#look at those lanky stick limbs

[lovebugism]

Okay maybe Eddie bought a silly couple costumes for himself and r (something cute with “Why aren’t you wearing a costume?” and “I’m not wearing that.”) 🩷

ty for requesting lovie! happy fictober! ily! — eddie buys you a costume you don't feel pretty enough to wear and the gang crashes your cuddling session (hints of smut, hurt/comfort, established relationship, 2.5k)

fictober (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

Your bare bodies stick together beneath a decade-old quilt. Eddie’s nice enough to let you use his lanky bicep as a makeshift pillow while you cuddle on the couch. His other hand hovers over your face, smoothing out the subtle furrow between your brows with the pad of his thumb.

“What’s this face for, huh?” he singsongs into the heavy, golden, post-sex silence of the trailer. His smile is swollen and crooked and barely there. It’s a very hushed sunshine compared to your distant pout.

“‘Cause I still feel bad,” you confess, voice so soft it’s nearly inaudible. Your feet knock with Eddie’s when your anxious legs entwine with his. “I made you miss that movie.”

“You didn’t make me miss shit,” Eddie laughs, assertive but not unkind. His warm palm spreads over your cheek. His chocolate eyes dance between both of yours. “I stayed in ‘cause I wanted to, alright? I wanted to spend time with you.”

“You called me a succubus,” you tease with a gentle giggle.

He had, though he doesn’t have much recollection of it. You looked far too pretty underneath him, and he’d been far too close to his orgasm. 

His hips rutted sloppily against yours, his rhythm gone totally stupid after feeling you gush around him. “Fuck— oh, fuck,” he babbled into the sticky skin of your neck, voice tighter and higher than usual. “You’re a goddamn succubus, you know that, baby? Pussy’s so good… I’d fucking— I’d do anything you wanted me to— shit.”

His legs are still numb from the mind-blowing climax he had a moment later.

Eddie’s chuckle is louder and more boyish than yours. It fills the trailer with sunlight. “Well, yeah. ‘Cause you are. Which means I’d much rather be here with you than at The Hawk with all those other schmucks.”

He kisses you to seal his promise — a chaste peck upon your smiling mouth. It’s beautifully innocuous compared to how good he was making you feel hardly more than five minutes ago.

“I know you don’t like those movies anyway, so…”

“That’s not true,” you argue with a very believable pout.

His gaze goes sympathetic. “Babe… You almost cried when we watched Nightmare on Elm Street the other day.”

“No, I didn’t!” You most certainly did.

“You said you weren’t gonna sleep ever again.”

“I like horror movies ‘cause you like horror movies, dummy.”

The term of endearment makes him grin. He likes it when you get all mean, though you never really mean it. “Is that so?” he lilts with raised brows that disappear behind his fuzzy bangs. The ends of the umber strands are damp with sweat.

You nod lazily against his arm. His fingers are starting to tingle with numbness, but he loves you too much to move.

“Mm-hmm. That’s how relationships work. Compromise. I tolerate horror movies, and you tolerate—”

“Your Harrison Ford obsession?”

You lose your firmness and get all sheepish. “Shut up…”

“I’m pretty sure they were showing Return of the Jedi in the theater over, right after Sleepaway Camp,” Eddie observes suddenly, brushing stray strands of your wild hair from your temple. “We coulda had a double feature tonight, but you wanted to stay in with little old me.”

“That’s ‘cause I love you a whole lot more than some guy I’ve never met.”

Eddie beams at your words. His eyes start to glitter like he’s won something, and his cheeks speckle pink with pride. He’ll never get tired of hearing you say that. He’ll never get tired of you loving him.

“I’m flattered,” he singsongs and means it.

You smile and lean in to kiss his grin. The boy gasps before you can. He springs up from the couch at a moment’s notice, climbing over you with naked limbs. He flashes you his bare ass just before he tugs on the crumbled pair of boxers left forgotten on the floor.

“What are you doing?” you wonder aloud, eyes narrowed in curiosity and mouth quirked in amusement. You twist on the couch so you’re propped against the back of it. You clutch the heavy quilt to your naked chest.

“I forgot something,” Eddie mumbles, halfway to himself, then sends you a lighthearted glare over his shoulder. “Don’t move!”

You still, grinning softly at the boy as you peer at him from beneath your lashes. You watch him while he rifles through a plastic bag beside the TV stand. “I got us something while I was at the Halloween store with Harrington earlier,” Eddie explains over the noisy crinkling sound.

“Oh, god…” you murmur.

Eddie laughs and looks at you over his shoulder again. “C’mon, babe. Have a little hope, would you?”

He returns to the couch with a smirk and something he hides behind his back. He grins like a kid when he reveals them to you — two packages of Star Wars themed costumes held in both his hands. 

Pictured on one is a guy who looks eerily like Han Solo — complete with the vest, blouse, and holster triad. The other is an uncanny Leia Organa in a skin-tight white suit, beige knee-high boots, and a flowing cape.

You blink at both of them, then at Eddie. 

“…I don’t know what I’m looking at.”

“Our Halloween costumes!” he exclaims with a beam. “See, I’m gonna be Han Solo— ‘cause I’m, you know, charming and sarcastic and handsome.”

“Don’t forget humble,” you joke with a lovesick grin.

“—And you will be my beautiful, hard-headed Leia Organa.”

You glance again at the package in his right hand, at the pretty woman on the cover. You know you won’t look nearly as good in the costume as she does. Your soft smile flickers. 

“Eds…” you mutter in a wavering lilt.

A frown forms between his bushy brows, similar to the one you’d been sporting earlier. “What?”

“I told you I wasn’t gonna dress up this year, remember?” you remind him, shifting awkwardly on the couch and clutching the blanket closer to yourself.

“But it’s Halloween, babe! Why wouldn’t you wear a costume?”

Your mouth opens and closes as you stammer out an excuse. “Because— I don’t know— I’m too… indecisive. Like, that’s a lot of pressure.”

“That’s why I picked for you!” Eddie grins, totally oblivious.

You laugh. It’s a bit cynical but not totally unkind. “I am not wearing that.”

He pouts, like a child or a hurt puppy. “But why not?” he wonders with a crestfallen inflection.

Again, you stammer. “Because— I mean— Just look at her, Eds!” you gesture to the package he holds with a significant focus to the girl on the front. “I don’t look like her!”

He grows from sad to confused. His brows pinch as he tilts his head to the side. His wild curls tickle his bare, pale shoulder. “Oh… kay?” he mutters, trying his best to understand you but not getting it completely.

You huff. Your chest stings as you explain it all to him.

“I’m… I’m not gonna look like the girl on the cover. You know that, right? I’m not— I’m not Princess Leia kind beautiful, you know?”

“Yeah,” Eddie shrugs, seemingly agreeing with you and smiling all over again. “You’re a you kind beautiful. That’s what makes you so damn sexy.”

He leans down over you with the intention to kiss you. 

Still pouting and inwardly aching, you pull back from him.

“Eddie…” you murmur, still gentle but obviously sadder.

He concedes with a small sigh. The couch cushions dip with his weight when he sits down beside you. He leaves the packages abandoned on the other side of him and gives you his full attention. 

“Look… You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to, alright? We can stay in for Halloween for all I care. I just… I think it’d be a lot of fun, you know?” the boy rambles with a seriousness that’s typically foreign to him. His palm smooths across your knee over the thick quilt. His lips quirk into a crooked grin. “And I think you’d look… very pretty as my Princess Leia.”

His chocolate eyes twinkle with an undeniable sincerity. It makes your chest feel so warm it burns.

“Yeah?” you mumble, not quite believing him but wanting him to hear him say it anyway.

“Totally,” he scoffs like it’s obvious. He presses a lingering peck to your lips, then melts when he tastes leftover sex upon them. 

A switch flips within him then. His belly twists, and his eyelids get all heavy. His smirk is weighed down by lust as he pulls back from you and shrugs. “I think I could show you better than I could tell you, actually…”

Across the living room, the door busts open. 

Sunlight explodes throughout the dim trailer, making the two of you squint. 

Steve enters first, knocking on the open door to announce his arrival. “Phone’s off the hook,” he observes, pointing to the telephone lying face up on the table beside the front door. 

Eddie had two fingers inside you, and the thing just wouldn’t stop ringing. He grumbled in annoyance when he had to part from you to hang it up.

Steve puts the thing back on the hook while Robin, Nancy, Jonathan, and Argyle walk in behind him.

Mortified, you watch with wide eyes as your uninvited friends file in. Your grip tightens around the blanket. You use one hand to make sure every inch of your naked body is covered with it.

Eddie doesn’t seem nearly as bothered by it as you are. Instead, he huffs in annoyance and spreads his arms along the back of the couch. They were the ones barging in, after all. If they had a problem with his pale, lanky figure and his thin, plaid boxers, then that was on them.

“Oh. Come in,” he hums, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. “Make yourselves at home.”

Robin’s got a thousand-year stare in her eye and a blue, red, and purple mouth. “Can I use your bathroom?” she wavers, voice strained. Her fists are clenched beneath her baggy flannel. They tremble beside her baggier jeans.

“Uh, yeah. Knock yourself out.”

She’s already rushing down the hall before he can get the words out.

The two of you watch her leave and then turn to Steve. He’s an expert in all things Robin Buckley nowadays. He shrugs and tells you, “She had, like, four slurpees while we were waiting on you guys at The Hawk.”

You shift awkwardly like you’re getting scolded. Eddie only laughs.

As all the gang settles around the trailer — Jonathan on the recliner, Nancy on the arm of it, and Steve sitting on the adjacent table — Argyle is the only one without a place to sit. He idles beside the couch, smiling at you with rosy lips and rosier eyes.

“How are you doing today, amigo?” he wonders with a curt nod, as mellow as ever.

You smile up at the boy, not nearly as fazed by the bright style and long raven hair as you used to be. Actually, you’ve grown quite fond of his slurred jokes that don’t really have a punchline because halfway through, he realizes he’s forgotten it entirely.

“Good,” you respond, crossing your arms over the quilt you’ve got bunched at your chest. “You?”

“I’m peachy, brochacho,” he nods back at you. He grins, but the bright expression is weighed down by the weed. The skunky smell entwines with his musky cologne, creating a deep earthy scene that’s much more bearable than the weed alone.

“Not that I’m not thrilled you guys showed up—” Eddie starts with an inflection that would imply otherwise, wide eyes flitting around the room. “—But what the hell are you doing here?”

“You’d know if you answered the phone,” Steve retorts with a scrunched nose, flipping through a random car magazine. The Beemer on the front matches the sunshine yellow of his sweatshirt.

“Well, I was a little busy, Harrington—”

You nudge Eddie before he can finish the stupid joke. Everyone could already hear it anyhow — “I was a little busy, but you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” 

He shoots you an innocently confused look. You give him a half-hearted glare in return.

“You guys flaked on movie night, so we brought the movies to you,” Nancy singsongs with a sweet, pink smile.

Jonathan unrolls the folded-up paper bag between his feet. The flimsy cardboard crackles loudly as he rifles through it. He pulls out a number of unblanketed VHS tapes with handwritten stickers glued to the front of them. 

“Uh… We got Sleepaway Camp, obviously,” the Byers boy mutters in his usual Byers way. He waves the tape in his hand and sits it off to the side. He reaches into the bag and grabs two more. “Twilight Zone and, uh, Return of the Jedi.”

Eddie is as grateful as he is confused. Movie night wasn’t totally gone, and both of your movies had been seemingly carrier-pigeoned to his trailer, but neither should be out on VHS yet. “How…?” the boy trails off with pinched-together brows.

Argyle answers. “Let’s just say I know a guy, who knows a guy, who knows a guy…” he smirks, then swirls his features in puzzlement. It looks like he’s trying to do math in his head. “…Who knows a guy.”

“I can pop some popcorn if you guys wanna, you know, make yourselves decent,” Steve teases with a feigned maliciousness as he hops off the square table. The old thing squeaks under his weight.

Eddie’s retort doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh. Right. My bad, Stevie. It’s not like you totally barged in on us or anything.”

You shake your head at their bickering, though you’re still smiling quietly to yourself. Eddie shields you while you rise from the couch. You wear the heavy quilt like a dress as you shuffle down the hallway to his bedroom. The thing trails behind you as you go.

“Sorry about them, sweetheart,” Eddie apologizes as soon as the door clicks closed. 

He’d wanted to say something earlier, but kept his mouth shut instead of making it a bigger deal. He knew you were bound to be embarrassed — because you almost always tend to be, anyway. He didn’t want to draw attention to the situation, or least of all to you, and make it that much worse.

“’S okay,” you shrug and drop the blanket on the carpet. 

Eddie tries not to go all teenage boy at the sight of your naked body, but he nearly loses his mind when you bend over to pick up one of his t-shirts from the floor. 

“We did sorta flake on them,” you reason as you tug the cotton over your head. The baggy fabric falls over you like rain.

Eddie shakes his head, mostly at himself. He couldn’t love you more if he tried.

“Only you would blame yourself when those assholes walked in on us,” he laughs, walking the short distance to you and wrapping you in his arms from behind. He presses a sweet kiss to your neck. You smell like flowers, sex, and his cologne. 

“You’re too sweet for your own good, baby. No wonder those schmucks won’t leave us alone.”

Robin’s voice seemingly comes from within the walls — ‘cause the bathroom is only one room over, and the walls are especially thin. “Rude!” she grouses, voice muffled. “I mean, it’s true, but still.”

[hatsukeii]

jigsaw falling into place / tsukishima kei x reader

genre(s) - frenemies to lovers if you look at it one way, and soulmates/twin flames if you look at it another, which means it's fully up to whatever you want pookies, also they are both ex dancers which is a fun little thing i had an idea for but i can't tell if it's an au, angst???

warning(s) - injury??? ankles?? yeah, injury and ankles, mentions of blood, iirc there are very slight references of reader being female but it's probably just one or two mentions at most, not a warning but it'll be more fun if you recognise the music references in this, they’re almost exclusively from radiohead because jigsaw falling into place!!!

wc: 7.0k~ (give or take)

tldr; breathe in, and surrender, let the jigsaw fall into place.

♪〰〰🎧〰〰♪

The first time you meet, the two of you are fourteen at De La Soul dance studio. For what reason Tsukishima has ended up in regular hip-hop rehearsals, he has never disclosed to anyone. Perhaps he was coerced into it, or maybe he had time to kill. He sticks out like a sore thumb from his first day onwards, tall and lanky, topped with a glaringly blonde mess of hair, and a pair of clunky, taped up glasses. He always sits at the mirror, his back never further than an inch away from it, wired earphones dangling from his ears down to his pockets. Of all the dancers at the studio, he is the least dancer-like. His gigantic limbs render him nothing short of stiff, and never once has he taken those earphones off during practice. Yet his feet are always quicker to adapt than his arms, and his arms are long enough to lift everybody on the team. One of those days, you sneak a look at his phone while he naps in front of the mirror, a bottle of water hanging from his loosened fingers as his feet tap rhythmically.

“Radiohead?”

His head rises groggily from his arms as he yanks his earphones off. He takes a swig from his bottle, clearing his throat from his rudely interrupted nap 

“You like them too?”

“I’ve heard some.”

“Cool.”

He plugs the earphones in again as his head threatens to lower into his arms for a second nap, and you settle yourself comfortably next to him. Your original plan was to ask him for a spot, but this will suffice for now. Two tired bodies sprawled out against the cold ground, backs pressed up against the mirror. He turns to look at you, you extend a fist to him.

“Y/n.”

“Kei. Tsukishima Kei.”

♪〰〰🎧〰〰♪

Bloody fingers, stained finger tape. The webs of his hands are torn, the ball won’t stop for him. He stands small as a giant amongst a court of Gods. Breathe in, breathe out. Let the blood dry as it trickles down to lace his knuckles. It’s not over yet, far from it. 

His hands bleed as the water runs a murky shade of brown beneath his hands. He unravels the soggy, blood-stained tape from his fingers, and flings them into the bin, clicking his tongue when it sticks to the inside of the garbage bag. 

“Get it together, Kei. What the fuck are you doing?”

His reflection does not speak back to him. All it does is stare blankly, stupid thing. He rips his glasses off, pinching his eyes with his dripping hands. Let the water in, let it wash him over. It stings in streaks of red, settles over his irises in a blurry film. The blood has dried around his cuts, clotting around skin and flesh. He cups running water in his wounded palms, and throws his face in. He stays there, unmoving as he stares at his palms. He sees you in the crowd, clear as day in his closed eyes. He sees you watching as Ukai pulls him out of the game, he sees you as he walks off the court, and into the bathrooms. He holds his breath, letting out little bubbles until his lungs become nothing but shriveled pink discs beneath his ribs, before whipping his head out, filling his lungs with oxygen again.

He wraps fresh tape around his fingers, tightening them until his fingers are stiff, and puts his glasses back on. It is far from over.

♪〰〰🎧〰〰♪

“You don’t look like you like Radiohead.”

You kick the back of Tsukishima’s knees, and they buckle slightly beneath his stiff torso.

“Shut up and learn this first.”

Three weeks since joining the studio, and those are the next words he says to you. The other dancers have migrated out of the room, taking the twenty-minute break they were promised an hour ago. You push his torso in, and tiptoe to adjust his arms. Much better.

“Look in the mirror, and remember how this looks. Then do it again, and again, every time.”

You flick the music on, letting it rumble through the dance room. This is the fifth time you have run this sequence with him, yet he just doesn’t seem to understand. He is almost there, and you will not give up on him. As the beats resonate through your skull, and the melody pulls at your ligaments and muscles, you watch Tsukishima through the mirror. He is only mimicking your movements. He is almost there, but it is not right yet.

“You’re off, go again.”

The music rewinds. He hops in place, awaiting for the cue to begin. Shuffle, step, kick ball change. Arms around, and in, fold, up. 

“It’s not right, go again.”

Shuffle, step, kick ball change. Arms around, and in, fold, up-

“Stop it. This isn’t how you dance, Tsukishima.”

He throws his arms down in surrender, crouching down as his knees tremble beneath him. The oxygen in the room is thick, but scarce. Only traces manage to slither their way into his lungs as he breathes in, breathes out. He has done everything right, hit every move, every beat, every lyric. What could be wrong? What could possibly be out of order?

“Stop rushing the moves, and just let yourself go. You need to let it fall into place.”

“Like a jigsaw?”

You grin at his earphone, dangling haphazardly from his right ear. Of course, he loves Radiohead.

“Yeah, like a jigsaw.”

♪〰〰🎧〰〰♪

It has been ten minutes. Four rounds have passed without his presence. You watch Hinata desperately sprint across the court, dashing across lines of green, white, and red. Daichi has screamed until his throat is hoarse, and wheezes are beginning to form in the back of everyone’s throats. Kageyama’s fingers are beginning to get lousy, his fingertips are flexing more than they should as he sets the ball too far, too short, too high, too low.

They need a wall. Karasuno is a kingdom without a fourth wall, and the volleyball is knocking the other ones down with every spike. Eyes are darting across the court. Feet are squeaking beneath the polished ground. The claps of skin on leather ring prominent with each receive, each hit, each block.

Tsukishima’s shadow emerges from the edge of the court’s entryway, and Ukai calls a timeout.

♪〰〰🎧〰〰♪

His eyes flutter open from beneath his arms. His earphones have fallen off. Is break still going? A pair of feet stomp and squeak beneath the ground, yet no others follow along. He looks up. It is a lonely performance. 

“You need to let it fall into place.”

Arms collapse around your torso, locking and releasing as they travel along your body from your hips, to your chest, to the air. Your arms are vines crawling up a wall, leaping across the border between greying streets and falling into the sanctuary of your garden. The shuffling of your feet guide the vines, the crevices of a brick wall paving the path for them to snake up the wall in a map of green. 

It is unlike anything Tsukishima has seen, or done before. 

Every move falls into place.

You turn, and he rests his head beneath his arms again. He understands now that he is not done yet. He is not even close to being there. His earphones lie pathetically on the ground beside him. Out of place. He shoves them back into his ears, letting the music wash through his head. He etches your every move into his mind, so that maybe one day, his arms may move like vines on a wall too, draping into bushes like roses in a garden.

Falling into place like a jigsaw.

