was fucking you.

When suddenly, everything stopped and you were pulled up to sitting. Your eyes opening again to find Ramsay and his tray between your legs. He held the tray up to your face.

"Lick it up, kitten. Be a good girl. All of it." He cooed.

Slowly you placed your tongue to the cold, metal tray. The bitter taste of the powder touching your tongue almost at once.

"That's my good girl. Were my boys good to you?" He said, stroking your cheek and passing the tray off to the first set of hands he found.

"Yes, master." You panted, feeling a rush through your body.

"Good. Good." He hummed, slowly undoing his belt and sliding it from his pants.

Eyes heavy, you watched him. You knew where that belt was going. Sure enough he motioned for you to slide off the table and turn around.

With a stumble you did as requested. Your ass exposed to him. Feeling his fingertips run lightly across your skin before the leather strap came down hard, without warning.

You yelped at the pain, shifting your body.

"No." Ramsay tutted, shaking his head. "Hold her."

You couldn't move, only cry out as your ass became raw and tender. He would surely break the skin completely soon.

But he had stopped. The tip of his warm tongue running against the welts he had left on your skin. Light nips, followed by harsh bites to the most tender areas. Your whole body shaking uncontrollably as all the extra weight left your body.

"Very good girl." He praised, grabbing your hips and pulling you away from the table. Without the support of the table you fell to your knees. "Even better." He chuckled darkly, walking around to your front and shoving the table out of his way.

He quickly undid he pants and pushed them down. "Open up. It's my turn, you nasty slut."

You hardly had your mouth open when you found him shoving his dick in your mouth and grabbing your hair. Forcing you up and down on him as you struggled to breathe and kept gagging unwilling. The choking making tiny black lights flash before your eyes. On the verge of passing out.

He only laughed at your struggle and the color rising in your cheeks. Finally, he pulled away from you, allowing you to gasp for air like a diver coming to the surface of the water for air. Deep, cold lung fulls.

Ramsay released your hair and pushed you backward by the shoulder. Too intoxicated to register the movement, too late to catch yourself, you fell back onto the hard floor. Feeling your head hit the ground, but there was no immediate pain.

And nothing mattered anymore now that his body was pressed flush to yours. Shoving himself inside of you. Every thrust forceful and unrelenting. Harsh pants and grunts leaving him every time he jarred his body into yours.

Your hands finding his back and digging your nails into his skin, trying to pull him closer. Wanting him to break you, as he fucked almost screams from you.

"Who do you belong to?" He growled, his thrusting and shoving becoming more erratic and spontaneous.

"You master!" You whined, feeling as though you couldn't catch your breath again. All you could do was moan and whine under his dominance. Your nails clawing as hard as you could. Eyes rolling into the back of your head, face screwing up into pleasure as those tight coils sound tighter by the second, ready to snap at any moment.

He dropped his head, panting harshly at your ear. Teeth sinking into the skin of your neck. The sensation sent you over the edge as you felt your orgasm hit you like a blow to the gut. A sharp gasp and a shaky cry, arching your body further into him.

A rare, guttural moan leaving him as he felt your high hit him. Your walls clinging and pulsing against him as he ploughed into you over and over again. Every muscle in his body taught. Every breath he drew hitching. Until finally he reached his high. Another loud moan rumbling his chest as he pushed all his weight into you. Feeling his throbbing dick pump you full of his thick, hot cum.

You both laid motionless for many long minutes before he pulled away from you completely. He scooped you up and carried you to the empty couch, laying with you and pulling you close to him.

You cuddled into his warm skin as he wrapped his arm around you. Melting into his protection, feeling his heart hammer in his rib cage against your cheek. Your own heart still trying to remember how to beat normally.

Shifting to adjust his arm under your head, he played with strands of your hair between his fingers as his other hand rubbed up and down your back. He placed light kisses to your forehead until you shifted your head and brought your lips to his.

Gentle kisses. A rare treat for you. He even let you nuzzle closer into him. "You were such a good little pet. I enjoyed watching them take their turns with my baby girl. You look like a goddess when you get fucked. Made me ruin my pants. Did you like it?" He whispered.