♪〰〰🎧〰〰♪

The fresh tape has begun to rip again, but he must stay. The tape can’t help Tsukishima now, only his eyes can. Target their morale. Build frustration. When the frustration spills over, Shiratorizawa’s walls will falter. The redhead blocker across the net has a manic look in his eyes as the ball approaches him. Creepy. Kageyama freezes in place, as though mesmerised by the toss. Get it together, and move. 

The ball is out of place, the angles are off. It’s a lagged attack, and anyone with half a brain should know. The redhead jumps, and Tsukishima follows suit. Just a bit more, get the hands over the net. Reinforce the barrier, keep it rigid. He cannot, and will not, let the wall collapse again. 

The crowd behind you roars in chants and cheers as the ball is deflected, shooting into Shiratorizawa’s court as their own attack turns its back on them. The redhead clicks his tongue, sneering at Tsukishima, who approaches the net, hands shoved into his pockets. You vaguely make out Tsukishima’s remark, which sends the redhead into a tantrum.

“Hi, I’m the normal guy. Good to meet you."

He is getting cocky again, like he was before, like he always has been.

♪〰〰🎧〰〰♪

Four months in, and the team has moved from basics, to breakdancing. Tsukishima operates gracefully now, hands falling into place as pillars for his body while his legs swing in tandem with every switch of his hands.

But he’s been rubbing his elbows for the past minute, and you aren’t sure if this is a good idea anymore.

As his hands settle around your waist, his wrists swell in shades of red and pink, burdened with the role of being residential breakdancer. He has been rubbing his elbows for the past two minutes. You really aren’t sure if this is a good idea anymore. 

“Tsukki, are you sure you can-”

“How many times have I told you already? It’s nothing, I got this.”

He adjusts his wristbands, massages his wrists one last time. He has done this countless of times before, so why are you nagging at him now? He’s perfected the shape of his hands, the way they rest under your arms, and on your waist. He’s done this more times than most dancers in this team have spoken to you. It’s just a lift.

“Three, two, one-”

The weight of your back crumbles beneath his fingers. The dull throb in his wrists extends with a pop, piercing through muscle as it blitzes its way down in pulses from his wrists, to his forearms, to his elbow. 

“Fuck!”

Your body falls with a thud from approximately eight feet above ground, the side of your ankle making first impact with the floor. It does not make way for you, and your foot twists with a shuddering crack. The rest of your body follows suit, knees slamming into wood veneer as your head whips forward into the ground. 

The rest of the team huddles around you, and you almost manage to muster up enough strength to beg them to leave. The oxygen in the room is running out, instead replaced by a thick fog. It rots in your lungs, poisoning your arteries as it makes its way through your bloodstream. Murmurs and shrieks are choked out from the horrified crowd, some frantically scrambling for their phones. 

“...fuck.”

Tsukishima stares in horror, staggering backwards towards the mirror. It was just a lift. A lift he had done hundreds of times before. It was one lift out of hundreds, the only one out of place. His earphones dangle from his pocket, but he does not plug them in. 

He reaches for his bag, and he runs. He runs until he reaches home. He doesn’t go inside, he doesn’t enter the gate, he doesn’t plug his earphones in. He stares at his hands, and his wrists don’t hurt anymore, while the stinging in his elbows is reduced to a dull soreness.

It was just one lift. One lift out of the hundreds he has done before.

He cradles his face in his hands, squeezes his eyes shut, and holds his breath until the air in his lungs goes purple.

♪〰〰🎧〰〰♪

“Touched it!”

Shiratorizawa are tiring out. He can hear it in their huffs of discontent, the curses beneath their breaths at every block, their cries at every missed save. The redhead sneers at Tsukishima with every jump he makes, and each dirty look fuels him with buzzes of adrenaline. Push them a little more. Shiratorizawa’s fortress will crumble, and Karasuno will rise from the rubble.

“I hit it!”

Keep going, do not stop. Pick up the pieces of Shiratorizawa’s wall, and reinforce Karasuno’s defence with them. Deflect their attacks, use their own power against them. Watch the ball, wait for angles to align, and strike. They will falter soon, he can see it in their panicked eyes, feel it in their impatient strategies.

“Touch!”

His calls echo through the court. Your eyes dart between the ball, Tsukishima’s hands, Shiratorizawa, Tsukishima’s hands, then the ball, an unending series of attacks and counterattacks. Your breath hitches with every jump he makes. He moves powerfully, his timing precise on every block. His eyes are attentive, nimble fingers swipe left and right automatically at Shiratorizawa’s feints and tricks. You can almost hear the gears overclocking in his head, stopwatches ticking and springing him off his feet as they ring. 

It is unlike anything you have seen before.

♪〰〰🎧〰〰♪

“Another jigsaw puzzle for me?”

Tsukishima hovers over your bed, a jigsaw set in hand. Your cast pokes out from beneath the blankets, glaringly obvious. Third degree ankle injury, complete tear of the ligament on impact, is what the podiatrist said. 

“Just the sixth one this month, you’ve got another month to go in that cast. It’s a thousand pieces this time.”

His weight sinks the mattress beneath you, and you prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him unbox the jigsaw set. Across your bed, two other assembled puzzles sit atop your dresser, jigsaw albums framed in glass panels. The loose pieces tumble to the ground, and Tsukishima peels the blanket off you, sitting next to the pile of jigsaw pieces on the floor. Lifting your foot up, and off the bed, you settle on the ground across him, the pile sitting between the two of your legs.

“Corners first?”

“Yeah, corners first.”

The pieces fall into place quickly. One tends to become acquainted with the rough edges of jigsaw pieces in times of boredom, especially when their friend brings a new set to their house every week or so. The colour scheme keeps you guessing. What album is it this time? The Bends? Room On Fire? The two of you assemble away quietly, carefully lifting portions of the puzzle into the glass frame. 

“Kei.”

He lifts his head from his work, the centre of the puzzle laid delicately over his palms.

“You know, they told me I probably can’t dance like that again.”

He freezes, the puzzle falling from his hands and shattering on the frame. He sees the vines, but they wither, retreating back into the concrete streets, limping into the road where cars will drive over them without a care. They will never return to the garden again, replaced with thorns on a bush instead. 

He cannot fix this. No amount of forcing the oxygen out of his lungs after every lonely dance practice, or buying puzzles of different albums, or sitting on your bedroom floor for hours every week, building puzzles by your side silently, or reimagining how he should’ve refused to do the lift, how his hand should have cradled your body the same way he had done it hundreds of times before, will ever fix this. 

“And you’re just…okay with that?”

You smile melancholically, tilting your cast-adorned ankle. Picking up the pieces of the centre, you reassemble them quietly, head bowed as your lips quiver and your eyes droop. Tsukishima watches in horror, his hand reaching behind him for his bag. 

“Do I have a choice?”

You place the final piece in place. In Rainbows, classic. 

You look up, and he is not there.

♪〰〰🎧〰〰♪

Kageyama turns to glance at Tsukishima. A follow up attack after a net bounce will certainly tire them out. His foot pivots, having just hit the ground from a futile block attempt. The tape is loose on the sides now, peeling off around the edges and the rips. The redhead’s manic glares from across the net have since progressed to tired psychopathy, and he intends to milk every last drop of energy from his mind. May the best mental processor win. 

You watch him sprint, and he leaps, higher than he ever has. Tsukishima is agile, six foot two but light as a feather on his feet. His waist twists with his shoulders, his arms pulled back into a bow, ready to shoot. Yet something is odd. He is holding back. You watch the ball travel away from Tsukishima across the front court, positioning itself right in front of Tanaka’s hand as he strikes. There is a hole in Shiratorizawa’s defence, and the redhead knows it. He sneers, eyes darting wildly across the court as he runs to block, but the ball breaks through their fortress, slamming into the ground. 

Another hole in the wall.

♪〰〰🎧〰〰♪

The next time you and Tsukishima meet, it is your first year in Karasuno. You hadn’t seen, or spoken to him since the night he ran away from your house. Calls were sent straight to voicemail, messages were left on received, before not being sent at all. You waited day and night for his next song recommendation, his next album review, his next puzzle. The In Rainbows puzzle sits amongst the rest atop your dresser, and every time you glance at it from your bed, an unsettling weight settles on your chest.

Was that all you were to him? An ex dance partner? 

To think that all those hours spent with a pair of earphones stretched between your heads as you assembled thousands of puzzle pieces into mosaics of music, tucked away into the corners of your lives, would have amounted to something. All the silent celebrations at each completed set, the late nights that the two of you worked in, gluing each jigsaw piece in place until they fitted together perfectly, all that made you believe the two of you had something special, something that quietly encompassed the space between your working minds and gentle fingers. You did not know him enough to amount to more than friends, but you knew enough about how he thought, moved, felt. You knew enough about the music he liked, his preference of building from corners, the way his palms cushioned your waist as he lifted you into the air. You knew enough for a friendship to have sufficed. Nothing more, nothing less, if he so desired. 

How audacious. How audacious of him to waltz into your life, a perfectly assembled puzzle, and watch it shatter on the ground, all without a single apology.

The first Friday at Karasuno high, you are silent. The limp in your right leg goes unnoticed by most, yet the crowded halls prove a challenge, after-school rush is a true menace. You stay back, waiting for the crowd to die down, as your head turns to the billboard. 

“Hip-hop Wednesdays! See you after school at the gym’s dance hall!”

Your mouth twitches, the unravelling of arms and shuffling of feet rushing into your head again. No, this won’t work. Doctor’s- no, podiatrist’s orders. The poster is alluring, however, and your eyes seem to linger at its warm invitation, until they are rudely knocked away from it. 

“Why are you standing in a crowd rush, idiot?”

You turn to the voice, clear as day amongst the chatter of students and the quickening steps behind you. Amber eyes meet yours, narrow at first, then widening in shock as they register your presence. You bite the inside of your lip, pushing down his name as it claws its way up your throat. He stands taller now, towering over you as his eyes travel between your left and right irises. The wired earphones have been replaced by a shinier pair of headphones, a pair that won't dangle from his ears, or stretch between two heads anymore.

He stares, just long enough for the green-haired boy beside him to notice. Your name threatens to spill out of his mouth, but the letters tangle up in knots, blocking his windpipe. He imagines what it will be like to blurt it out, to let the words ring in your eardrums as he runs towards you. He hears himself in his head, his voice returning to its prepubescent meekness.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, y/n.”

He stares, just long enough to imagine the contempt in your eyes, the disdain in the curl of your lips, your sharp, stinging voice, shattering his final sliver of hope.

“How could you do this to me?”

He stares, just long enough to replay the lift again. The way your ankle twists and pops on impact with the ground, your panicked wheezes, his frantic sprint home at the realisation of what he had done. He has replayed the lift enough times to know where he should put his hands this time, how he should prop your body up against his palms, how he should admit that his elbows hurt- have hurt for weeks, even months. And his wrists, and his fingers, and his chest.

He stares, just long enough to rethink blurting out your name, and running towards you, but not long enough to regret turning away, and blending into the crowd again, speaking of volleyball instead of dance, Lamp instead of Radiohead. 

Yet regret is a wisp of thick fog, trailing him insidiously as he descends the stairs, far away from you, from his guilt, from the mistake that will haunt him for as long as he lives.

♪〰��🎧〰〰♪

You see yourself in front of the gym anyways on Wednesday. You decide that you will not dance, you are only in your uniform and leather shoes after all. The gym door swings open to the sight of sweaty teenage boys donning sweatshorts and t-shirts, smacking volleyballs left and right, and you wonder how you are supposed to make your way into the dance room, tucked away in the corner of the gymnasium. You step inside, shuffling along the wall as balls shoot over your head, and land next to you, in front of you, behind you.

Yamaguchi nudges at Tsukishima's torso, watching you jog through the chaos of serving drills. He senses something wrong, something horribly out of place.

"Isn't that the girl? From last week?"

Tsukishima's eyes are trained onto the roll of tape, pulling it taught around his fingers. He chucks the roll onto a bench, and bounces the ball in his hand three times exactly, before holding it up with an outstretched arm. He pretends to aim his serve, but his eyes follow you as you scurry your way across the gym, and into the dance room.

"Who?"

Yamaguchi frowns. Tsukishima hits the serve out of bounds.

The dance room is empty, spare of around eight people. Their sneakers squeak against the ground, and you wince at the familiar noise. You set your bag down in front of the mirror, plugging a pair of earphones into your phone as you stick one in your ear, and shove your phone into your pocket. Leaning against the side of the mirror, you watch the members intently. They laugh, sweat dripping from their hair as their feet tangle together in shuffling drills. You wonder how it feels to join them, to loosen up the gears in your system- no, podiatrist's orders.

But they are happy, just as you felt when you once could move your feet as you pleased. They are content as they adjust each other's arms, and roll their hands across their bodies, just as you were when you used to push Tsukishima's torso into the right spot, and guide his arms through from his head, to around his chest- this is not the place for him to be. He ran away from you, left your puzzle pieces shattered and unruly, just to run back and remind you of what could have been. Cruel.

Fuck podiatrist's orders. A bit of light footwork can't hurt.

Music blares from your earphones, and your body moves with it intuitively. Arms first, popping and dragging as your feet glide across the ground with ease, then fingers, curling up and releasing in waves. The beat thunders through your skull, and it is only a matter of time until the others notice you. They cheer, they clap, they holler, and the limp in your leg fades away as the pieces of your puzzle begin to come together again.

A lonely figure watches you, ten feet from the doorway, before being joined by a green-haired boy

"Who is that, Tsukki?"

Yamaguchi doesn't notice how Tsukishima's eyes threaten to brim with tears. The vines have regained their life. They have returned to their rightful garden, receding from the road and into the rose bushes again, where they wrap around thorn-infested stems. He rolls his shoulders, squeezes his elbows, massages his wrists until the knots untangle. You never needed his lift, or his jigsaw puzzles, all you needed was a pair of earphones, music, and the floor was yours again.

"Yeah... yeah, just somebody that I used to know."

He walks back to his side of the gymnasium.

♪〰〰🎧〰〰♪

Tsukishima's feet hit the ground, hands unscathed. Ushijima glares at him from across the net, meeting eye to eye without so much of a lift of his head. The twitch of his mouth speaks his mind as he eyes Karasuno's blockers up and down.

Don't fuck with us. Know your place beneath the doves, you scrambling crows.

How despicable.

Letting two clean hits strike their court has knocked down Karasuno's walls, and Tsukishima can feel the foundations beginning to crumble again. Shiratorizawa are reclaiming the rubble that Karasuno has collected, and he is unable to reconstruct the craters that are forming in their defence. He is using his mind, moving as the information wills him to, watching the ball, visualising the parabolic trajectory as the maximum height aligns with the palm of Shiratorizawa's hitters, springing to defend as the stopwatches click and ring in his head.

So why is nothing working?

No, don't let your own tricks fool you, Kei. Target their minds, when their morale crumbles, their walls will follow. Clear your head. Breathe in, breathe out.

His head turns to you, watching from the stands. Your eyes widen, a deer in headlights being caught in its glare. It is a long shot, he knows, but he needs his mind to flood with your words. Something, somewhere in there, must be the answer to his bleeding prayers. He is missing the central jigsaw piece. Think. Remember.

You freeze, his eyes burning holes into your own. You know him well enough to notice his knuckles trembling, and his eyebrows twitching erratically, and the confusion in his eyes, barricaded by the glare in his glasses, but evident nonetheless. You think you are hallucinating. Why is he looking at you? How did he notice you from the stands, amidst the chaos of their battle on the court?

What does he want?

Ukai's whistle blows, and his hands form a T, calling for a timeout. Tsukishima's eyes do not abandon yours. His lips are separated, just a bit more than usual as he drowns in the air around him. Think, Tsukishima. Where is the answer?

Where is the missing piece?

♪〰〰🎧〰〰♪

It takes you another five months to speak to Tsukishima again. The thought of him has been suppresssed until it is nothing but a snowflake drifting to the ground, the summer of your partnership reduced to nothing but a bleak, inglorious winter. You make friends, more friends than you have ever had. The eight members of the dance club become your new family, the ones who collect your shattered jigsaw pieces, and gently place them back in order, one by one. It is good. You are good.

But why is it that every time his blurry figure passes your eyes as you leave the gymnasium, tall, and lingering, and familiar, a piece falls out again?

Every Wednesday, you wait for the dance room to empty, for the others to pack away their things and make their way home, the sun descending behind the horizon of the school. You wait until they are out of sight, away from the vicinity of the gymnasium, and you stay.

You stay, and watch his figure from behind the door, tall, and lingering, and familiar.

You shouldn't, you know you shouldn't. You know that you didn't deserve it, what Tsukishima had done. He had, for a lack of a better word, crippled you, and you forgave him. He had never apologised, yet you forgave him as if he had anyways. You were never a fan of jigsaw puzzles, yet you amused him as he relentlessly brought them to you, day after day, week after week. The two of you would stretch a singular pair of worn out, flimsy earphones between your heads every night, sprawled across your bedroom floor. His fingers would tap the floorboards beneath him, syncing with the rhythm of the music, and yours would follow.

"Thanks for the puzzle, Tsukki."

"I'll come back with another one next week, okay?"

And he did, he really did, for weeks, until one day he didn't. Until one day, he decided that it was too much, too heavy of a burden, and he ran. And the days became weeks, the weeks months, and the months into an uneventful Friday, when he rudely runs into you amidst the crowded halls of Karasuno High.

And still, somewhere deep in your chest, your heart feels no contempt. Not even a trace of disdain. It has every right to, yet it lets go, and you forgive him silently.

You catch yourself staring now, your eyes refocusing as four eyes meet your own. You have been caught.

"Tsukki, go, now." The green-haired boy speaks imperatively. He can sense it everywhere, from the way Tsukishima freezes, to the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows hard, to the way his hands instinctively massage his wrists for no reason. Something is balanced, but horribly out of place. Something is so fragile that the mumble of a name will shatter its carefully sustained equilibrium.

So you run.

You run until they are out of sight, until all you hear are the confused murmurs of teenage boys, chattering amongst themselves as they stay behind to hone their techniques in the sickly white light of the gymnasium. Heavy steps follow behind yours, equally as desperate.

“y/n, please!”

A hand reaches out for, and just barely misses your wrist, limbs stretched as far as they can to catch up. Moths flutter around a wall mounted moth trap on the school building, aimless, persistent. You wish in that moment that you too can participate in their aimless worship of a buzzing trap, bask in the scathing heat of its radiation, deadly as a running current to your fragile body. Anything to avoid this. You swing around, and he staggers back.

“What do you want from me, Tsukishima?”

The words tangle in this throat again, blocking his windpipes. He is running out of time. He can see the stars on your converses pivoting away, threatening to leave him behind in his own pile of jigsaw pieces. Get it together, Kei. Untangle the words, pick them apart with every finger you have, force the knots through the throat if they won’t come apart. Anything to face this.

“I’m sorry."

You stop in your tracks to face him. He can't even look you in the eye. Pathetic.

"I’m so sorry, y/n. I’m sorry I ruined your life, and I’m sorry I couldn’t fix it.”

"What?"

The words rush out of your throat, the force of a million tonnes unable to suppress them any longer. You step up to him, disliking how your closeness makes you want to falter, to openly forgive him, to acknowledge that you need his fingers to put it back, so that the final piece will fall into place permanently.

“Fix it?”

Your finger jabs at his chest with every scathing sentence. He doesn’t retaliate. He stands in place, pitiful, expectant. He is smaller than you, compressed into nothing but a moth attracted to a trap.

“I didn’t need your fixing, Kei! I didn’t ask for you to fix me!”

The air between you is congealed, heavy with your frantic breaths, and the deafening silence from Tsukishima’s pursed lips. A moth touches the light, and falls to the ground, twitching lifelessly as the electricity surges through its fragile body.

“All I wanted was to finish another puzzle with you!”

He grabs your wrist, your finger jabbed into the dip of his ribs, and your fist loosens. What now? Should he pull you towards him, so he can be sure that he knows where to place his hands this time? Should he grab your shoulders, and beg for your hatred, after all that he has failed to do? Should he turn away, shriveled and cowardly, knowing that there is nothing he can do that will ever make amends for what he has done to you?

"I loved watching you dance. All I wanted was to be like you."

He smiles sadly, releasing your wrist from his grasp as it falls to your side. He takes a step back, away from you.

"Don't let me hold you back."

He has never held you back, not his mistake, not his abandonment either. And he will not hold you back now, not like this, even if you want him to.

You turn away, and leave him under the light of the moth trap.

♪〰〰🎧〰〰♪

Ukai's words drone on as Tsukishima shoves the ribbon of limp, ripped up tape from his fingers into his pockets. He wraps a new piece around his palms this time, that is what is holding him back. He is lying to himself.

Don't look up. Don't look at the stands. Keep your head down, and your mind intact. Reinforce Karasuno's walls to break Shiratorizawa's fortress.

"Tsukishima! Are you hearing this?"

He looks up from his hands, yes, yes he is hearing it. He is definitely hearing it.

"Sorry?"

Ukai rubs his temples, and adjusts his hairband.

"Fuck, whatever, stay off for a bit until you're ready. Hinata, take his place. Let's get it going again."

Look up, y/n is right there. They're watching. They have the answer.

His head lifts towards the stands, and you are gone.

♪〰〰🎧〰〰♪

The green-haired boy, who you now know is Yamaguchi, practically begs for you to watch the Shiratorizawa finals. You aren't sure how he finds you, but he does, bumbling and clumsy as he shuts the door to the dance hall behind him, careful not to attract any attention.

"Please, not for Tsukki, but for us. We need him, or this game may as well be over before it even starts."

"He's been doing fine without me there, what makes you think I need to go?"

Yamaguchi has returned to his usual, meek self, rendered speechless by your retort. He doesn't think that you need to go, he knows it. He knows it in the way Tsukishima rubs his elbows before every round, and the way he squeezes his wrists until they are all the shades of pink. He knows it in the noises that plague Tsukishima's mind as he estimates the angles of contact, predicts the trajectory of the ball. He knows it in Tsukishima's movements, the movements of a machine, but not a player.

"Please, I'm begging you, just this once."

♪〰〰🎧〰〰♪

And that is how you end up here, staring at your own reflection in the Shiratorizawa changing room mirrors.

"Get it together, y/n. What the fuck are you doing?"

Should you go back to the stands? No, he'll find you, and you aren't sure how you will react this time. You haven't rehearsed the clever things that you can say to him, nor the articulation of your rampant, conflicting emotions. Why did he find you? How did he find you, hidden so well amongst the roaring crowd of Karasuno students? You twist the tap open, disgruntled, and shove your face into the running water, letting it roll down your chin, seep into your shirt, enter the canals of your ears. Whipping your head out, you shut the tap, running your dry hands over your face and wiping it down with your arms.

"y/n?"

How?

"I need help."

You shove your hands in your pockets, stepping away from the mirror and turning to face Tsukishima, who stands at the wall outside the doorway. His glasses rest above his head, hair pushed back by the frames. The same look of confusion paints his face pale, and his hands surrender by his sides, fingers twitching erratically.

"I don't know what's wrong. Nothing is working. The angles are right, I know exactly where the ball is going, but I can't stop it. It just keeps coming, and I'm throwing the game away because my body just won't fucking work with me," He collapses to the ground, knees buckling beneath him as his back slides down along the wall. He props his elbows up by his knees, wrists pressed together in frustration.

You know exactly what it is. Fuck it.

You walk up to him, his body hunched in desperation, hopelessness, embarrassment. His eyes dart around, avoiding yours, and he hangs his head low as a last ditch attempt to turn away from you.

No, this won't do. He needs to go back to the summer.

Your crouch to his level, and your hand grabs his chin, fingers pinching it tight as you push his head up to face you. His eyes are teary now, like a dog begging for its owner to come home. You think carefully about your next words. It is now, or nothing.

"Breathe in, and surrender."

You can see the disillusionment in his eyes as his gears turn again, grasping at your words as he tries to decipher them. No, he is still not getting it.

"No, stop it. Stop turning the gears."

You pull his face towards yours, and you can feel his breath hitch, inches away from your own.

"This game, it is all just a dance. An extended routine with a prop that hovers back and forth above the ground. There is no order, so stop turning the gears. Let it go, use your senses."

His eyes widen as you release his chin from your grip. And for the first time in almost a year, you smile in his face. He understands now, you had the answer all along. You stand up, and offer him your hand. Neither of you notice Yamaguchi at the entrance to the hallway, grinning knowingly. He was right to convince you.

"You need to let it fall into place."

That cocky smirk slithers onto his face again, but there is a tinge of something else there. Something that encompasses the inches between the two of you. Something that is rearranging the shattered pile of jigsaw pieces that Tsukishima has been standing in for as long as he has left you. He should have found you sooner, approached you earlier, bought you the next puzzle that you waited for.

"Like a jigsaw?"

"Yeah, like a jigsaw."

♪〰〰🎧〰〰♪

As he re-enters the court, Tsukishima is a changed man. You watch from the stands, holding your breath as he takes his place in the front. The redhead scoffs at his return, the others roll their eyes, rub their temples, click their tongues. All Tsukishima does is adjust his glasses, hands by his head in anticipation for the first smack of the ball.

They will tire themselves out. Watch the ball, envision its path. Let your body move as it wills.

The ball flies across the net, landing on the platform of Shiratorizawa's fortress. He watches its path. It is in the air. Let it be, it is not in place yet. He can see the frustration in Shiratorizawa's eyes at his return. Push them, just a bit more, until the frustration begins to overflow and spill around the edges of their defences.

The ball approaches the small one on the side, and you watch as it slips from his fingers. They are getting impatient, the toss is too short, too tight to hit perfectly, even with Ushijima's formidable strength. You smirk as the ball curves in its path, ever so slightly out of place for Shiratorizawa, perfectly in place for Karasuno. This is what you have been waiting for.

And it seems that this is what Tsukishima has been waiting for too.

"Let it fall into place."

This is it, this is the place, and the time, and the position, and the angle, and everything in between. He glances at you for a millisecond, and your gaze is clear as day, amongst the hundreds that surround you.

"Like a jigsaw?"

Ever so subtly, you nod. He understands now.

"Yeah, like a jigsaw."

These are the final pieces, falling into place in tandem with each other.

He jumps, and the ball strikes his palm like a canonball, deflecting back into Shiratorizawa's court, too quickly for anybody to save it, too close to Ushijima for anybody to reach. The others stare in shock. His own team, those on the other side of the net, those in the stands. The court is pitch silent, the sound of leather on hardwood reverberating through his skull.

It is only one block. One block out of hundreds he has done before. One point out of twenty five.

Yet as he raises his fist, gripping it hard, your chest swells with pride.

"LET'S GO KEI! LET'S FUCKING GO!"

Your cry leads the crowd behind you as a flurry of cheers and applause commences. Even amongst the roaring cries of excitement from above, from behind, from beside, his mind trains onto your voice, and your voice only.

The lift of the final jigsaw piece that falls into place.

♪〰〰🎧〰〰♪

author's note:

man this was so fun to write, too bad i need to go back to studying for my high school finals after this </3

omg also i need to gush about @starlysama because their sunflower fic fully threw me back into my fanfiction writing frenzy and it was so good and i spent like twenty minutes with my eyes trained to my phone no blinking while i read their work it was INCREDIBLE and i love you

also i really did put my heart and soul and tutoring hours into this so i really hope you guys like it ngl or i will cry please don't get scared at the word count it's not that bad I PROMISE also please feel very very welcome to comment or reblog because i love reading them so much

okay bye bye everyone see you soon

[irisintheafterglow]

End Game (volleyball captain!gojo x you)

summary: the captain of the boys' volleyball team has only one victory on his mind, and it isn't Nationals.

word count: 1.4k

cw/tags: mild language, jjk volleyball au, mostly just crack

note: hiiii so i think this will be the first of a series of drabbles about volleyball captain satoru because he's just mmmm. i don't really wanna call it a chaptered series just yet because i'm still working on plot or whatever, so i think for now it'll just be drabbles within the volleyball au itself. hope you like it!

likes/reblogs/feedback are always appreciated <3

He was infuriating, to say the least. 

The way he walked around with his long, lanky limbs, flashing a grin that could only be found on a pompous asshole; the way he winked a mesmerizing blue eye at any girls passing by, mouthing call me over his shoulder; the way he knew he was hot and that’s how he could get away with being such a prick; and you had to deal with all of it, five days a week, over six months for the past three years. 

“Do they ever end up calling you?” You ask him one day as you walk together to the gym. His bright white hair glints in the afternoon sun as he strolls beside you, sipping a fruity soda he’d nabbed before he found you. Ever since you were first-years, at the end of the school day, he always ended up coming to your last class to bother you, much to the entertainment of your classmates. 

“Your boyfriend’s here,” they teased, sticking out their tongues as his face appeared in the doorway. They swooned when he gave them a polite nod, whispering among themselves while you slung your bag over your shoulder. “Have fun, you two,” they sang, exclaiming how beautiful your children would be when you were out of earshot. It made you cringe, your mouth curling in disgust. Satoru was your friend, yes, but imagining a relationship with him was a line you never dared to cross. 

It became routine after you became a manager for the boys' volleyball team during your second year, Satoru coming to annoy you as you walked to the gym to open it for practice. Sometimes, before he met you at your classroom, he’d hurry to the vending machines and grab some sugary drinks, which you reluctantly accepted as you told him it wasn’t healthy for him to consume so much sugar before practice. You weren’t sure how he always managed to figure out where your last class was; you had a theory that Shoko was secretly supplying him with your schedule. With both of you in your third year, you came to expect the melodic call of your name down the hallway when the bell rang. 

“Who?”

“Those girls that you wink at and tell them to call you. Do they actually contact you?” He glances down at you with a look you can’t read and shrugs indifferently. 

“Nah. It’s more fun to flirt,” he drawls, tilting his head to the side with a lopsided grin and taking another sip of his soda. 

You laugh in disbelief. In all the years that you’d known Satoru, you knew that he’d never had a girlfriend. It wasn’t like he couldn’t get one; he had the whole school practically crawling over each other just to get his attention, guys and girls alike. You figured he liked the attention, and came to be one of the only people who could tolerate his constant shenanigans. “You’re a menace.” 

“You know you love it,” he quips nonchalantly. He watches you climb the steps to the gym with a satisfied look on his face. 

“I really don’t,” you smile over your shoulder as you flick through the keys for the gym door. “Go change, I need your help re-tying the net before the rest of the team gets here.” You finally get the door open, but Satoru doesn’t move from behind you. He stands there at the bottom of the steps, looking at you expectantly. You groan. He really was infuriating. “No.” 

He pouts, sharp eyebrows furrowing and bottom lip jutting out. “Oh, c’mon–”

You laugh him off, shaking your head. Three years, you’ve known him, and three years, he’s acted like he was still five. “I’ve told you this for weeks; I’m not doing it.”

“I’m just gonna keep asking then.” Your eyes find his, and you school your face to look as lifeless and irritated as possible. It doesn’t faze him. “Just once? Please?” You watch him unwaveringly as he turns on all his charm, flashing you another cocky smile. He sticks his hands into the pockets of his uniform, slowly walking up the steps to close the distance between you two. “I’ll stop asking if you do it.” His voice is enticing and manipulative, and you’d long since stopped wondering how he manages to get anything he wants. 

You exhale. There was no winning with him. “Fine.” 

Lightning-blue eyes light up like Christmas lights at your response. “Fine?”

“Yes, fine. I’ll make you a bet.” It was his turn to groan, and he threw his head back like a toddler during a tantrum, angrily following you into the gym. He runs a large hand over his face, careful not to smudge his sunglasses. “I will refer to you as captain if you make it to Nationals.” You let the words hang in the air, challenging him. It was a good bet, but it had a very likely chance of you winning. The school hadn’t gone to Nationals in decades despite being a former volleyball powerhouse. The trophy cases lining the halls and extensive frames of past teams were enough to explain the school’s long-gone glory. You knew there was potential this year, especially with how well the team worked together, but Satoru’s lax attitude as captain tended to negate any productivity during practices. 

He was silent for a moment, a determined look washing over his features as his eyes narrowed onto yours and appeared more serious than you’d seen in a while. “Easy. I’ll lead this team on a win-streak all the way to the top.” He’s close on your heels as you approach the net, inspecting the loosening cables. 

“Mhmm, I bet you will.” Reaching up, your fingers fiddle with the fraying ends but their height makes it difficult for you to create a strong knot. You huff, shaking out your arms in an attempt to try again. To your annoyance, Satoru’s arms easily extend over yours and tie the knot with nimble fingers. You silently curse him and his setter hands, unconsciously taking note of how close his body is to yours. He looks down at you, and you stare back, unfazed. He really was still trying to win a response out of you. 

“I’m the strongest, after all.” 

You nod patronizingly, ducking past him to grab the ball cart from the supply closet. “Mhmm, I know you are.” 

An indignant stamp of Satoru’s foot makes a chuckle slip past your lips. “Stop ignoring me!” 

“Get changed, Satoru.” Your hands wrap around the cool metal of the ball cart as you roll it to the side of the net. 

“You just want to see me with my shirt off,” he murmurs from behind you, and without a second thought, you lob a ball at his face. He yelps in surprise, forearm curling upward to protect his sunglasses before you fire a second ball, striking him squarely in the chest. He doubles over, moaning but still trying to flirt through the pain. 

“What’d he do this time?” Suguru’s voice calls from the doorway of the gym as he takes in the melodrama of his captain amusedly. He was Satoru��s best friend and his #1 partner in striking; when the team held practice matches, you couldn’t help but marvel at how well they understood each other during games. Satoru’s precision in setting and Suguru’s strength in striking formed a solid base for the rest of the team to support. Their sheer power and aptitude made them a dangerous duo during tournaments, if Satoru’s stupidity didn’t sabotage them in the process. 

“Exist,” you reply, scooping up the balls from where they’d bounced after successfully wounding Satoru. 

Suguru clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Gotta stop doing that, captain.” 

Satoru ignores the first part of Suguru’s suggestion, instead whirling on you boastfully. “See! Even Suguru calls me captain!” A long, elegant finger points at his best friend, who shakes his head tiredly. “Our esteemed manager won’t call me captain unless we make it to Nationals,” he reports, and you cross your arms over your chest at his accusatory tone. 

“That’s fair,” Suguru says, unconcerned, stretching a muscular arm over his head. Dark eyes scan over Satoru, still dressed in his school uniform. “Shouldn’t you be changed?” he asks, casually switching arms. You stifle a laugh with a hand over your mouth at Suguru effectively dismissing the captain. 

Satoru’s mouth drops in fake-astonishment. “Neither of you love me.” 

“You’re correct.”

“It took you this long to figure it out?”

“Just you wait,” Satoru declares as he finally makes his way to the door. Fierce blue eyes zero in on yours, and a shiver runs through your body. “I’m gonna win.” 

And somehow, you don’t think he’s only talking about Nationals.

[littlest-nightingale]

10th Doctor agere thoughts bc I am not immune to the Doctor, apparently:

The regressor equivalent of a huge dog who doesn't realize he isn't a little lapdog anymore

Seriously he's gonna give his cgs a concussion if he isn't careful

Every one of his companions end up as his caregiver sooner or later

Very quickly switches between perfectly fine and having a panic attack. He's very,,,, fragile, when he's regressed.

He's also incredibly clingy. Please don't leave, please don't leave him, he doesn't want to be alone again =[

He sometimes goes through phases where he convinces himself that he's better off without a cg, because he knows he'll end up alone eventually and figures it's better not to get attached to someone he knows isn't going to be with him forever. Those phases never last more than a week.

He's so much lighter than he should be, or at least he's lighter than he looks like he should be, so it's easy for him to be carried around. Unfortunately he's very. Limbs. He's so lanky that his regressed brain isn't quite sure what to do with his limbs.

Do not let him anywhere near the control panel of the TARDIS. The last thing everyone needs is a toddler aged timelord running around medieval Germany or something. [Because yes, he will try to use the TARDIS while small, if he's bored enough, and yes, he has done it before and it ended very poorly.]

He's fascinated by makeup I think. He's fascinated by a lot of things humans do, but I think he would like makeup. Rose and Martha have both done his makeup on several occasions =D

Hyper! He's got sooooo much energy most of the time and gets very bored in the TARDIS. Goes to the park quite a lot. Martha is working on getting him to not dig holes in the ground. Yes, worms are fun and all, but please don't tear up the grass looking for them, we're on public property.

Has toys but not because he wants to play with them, but because he wants to take them apart.

Doesn't care about the stigma around regression at all. He's an alien with a time travelling police box, why would he? Honestly, his regression is the most normal part about him. So yeah, he's going to go play on that playground even though he's physically a grown man, and he isn't going to give a fuck about the people watching.

He likes to bring stuff to his cg/companion, like how cats bring you dead animals, so his companions end up with a lot of cool sticks and shiny coins and acorns and feathers and whatever else he just happens to find on the street.

I think a dog would be good for him. He needs a friend to help him burn off energy, and also that mental image is adorable, so I'd imagine that he ends up frequenting local shelters a lot, just to keep the dogs company

Forgets to eat until he's actually starving, at which point he becomes really whiny until he gets something in his system

[ohbo-ohno]

Ghoap: Cabin + Something isn’t right about (setting). Something is off.

1k game here - no more please!

so sorry, i have no idea if you meant ghost x soap or ghoap x reader lmao but i did ghost x soap cause it's the first thing i had an idea for!

3.8k of a little red riding hood au featuring hunter ghost turning the tables on werewolf soap. noncon physical punishment and smut below the cut! also i put this one on ao3

Something's gone wrong with Price's cabin.

Ghost can tell something isn't quite right as he steps past the little wooden gate, the air still and silent around him. Not a bird or a buck in sight - the forest is unnaturally mute.

Ghost doesn't walk up the path yet. He stands as still as the forest, watching for any hint of movement beneath his red mask.

There's nothing.

He moves slowly towards Price's cabin, footsteps silent even against gravel. Still, nothing moves.

The door is cracked open. Not enough for him to see inside, but enough for him to know that something must be truly wrong. Price has long since spelled his property so that it can only be found by those who want to find it. It should be impossible for anyone unwanted to stumble by.

Unless they're somehow immune to magic.

Ghost draws his gun, quickly checking to make sure his silver bullets are loaded. He pushes the door open, grateful for the oiled joints as it's silent.

The cabin is trashed. Price seems to be unharmed - he's resting on his bed, a large bruise painting one side of his face but his chest rising and falling steadily. All of his furniture is destroyed, though, and his carpet is shredded.

The wolf is in the kitchen.

It's a big fella, dark brown fur and a few scars decorating it's sides and haunches. It's snuffling through a cupboard, probably looking for food that doesn't exist. Price hasn't kept up the facade of eating in decades, so it's not going to find anything.

Sure enough, the wolf ducks out of the cabinet a moment later, empty-handed. It sneezes, makes an unhappy noise in his throat, then spots Ghost.

It's younger than Ghost originally assumed. Not a pup, by any means, but it's limbs are a bit lanky, it's fur is far thicker around the neck than he'd thought, and the teeth it bares in a snarl are pearly white, not stained from years of eating raw carcasses without a way to brush.

It's growl is loud, but surprisingly unintimidating. It doesn't even make to lunge for Ghost, just settles back on it's haunches and lets it's fur stick up, making it look bigger than it really is.

It almost seems like it's not worth it to kill the beast.

But still, Ghost has been hunting the supernatural under Price's command for a long time. If he was a betting man, he'd say this wolf is the one who's been causing disturbances in Price's wards for the last few months.

"You feral?" He asks, leveling his gun at the dog's head. Not much you can do with a feral wolf but put them down, but if the thing still has it's sanity than Ghost can try and talk some sense into it. Put it in it's place a bit.

The wolf's growl tapers off, and a moment later there's a naked man standing in front of him.

He's definitely young, like Ghost expected, but still grown. His shoulders are broad and he stands tall, his muscular frame filling up the kitchen. His scars carry over between forms, scattered across his body. His hair - a fucking mohawk - matches the pair of ears on either side of his head, dark brown.

He's a pretty thing, for a wolf. Big blue eyes framed by dark lashes, plump pink lips, a nose with a little bump in the middle to give it some personality. He'd be cute if he didn't look so scruffy.

"You know where you are, kid?" Ghost grunts, keeping his gun pointed between the wolf's eyes.