Eyes closed lightly, you let a small smile from, "if my master wants me to like it."

[finderskeepersff]

66.

It’s a sad situation, I am saying this because usually I would have Kyle with me for things like this. He was useless but he was there for me, just me. With all of my people gone to France, I let them go it’s just me but I got some niggas that are aquinted to me in Atlanta “you are different” Omar said “you think” I knew these niggas would be here, how you going to come back to the same place I got you at “I mean it’s daylight” I shrugged “death wish?” looking over at him “I would say it’s me not caring, I have seen too much to care. Also never think, always shoot. Play them too. Also there is more people in the warehouse than they think” putting my car in drive as I drove off slowly “showing your face near me with my family is a no and they did so they must go” driving ever so slowly “aye, you ready sleepy?” Omar spat “he was falling asleep” I saw him, he fell asleep “nah I am good, we going now” putting my car in park “there is more of them?” Omar said, getting out of the car. They using my warehouse that they took over, stupid niggas. I mean you come back here for what, to get killed again. I don’t feel I have been thinking recently, like I have been doing things on instinct but that is me, the real Cassius is like that. Looking behind me “you wait out here, Omar with me” jogging into the warehouse, I can hear them from here. If they was being real they would have niggas all over this joint but they ain’t, this shit has been shut down after that shootout, it is blood stained around here. Fixing my silencer on, they going to wish they never looked at me or stopped me. Walking straight towards them, cocking the gun back “I did say we would meet again” shooting one of them in the head, they all got their gun out at me “you really coming here? You ain’t got shit on us?” their boss said “made decisions yet, you rolling with a nigga that ain’t got shit or me?” I have seen the end of a gun plenty of times.

They all quiet “like that then” moving back a little “there is one thing, never play with your food. You have me here, shoot me” I don’t know why he ain’t “unless you want to join me? Put your gun down and join me” he lowered his gun “in these streets, there is one thing you don’t do, is trust” cocking my gun back as a round of bullets filled the warehouse and before he could get his gun back up I shot at his knee, I like to make them suffer so always the knee. He fell to the ground “never trust a street nigga” kicking the gun out of the away, feeling an impact in my abdomen “shit” I hissed and Omar stood in front of me “you good?” the shooting stopped “fine” looking down at myself, thank god for body amour because that wouldn’t have been good “all gone boss now” nodding my head “make sure this gets cleaned up, I was never going to have these around. I have missed this actually, doing my own shit but come” walking off, I better get back home. Sofia is not happy, it’s the night before Christmas eve and she wants me home.

I can feel it on my stomach still, it’s a numb pain. That hurt actually, they must have shot close by but I don’t know who did “pull up here, this should be it now. See you next year” dapping Omar “for sure” opening the car door as I got out of the car, seeing Kyle’ Range Rover driving towards me, Amira is up at front and at one point I thought he was going to run me over but he drove by, closing the car door. That is now dealt with, I can just enjoy Christmas. I ain’t ever playing dumb, never that. I will kill anyone, I don’t trust niggas but I have to trust a few or I will not get far with shit. It’s cold as shit, I need to go inside and have a shower before Sofia sees me. Unlocking the door, stepping inside “I am back” taking my Timberlands off near the door “I am going to have a shower! I will be back” running towards the stairs before she comes, she hasn’t answered so she ain’t happy but she will be fine, my baby is being grumpy that is all. I am optimistic right now, everything seems good and I am good mentally.