He doesn't look too happy, but he answers. "Yeah, 'course. Figured a witch might have some half decent food." He kicks the cabinet with a little pout. "Guessed wrong."

Ghost almost snorts at that, letting his gun fall and holstering it. Idiot kid.

He takes another moment to scan his body. He's quite attractive, with tanned skin and toned muscle. His cock hangs soft between his thighs, thick but not all that long with a dark trail of hair leading down to it. He's got thick thighs and a light dusting of hair across his entire body. There's an extra limb in his shadow that Ghost can tell is a tail, but it's drooping low. Not quite tucked, but close.

A bit of interest sparks in the back of Ghost's mind. It's been a while since he's played with a wolf, .

"Do you know who's house you've just trashed?" He asks, adopting an authoritative tone.

The kid tenses a bit, but doesn't break eye contact with Ghost when he shakes his head.

Ghost gestures over his shoulder to Price's prone form. "That witch you knocked out? That's John Price."

That gets his breath hitching a bit, eyes flickering from Ghost to Price and back again. Ghost can smell the hint of fear in the air, relishes in the slightly widened eyes.

He gets himself under control quickly, stands up a little straighter and plays and being unbothered.

"That make you The Ghost?"

His tone is steady, unwavering. Good for him. The stench of fear doesn't waver, though.

Ghost nods once, lets a bit of his own power shine in his eyes through the mask.

The pup mimics his nod, then rolls his shoulders back, like he's come to a decision. "I don't want any trouble."

"That so?" Ghost asks softly, menace creeping into his tone.

"Yeah. Didn't mean any harm, comin' here. Just wanted something to eat."

"Hmm," Ghost hums, taking a few steps forward. "And knocking out Price, trashing the room, all of that was necessary?"

The wolf scowls, shifting back on his feet. "He's a rude bastard."

Ghost almost snorts at that. "So am I. You gonna pull the same shit with me, pup?"

The man snarls a little, finally taking a little step back and planting his feet again. "Don't call me that. I'm not a pup."

"No?" Ghost coos a bit, stepping so that he's only a few feet away, blocking the only way out of the cabin. "You don't seem to know how to solve your problems like a man. You wolves are good hunters, couldn't kill even one doe to keep yourself fed, puppy?"

It's never good to imply a wolf is weak or unable to take care of themselves, but Ghost knows this man couldn't hurt him, and it's fun to see him riled up. His shoulders rise up like he's trying to make himself seem bigger now that their height difference is more noticeable, and his teeth are fully bared.

"Fuck you," he snarls. "Your boss is the one chasing all the animals away! Some of us have got to fucking eat, it's only right Price goes hungry for once."

He's a bit of an ornery thing, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring up at Ghost like he's being victimized. His ears lay flat on his head.

"Not how this works, puppy," Ghost shakes his head, stepping around the counter. He purposefully leaves a space open beside him, hoping the wolf will try and make a run for it. "These are Price's woods. If he wants to kill every fucking animal in them, he can. You don't like it, leave."

He snarls, head whipping side to side a bit like he'd like to lash out. He takes a step forward, glaring up at Ghost. "Oh yeah? Think it's that easy, jackass? I can't just find another fucking pack to join!"

Ghost tilts his head. "Let me guess, they don't want a pup who can't even carry his own weight?"

The scent of fear has disappeared, leaving just anger and stress in its wake. The boy's cheeks flush a lovely red, and his ears shift to stick straight in the air, pointing forward.

He's so close to snapping. Ghost licks his lips in anticipation, eager to see if fight or flight will win out. 

The poor pup is stressed out of his mind, that much is clear. Even with his muscle he’s clearly been going hungry, and he can’t seem to decide what the right course of action is with Ghost antagonizing him like this.

Honestly, Ghost would usually let someone like him go without much fuss. Times are tough, and Price is has been weirdly stingy with the wildlife in the last decade or so. He should probably talk to him about it, but Kyle's always been better at getting what he wants out of the old grouch.

If this werewolf weren't such an amusement, he'd already be on his way. It's his own fault Ghost isn't going to let him go that easily.

"You fuckin' bastard! All you witchy-types are the same, you don't get how fuckin' miserable you make everyone else in the woods!"

Ghost pauses at that, a little shocked the pup assumes he's a witch. He's not, but he's also not offended. He's not going to dissuade him of the notion, either.

"An adult would learn to deal with it," Ghost taunts, leaning his torso closer. The wolf inches to the side, eyes darting to the front door. "But you're just a dumb pup, aren't you? Can't even figure out how to take care of yourself. Should I call your mum? See if she can sort you out?"

For some reason, that dig seems to be a step too far. The wolf's growl is loud as he lunges towards Ghost, feinting away at the last second and darting towards the door. He's on four legs before he hits the porch.

A smile stretches over Ghost's lips, and he cracks his neck as he strolls to the door. From his bag, he pulls out a collar and leash - Price's never-ending enchantment comes in handy once again. The wolf is slower than he'd expected and he seems to be favoring his back right paw. He'll be an easier prey to catch than Ghost had hoped.

Oh, well. There's always next time.

It takes very little effort to pin the pup to the ground. In only a few blinks, Ghost's on top of him, using his weight and momentum to send them both to the dirt and rolling until he's pinning the dog to the ground.

He gets one hand around the wolf's neck, forcing his head down while he gets the collar hooked around his neck. He spits and yowls like he's being tortured, but can't do much to fight with Ghost's entire body-weight over him.

It's easy to shift his hand to the tender spot between neck and shoulder, fingers searching, searching, searching.... there. With a cruel press, and a magical pop, there's a writhing boy beneath him instead of a wolf.

A forced change is never easy on a shifter, the wolf's face reflects that. His eyes are pinched shut, lips pushed out in a pout as his body squirms against the pain, small whines eeking from his lips.

"Quiet," Ghost rumbles, ruffling an ear. "It's gonna get a lot worse for you, puppy."

The collar fits him nicely in his human form - not so tight to choke him, not so loose it feels like a necklace. Ghost tugs the leash up to keep his head in the air as he forces the wolf to his feet, dragging him over to Price's fence while he's still reeling from the pain.

He forces the boy to bend over the fence, tying the rope around one of the fence posts with a knot complicated enough that no wiggly puppy fingers will be getting it undone anytime soon.

He's just pushing himself up as Ghost steps back, snarling as he tries to turn around. Ghost whistles sharply, making him freeze mid-turn.

"Stay." He commands, voice stern.

That sets the pup off more, and he tugs at the collar and leash as he turns and presses his back to the wood. "I'm not a fucking dog! Untie me you fuckin' asshole, this is bullshit-"

"Turn around," Ghost raises his voice to be heard over all the bitching. "Or I'll whip your front. That how you want this to play out?" He undoes his belt as he speaks, making it clear what's going to happen next.

The boy's face flames, and his struggles become more desperate. He doesn't shift - he won't be able to for at least another hour, but he doesn't even seem to be trying to.

"You think I'm just gonna stand here and let you whip me, you goddamn bastard? Fuck you! You're not gonna do shit to me, you bawbag, I'll-"

He's cut off, again, when Ghost whips his front. One long strike across his middle, horizontal. He yelps loudly, skittering back as much as he can. Ghost raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

"Odds are, a whipping to your front will injure you. Then we'll have to split this into two parts. That what you want? You turn around now, we get this over with in one session."

The boy's chest is heaving, and the stench of fear returns.

"You can't- why are you even doing this?"

Ghost tilts his head and adopts a condescending tone. "You're clearly not mature enough to handle an adult conversation. I think the only thing that'll get through your head is pain, puppy. Now turn around."

The real reason is that Ghost wants to paint the man black and blue then fuck him while he's screaming. A face that pretty is meant to be dripping in tears, and Ghost can't wait to make it happen.

The wolf takes a stabilizing breath, then turns. Wolves are a physical species, it's not unlikely he's been punished with pain at some point before. His alpha probably gave him a few of the scars decorating his back.

Ghost doesn't waste any time. He steps far enough away to cause real pain with each strike, but not so far that he can't appreciate the way the man's muscular back lights up red.

He doesn't make the wolf count, as much as he'd like to hear him struggle. Something tells him that might be the wolf's last straw, and Ghost doesn't particularly feel like dealing with a wolf gone half-feral from rage right now. He'd rather break the man down to tears of pain, not anger.

They're both silent throughout the punishment. The wolf manages to keep a shocking amount of composure considering how heavy handed Ghost is, but he's clearly struggling. His breaths are audible even from several feet away, and sweat drips down his back to make the strikes gleam in the sunlight.

He lasts about ten minutes under Ghost's belt before he whimpers for the first time.

"There ya go," Ghost hums when he hears it, snapping the belt across an already forming welt to hear the noise again. "Starting to sink in now, pup?"

He doesn't get a response, but that's alright. Ghost knows he's almost got the boy at his breaking point.

It comes about five minutes later, when a strike to his ass wraps low enough to glance off his balls. The wolf falls forward with a loud cry, limp and shaking against the fence.

Ghost finds himself nearly purring as he drops his belt to the ground, quickly moving to ease the man into the dirt. He's shivering in Ghost's arms, face pinched in pain.

"Took your punishment well, pup," Ghost praises, stroking a hand over the man's ribs. "Good boy."

"Jo-" the man grunts, pushing up to his elbows and knees. "Johnny, not pup."

"Johnny?" Ghost hums, leaning back to kneel behind the man. "Hm. Fits you. I think I like pup better, though."

It's a testament to how far gone he is that Johnny only whines instead of arguing.

"Hush. Your punishment's almost done. Just gotta take your fucking, and then we can all move on."

Johnny's head jerks up at that, looking over his shoulder as best he can. "Wait, what-?"

Ghost doesn't stretch him much. He keeps one hand beneath Johnny's body to keep his head tugged back down by the leash, and uses his others to stuff a few fingers into his hole.

He only gives him a bit of spit - he doubts Johnny is clean enough for him to lick. He lets it dribble from his lips and into the little hole, then begins stretching him.

It must sting something terrible, with the way that Johnny squirms. He's forced to keep his head against the ground, left pinned by just a leash.

"No, no, you can't-"

"Clearly I can," Ghost says meanly, shoving in a third finger just because he can. Johnny's a werewolf, he'll be perfectly fine in an hour or two. The pain is the point of the lesson.

"I don't want- stop, please dont... please, you can't..."

"You're not supposed to want it," Ghost says, letting his voice dip into a more comforting tone. "Punishment isn't meant to feel good for naughty pups. You just lay there and take it."

He spits into his palm when he pulls his fingers out, slicking up his cock as much as he can. It'll be a pain in his ass if Johnny tears, so he lubes himself up just enough to avoid that.

Johnny's squirming gets more vigorous when he feels Ghost line his cock up at his entrance, and he nearly manages to pull away.

Ghost growls at that, yanking the leash down far enough to grab and squeeze Johnny's heavy balls. "You keep up your wigglin' and I tie you leash to these. That what you want?"

He whines, shaking his head no. "No, sorry, I won't... I'll stop moving but please, please, you can't fuck me."

Ghost rolls his eyes and chooses to ignore that, instead sliding into the pup's warmth.

He feels good. Tight and hot and squeezing around the intrusion. He nearly wails beneath Ghost, body going limp at the pain. Ghost uses his free hand to turn Johnny's face to the side, so he can see the inevitable tears.

Sure enough, the waterworks start as Ghost finally bottoms out. He moans in sync with Johnny - one from pleasure and one from pain. The way the boy tightens beneath him is delicious, he's not sure he'll ever find a hole as good as this one.

He praises Johnny as he pulls out and fucks back into him.

"Good boy," he says on a moan. "Feel so fuckin' tight around me. Just wanna keep my cock deep in your guts, huh pup?"

"Nooo," Johnny hiccups, shoulders hitching.

"It's alright, you don't have to lie, Johnny. Your tight little hole's tellin' me all I need to know. Were you a virgin?" He grunts as he bottoms out again, quickly tugging out and snapping his hips back in. "Musta been, way you're grippin' me. Did I take your virginity, sweetheart?"

The hitched cries and tiny nod are enough answer for Ghost. Johnny just barely manages to tuck his hands beneath his face as Ghost starts to really work him over, free hand planted on the ground as he bullies his cock deep into Johnny.

"Might just have to keep you," he pants. "'S only right, huh? Mold you right to my cock, nothin'll ever feel like this again for you. Can't send you out into the world, hungry for somethin' you'll never find. That's what got you into this mess, isn't it?"

Johnny's not quite capable of speech anymore, just breathy little whines and moans. Ghost gives his cock a few strokes, grinning at the way Johnny's head jerks in time with the movements.

"Feel good yet, puppy? It will, don't worry. I'll teach you how good a fucking can feel, make sure you never forget. Make a space for myself right-" thrust "-here, huh puppy?"

The first time Ghost nails his prostate, it's like Johnny wakes back up. He rockets back up to his hands, back arching as he throws his head back despite the leash. He cries out loudly with his face thrown to the sky.

"Aw," Ghost breathlessly chuckles, angles himself to hit that spot on every thrust, raising his voice to be heard over Johnny's noise. "You howlin' for me, pup? Want everyone to know how good you're bein' fucked, huh?"

Johnny huffs, shakes his head like he hadn't realized what he was doing.

"No, no," Ghost rumbles, using the hand with the leash to tug Johnny's head back by resting his fist in the small of his back. Johnny is left with a beautiful arch to his neck, blinking up at the sky. "Keep goin', I wanna hear you, Johnny."

Seemingly against his own will, he does. His howls don't stop as Ghost fucks him - not when he comes from all the prostate stimulation, and not when Ghost himself paints his insides.

He lets the boy ease down to his chest again as they both pant through the aftershocks. He traces Johnny's rim with one finger, just barely slipping the tip in.

Johnny doesn't like that, whining high in his throat as he tries to jerk his hips away.

"Hush," Ghost soothes, petting the rim and forcing a second finger in, watching the rim of his hole go bloodless. "Thought you wolves liked a knot?"

That gets a sob, and finally, beautifully, Johnny shatters beneath him.

Ghost lets him cry himself out on his cock. occasionally cooing to him when his sobs get a little dramatic. He really must've been pent up with how long it takes him to come down.

He calms himself eventually, though, sobs petering off into pathetic little sniffles. That's when Ghost pulls both of his fingers and his limp dick out, rumbling low in his chest when Johnny cries out at the abscence.

"You're alright, calm down," he mutters, pushing himself back to rest on his ankles and then up to his feet, looking down at the pup.

Johnny looks good like this - naked in the dirt, sweat-slick and covered in welts, hole loose and dribbling come. He makes no effort to move and Ghost sighs loudly, nudging him with a boot.

"C'mon, pup. Your pity party's over. Time to go clean up your mess."

Johnny blinks blearily up at him, a little furrow between his brows. Ghost sighs again and ducks down, gripping him by the elbows and forcing him to his feet. He holds the man steady until he's sure he won't crumble, then grabs the leash and takes a few steps away.

"Let's go. Unless you want Price to wake up before you finish cleaning, I suggest you get a move on."

Johnny blinks dumbly at him, big wet eyes shining. Ghost's heart skips a beat.

"Come," he command, tugging until Johnny is forced to stumble forward. "Good boy. Now, heel."

Johnny - amazingly - listens without a fight, staying to the right of Ghost and one step behind.

Once there in the cabin, he's still fucked out enough to not complain. Ghost settles against the counter, sips on a cup of tea, and watches as Johnny cleans with shaky hands.

He looks good with a collar around his neck, and it's been a long few decades without any companionship.

Maybe, Ghost thinks to himself with a small smirk. It's time to get a dog.

[thesmollestsnek]

My headcanons for the batfamily’s body types, in no particular order;

Jason - Big. Tall, broad, insanely big muscles hidden under a healthy layer of fat. No particular part of him is more defined, or even particularly defined at all, he’s just Big with a capital b. Absolute powerhouse, the definition of a bear.

Dick - He’s got the gymnast’s build. Probably the most “cut” of the family he’s got the trim waist and extremely defined shoulders you’d find on any high level gymnast/acrobat. Tons of muscle definition even when he’s relaxed but especially when he flexes. Most of his muscle mass is up in his shoulders, seeing him work those back shoulder muscles is a work of art. And of course, you can’t forget that iconic ass ;)

Tim - Honestly, Tim Drake is the kinda guy who looks like a stiff breeze could knock him over. Super pale and insanely skinny with very little definition. Stick thin limbs that pack a surprising punch. He’s got wiry muscles built for speed and endurance over brute strength

Damian - Best word I can think to describe Damian would be “lithe”. He’s small, still a kid and with some of that childlike roundness to his features. He’s a vegetarian which greatly reduces his potential sources of protein, so he’s definitely more on the lean side, at least for now. He may grow into a build more like Bruce’s as he ages but for now he’s short and fairly skinny.

Bruce - Think of a famous actor you’d see posing on a magazine. That’s him. Dorito figure, six pack abs, muscle definition out the ass. He’s the fucking Batman, and has an absolutely insane workout routine to boot. Super tall with the widest shoulders imaginable, but still capable of making himself soft when comforting kids (his own or other people’s).

Cass - Typical ballerina build. Super petite with a surprising amount of strength hidden behind soft slender limbs. Short with a tiny waist and no hips or chest to speak of, she’s silk over steel with an insane of muscle control she uses to make herself as soft and pretty as possible. 100% capable of knocking a man out with one punch, though you’d never know it by looking at her otherwise.

Barbara - First off, my version of Barbara is still in a wheelchair, though she definitely didn’t let that stop her from working out. She may be the girl in the chair both literally and metaphorically, but she still likes to make sure she’s fully capable of defending herself if necessary. Iirc her specific flavor of wheelchair bound is paralysis, so her legs would be fairly small with very little definition, even if she does all she can to exercise those muscles and keep them from atrophying, considering. That being said she has arm muscles for days, super strong both from working out and just using her arms to propel herself and to transfer in and out of her wheelchair. 100% capable of doing a weird little army crawl using just her arm muscles to get around in an emergency if something were to happen to her chair.

Steph - Definitely the squishiest of the girls, though considering they’re all vigilantes that doesn’t necessarily mean much. She seems like the type to have curves, and not work towards having any specific kind of figure. Think a bit of a stocky pear kind of shape. She’s definitely got some muscle definition, but not nearly as much as she could she focuses more on actually being strong than just looking it. A bit on the short side, but not overly so.

Duke: I… honestly know the least about Duke out of the whole batfamily, so he’s definitely the least defined in my head. From what I’ve got, he’s probably more than a bit lanky. I picture him being super tall but not having the body mass of Jason, Bruce, or even Dick to go with that height. Decently strong but more speed oriented, with more of a basketball player build.

[greetingsfromuranus]

What qualities do you like about Double D the most?

Soooo so many things I love about him - I often think about how soft his skin would be, like his cheeks are all soft and squishy, and his neck is probably so delicate and warm, his skin would probably be a bit clammy (he's so anxious and riled up all the time....) but not in an unpleasant way, it's just how he is lol. He's definitely one of those people with really cold hands and other extremities, but a warm enough torso

I love the way his face stretches when he smiles! I love seeing all the different shapes he takes but his smile is my favorite :3 how do I describe it- he isn't lumpy or anything, but he just has so many interesting moving parts, I love how his cheeks stick out and his chin sticks out and his jaw behind his ear sticks out, and his lil eye lines/eye bags, and of course his tooth gap! Big ol teeth...... He's just so wonderful to look at and I wish I could give him a big kiss on the forehead... boop his nose while I'm at it.... he's shaped all awkward like a newborn kitten or and I love it

I love how long he is! Lanky lil ferret creature, like a cat, or a weasel, or a salamander! I like the salamander comparison best, I've studied their anatomy before and it ready fits Double D the best..... They're all lanky and squiggly and flexible just like Double D ^w^

I really like Edds funky posture, he has such a cute lil belly and messed up scoliosis back lol..... like he's all tall and thin compared to everyone else but he's still fleshy and soft >u< like you can see his ribcage and spine poking out, but he still has a big kitten belly... I just wanna hold and squish him! his limbs are all lanky and awkward, but theyre more like that of a delicate baby bird than a bony human!

Also... cute butt........ squishy squishy 🤤🤤 LOL I know it's probably just his big ol shorts but it's still cute..... I love how all his clothes are so big on him! It's adorable!! I can imagine all the textures so vividly.... his outfits are def 10/10 comfy ^^ I love how he just wears knee/thigh high socks, it's very cute and funny, I also wear socks that go up to my shorts sometimes and it is VERY comfy when they fit well.

I also love his tiny lil legs and the way he walks/runs! They go pitter patter as he skitters around like a dachshund or a lizard a a funky lil bug!

And I really like the way he handles his energy... ill start with describing the other eds first!

With Ed, his energy is sort of consistently radiating out, he has an IMMENSE amount of power and imagination in there, but he's big enough to handle it. It seeps out like radiation from a 10 ton brick of uranium.

With Eddy, he has more explosive tendencies, he's short and stout, which makes it harder for him to hold everything in, but he tends to compress it all down into a little ball. He's extremely volatile and reactive, you set him off and BOOM it all explodes out! His little body just can't handle anything new, he's already backed up with so much repressed emotion that there just isn't room for anything new. His explosions are like dynamite, or a star that got too much mass and imploded on itself.

Now Edd is the Anxiety Creature™, his energy is also volatile in nature, but I guess he's more electric, or like plasma. It's the kind of heat that's so hot it starts to feel cold again, like coming inside from the snow, turning the bath faucet to the hottest temp and butting your feet right under it. The difference between him and eddy is that Double D isn't able to hold anything down, as soon as it's created it's let out into the world, however that may be. He wears his emotions on his sleeve, expresses any and all fear, excitement, disgust, and affection he feels because he just doesn't have the volume to hold any of it in. He creates huge amounts of energy, and there's nowhere for it to go but out into the world! His tiny body just can't hold it all in.... it's hard to find a comparison like the other two, something so small with so much energy.... his energy sorta functions like the sun, once you look at it up close.

Here's a diagram I made to visualize it better, (it looks better on computer than phone) I feel like Edds colors are different based on whatever emotion he's expressing, but theyre always bright, whipping out like pink and yellow and blue solar flares. Eddy's are definitely more firey and messy than what i drew, think dynamite mixed with a supernova.

I've been writing this post all morning, and I think im gonna call it here for now lol. I will add some stuff about Double D's personality later lol.

[lordsovorn]

Shellmen

Lanky and asymmetrical, vaguely humanoid creatures with curiously shaped heads. Or are those bone-smooth structures of convex planes, sharp edges and wave-like spikes more akin to helmets?

They are not directly aggressive, and don't actually seem to be driven by hunger or even by instinct of self-preservation. Sometimes also called Builders or Rock-mites, they are found in large groups, meticulously carving at rocky walls with an impressive talent at splitting stone, and filling up tunnels with a dark grey, quickly solidifying secretion they scoop from beneath their oversized "helmets". They are very organized in their task, as if guided by a quietly approved building plan, and their hives can expand alarmingly quickly.

In other cases, though, they can seemingly be stuck for months on a single area, or even disappear from a "building site" entirely. The resulting structures don't seem to have any practical purpose at all - Shellmen don't even stay in their hives, and just continue onward after polishing their latest adjustments to Under's vast architecture.

As mentioned before, they are not inherently aggressive - but their "building projects" are a massive nuisance to navigation, and the alarming speed with which they can surround and entomb an area is potentially deadly. Moreso, despite their shy nature, they do not tolerate obstacles to their task. And should anyone persistently interfere (which is open to interpretation), they will not hesitate to attack. While fragile-looking and lacking any obvious weapons besides their single-stone tools, they are still often larger, heavier and stronger than a human. Their "helmet" is not only sturdy enough to protect the vulnerable insides, but also a powerful blunt weapon - though usually Shellmen prefer to simply pelt the offender with rocks from a distance until the latter retreats.

Their chitinous skin is matte black to brown, and the number of limbs seems to vary from individual to individual. The larger ones' bodies are entirely hidden in their massive "helmets", almost like a shell with thin appendages sticking out.

For a variety of reasons, it is ill-advised to stay in close proximity to an area of Builder activity - one of which is a nasty rumor that they snatch people, bury them alive and turn into one of themselves. Besides the obviously increased risk of getting lost, one thing is certain - these wild creatures are unpredictable, and their seemingly peaceful single-mindedness should not be taken for granted.

Bonus: since their activity is most pronounced in the Far Upper Stomach, it is sometimes said these creatures are the remains of an expedition sent to try and dig out a way to the surface - or the reason for their failure.

[eccentricgrace]

Toss and Turn || IronDad

summary: tony finds peter walking around the cabin, which is odd, because it is way past bedtime for spidery-teenagers.

tags: post-endgame au, tony stark lives!!, sleep-walking, fluff and humor, tony acting as peter parker's parental figure, hurt/comfort

wc: 2,516

cross-posted to wattpad by the same name!

Tony considered himself an "above-average" light sleeper. He never really stopped to consider how long he'd been like that. It was more of a gradual understanding that he came to, that if there was any kind of sound, even if it was one that his unconscious body made, he would rise up like a feral cat and start planning his defense.

Maybe it started after he was kidnapped, which was well over fifteen years ago now, but sometimes still seemed like yesterday, as most of his mistakes often did.

Maybe it started even younger, with shattered glass bottles and yelling that rattled through walls, or the smell of that damn cologne nearing, the sound of expensive shoes echoing on wooden tile, on asphalt, on carpet—

Nevertheless, he is a light sleeper. It's gotten better over the years, with less unfamiliar noises that would echo throughout the night. Owls yearlong, frogs in the spring, cicadas in the summer, the gentle creaks and groans of a house settling in its space, that had all become natural to him by about the first year they moved in.

Now he woke up to nightmares, first and foremost. His, of course, which dredge up acid from his stomach and tears from his eyes, and a cold sweat that sticks to his clothes and hair— but also Morgan's.

His daughter, who had nightmares about as often as any other kid (Tony researches religiously about anything that could possibly be out of the ordinary, anything he may have done wrong) sometimes woke from her nightmares with quiet tears— and Tony would subsequently wake to furniture being gently knocked around by a sleepy girl trying to get to mom and dad.

That's what he assumed to be happening tonight, when he gets woken up by a soft thud in the hallway.

Tony pushed himself out of bed, wincing at the pull it gave on his 'arm', all synthetic, but the connecting joint still in the long process healing. He glanced at Pepper, still fast asleep beside him, and let himself feel in love for a moment longer before he left the room.

He stepped quietly on the wooden panels of the floor, opening the door slowly as to not startle Morgan who would be on the other side. There's a darkness he has to squint through in the hallway, all shadows and grey splotchy objects of space where furniture should lay— but immediately he could tell that it was indeed not his daughter who had woken him up tonight.

Tony flicked the hallway lamp on. A dim, orange light cast over the scene. Peter's lanky figure is swaying silently on his feet, his head tilted downwards as he looked intensely at the floor.

"You alright?" Tony asked immediately, his voice groggy. He's already scanning the kid for injuries— a limp, maybe, or some kind of twisted limb— but nothing is sticking out in any odd places or swollen.

"Mh," Peter grunted. "Fixing it."

Tony blinked the sleep out of his eyes and made a face of displeasure as he looked over at Peter's late-night workings.

Peter didn't stay over at the cabin all the time. Maybe once or twice every few weeks, which is still far more than Tony imagined he could have had before, but still wasn't enough to settle that old, parental spark in his chest that cried out, as it had for so, so long, about missing him.

He was... adjusting still, to everything. Tony understood. The whole scenario in of itself was impossibly difficult from any end of it. Losing someone like that for five years, it drove Tony to an emptiness that he wouldn't wish on anyone except those who caused it. (And Thanos was gone. Killed twice over. It still never feels like enough.)

But for Peter, it was a different breed of horror. Different beast. He couldn't imagine how it would feel, thinking you've died, only to wake up missing a chunk of something as valuable as time. A chunk from everyone else's life gone, with you left to try and understand the pieces. Like a coma designed personally by Hell.

Simply put, it was difficult for him to be over here. Tony wasn't stupid, he knew that. He would look at the kid, sometimes, and just see something strayed. Lost, like he didn't know where he fit in. Pepper said it would take time before the teenager would feel like he belonged in the world again, and as much as Tony hated the honesty in it, Pepper was always right. He knew patience was the only medicine for this.

Being patient didn't stop him from worrying. Which is what he was doing now, of course: worrying if Peter had a nightmare, or if he couldn't sleep and was trying to distract himself with meaningless tasks around the house.

"Well, whatever you did worked wonders, I think it's fixed," Tony said gently, looking over the completely unchanged vase. "Mind telling me what you're doing out of bed? Whatever prompted this midnight excursion, huh?"

"It's," Peter started, his speech stilted. He frowned deeply with concentration, then looked up at Tony. "You're not leaving without me."

Tony paused. Carefully, he put one hand on Peter's shoulder, another staying at his chin to keep him from moving around. His mind full of concern as he took stock of Peter's dazed, distant, glassy-eyed expression, the way his eyelashes fluttered slowly, the sleepy turning of his cheeks. His pupils weren't crazy dilated, they weren't red or bloodshot any more than they usually were with Peter's unpredictable sleep schedule. Tony mentally crossed off drugs or alcohol, to an embarrassing bout of relief.

"No," he answered, tilting his head to the side. "I'm not leaving without you, kiddo. Why would you think that?"

Peter swayed again on his feet, tilting forward and looking a second away from swan diving. Tony's other arm shot up to steady him, immediately wincing from the pain that resulted from such a sharp movement.

"Mgh," Peter muttered. He dropped his head into Tony's chest with a thud, sweaty curls of hair pressed against a faded MIT shirt. He didn't answer the question, instead deciding to snuggle himself closer, lean his full weight against Tony's side until he was slumped over and making muffled sleepy sounds into Tony's shoulder.

Tony's hand came up to cradle the kid's head instinctively. He frowned, running his fingers through his hair and untangling the locks with a distracted diligence. A thought came to him. "Peter, are you awake right now?"

Peter pulled away from Tony and stumbled away with movements that weren't so different from a marionette on strings— clumsy, up-and-down steps, with the illusion that something as thin and slight as a string was all that held his weight.

He stopped at the end of the hallway, fully turned around, and stared at Tony with wide, expectant eyes.

Tony confirmed in his head that, yes, Peter was sleep-walking. He also confirmed that yes, he would be going on whatever adventure the sleeping teenager wanted him to apparently go on. He followed him down the hallway.

'Down the hallway' turned into 'down the stairs', which Peter was surprisingly graceful at navigating. Peter had stopped again, next to the fridge, and just stood there without making a sound.

Tony quietly took a seat at the counter as he watched, making sure Peter wouldn't be getting himself into any kind of danger, and smiled with amusement as Peter's eyes drifted closed, then opened again a few moments later.

Peter opened the fridge.

"Hm," Tony hummed. "You hungry?"

"Gotta." Peter reached in, then pulled out a bottle of yellow mustard, turning it over in his hands, and then walking back to the counter to drop it there. He went back to the open fridge, reached his hand in again. Pulled out a vanilla pudding cup, the ones Pep bought for the kids' snack times, and dropped it in the same place.

"Mustard and pudding, huh? That one of May's recipes?"

Peter ignored him  in favor of walking back to the fridge. He retrieved the entire jar of mayonnaise, then trudged over to the silverware jar. Tony hid a smile in the crook of his fingers.

Imagine his surprise when the kid dawdled back over to very solemnly hand him said mayonnaise jar, as well as a comically large spoon that Tony didn't even remember they had.

"Oh, for me?" Tony asked. He took the mayonnaise, setting it on the counter. "Thank you so much. How did you know this was my favourite?"

"Best," Peter responded. "Best at the job. I won. And... And taxes."

Tony put up a valiant effort not to chuckle. "You'll have to tell me all about that when you wake up, then."

Peter nodded seriously, his eyes half-lidded as he sat down next to Tony at the counter. He opened the bottle of mustard and turned it over, for some mysterious and unknown reason began to shake it, and then put it back down on its side.

He honestly should be studied in a lab, Tony thought. Nobody else's kid was as interesting as this. And if they were, then no they weren't. Tony just simply refused to believe it.

"I have to buy alligators," Peter mumbled, picking up the cup of vanilla pudding and fumbling clumsily with the wrapper.

Tony carefully plucked the pudding cup away from him and set it farther away. He didn't know too much about sleepwalking, so he figured it was better safe than sorry on whether or not Peter would or should even be able to eat it while still... asleep.

"Oh, really?" He asked. "Alligators?"

Peter stared offensively at his empty hands, and looked up at Tony with his mouth wide open and his nose screwed up in irritation.

"Oh, ok. Didn't like that," Tony noted. "Well, how about I promise you that when you wake up, you can have all the pudding you want."

Peter's eyebrows furrowed and he turned to his hands, still looking wildly offended at the apparent theft. His frown deepened. "No..."

Tony stared uselessly. After a moment, he patted Peter on the hand. "Sorry."

Peter grunted. Then he gasped. He stood abruptly, the chair squeaking against the tile. "Uh oh."

"Uh oh?" Tony's heart skipped a beat. He scans over the kid again, thinking maybe he missed something—

"I'm late," Peter said cryptically. "Gonna... got to go."

With that, he started at an alarmingly fast pace for the front door. Tony swore and slid as quickly out of the chair as he could, wincing as he did so.

He followed Peter down the hallway, and then Peter just— he was pacing back and forth, it seemed, whispering under his breath in a sleep-addled panic. He had grabbed a photo frame from the shelf set up at the entrance and was holding it in his hands.

Tony put a gentle hand on his elbow. "Hey, buddy," he tried. "How 'bout we get you back to bed?"

Peter jerked away from him, and Tony moved like he had hurt the kid by accident, his hands lurching back in alarm. Then Peter stalled, and swayed again on his feet. All that could be heard for a moment was the kid's quiet breathing.

Then, so quietly, he spoke. "Wait for me?"

Tony blinked rapidly as he processed the words. When he realized he was being asked a question directly, Peter's glassy eyes boring into his, he frowned. "Wait for what?"

Regardless, the answer was yes. Yes, always yes. Should anything happen, he would wait. Until both of their bodies have been reclaimed by the earth, Tony would still be there, waiting for his kid to come home to him. It's been proven, written in the stars with the destruction of alien ships and engine exhaust, that he would wait. Five years. Ten years. Ten hundred years. Forever.

Still, Peter's sleeping face looked so heartbroken now, and he whispered his next words just loud enough for Tony's old ears to catch them.

"For me to catch up."

It's so painfully innocent. He's pleading, he's desperate, even in his sleep.

Tony glanced down at the photo frame Peter still held in his hands— catching the glimpse of the two of them, five years younger, five years closer.

"Kid," Tony choked out.

Peter pressed the photo frame to his own chest, hugging it tight. He pulled away from Tony, slipping around him and trudging back up the stairs.

Tony's hand lay cold in the air, but after a brief moment of reining his tears back in, he followed Peter to the cabin's second floor.

The hallway was empty, but Peter's bedroom door was cracked open. Tony quietly pushed it open, and Peter was standing dazedly in the middle of it.

"Something new on the itinerary?" Tony asked hoarsely, his throat tight, his heart hurting.

Peter seemed to jump out of his skin, whipping his head around in alarm, and oh. This wasn't how asleep-Peter acted. He would know, as they've just been introduced fairly recently.

"Well, hello there. Good morning," Tony said, leaning against the doorframe. He made himself sound amused as possible.

"What is happening," Peter whispered loudly, his eyes wide. He still was hugging the damn photo to his chest. "Was I asleep standing up? Like a... like a horse?"

"Oh, you weren't just standing," Tony informed. Knowing now that Peter didn't seem to remember any of the events that happened while he slept, he gave him an easy smile. "You went on a whole rodeo, cowboy."

Peter's face went red, and he looked momentarily horrified. "What?"

"Yep. House-round trip, I'm afraid." Tony casually took the photo from him, and Peter, who was still dazed, let it go without hardly noticing. "You should get some actual rem sleep now. Maybe I'll invest in some bells around your door handle."

Peter hid his face in his hands and groaned. "That's so embarrassing. Please tell me you didn't get photos."

Tony smiled, running a hand through Peter's hair. "Hm, no, not this time. Next time for sure though. It's about time I started a new album, I think."

Peter leaned into the touch like moldable dough, which Tony took as his cue to gently guide him back to bed. They scuttled across the room, Peter noticeably more clumsily than him, and Tony lifted the covers.

(It seemed asleep-Peter either had the courtesy to make the bed after he got out of it, or, the more depressing possibility, awake-Peter had fallen asleep without getting into the bed at all.)

"Can we just—" Peter shook his head miserably. "—forget this? Ever happened? Like, all of it?"

"Hmm, let me think about it." Tony tapped his chin thoughtfully. "No."

He played it up like a joke, because that's what they're used to, the two of them. Banter, the back-and-forth, the easiness of it all. The photo frame burned in Tony's hand.

No, he wouldn't forget tonight. And tomorrow morning, once his kid has gotten a good eight hours, and a good meal, they'll talk about it. They'll keep talking about it until Tony is 100% sure that he gets it, the lengths he'd go for him, the hardships he'd endure to keep him safe— the time he'd lose for Peter to be safe and sound and himself, just the way he is.

That, he would wait for him.

But, he didn't have anything to wait for.

[eyesxxyou]

Idk if i'm correct, touching and mapping his skin might kinda require him to like. Idk. Lose clothes? Start from there baby, the rest will come t'you

-🐘

Smh iggggg I need to rewrite what I have so far cuz I HATE it. Look at this shit:

Hobie Brown has always been your greatest muse since you were children. Every drawing you’ve ever created has included him since you were drawing stick figures. Every sketchbook from childhood, your progression from crayons to marker, marker to fine-tipped pencil, was filled with images of him.

You’ve spent hours staring at him, days, weeks, years, decades. Your eyes have taken in his image longer than they’ve taken in your own. Pencil on paper and your hand always moved in the shape of him when given the opportunity.

And to this day, for the life of you. You cannot draw him as you see him.

“No, no, no. His lips aren't right."

You flipped your pencil and furiously began to erase the mouth of your latest drawing of the same subject you always end up drawing. It seemed like you could never get him right the first time. Or any time for that matter. Every image bearing not quite enough resemblance to his ethereal nature

Your fingers gripped your pencil and dug it into the paper of your sketchbook that rested against your thighs brought to your chest as a makeshift desk. You erase and erase, dragging the rubber tip against the paper with a frustrated vigor that ended in you tearing through the paper right across his pretty face.

Page ruined and feeling defeated, you groaned and tore the page from your sketchbook entirely, balling it up and tossing it across the room from your bed where you sat. You watched it fly and hit the head emerging from your window. The hair was unmistakable, soon followed by the gorgeous face you had just attempted to replicate on paper but nothing could quite match the real thing with enough adequacy to leave you satisfied.

Hobie was the most gorgeous person you had ever known in your life. From his dark skin to his slender cheeks, his beautiful, well-kept hair to his pierced lips, and that little beauty mark he had resting just below his hairline. He came through the window, one lanky limb at a time, one boot after the other until he was standing in your flat at his full height.

“Wan’ed me t’see ya new drawin’ tha’ bad?” He bent down and picked up the balled up paper, his long, slender fingers unballing the paper while making his way to your bed where you sat idle. You placed your sketchbook to the side, teeth nipping softly at your bottom lip as his eyes examined the page.

Hobie never expressed disapproval of you drawing him, never told you to stop, never even raised a pierced brow when examining your sketchbook and finding page after page of just his face sketched out until your pencil grew dull. Was it your friendship that protected you from judgment? Did he say nothing because of pity? You had no one else to draw.

“Wha'cha rip it for?”

“I didn't mean to.” You murmured, placing your pencil behind your ear. Hobie came and sat beside your feet, a free hand pulling your legs into his lap. His warm hand remained on your exposed thigh, stroking and massaging the flesh while his eyes examined the page.

You rolled your lips, eyes watching the way his fingers dipped into your supple flesh, gripping. “I uh– I erased too hard.” His thumb mindlessly rubbed circles into your skin. “You’re a hard person to draw.” You know exactly why you can't draw him. It’s embarrassing but you have this thing where you feel you must touch the subject of whatever you’re drawing, feel out the details and intricacies of your subject with your hands before attempting to draw. It may be all in your head but you always felt your art comes out better that way.