I have slight bruising where the bullet hit, touching it lightly I winced a little. Sofia will question this, I know that. My phonee started ringing on the side, looking over seeing it’s Henry, I ain’t spoken to him in a while actually. Answering the phone “yooo” I said smiling “yoo?” Henry repeated after me “yes yoo, it’s good to hear you. You miss me?” I know he does “causing shit for me no, I wanted to say Merry Christmas and check in on you?” he always thinking of me “well I am happy, mentally I am one hundred. I am excited to be with my family, have an actual family. I am happy, Sofia is happy, Cartier is happy” I sighed out “I am happy” I said again “son, I am happy for you. I am so happy for you, words can’t describe this because I was scared Cassius. But like I said for you, you got love. And you got another baby, remember to call him Henry” I laughed out “sure, but I need help. Help a nigga out, so I ain’t really got Sofia anything, I was thinking of taking her away? I am not sure” he can help me “Cassius, you know her. I think Sofia is happy to be with you but how about you buy her something from you, you choose it. It’s a little late though” he ain’t wrong it is “if I get shoes, that is predictable, right?” Henry laughed “women love shoes, you buy her a outfit, choose it yourself. And say you wearing it for when we go away, is it a big holiday?” I don’t even know “no, a weekend away. Just us, having fun I guess” I think I can do that “well get shopping! Cassius hurry up” I need too hurry up.

Scrolling down my phone, I think I have decided. I am going to take Sofia and Cartier Canada, it looks so pretty there and I know Sofia will love it, it’s not far away either. We can go for a weekend there, as a family. I need to book a place there for us, I am excited now “Cassius, seriously. What are you doing?” locking my phone looking up “nothing, I am getting changed” getting up from the bed, feeling that pain in my stomach again. I hissed out “you got any pain killers?” I asked Sofia as I got up “erm yeah but what is wrong?” walking by Sofia “nothing, I am just in pain with my leg” I lied “I need to go out again Sofia, I promise baby I will be back” turning to Sofia as I walked backwards into the closet “Cassius!” Sofia spat, she is not happy “I need to buy something, please baby. I love you, I will be back” I need to get Sofia some things.

Cassius is actually stressing me out, all he keeps on doing is going out for no reason or he hides the reason why. I am very angry at him, I want family time and his siblings are coming any minute now. I feel like he is running away from seeing them but he ain’t got no choice because he got to sleep in my bed, but other than that. Cassius has been a dream, he is so loving to us. He spoiling me with everything, I can’t wait to show him the Christmas jumper he is wearing, he will hate me again but he will do it for me “Cartier! No!” I pointed at him, I need to get a gate for the stairs because he is going to hurt himself. Cartier didn’t listen and tried to climb but I grabbed him before he did “what are you like, let me put you in the play pen” carrying him to his play pen, then I can finish cooking for my in laws, I am so excited about this Cassius doesn’t understand at all “love you” placing him in the play pen, Cartier whined out because he knows he can’t go anywhere now.

Drying off my hands, finally they are here. It is them because the buzzer has gone off, hearing Cartier crying as I ran around the kitchen counter “baby wait!” I shouted, looking at the camera and seeing them both, buzzing them in. They are going to hate the weather here, it’s so cold. Let me quickly get Cartier, he is crying his eyes out since the buzzer went off “ok, ok! My god Cartier” he is being so dramatic for no reason at all “I am here” looking into his play pen “come here” picking him out of the play pen “mommy is here, let’s go and see your auntie and uncle, hey” wiping his tears “don’t cry baby, I am here” something might have spooked him but he really was crying his eyes, or he was missing me. Shuffling over to the front door, looking down at Cartier his nose is full of boogers now. Unlocking the door, dragging it open “I am back!!” Jasmine yelped out, I moved back laughing “I would hug you but I am so cold, come Josiah. Hurry up, you will make them cold” it is freezing out there, I want the door shut now.

Jasmine rushed to the fire to warm herself up, Josiah is ever so quiet. He hasn’t said hi yet “ok I am warm now, Sofia!!” Jasmine yelped out running towards me “oh my god, you look so well” hugging Jasmine with my one arm “thank you, you look well yourself. Cali treating you so good, you’re very happy. It’s good to see you” I have missed her “same Sofia and you, Cartier Warren!! look at you, don’t you have Cassius grumpy face” Cartier moved away from Jasmine, he does not want Jasmine close “I am so happy to be here, honestly. Josiah stop being a pussy, where is Cassius actually?” I chuckled looking over at Josiah “he is not here right now, don’t be scared. Cassius knows, he is aware. He needed to do something, this is your home too, sit down” I don’t want him to be scared “sit down, god. Stop being like that, Sofia I thank you so much. I didn’t expect to be here. We came with gifts, I am excited. We going to turn up and have fun” she pinched Cartier’ cheeks and he was not pleased she even touched him “that is auntie, stop” frowning at him, Cartier poked his lips out at me “dada been rubbing off on you hasn’t he? You boys are never happy” I swear they take it in turns, now it is Cartier in a mood.