Hobie tossed the page behind his shoulder on your bed and looked at you with those pretty eyes of his. “O’ course ya think tha’. Ya always draw me when ‘m no’ ‘round, doll.” He shuffled in closer, the softest touch of a smile on his lips, the piercing glinting. “Wha’s a drawing withou' the real thing?”

He grabbed your sketchbook and flipped through it, page after page of him, just him, and a few other object studies. There was nothing of disgust or dissatisfaction, just glint in his eye that could have equally been approval as anything else. He opened up to a blank page and slid it into your lap. “Try ‘gain.”

I HATE IT

[phantomphangphucker]

Phic Phight - The Little Toaster Who Could, Is An Asshole

@lovelyunknown @princessfanonanona @fangirlwriting-stories @fentoaster @axion-labs @turtlesnails @littlebadger

Toaster powers go! Terrorise the half-dead teen that hates toast! He deserves it! According to Wes at least.

Wes glares at Danny, Danny stares back in unbridled glee.

Wes flips him off, Danny flips him off right back… before doing double finger guns and sticking out his tongue.

Wes slams down the notebook he’d been using in an attempt to ‘write down’ his ‘proof’, not that written shit counted for shit with any of this shit, pointing aggressively at Danny; Danny points at himself too just very mockingly.

“Would you two stop making all my staff laugh? They have jobs to do and you’re half way to me just kicking you out”.

Wes rounds on the manager or owner lady, “but he is dead! He threw eggs at me! Invisible eggs!”.

Danny’s grin from the front doorway is a bit manic, “where would I even get invisible eggs! Huh Wes! Ever think about that one!”.

“Fuck you!”.

“Fuck yourself!”.

“You dated a damn harpy!”.

“Are you saying I unalived my own eggs!”.

“Why are you censoring yourself!”.

“Because you’re a weak little baby boy bitch!”.

“We are the SAME AGE!”.

“Say that to time daddy’s face! I dare you!”.

The owner lady throws her hands up, snapping, “out! Get out!”, at Wes.

Wes looks afronted, because he is, “what? Just me?!”, gesturing at Danny aggressively, “him????”.

She sighs, “he’s not actually inside my store, you are. Out”. She’s thankfully when Wes actually leaves, even if the teen hurls his ‘research’ at the Fenton boy first and runs after the Fenton kid when said Fenton starts sticking the notebook in his mouth and shaking his head back and forth like a feral dog.

There was something very wrong with both of those boys. Something very very wrong. The Fenton boy was definitely not dead though, that would be far too normal for a Fenton so unhinged.

Wes grabs the end of his notebook, Danny does not stop shaking his head though, resulting in Wes’s lanky ass getting flung and smacked around. Danny intentionally makes his mouth frothy for added rabies effect. Making Wes have to shake off, and pull a tooth out of, his notebook once he does successfully rip it out of Danny’s mouth. “Your existence is a crime and affront to god”.

Danny open mouth grins cheerily, “I thought I already established that the day I was reborn into death”.

Wes immediately writes that ‘quote’ down in his book.

Danny stares judgingly, “are you writing all my word weavy bullshit down? Really? That’s kinda sad, man”.

Wes scowls back, “that’s the thirty-second different way you’ve described being dead, one day that will add up and people won’t be able to deny me”.

“You’re gonna be great for my Wikipedia article one day, when you work for me as my maid”.

“Fuck you”.

“It’s still easier for you to fuck yourself you know”.

Wes tackles him, “oh how I wish someone else had to see you and your bullshit!”.

Danny scowls with feeling, slapping Wes a couple of times as they roll around on the ground getting muddy as fuck since it was raining out, “why would you say that! The curs-ed word! Banishment to the sinner! Boo!”.

“BOO YOURSELF!”.

“HOW DARE YOU! THAT’S MY LINE!”.

“YOU STARTED IT, I’LL FINISH IT!”.

“YOU CAN’T FINISH THE EXISTENCE OF A PHRASE YOU DIPSHIT!”.

“JUST LIKE YOU COULDN'T FINISH OFF YOURSELF PROPERLY!”.

Danny snarls, “I’m going to break you like a toothpick”, and pins Wes down using more arms than humanly possible.

Wes wishes he had his camera.

Wes does not have his camera.

At least Danny’s stupid ass ain’t heavy enough to break his ribs. “You weigh less than a bag of potatoes, go ahead and try”.

Now if Wes was a ghost, and thus could just reform a torn off limb, Danny would actually break his arm. But Wes is human and thus can’t do that. Meaning Danny can’t do that to him. Oh the woes of being morally in the right. If Wes were Vlad and a billionaire then Danny’d just burn down his house in recompense. Is he mentally using the word wildly wrong? Mostly likely, shut up Jazz.

Besides, Vlad would take the arson as a compliment and praise him.

Wes huffs, tired, “are you going to clean me off or not?”. Danny smirks and turns the teen intangible, all the muck falling through the teen… as well as all of his clothing except his underwear. Danny running off immediately while sticking his tongue out and cackling; all while Wes is scrambling up off the ground, wadding his re-soaked muddy clothes up, and hurling them after Danny.

They nail Danny in the head, making the stupid half-ghost face-plant into a streetlight. Wes shouting, “HA!”.

But Danny scrambles up himself, grabs the clothing, and holds them above his head, “mine now bitch! THE SPOILS OF WAR BELONG TO THE VICTOR!”.

Leaving Wes huffing, panting, by himself, slowly realizing that now he has to walk home muddy and practically naked… “Zone DAMN IT PHANTOM!”.

Danny, in distance, can be heard shouting, “GET WRECKED!”, by more than a handful of people. Everyone and their mother knowing that means the Fenton and Weston kids had gone at it again.

Danny floats down through the rarely used ‘attic’ grinning to himself, he felt like he accomplished a lot today. Looking around for an empty box, he is absolutely packaging up Wes’s clothes -without washing them- and mailing them through the post back to him. They were gonna be rank when the guy opened it up. Ha! What fun!

Transforming back as he finds a suitable box and some packing tape; dropping the clothing in unceremoniously with a feral grin.

Unfortunately it looks like today’s tomfuckery wasn’t quite done with him, as a voice he’s never heard (he thinks) shouts, “oh what the freshy fruity fuck!”.

Danny jumping up and spinning around, right, fuck, Wes saying a stupid wish. Fucking asshole! He should know better! And of course Danny would have been too distracted tormenting Wes to have noticed his ghost sense going off. Ancients end him entirely.

Thing is though? There’s no one. Like, actually no one, “what the?”. Oh is someone spying on him again? Someone who’s not Vlad?

And whom probably doesn’t have positive-ish motives for it?

That would be his luck after all.

The voice pipes back up again, “how the Hell do I! Me! Find this massive crap out! Are you always so pissy wissy with your shitty shit!”.

Danny starts pushing stuff around to figure out where the Zone the Voice is coming from.

It’s…

It’s a fucking toaster???

A TOASTER?????

The toaster seems disgruntled, the toaster flings itself at Danny’s face.

Danny promptly swats it into a wall.

Why is a toaster talking to him? How is a toaster talking to him? It attacked him! Sure that last part wasn’t super weird since Technus assaulted him with random appliances all the time, but still.

“Oh cool, a wall, as if being a toaster wasn’t hard enough”.

“Why are you talking?! How!”.

The toaster flops from side to side in a weird version of walking at Danny vaguely aggressively, “oh you know, only your happy pappy toasterifying me for the fuckin’ lolly lols or some somersault shit”, it uses its cord to throw a picture frame vaguely in Danny’s direction. Apparently the toaster had some pent up rage.

Fair.

So did Danny.

Danny side steps the picture frame, “and when did he do this? How even? You are like a whole ass person in there?”.

The toaster seems infuriated, slapping its cord around, “of course I am, numbnuts! I wasn’t born as no tinker toy bullshit! Who the fuck would give birth to a toaster!”, the toaster spits toast at him.

Danny is highly offended. He really hates toast.

Like if the universe had created one true evil it would be in the form of toast and only toast. Always toast. “Don’t spit toast at me! You absolute heathen!”.

“I’ll spit what I diddly darn wanna! Fuck you! I’m your upperclassman any ways, Fenton! So deally wheelly!”.

Oh ancients his dad turned one of his classmates into a fucking toaster. A toaster that’s spitting more roasted toast at him likely out of spite. Danny impales a piece into the wall with an ice spear.

The toaster snares, “don’t abuse my creations!”.

“Like Hell I won’t! Fuck toast!”, Danny tries tackling the toaster, it uses its cord to grab on to a lamp and effectively flee from Danny’s would be constrictive grasp. Danny shouting, “do you want to be detoasted or not!”.

“Oh it’s too late for that, you douchey canoey! Your poopy poppy sold that ‘ish to a Cullen Family wannabe actor with rich sauce for flavouring!”

Fucking Vlad! Ancients. Danny swears that, the sometimes vaguely evil, ‘mentor’/‘uncle’ of his gets into more weird shit than Danny did. And Danny’s the one who more or less infected an entire town with death, so that’s a feat and a half. Danny grinning, “I know that cash money bitch, I can take you there if you!”, another piece of toast is fired off, “just!”, more toast spit, “stop!”, again! Toast!, “assaulting!”, more toast, “me!”, you guessed it! Toast, “with!”, annnnnnd TOAST, “toast!”.

The toaster growls, it sounds like the metal shit inside it is clanging around violently, but Danny does manage to tackle it and walk through the attic wall all while holding it at arms length like it’s a bomb.

More than a couple people see the Fenton boy just… walking down the street screaming shrieking practically incoherently at a toaster he’s holding as far away from himself as possible; the toaster is firing toast haphazardly into the air and shaking wildly every so often… as if there’s some kind of demonic possession fuelled conversation going on.

Absolutely no one approaches to ask. And that was only partly because a random construction worker got thrown by the toaster cord at one point.

One person did shout, “watcha got there?!?”, at the teen though. Who had just responded with, “A SMOOTHIE! AN ANGRY TOAST SMOOTHIE!”.

Wes saw a video of it, Wes cackled meanly. He might have had an embarrassing walk home but at least he had a new phone background photo.

Danny hurls the toaster at the door in lieu of knocking, at least his coordination does not suck and he catches the toaster as it bounces back at him. The toaster shrieking, “I will bake you like a crispy spaghetti bolognese!”.

“Are you a fucking toaster or an oven!”.

“I’m a McHeaty McMaddy bitch either way!”.

Vlad opens the door with, “‘Maddie’?”, he is clearly extremely confused.

Danny grumbling, figures, “of course you heard the ‘maddy’ part and no not mom, this thing just speaks like a fucking lunatic”, and practically shoves the toaster at Vlad’s chest, “here, I… I need your help. I have a sentient toaster, that knows I’m vaguely dead-ish, ‘cause I do not look out for fucking toasters when transforming and shit”.

The toaster vibrates against Vlad’s chest and fancy suit, “then you’re a stupidy stopidy bibidy bopidy fool!”. Vlad looks offended.

Fucking good, honestly. Danny huffing and continuing like he hadn’t been interrupted, “and apparently Jack toasterified this toaster that used to not be a toaster and instead be a person, and apparently mailed a ‘Cullen Family actor wannabe with rich sauce for flavouring’ -which must be you- the invention dad did this with because he no longer, and I quote, ‘trusty-wustied him selfie-welfie’. Please tell me you have more tolerance for toaster spit than I do”.

Vlad sighs heavily, it’s both fond and annoyed. The man lets him and the toaster in at least.

Of course then the toaster instantly flees from his grasp. Like a dick.

Both him and Vlad just watch the thing fling itself around the mansion with its cord and ‘feet’. Vlad blinking, “this is somehow the strangest thing I’ve ever had to help you with”.

“I know right?”.

…”why is it a toaster?”, the toaster attempts to toast some of Vlad‘s paperwork, it unfortunately works. “I’ll admit to not believing that odd letter Jack sent about making a teenage toaster, I regret that decision deeply”.

“That’s fair”.

They both have to rush to put out the fire the toaster’s started, Danny shouting, “there is something seriously wrong with you!”.

“I’VE BEEN A TOASTER FOR A YEAR! HOW WOULD YOU FUCKY WHUCKY FEELY ABOUT THAT!”.

Danny nods acceptingly while chasing the thing, “I’d cry”. It’s true. He would.

Vlad actually laughs while helping with the chase, “yes the horror of being something that near exclusively creates your one true hate and fear”.

“Says the alcoholic!”.

“I thought you liked drinking with me?”.

Danny stops and shrugs at the man, “I mean yeah, but you kinda got a bit of an issue that we should probably sort out some day”, eyeing the toaster sucking in one of the portraits Vlad had done of them together. Vlad was going to kill this toaster at this rate, and fuck Danny might let him. “Preferably not now though, Sweet Ancients”.

Vlad hits the toaster with a broom, “bad! No! You spit that out right now!”.

“It’s not a cat, Vlad”.

“Well then it should not behave like one”.

The toaster escapes from the broom, knocking over a fancy glass top table shaped like a jaguar.

Danny grumbling and slipping on some glass, “at least it can’t vomit a painting up like a fucking hairball!”.

“I would absolutely make you clean that up, consider it a lesson on responsibility”.

“I do enough chores at home, Vladdie!”.

“And how many times have I offered to come and help?”.

“And how many times have I told you the labs too dangerous?”. Danny glares at the toaster as it bounces up and down on a fancy keurig, “hey! Leave the superior appliance alone!”. The coffee machine blows up.

“Die coffeefee!”

Oh yeah, fuck this toaster majorly. It spits more toast at Danny as if hearing his mental insult.

Vlad rolls up his sleeves, hands glowing some and stalking ominous after the feral machine. Danny throwing a pillow at him and at the toaster, a couple cat toys going sailing as well; one goes right into the toaster even. “Don’t actually kill it! That’s a person! Unfortunately!”.

“Y’all couldn’t killy billy me even if ya tried anyway!”.

“Do you want to die!”.

Vlad frowns at Danny, “somethings do, in fact, deserve to die. This is one of them”.

“No!”.

Ah say hello to the one thing neither of them can ever actually agree upon. Meanwhile the fucking toaster jingles, cat toy must have had a bell on it then.

Maddie the cat comes out of nowhere and bodily tackles the toaster, batting at it wildly.

She desires her toy. It has her toy. It will now be her toy!

The toaster shrieks and waddles away on its ‘feet’ rapidly, Maddie the cat smacking the ground after it trying to attack its cord, butt wiggling and paws flailing.

Vlad looks incredibly proud, “atta girl, Maddie”. Hell, even Danny’s incredibly proud, what a good cat. Fluffy and ferocious.

Vlad absolutely punts the toaster into the corner of wall mounted oil candle when it tries to shoot Maddie the cat with toast. Snarling, “I will end you”. Unfortunately he’s not quick enough with the ecto-blast to even singe the thing. It was one fast toaster.

Danny putting his hands on his knees and wheezing, toaster assaulting the chandelier, “how, how are we, getting the runaround, by a, by a fucking, toaster?”.

Vlad huffing with his hands on his hips, “when is anything your father messes with easy to resolve?”.

“Never?”.

“That’s what I thought”.

“Fuck, you”.

“I love you too Daniel”.

“Ancients you are, a weird uncle”.

“And you’re a weird godson”.

Which was probably the only reason this mentorship shit even worked at all. Both of them were way too fucking weird. Everything around them was always way too fucking weird.

Case and point?

The toaster managed to unhook the chandelier, which has now crashed down to the ground in a hail of tiny expensive diamonds.

But Maddie the cat is on a mission. A mission that shall not be deterred by any mess or wonton destruction. She bites the toasters cord and flings it around wildly like it’s a mouse she’s playing with.

A mouse she will keep playing with until it dies and stops moving.

She flings it up in the air and catches it by the cord again, regardless of the toaster trying to avoid that. “MAKE THE BATTY’S CATTY STOP!”.

“No”.

“Naw”.

To be fair, it was kind of hilarious. And Vlad and Danny were telekinetically moving anything sharp out of Maddie the cat’s way so she wouldn’t get hurt while she had her fun.

“Maybe I like being a toaster! Ever think about that!”

Both Vlad and Danny give simultaneous deadpanned, “why?”’s.

Maddie the cat flops herself on the toaster body, its cord still in her mouth, as she purrs happily and swishes her tail around lazily. She doesn’t look like she has any intention of releasing the toaster.

So the two halfa’s walk over and stare down at the toaster. The toaster pipes up dejectedly, “okay maybe that was a lie. I am angry and touch starved”.

“Fuckin’ mood”.

“That I can understand, to a degree”.

Danny and Vlad eye each other before both chuckling fondly.

“…help?”.

Maddie the cat purrs loudly.

Vlad smirks down at the thing, “oh I don’t know about that, Maddie looks quite content were she is”.

“I concur”.

Vlad blinks and grins wide, “glad to see your vocabularies improved”.

“You hired me a tutor, how couldn’t it?”.

“Money well spent, then”.

“HELLO! You CUCKY DUCKY’S gonna HELP!”.

Vlad makes a face, “I think you’d benefit from a tutor as well”, straightening his suit, and huffing, “but very well, I suppose”.

Danny chuckling, “I’ll keep an eye on murder mittens and her prey”. More so for Maddie the cat’s well being and not the toaster from Satan’s asshole’s well being.

…

Vlad gets the thing Jack mailed him, he never threw out anything Daniel’s parents sent him, in case he one day needed to use it to prove their neglect to outright abuse in a court of law. Someday CPS was going to have a field day with the case of a lifetime and then some.

Danny glances at the… rubber duck? As Vlad comes back over. “What?”.

Vlad rubs his forehead, “I was confused as well. It actually gets worse, some how”. Vlad bops the things on the head, causing it to inflate into a twenty foot tall rubber duck.

The toaster snarls, “damn you, ducky fucky! Damn you!”.

Danny picks Maddie the cat up off of the toaster while making ‘I’m watching you’ motions with his free hand at the toaster.

The toaster, knowing it’s beat and fearing the cat, does not move.

Vlad picks up the massive duck and drops it on the toaster, it absorbs the toaster and promptly spits a teenager out of its beak. The teenager landing on his back in a crumbled heap.

Danny blinks, “what the fuck dad? I have way too many questions”. The teen coughs up a jingly ball cat toy and Maddie the cat launches herself out of Danny’s arm at the ball as it rolls away; fluffy legs trying to carry her faster than she can go.

The teen stands up, hunched over with his limbs all spread apart like he’s attempting to take a fighting pose while also being extremely grossed out.

Danny blinks, “sooooo, you gonna tell anyone?”. Vlad sighs in exasperation.

The teen slowly looks to Danny, who gives him a hopeful look. “Fucking why? I got turned into a toaster, accosted two deady teddy’s, beat up by a cat, and vomited out of a duck. Ain’t no one believing shit dick all”.

Danny chuckles, “that’s fair. Wes tries but everyone thinks he’s crazy and he ain’t claiming shit that weird”.

The teen raises an eyebrow at him, still having not moved any other part of him a single inch, “ya got another fucker who found out and is now trying to exposey woosey you? Ha! You suck”.

“Fuck you”.

Vlad ruffles Danny’s hair, “and my offer to sue the boy into silence or provide hush money still stands”.

“I’m kinda having fun with it honestly”.

“I’ve noticed, and support you terrorizing him entirely”.

The teen spits out a toast on to the floor, looks down and stares at it, then does it again. More toast flopping onto the floor, “huh. Yeah no. Fuck this shit I’m out”, and waddles back and forth out the front door like he still can’t move his legs.

…

Danny sighs slowly, “dad is so going to have to write an apology letter to that kid”.

Vlad rolls his eyes, “that man couldn’t be bothered to send me a single generic ‘get well soon’ card, you know he won’t do that”.

“Ugh”.

Danny absolutely has to get Jazz to write the apology letter, because Danny’s still to miffed about the toast assault to not come off as incredibly snide. Danny also collects as many toasts from Vlad’s place as he could and promptly dumped them on Wes in his sleep; he also finally mailed the box of muddy clothes.

The teen, meanwhile, absolutely spits toast at Jack the next time he sees the elder Fenton, it is absolutely caught on video. Said teen also turned out to be on the football team, which in typical Casper-high fashion, accepted him back on the team immediately. The Raven’s opponents were not prepared for the feral ex-toaster or his toast-related cruelty. Dash also later high-fived Danny, in the face, with a slice of toast as ‘gift’; Danny bit him without hesitation.

End.

PRompts: Danny's identity is found out in the funniest way possible. "Whatch'a got there?" "A smoothie" An unexpected person finds out Danny’s identity. (By unexpected I mean less his parents or Mr Lancer and more like, Star. Or Aunt Alicia. The more out there the better.) "I..I need your help." BadgerCereal Maybe Danny had been having a bit too much fun taunting Wes and even transforming in front of him. It was definitely coming back to bite him now…To be fair though, no one knew Desiree was right there. Maddie (the cat) saves the day Anything Badger Cereal (Vlad and Danny platonic father/son , mentor/apprentice )

[moonlight-tmd]

I had few ideas concerning Cyberbeast AU.

SO- there are different types of Cyberbeasts:

Bumblebee's kind is called Starborn; they can switch between being bipedal or quadrupedal, they're small with colorful feathers and long horns, they utilize electricity as their main power- in the wild they would harness lightning to protect and assert dominance. The Alpha-Builds are exceptionally huge for their normal size. They have little spots and swirls on their plating as biolights, the feathers also glow. They don't like pitch black spaces.

Shockwave is the type of 'beast called Switcher; they are very humanoid in build, mostly bipedal, they are grey-ish colors, lanky with thin tentacle-like biolight cables coming out from behind their audials. They have thin biolight stripes on their body. Their tail is more like a cord than an actual limb. They are loners, rarely sticking to other Cyberbeasts. They're swift and distinctively clever. Their abilities allow them to mimic other cybertronians' appearance, it's not specified how many appearances one Switcher can wear. So far Shockwave has 2, excluding his Beast Mode.

Megatron is a Sunshadow: Those Cyberbeasts are classified as Alpha on their own. They have leadership in their blood and will do anything to protect their clan. They are bipedal, have thick rough plating- their build is similar to Godzilla really, on top of that they tend to have massive horn and tusks. Their biolight pattern looks like cracks and is usually a bright color in contrast to their dark armor. Despite being so powerful, they need diret contact from the Allspark to enable their Beast Mode- that's why Megs is after it so badly.

Blitzwing is not a Cyberbeast, but because he has Cyberbeast blood it alters one of his faces- the black one. The blood he got was from a Cyberbeast classified as Voidwalker. They are black in color, sharp spikes along their back, with deadly claws and teeth. The biolights affect their insides therefore there is a glow to their maws. Their build makes them look like they are starving. They are fast and excellent hunters. They almost always stick in packs which makes them a difficult enemy- the largest one is always the leader aka the Alpha. Their one weakness is sensitivity to light. They don't like bright lights so they usually stay in caves and go out at lunar cycles. These and Starborns are considered natural enemies.

Next on the agenda- So i know there's Dinobots in TFA. The basic info i got is that Megs somehow brought them to cause chaos but Prowl befriended them and then they went to live on an island. There was also a moment where they were talking with the rest of the team i think.

I imagine the Dinobots were oddly polite toward Bumblebee and weren't going after him when Megs released them in the city. They sensed Bee is a Cyberbeast- therefore much stronger than all of them combined, they had respect for him even if they didn't say he was a Cyberbeast. Bee is also welcome on their island along with Prowl, the others are on tolerable level.

Another thing- Boot Camp. Longarm knew Bee was a Cyberbeast the moment he stood next to him- Cyberbeasts have shapened senses, smell included- every Cyberbeast, even it they haven't had their Awakening yet, has a certain smell that sets them apart from normal Cybertronians. He saw the little bot being tormented by Wasp and he helped him out- both cuz Cyberbeasts need to help each other to survive and cuz Wasp was a total jerk. Same with Megatron, he wasn't striking at Bee whenever they met- he was much stronger than the little one and he was there to witness the brief glow in his optics- his Awakening. That kind of applies to earth too- he didn't want to kill him but certainly make him not get in his way.

One of the "Bee is a Cyberbeast" reveal ideas was that Megs finally got his servos on an Allspark Shard and managed to transform into his Beast Mode- they weren't doing any damage to him, Bee ran away saying "To defeat a Cyberbeast, we need a Cyberbeast." They had no idea what he could mean but after a while he returned- he had 2 additional Shards with him- which was really stupid not to mention risky. Megs tried to get them, he ended up knocking a whole building on Bee, but not really- shortly after it fell, something bright launched itself at him, painful electricity jumping on Megs' armor while the thing tried to bite and scratch thru it. He managed to shake it off- the thing landed on a giant broken crane- there was a bright yellow beast with a plume brighter than the sun and 2 Shards embedded in each horn. Only then it clicked that this was Bee. All the Allspark energy concentrated in one place brewed up a storm- which Bee used to his advantage. He struck Megs with the biggest electric charge all of them ever seen, broke out the Shard that sat in Megs' horn and got him back in his Cybertronian form. The 'cons fled and surprisingly Bee went missing- all the Shards were laying in the middle of the battlefield. Only few days later Prowl caught Bee stealing oil at night from their supplies. Bee thought that his team wouldn't want him around anymore so he went to live on Dinobot Island. But it was all fine so Bee came back.

Lemme know what else you'd like to know.

[aspiringtrashpanda]

It Could Have Been Anyone, But It Had To Be You

Steven Stone x F!Reader Paldea Champ!Reader x Hoenn Champ!Steven Masquerade  Rated E C/W: Gratuitous alcohol

Before you could make any progress through the crowd, sticking to the outskirts by the bar, you caught a flash of sandy blonde hair in your peripheral.  

Looking to your right, you found yourself staring at a man, crouched behind one of the various high-top tables scattered about the perimeter of the room.  He was slight enough to hide his entire frame behind the tablecloth, rendering him invisible from head on.  Large, pale blue eyes peered at you beneath a dazzling silver mask, all dramatic edges accenting his sharp jaw.  

He blinked once, fingers clutching the dark, satin fabric so hard his knuckles shone white beneath thick, steel rings.  

You felt time stand still as he lifted his index finger to pursed lips, his expression pleading (from what you could see of his face).  

You had no time to respond.  All of a sudden, a tall man with an outfit exposing a scandalous amount of skin swept by, long violet hair that had you completely unaware of its authenticity swinging around his slender waist.  

“Oh, hello there!” The man beamed, waving to you with a freshly manicured hand.  His deep amethyst mask shone as brightly as his sea-green gaze, looking you up and down.  You felt entirely inadequate, despite his kind smile.  

“Um, hi!” You squeaked, mentally kicking yourself.  You told yourself to just be normal.  

“I’m looking for my friend,” Violet hair sauntered closer, glancing behind you, as if you were obscuring the person in question.  Painted purple lips pouted as he cocked his hip to the side, sighing dramatically, “He’s a pretty little thing.  About this height,” He leveled his hand just a little below his eyes, “Navy suit.  Silver mask.  Boring hair.”

You could feel the man behind the tablecloth staring at you, burning holes into your skin.  He may as well have been trying to communicate telepathically.

“Uh, sorry,” You breathed after a second, “I haven’t seen anyone like that.”

Sparkling nails thrumming against pale hip bones, piercing through risqué cutouts in his teal suit, the man shrugged, “Oh well.  I thought he had come by here.”

You frowned, gesturing to the entrance, back towards the lobby, “Perhaps he went that way?”

He spun on his heel, disappearing into the crowd.  You thought you saw his potential wig bobbing towards the stage.

You exhaled shakily, downing your martini in a swift movement.  

“Thank you for that,” A level voice spoke to your right, and you startled when you remembered the man you had helped hide.  He was straightening up now, fingers tugging at the sparkling silver tie around his neck.  It had a subtle geometric pattern, matching the intense angles of his mask, complimenting the sleek cut of his simple, navy suit.  The slim legs of his trousers flattered long limbs, the pointed tips of smokey grey dress shoes that seemed way too expensive only accentuating his height.  Though he was not much taller than you, he had a sort of lankiness characteristic of someone who had gone through an awkward growth spurt in their youth, which couldn’t have been that long ago considering he didn’t seem any older than his late twenties.  

He was painstakingly handsome, you could tell.  Even with the mask, it was clear his sharp eyes were lined with long lashes, that his smile was sure to dazzle millions.

On a normal day, you would have ducked your head and crossed the street, intimidated by such natural charm.  

This was not a normal day, and you were not the brand new Champion of Paldea.  So, instead, you let your lips quirk into a curious smile, your eyes traveling from those fancy shoes up to his sandy blonde hair.  

His eyes darted away, towards the crowd on the dance floor. He lifted a hand from where it had been fiddling with the silver button on his blazer, as if he had planned to run it through the strands, but paused.  A twitch of his fingers, a soft flush across his cheeks, and he lowered his arm once more.

Oh, a wig then.

He cleared his throat.

Oh, he had totally caught you checking him out.

It was no wonder he was avoiding eye contact

“Oh my gosh!” You squeaked, throwing a hand up to cover your face (more than it already was), “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to stare!”

A small smile tugged at his lips.

“I just...” You winced, your shoulders slumping in defeat, “I’m such an idiot. That was so rude of me.”

Cocking his head to the side, he blinked slowly, as if considering his options.  Then, with painstaking, meticulous care, he dragged his eyes over your figure.  Pupils dilating, he looked you up and down, savoring the curve of your hips, the swell of your chest.  Then, he fixed you with a steely gaze, so serious it left no room for doubt.  “Now we’re even.”  

READ THE FIC HERE

[irisintheafterglow]

End Game #6 (volleyball captain!gojo x you)

summary: the tokyo teams have a beach day before Nationals prelims.

wc: 2.25k

cw/tags: mild language, jjk volleyball au, friends to lovers, fluff and crack and crack and fluff, gender neutral reader, suguru doesn't know how to cut a watermelon

note: SURPRISE beach ep? beach ep BUT with a little treat at the end <3 reader is implied to have played when they were younger but stopped before high school. hope you like it!

likes/reblogs/feedback are appreciated!

“Megs, did you bring sunscreen?”

“What are you, my dad?” 

“Megumi.” You give him a pointed look through the rearview mirror and he frowns. 

“Yes, I did.” Your eyes return to the road and you press down the buttons to open the windows. Salty wind blows past your face as you carefully descend the winding hills down to the beach, one hand on the wheel and the other blowing carefreely on the window frame. You feel oddly peaceful despite the boys arguing in your car.

Satoru whips around in the passenger’s seat, looking thoroughly offended. You insisted on driving down the steep slope because he’d inevitably become a safety hazard when insulted by either one of the kids in the second row. “You’ll answer to them but not to me?”

“Yep.” You make a little noise of amusement in your throat when Satoru’s indignant voice overpowers the music he was playing from his phone, despite your speakers being worked to their limit. 

“I’m your captain!” He looks at you for help and your palm lightly meets the side of his face, diverting his attention to Yuuji for reassurance. Lightning blue eyes stare at Yuuji expectantly through the dark rims of his sunglasses. 

“You definitely are, uh, sir…” Yuuji’s voice comes out as a nervous stutter and you bite back your laughter while you pull into the parking lot. 

“Only when we’re indoors,” Megumi deadpans with a blank face. He unlocks the car door, reaching for the handle and flashing his captain a cynical smile. “Thankfully,” he finishes before exiting the vehicle followed by a very apologetic Yuuji on the other side. 

He sighs, exasperated. “They’re really something else, aren’t they?” He glances at you as you adjust your sunglasses in the rearview mirror and fish around the center console for your sunscreen stick. 

“Mhmm,” you reply absentmindedly, still intently looking for the little rectangle in the mess of napkins and gum wrappers. You huff, a bit irritated by losing something so small. “Satoru, have you seen my–”

“This?” Slender fingers hold the wave-covered stick out to you and your eyebrows dip in confusion as you take it and apply it to your face. “You told me to hold it so it didn’t melt, remember? Before you accuse me, I promise I didn’t break it.” He gives you that lopsided smile that sends your heart on one of those carnival drop rides and you exhale a breathy laugh. 

“I wasn’t going to accuse you of anything, but thank you.” You finally open your door and step out into the breezy ocean air, eyes searching for the rest of the team when something clicks in your mind. “Oh, Satoru, could you–”

“Already on it,” he says as he grabs your bag from the floor of the passenger seat and slides it across the roof of the car. “You really think so lowly of me?” He ducks back into the car to retrieve one of the three volleyballs that every passenger in your car thought to bring. 

“I would never. I’m just keeping you on your toes.” You shoot him a grin and sling the tote over your shoulders as he takes his place by your side, checking the messages on his phone. “I’m assuming everyone’s here since Megs and Yuuji have quite literally evaporated.” 

“Yeah, they’re by tower three. Shoko and the girls just got there, too.” 

“Better hurry up, then, or they’re gonna eat all the food first,” you suggest and laugh at the shocked look that washes over his face as he starts to cartoonishly run forward in fake panic, lanky limbs flailing about. “That’s the wrong direction, genius!” 

You hear both teams before you see them and pinch the bridge of your nose as Suguru tries to cut open a watermelon with a plastic knife, much to the entertainment of the other players. Nanami observes with a disgusted look on his face in stark contrast to Yu’s fascinated expression beside him. Panda and Inumaki look ready to bolt away from the fruit like it’s a grenade lest Suguru makes it explode. You spot Yuuji and Kugisaki, one of Shoko’s players, trying to throw Megumi into the ocean. Relishing the warm sand brushing under your feet, you meet Suguru’s eyes with a skeptical gaze and patiently position the strap of your bag further down your arm while Satoru helps you find the actual knife. 

“What took you two so long?” The vice-captain scowls, taking the knife from Satoru with a determined glint in his eye. “Gimme that. I’m gonna beat the shit out of this God-forsaken fruit.”

"It's just a watermelon, Suguru. Just stab it."

"I'm gonna stab you if you don't shut up."

Shoko appears at your side, soda in hand and bumping her bikini-clad hip against yours. “He’s been working on that for ten minutes. For such a dangerous team, they really share one brain cell, huh?” You chuckle and nod in agreement, following her down the table with the rest of the food and chucking items on your paper plate. “This is a nice little party you’ve got going here, though it would be better with some stronger drinks,” she remarks, winking at you knowingly and allowing you to connect the dots of her pregame before she came. She wordlessly holds your food while you spread out your things. 

“As long as you’re not driving anyone, including yourself.” You point at her with a cautionary finger and settle next to her on your towel under an umbrella. “You ready for Nationals prelims?” She replies with her signature indifferent shrug, stretching out in the sand. “That bad?”

“Meh. We’ll win like we always do. The new girl, Nobara, is pretty good. I’m sure it’ll be fun.” Her voice trails off and you take the first sip of your drink when a manically excited energy seizes her body; she shoots upward like a vampire in a casket. You stare at her, a little put off by her sudden show of urgency, and her eyes widen mischievously. “We’re doing a match against the boys later, first to 25. You’re playing.” The liquid of the drink catches in your throat and you cough, covering your mouth in embarrassment as Shoko smirks at your shock. You blink back tears that watered while you were choking and eye her nervously. 

“I’m absolutely not.”

“You absolutely are.” You groan in protest and she clicks her tongue. “C’mon, it’ll be fun. We’re making Ijichi play on the boys’ side so it’s only fair.” Your face scrunches in reluctance and she scoffs at your hesitancy. “You’ll be fine; I wasn’t lying when I said you could’ve been captain if you didn’t have such bad commitment issues. Besides, what are you gonna do with all that intensive training just sitting around in your head?” 

You exhale deeply in surrender. She had a point. “You are an evil, evil woman.” 

“Yeah, you love me.” 

After a few more hours of eating watermelon triumphantly defeated by Suguru and watching Yuuji teach Yuta to do a backflip, Shoko eventually calls for both teams to line up on either side of the sandy court as the sun begins its descent below the skyline. You begrudgingly shed your cover-up, leaving you in just your swimsuit and sunglasses. Satoru finds you somewhere between the start of the game and changing your clothes. 

“I have an idea,” he drawls, hands in the pockets of his trunks. You bend down, stepping out of your shorts and you catch him clearing his throat behind you. For what reason, you had no idea. 

“Uh-oh,” you tease over your shoulder, stretching your neck and arms with him still at your back. “That’s never a good thing.”

“Mean.” He clears his throat again like he was trying to expel something from it. 

“I know you’re going to tell me anyway, so go on, after you’re done hacking.” You turn to face him and are surprised to see his face slightly pink, voice shaky like he was anxious despite trying to play it off with a smile. 

“Whoever wins gets to throw the loser in the water.” 

“If you want to go swimming, you could just say so.” 

“That’s a little cocky for someone who hasn’t played a match since the Dark Ages.” You narrow your eyes and fight the butterflies fluttering in your stomach when he steps closer, toned muscle barely covered by his unbuttoned shirt. “So, what do you say?”

“You’re on, honored one.” 

A cruelly humorous twist by Fate has you optimistic that you’ll win the bet. 

The power goes straight to your head as your tongue swipes across your lips absentmindedly in concentration. You’re on the receiving end of the plays you’d been studying for three years, and a decade of dormant training now rears its long-hidden head. You read the team, your team, like a book, picking up on the tells that the girls’ team didn’t think to recognize. You catch the challenge in Satoru’s bright eyes several times, his expression remaining amused as the rest of his players realize that you can, in fact, go toe-to-toe with them and win. He doesn't flinch when you receive the most powerful of Suguru’s serves, nor does he blink when you lock into place next to Nobara and deny Yuuji’s strikes. He murmurs snarky comments to you when you’re both in the front row, taking credit for your well-aged skill because of the numerous times he snuck you out of your window. All you can do when the boys voice their shock is shrug after digging Megumi’s setter dumps or Yuta’s shakiest floats, your palm meeting Shoko’s in celebration for every successful play. 

But no one is a match for the unrelenting will of Gojo Satoru.

Not even you. 

You shake your head in tired disbelief at the final score, 25-23, as the boys’ team cheers for their powerhouse captain, laughing as you catch your breath. Shoko collapses onto the sand beside you, both of you sprawled out on the ground like starfish. Even though you lost, the adrenaline makes you feel so alive and you’re grinning like an idiot at the soft pink sky. 

Shoko’s chest heaves in exhaustion and your delirious ass can’t stop giggling. “I’m not sure why I thought that would be a good idea. No one’s a match for your little boyfriend, not even us.” 

Your laughter dies off and her words stew around in your mind. Turning your head to meet her eyes, you force your brain to make coherent thoughts again. “My little…what?” 

“Don’t play coy. You know exactly who I’m talking about,” she says with finality, winking at you as her gaze flicks up to something approaching behind you.

But, before you could question her further, strong arms slide under your legs and back, lifting you off the sand with ease. You yelp in alarm and feel the vibration of Satoru’s chuckle against your shoulder as he walks you toward the crashing waves. Wiggling in his grip, you try to jump away but are prevented by the firm hold he has on your legs. Your arms wrap around his neck to give you more leverage, but turn into a way to shrink into his neck as the sea gets closer and closer. Embarrassing shrieks of terror escape your body as his feet hit wet sand, wading into the waves. 

“No, no, no, no, no, no, Satoru!” You brace for impact as his body swings you forward, but no cold landing comes. You peel your eyes open slowly, and feel his laughter against your body as you realize you’d tucked yourself into his chest. You shake your head, laughing with him while he gently sets your legs down. You don’t change your position, though, with your arms wrapped around his neck and hiding beneath his chin. His hands snake around your waist and pull you close, and you swear you feel a feather-light kiss on your temple. 

You relish in the sweet intimacy of the moment before an idea pops into your head and you slyly maneuver to the side so your right calf is lined up behind his, your arms still around his neck. He barely has a second to look at you, puzzled, before you pull your leg toward you, pushing his out from under him and simultaneously throwing him forward so you both crash into the water. He cries out in surprise, splashing into the water while you untangle your arms from him. 

When you surface for air, you turn a full circle in the chest-high water only to find him completely gone. You’re about to call out his name when you scream, feeling a hand touch your leg. Suddenly, his arms are around you again and he’s shaking his hair out like a wet dog. He’s grinning from ear to ear as he looks at you with so much adoration that your heart stops. You jokingly push his face away but his body is determinedly pressed against yours, arms supporting your waist while you let your legs wrap around his torso. Your hands cup his face, allowing you to fully admire his beautifully love-struck eyes that look at you just as intensely.