Cartier refuses to go near Jasmine and Josiah, I don’t know if Cassius taught him this or he is just being grumpy “I do hope you both are hungry, I cooked for you both. It’s nothing big but I did make a little something” Cartier used my pant leg to drag himself up “what is it now” helping him up on his feet “awww Sofia, you didn’t have too. Right Josiah? You can’t be this quiet, why you legit scared of him?” Jasmine is so loud compared to Josiah “because I tried to attack him, Jasmine I took sides. This is on you when he comes back” so he does speak “we won’t have none of that here, nobody will be fighting or anything of that kind so just please relax. Cassius is aware, he only went out for something. Cassius knows” I mean he isn’t happy but he knows “and he ain’t happy, I know him. He finna beat my ass, he always does” Josiah thinks that, I wouldn’t let Cassius do that to him “I should have left you at home, you ruining the mood” I think he needs to get over seeing Cassius first.

I am not being funny but if Cassius did this on purpose and went out just to not see these two, I will be so angry with him. I have literally ate with his siblings and yet he is not here, Cartier will be going sleep soon also “oh, he is here” I smiled, finally he is home “don’t piss yourself” Jasmine said to Josiah, shaking my head at Jasmine. Cassius for me won’t “we are in the dining room!” I shouted before he goes around the home, Josiah is so scared of Cassius and it shows. Watching Josiah, he is not looking up at all, barely touching the food I made and I know my food is good “they all come running back don’t they” looking over at Cassius, he is staring at Josiah more than the care for Jasmine is here “well I mean why the hell not” Jasmine said “you know what I don’t get, you in my home and you was trying to come at me. In public too, so now you here in my home. You sat in my seat like a pussy, you ain’t shit. Neither is that dead twin of yours, seeing as you are here” Josiah pushed the seat back as he got up “you coming at me? Come on then, I will lay your ass out on this table. You know what Sofia, you bought him so you sit down too. You fucking useless bastard, I fucking did everything for your ass! You and your dead twin, you couldn’t be loyal for one moment. You step to me, now what? Come on, punch me but you won’t. You snitch, that is all you are. You want to come in my home and eat my food, spend my money. Go and fucking look after your parents! They on the streets nigga, come on! What you doing, and you! You both dickheads, ran off with some money of mine to Cali. You to be a whore and you! To be some fake ass model. You know what Josiah, I am not fucking dumb, I fucking know you!” Josiah is actually moving towards Cassius “I know you! And Jasmine, you a whole fucking liar too. What airport y’all come from LAX huh? Yeah right” Cassius pushed Josiah “more like JFK, I know every move you both do! Don’t lie to me. But Sofia wants family time, well Merry fucking Christmas” he walked off.

Well he didn’t mention a kick off to me “just please sit down” I got up from my seat, running around the dining table “don’t make me chase you” I said, Cassius jogged up the steps. I am already tired from chasing Cartier, cleaning and then cooking but I will chase him up these stairs. Reaching the top of the stairs, I am out of breath but I ain’t even run either “come” Cassius waved me over to my own room “I am coming, what the fuck is your problem” walking by him and into the room “my problem? I hate liars, they lying to you and me, they saw them. What about me? Why should I forgive, fuck them” I sighed out “because they do love you, Josiah is scared and Jasmine is so happy. They saw their parents, and!?” I barked “Cassius you can’t do this” he sniggered walking by me “I will beat his ass but for you, I won’t say shit again. But they lied to you, you need to see it. They had somewhere to go too, stop being nice” I feel so damn sad now.

[friendlylocalwhumper]

Alex in the cellar, part one

Alex is @whump-sprite ‘s oc.

That day, when the Hunter watched Lux and his friend in the park, talking and laughing, the warlock caught his eye. The one named Alex. There was something about his ragged, crushed down magic, paling so drastically next to his little light’s radiant shine. Something about the faded ends of those scars peeking out from his hoodie, at the back of his neck, that looked a lot like the slender, delicate raised scars along Lux’s back from the whip.

Alex has scars, and his mind is unwarded, and his magic is weak. And the look on Lux’s face when the Hunter forced Alex to choke him that day… the trust his light must have in Alex. It makes him special. If Lux is his friend, then it would be so, so fun for him to find out, one day, what became of Alex.

The Hunter doesn’t plan to let him leave the cellar. Alex will shatter and he’ll beg and maybe, the Hunter can have fun breaking him for a long while before he gets his little light back.

He’s in the cellar with his newest catch, the latest boy. He’s waking up. His arms are bound behind him, manacled to the floor, between his ankles. Kept kneeling. It’s a good look on him.

A better look, the Hunter predicts, will be this one lying dazed and sprawled out on the floor, bloody and promising to be good. Call it an artistic vision. He can’t wait to make it a reality.

“You don’t want to talk,” The Hunter notes, taking hold of the prisoner’s wrist. Not as slender as his light’s. Probably hasn’t been broken before. “I understand. You’re a member of the Resistance, you’re strong, you’re brave, aren’t you? Lux, he was just a warlock, all on his own out there. But you, you have an organization, a team, a family who’ve got your back.” The wrist bends backward, pressed into an uncomfortable position. Alex stares ahead, not looking at the joint. His other arm twitches, slightly, and he winces as the bone broken below his elbow makes his nerves burn with pain.

“You won’t break.” With a shove and a bit of a twist, the wrist gives way with a snap. The Hunter loves breaking wrists. Ribs, then wrists, then arms. People really try to twist free when you do that to them.

Alex has tried to yank his arm away, with a cracking yell of pain, which jumped up in pitch as he tried to wrench his arm away. He’s kneeling, one arm still manacled behind him, panting and still trying to stare straight ahead. Probably doesn’t want to see his own wrist at an odd angle.

The Hunter’s fingers are still wrapped around the wrist, it’s still bent - he moves it, pivots it so it’s straightened out, slowly. Alex is breathing hard and letting slip whimpers as the wrist is bent forward, now.

“You must know Anders Reyan. You know that my late friend, Maura - fond of fire and whips? - you know she broke him, owned him. Did you know that I - well, I won’t take much credit. She put in the hours, she’s the one who earned his love. But I had my fun with him.” That wrist bends back again, farther this time, until there are little pops in it. Alex is shaking with the effort of staying silent. “She broke his leg, and I kept it broken, kept it twisted out of place so she could make it hurt worse. And then I’d visit him in his cell,” He twists the wrist, holding it tight, feeling the bones shift - “And I’d touch my fingers to his temple, like this…” His hand finds the side of Alex’s head. The prisoner doesn’t try to pull away, held taut with the twisting grip on his arm and the restraints.

“And I’d force my way into his mind. He was so sweet, ten years ago, all horrified and shocked. I replayed his worst memories, and read his thoughts, and if he wasn’t very good and afraid, I’d give him such pain in his head that he passed out screaming.” His fingers are in Alex’s hair. Sweat is beading at the warlock’s brow, and his lips part for sharp huffs of breath as his wrist is manipulated. “I’m going to do that to you,” The Hunter informs happily, quietly. Very close. “You don’t have to look at how I hurt you, you don’t have to speak. Everything you’ve ever felt, everything you think, I will see it. I can make the world melt around you. I can make you believe anything. And do you know what else I can do?”

He squeezes Alex’s wrist, making him moan, but then with the pulse of pain comes a wave of - power, in him, spreading, warmth in his chest, his lungs fill deeply -

“What -” The first word he’s spoken, as the pain dims from his focus in favor of the incredible, glowing feeling in him.

“Your magic, restored. Like it was never ruined. Doesn’t that feel amazing?”

Alex blinks - all his nausea, the magic-exhaustion tingle in his arms (besides the broken bones throbbing) gone -

And then it’s back, heavy as ever, cold welling in his chest. Alex coughs, and shivers.

“Just for a moment. A taste. I could fix it for good. I think I’d rather hear you scream.” With that, the hand at Alex’s temple sends a mass of power into his mind, shoving in with more force than it takes to invade an unguarded mind.

Alex screams, desperately, with all the breath he’s just caught in a moment of wonder. It empties from him, welcoming his new agony.

There is the screaming in his mind, the no no no no please, fuck, fuck - he’s, he can’t be, it hurts, please no -

All very fun, very run of the mill. Panic and distress and this can’t be happening. Then come more interesting thoughts, the ones lingering from before the invasion, like no way Anders loved that pyromaniac bitch, no way he was fucking sweet for this guy and Lux was here for a year, how is he fucking sane and my arm, my arm, not that, don’t break it - fuck!

The Hunter’s magic soaks it all up easily. He knows it feels wrong, utterly wrong to suddenly not be alone in your own head. He can taste the horror Alex’s mind is steeping in.

Are you scared, warlock?

Who - I didn’t think that - scared, try fucking terrified, he’s got magic I couldn’t dream of fighting, like fucking Lux, this guy, off the charts - it’s like before, the feds, no control - memories flood to the front of Alex’s mind, and the Hunter watches and listens eagerly. Lux has grown used to not allowing himself to remember things, in order to protect against instinctively vulnerable moments like these. Alex doesn’t know that as he remembers the feds, the Hunter sees it too.

Sees Alex tripping, with a manacle around his ankle and a chain on the ground - his hands shaking, his magic flickering, nearly slipping to the floor, and getting grabbed by his hair, a guard whispering in his ear, then make it work, warlock, or you’ll get the whip, before and after you pass out. Then, a memory of coming to consciousness, getting dragged up, back to his cell, his back torn open, and he’s screaming and begging reflexively, tiredly, even as he’s ignored or laughed at. Never spoken to, never treated with mercy or sympathy.

Oh, you poor thing, you were terrified. The Hunter is smiling, watching Alex’s painful memories. Another one almost pops up and then is shoved back, which is Alex trying not to remember - the Hunter sinks his grip into it and drags it forward. Alex shudders violently.

Now this is a painful memory. You have lots like this. Neil, he had some fun, didn’t he?

Alex’s mind is flooded, now, with shame and horror and disgust. “Don’t - don’t -” He mutters, unable to eke out more with his mind being invaded.

The Hunter’s magic wells up viciously, and Alex cries out, panic overriding all other feelings in him with the agony spiking.

Telling me to stop, that will be punished, The Hunter informs. He isn’t angry, because Alex didn’t know yet. Just amused.

But I want it to stop, I want it to end, the pain, it feels wrong, I want it out of my head, Anders wouldn’t beg, I won’t, I won’t, but I want it to end -

Anders would beg. He has begged me many times, and I only twisted his shattered leg worse, I only drove into his mind for longer. Begging is cute. It won’t save you pain, but it will make me very happy, if it’s the right kind.

The Hunter decides he’s had enough of explaining, and he’d like to teach with experience. So he listens to Alex’s thoughts, and drives the already present pain up into agony at thoughts that displease him. Thoughts like gotta be a way out and his magic will run out sometime, has to and someone will find me, the Resistance will come for me.

“Please -” Alex begs aloud, still unaccustomed to mindspeak, at the lastest furious wave of power from the Hunter in his mind. “What - why are you -”

“I punish bad behavior,” The Hunter answers. “And you are just full of bad thoughts, little warlock.”

Bad - I’m not, that doesn’t mean anything, Lux is scared of being bad when he’s out of it but that’s just this fucker’s way of controlling people, it doesn’t matter -

The Hunter punishes that thought, too, dragging another startled scream from the prisoner. You are bad, The Hunter reinforces, in his mind, with a pulse of power. Bad, bad, bad. Pain on pain on pain. A bit too much for merely the second time having his mind invaded.

Poor, silly thing - the warlock passes out, five minutes into having his mind invaded.

The Hunter stays in there just a bit longer, to makes sure those words take root. Very, very bad.