Maybe it’s delirium or maybe it’s love, but when you lean down and press that first kiss to his lips, you could stay in that one moment for the rest of eternity. You didn’t really know what you were doing, but you knew you liked it. 

You knew you liked him. 

God help anyone who tried to take him from you.

[lillslillslilly]

CHAPTER SEVEN

[TRIGGER WARNING: there's some heavy content briefly mentioned in this chapter - brief mentions of suicide, alcoholism and neglectful parenting so please do note that -- it's only brief, no heavy detail :)]

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Chapter Seven

She analysed her reflection in the mirror of her room: her slender limbs and lanky body dressed in a pinstripe. Her trousers were straight legged with the cuffs sitting comfortably upon the ankle of her Doc Martens; her top, coordinating with her bottom half, was also pinstriped, with a halter strap around her neck and a tie up between her cleavage. Nikola had told her this outfit was sexy - not too masculine but hot; casual but dressy – it would be perfect. She twirled her finger around the length of her hair, reaching below her waist, observing the new purple streaks that complimented her signature nail polish. Between the two of them, Nikola and Elliott had decided that Vic should stick with star-themed jewellery, considering her star tattoos that wrapped her torso would be on display by the structure of her outfit, and so her fingers housed silver star rings of all different shapes, thickness and style; a necklace with a star pendant overlapped her usual ‘V’ charm necklace; and silver star studs lay upon her earlobes. Elliott had insisted that he had to be the one to do Victoria’s makeup – which worked out pretty well for her considering he had a vision, and she had a stomach full of nerves. He decided on a purple winged eyeliner in the same shade as her hair, a smoky lower lash line, a heap of mascara and some silver glitter in her inner corners. He even let her wear black lipstick – a glossy one – to bring the whole look together. It was rather remarkable, actually – he was an artist and Victoria was his canvas, and he was quite good at it too.

She observed, waves of anxiety picking apart every detail in her mind. Her mind alternated between everything she believed to be wrong with her current appearance, and the explanation that Elliott had given her about the strange interaction from the coffee house. ‘Wrenn says that Max doesn’t stop talking about you either,’ circled in her head, over and over, like a cyclist in a race, lapping the route in reoccurring motion. She was pleased, of course, but the knot in her chest tightened anyway.

She brushed her hand through her hair one more time, frowning in the mirror. Everything had to be perfect. Did she look okay? She needed to look okay. “You look incredible, hermosa,” Elliott announced from her doorway where he and Nikola stood, praising their friend, as if he could see into her mind. “She’s not going to know what to think.” “Are you sure it’s not all wrong? It looks all wrong.” “No sweetie, it��s perfect,” Nikola reassured her, the same soothing smile on her lips that she always gave that spoke of comfort, love. As she went to speak, Elliott approached her, pulling her arm and cutting off. “Nope, you look great. I’m not letting you stand here and change your mind so let’s go.”

_____

Max had spent all morning cleaning and cooking (and bossing Wrenn around to shop for last-minute necessities), which barely gave her enough time to get ready. Wrenn mocked her for her entire life for going ‘over the top’ in everything she did, though she argued that she is just a passionate person, a perfectionist, and today was one of those days. She had started planning the second Wrenn and Elliott had agreed on dinner, creating a menu inside of her mind – well, a buffet anyway.

Part of her was still mad at Wrenn for scheming behind her back and inviting everybody over to diner, but part of her was also grateful because she knew that it would not have happened otherwise. Besides, now her roommate had explained why, which settled her stomach a little. ‘Elliott said that coffee girl is obsessed with you,’ were the nine words, the only words, that stuck; the rest of Wrenn’s speech flew right over her head. But that was the important part, so it didn’t matter if she had paid attention to the entire monologue her friend gave her or not – the outcome was the same: Victoria felt it too.

But she was, as a matter of fact, running short of time getting herself ready. She already knew what she was going to cook, what she would wear, what music she would play, how she would do her hair and her makeup, and how she’d set up the kitchen, however, she forgot to manage the time she’d need to do all of that in. Victoria would be there tonight, in Max’s apartment, and it needed to be perfect. 

This dinner meant that it was time to pull out her favourite clothes.

Flared, burgundy sleeves flowed down her arms like a red waterfall flowing from the red lake of the strapless, floaty cloth that covered her torso. The top shaped into an enveloped ‘V’ around her stomach, leaving her hips slightly exposed above her long black skirt. Her skirt was an identical material to that of her top – a thin, silky, lined mesh material – which grazed her skin attentively as she adjusted it around her. Though their apartment was heated nicely, the outside air was cooler, and any sort of draft would entice each of her goose bumps to rise and her body to chill, so she fitted a pair of sheer tights under her skirt.

She ran her fingers across the pearl necklace, which extenuated her risen collar bones when the doorbell chimed, running straight to her ears, making her squirm and almost dive out of her own skin. It was time. It would be okay, she knew that; she reminded herself of that every single time her hands even thought about expressing with a tremor, or when her heart quickened even slightly, or when her chest considered pulling tighter. Since she’d come to find out that the two of them were in the same emotional situation, even the thought of Victoria sent her into a complete overload, panic and nerves making her fidgety and obsessive and overheated and curious and shy and intrigued. What would it be like when she walked in the room? What would it be like to see her face to face after discovering the knowledge that Victoria felt the same? Worse? Better? Just as overwhelming? It felt like she could die, but at least it wouldn’t be alone because Victoria felt the same.

“Maxie, they’re here!”

Making her way through the apartment to the front door, where her roommate stood now with their guests, walking past the few lit candles scattered throughout, breathing in their relaxing lavender scent, she eventually reached the group.

It didn’t take even half a second for Max’s eyes to find Vic’s, the earthy tones of both pairs of irises blending in their haze of admiration as they connected them. It was different this time. Though the usual time-freezing magic announced itself as the two sank deeper into each other’s glares, there was also a sweetness, a calmness, clouding the usual electrical nerves from pulsating Max’s body. The new, strange comfort hugged Max’s nervous system, softly, almost liking to that of relief. She could feel her body’s entire emotional process changing from one feeling to another, overwhelmed completely, until all that was left was crave and desire.

Like a kitten, a bouncy, soft embrace pulled her into a hug, his curls interlocking with hers as he did so.

“Hello beautiful! Don’t you look gorgeous,” He expressed, spinning her around. This was becoming a habit now: a hug, a lift, a spin, like some ballroom dance but childlike. She didn’t mind though because Elliott made her feel safe.

“And you look flawless as usual,” she giggled, her body being twirled as he locked his grip around her.

Usually, the comfort and safeness of Elliott’s presence was something Max never wanted to escape from – she could be held by him forever – however, her mind was solely focused on ending this interaction quickly and instead gaining the attention of the angelic girl stood a few feet away. The two had only disconnected their eyes for not even a minute, but the loss of contact burned through her. She wanted her attention.  She needed it.

Finally, after what felt like the longest encounter of her entire life, Elliott had moved on to chatting with Wrenn, freeing Maxine, and allowing her to start reconnecting with Victoria, their eyes locking into a fixation onto the other’s pair, before they were once again pulled apart by another person greeting Max.

“I was wondering when we would see you again, sweetie!” Nikola’s caramel voice, silky and sweetened, smoothed to the side of Max. “Hug?” she asked, before responding to the nod of approval issued by Max by pulling her in for a small ‘nice-to-see-you-again’ hug.

“I’m so happy to see you, Nikola.”

“You too, sweetheart” the voice replied, as she leaned closer towards Max, now lowering her voice.

“I’ll let you two talk; we can continue this in a bit.” She smiled a comforting grin before following after Elliott.

Maxine liked that about Nikola – she always knew what to do and say in every situation, like she had undergone training for every possible scenario and taken a course in ‘reading-the-room’. It was weird, Nikola being like that because Max didn’t think any living person could be that perfectly emotionally organised. There was something spectacular about her psychological genetics, magical even, to be that calm, collected and prepared for every situation. How did she always know what to do? Did she always keep herself and everyone else held together no matter the extreme of the situation? Fascinating, truly fascinating.

Finally, oh finally, it was just the two of them. Max watched Victoria’s nerves soften, gradually relaxing until their expressions were mirroring one another’s. So, it was true: Victoria felt it too.

She didn’t even hesitate – she needed Victoria’s embrace, maybe more than she consciously knew – strutting forward until the two were only a face or two apart from one another. Her mind drew around the height difference, Victoria towering over her like the Eiffel Tower towers over Paris. Even with her usual heeled shoes on, she was still a head shorter than the girl in front of her.

A thin arm dressed in its familiar leather jacket sleeve reached out, tangling itself around Maxine’s shoulder, until falling and stopping at her waist, slowly pulling her under the other girl’s chin. Another arm wrapped around her, joining its fingers with the other hand on her waist, before they rest interlocked on top of her tailbone, each movement heating Maxine’s skin like lightning striking. This was the first time they’d physically connected that wasn’t a brush of a hand, and it was incredible. The familiarity of Victoria’s scent clouded Maxine’s senses as she leaned her head against her chest, pushing further into the hug, increasing the volume of fragrance: sweetness – grapefruit maybe, probably her perfume – roasted coffee beans and tobacco – the perfect balance of sweet, bitter, and smoked. It was endearing.

Puzzle pieces: they fit together perfectly wrapped in each other’s embrace, breathing each other in, blending their scents as they held pressed into their hug. It was protective, possessive – Max was held by the hands that she wanted to be held by; the hands that wanted to hold her just as much. They were each other’s craving.

It could have been seconds, minutes, hours later, she didn’t know, when the voice spoke, the sounds vibrating against her ear which was still pressed against her chest.

“Hi.”

She was so close to her voice now that Max was able to peel each layer of it apart, analysing each tone and pitch from the one syllable spoken. She peeled back the layers of feathers, identifying a new rich tone, like silver, a metallic twang ringing against the word. Rich and soft. She spoke slowly, playing out the sound of the greeting with gentle passion, echoing in her chest as the word diffused from her tongue.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Maxine admitted in reply as her eyes caressed the necklace chains crossing over one another on the chest she was pressed against. Victoria’s chest rose against Max’s head in response, assuming a response of a smile was written on her face, though she was in no position to lift her head and look, so instead she focused on the lifting of Victoria’s chest with each breath, replicating the tempo of her heart beating in her chest, and how she wanted that heart beat injected into her veins, tattooed across her skin, recorded and replayed on a loop in the front of her mind.

Though she wanted this moment to last the whole night, she had to be realistic that this was not going to be the case when Elliott’s voice screeched from the kitchen, calling upon Victoria to see the buffet Max had produced for them all, which resulted in their bodies untangling, and following the voice to the kitchen.

The five friends sat around the island in the centre of the kitchen, dishes of homemade pasta in different sauces and salads and dips and fruits and crisps and bread rolls and cheese straws and desserts displayed on top. The group had expressed their appreciation for Max’s dedication, especially Elliott who had not stopped praising her for the spicy Cajun pasta that he had been devouring for the past twenty minutes. In return, Max had reciprocated the praise for Elliott’s fruit-tea, which she had become infatuated with almost immediately, continuously begging him to make it more often, ranking it on the same level as her coffee, which made Victoria gasp in shock.

Max’s body was turned to the right, her knees pointing towards Victoria who was positioned beside her. She had taken off her jacket now, allowing Max’s eyes to roam free around each pore of free skin around her body, analysing each inky tattoo, goosebump and stretch of smooth, pale skin. She had been admiring her shoulders and the way her muscles tense into shape every time her arm moves. She had observed her hair flowing around them, the new purple streaks driving her insane every time the light exposed the colour – they were so very hot. Victoria caught her glaring a couple of times and responded with a silent grin, intense eye contact and a very light (almost non-existent) brush against her legs with her own. It was divine, each touch desiring her more and more, so she had hoped if she continued staring, Victoria would continue reacting too. She had always thought that words of affirmation would be her love language considering her obsession with written and taped romance media, however each touch proved otherwise. She wanted to be held by Victoria forever – that’s all that mattered now.

The group conversations flowed naturally, easily. It was refreshing. Max wasn’t the most sociable person – with anyone who wasn’t Wrenn anyway – because she enjoyed her solitude, but this felt good.

“What made you want to open your bakery?” curiosity peaked in Nikola’s voice as she questioned Max.

Taking a sip of Elliott’s iced fruit tea, Max thought of her response, sloshing the liquid around her gums and tongue, her taste buds being coated in the flavour. She didn’t know what magic Ellio put in this tea, but it was just that – magic. It was the most divine, sweet and fruity brew ever, and the most incredible beverage she had ever consumed, so she was now on her third glass.

“I suppose cooking and baking is the one thing I am best at. It’s my thing,” she responded eventually, uncertainty in her voice. Victoria recognised this, frowning her eyebrows subtly (almost unnoticeable), but decided not to mention it further when Max’s eyes connected with hers, throwing her a reassuring look.

“Your pies are seriously my favourite thing ever, so thank you for opening the bakery,” Nikola laughed, spooning a forkful of cherry pie into her mouth when she finished. She had been in the bakery at least once a week since her first visit and every single time she would order a slice of pie, a different flavour each time, and catch up with Max about her day. This may have been one of Max’s favourite parts of her job – her weekly interaction with Nikola. It was a breath of fresh air after a busy day of baking and serving customers to interact with Nikola, who was somebody truly kind. Three words Max would describe Nikola as: spiritual, inspiring, and charismatic.

In turns, the group talked about their jobs, social lives, hobbies, and everything they could, the two parties getting to know each other better as they devoured the buffet around them. Wrenn and Elliott gossiped about their work, the customers and colleagues, people they’ve hooked up with recently, and even wrestled at one point, the group egging them on as they fought. They were definitely the children of the group.

Nikola showed them all her recent photography work, flicking through her sunset shoot with Elliott, and explained her upcoming plan to shoot a wedding later in the week, which encouraged a joking comment from Elliott along the lines of ‘Vic and Max’s wedding?” which made the two fluster and the rest of the party laugh.

Wrenn had concocted a playlist for tonight’s dinner: a mix of party anthems and pop ballads, setting the mood perfectly. She was no musician, but she did make the best playlists. Though the group had escorted themselves to the living room and had been dancing for a while, the moment when they all came together twirling, shimmying, and swaying to ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’ was the highlight. Elliott and Wrenn, especially, were enjoying throwing themselves about to the music, laughing with each other as they enjoyed every moment of each other’s company.

“We must all go out together soon! A bar! A karaoke bar!” Wrenn exclaimed, followed by her Elliott and Nikola planning the next group-outing, whilst the other two danced under the fairy-lights, hand in hand, Victoria twirling Max clockwise.

_____

She exhaled a puff from her cigarette, standing on the balcony, staring out into the city when Max found her. Her mind was concentrating awfully hard – not on the view, but on whatever it was that had submerged her deep in thought. Maxine admired her peaceful nature for a moment, enjoying the difference in atmosphere from the excitable chaos of the rest of the group inside the apartment, before approaching the girl. She waved the two spoons and tub of salted caramel ice-cream in Victoria’s direction once she had gotten her attention, which encouraged a toothy grin from her, followed by a final puff of her cigarette and then she put it out in the ash tray.

Maxine didn’t really smoke as she didn’t like the taste much, but she did like watching the cigarettes glow in the night’s darkness so she would sometimes join Wrenn on the balcony for one, very rarely.

“What are you thinking about?” Max asked as she propped herself onto the seating area in the corner of the balcony, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and gestured Victoria to join her.

“Just if I had missed any signs from you,” the angel voice responded, weaker than she had intended, as she fought to keep her eyes connected to Max’s, uncertainty whether she should have answered truthfully or not saturating her tone. She sat next to Max and took a spoon from her hand.

She bit into her bottom lip, impatiently waiting for a response from the flawless human being that sat beside her. A pool of nerves pushed down on her chest, her heart beginning to accelerate in response to the pressure.

Max bit into a smile after licking the ice-cream from the heap she had scooped onto her spoon. “I come to see you every single day.”

Victoria’s spoon was now also scooping into the golden dessert as she consumed Max’s words, before answering with a giggle.

“I thought you just had an uncontrollable caffeine addiction.”

“Oh yeah, well, that too,” Max laughed. She ate another scoop before speaking again.

“Did you give me any signs?”

“I invited you out with my friends that time after we had just met,” Victoria reminded her promptly, but charismatically, as she turned her head to face the girl next to her.

“Oh, good point,” Max replied. The balcony, on which the two of them sat, was dimly lit, replying on only the street around it as its source of light. Luckily for Maxine, this meant that the pinkness pouring into her face wasn’t too noticeable as the two connected eyes.

“And I know each and every one of your coffee orders, though you could argue that’s my job,” Victoria began, chuckling for a moment, then continuing with reciting Max’s orders: “Your top choice is an americano, one sugar and you especially seem to like the medium roasted coffee beans for that. Your second choice would be a latte, sometimes you will add some syrup (when you’re feeling creative), though not usually, with one sugar. In the iced coffee department, I’m assuming you are a whipped caramel iced latte girl. And I’ve seen you eye up the red velvet cake every single time you come in.”

Maxine’s mouth hung open. She paid attention to every single detail. Maybe it was just because it was her job, but Maxine ignored that because she felt seen, and she didn’t want that moment to end. Though Victoria had Max’s order correct down to a T, there was one slight issue: Max had been ordering it wrong.

“Vic,” the word shook, catching Max off guard and causing her to pause. Was this going to ruin the moment? She always told herself that being truthful is super important, so she convinced herself to continue.

“I have a confession.”

Vic’s face was scrunching together know, her eyes squinting to try and read the expression on Max’s face, though the night’s darkness didn’t give her much of a view to work with.

“I hate sugar in my coffee.”

“What?” The feathery voice asked, a small chuckle wrapping the end of the word.

“I got nervous the first few times I came to the coffee house and agreed to have sugar, accidentally, but it went on for long to be able to take it back.”

An immediate laughter – a real laugh – filled the balcony, the sound getting louder as the other girl joined in.

“You are such a muppet. A cute muppet, but still a muppet,” Victoria said, a laugh consuming each word.

Max wanted to savour this moment because although she was embarrassed, Victoria’s laugh was real. Real and beautiful.

The two sat bashfully for a few quiet minutes, only murmuring something about how eating ice-cream in the winter wasn’t the smartest idea they had as Max’s teeth chattered against the spoon.

Victoria opened her mouth to speak again, before jutting out her chin and pulling her lips back together, hesitant.

“Are you okay?” Max asked as her mind processed the blurry expression on Victoria’s face. After fluttering her eyelashes a few times and tilting her head sympathetically, Max was able to extract a response from the dark-eyed girl beside her.

“It’s just earlier, when Nik asked you why you opened your bakery, you didn’t tell the whole truth, right? I saw you hesitate. What is it?” Victoria spoke with concern in her voice, which took Max by surprise because usually, a question like this would be asked with curiosity instead. Victoria cared. She cared, and that encouraged Max’s next response.

“Okay, I suppose you’re right. I mean, it wasn’t a lie, but I guess I held back a bit,” she started, her hands fidgeting, though they were interrupted by Victoria’s, which moved to rest on them. Max was starting to understand Victoria’s silent communication more now; it was becoming a common occurrence for her to talk without words. She knew Victoria was there to listen, to care, and this gesture was reassurance as to that.  Max smiled, comfort pooling in her chest, slowing her breathing to a more natural pace, and so she continued.

“I wanted to open my own bakery, have my own place to live and have the beautiful life that I dreamed of, and I have that now, but Wrenn needed it. When we were little, we would dream about being roommates in a big city, experiencing our lives together, and we planned it all, even the bakery.”

Victoria was listening intently, blinking softly every few seconds, paying close attention to each syllable from Max’s speech. Nobody had ever listened like this before.

“And then one day when we turned thirteen, Wrenn’s twin sister, Hayley, passed away. The world was cruel, and it got the best of her. They were so different despite being twins, but they were each other’s best friends and then they were taken away from one another. It broke Wrenn, obviously, and a part of her has never been the same since. It’s like a chunk of her soul was cut out when it happened and buried with her sister. What made it worse was that her mother broke too, turning to alcohol and forgetting about Wrenn, so she basically lived with me from then on; my parents even let her decorate our guest room so she had her own bedroom. She was so alone and there was nothing I could do about it. Then she dropped out of school at fifteen and worked like three jobs and saved every penny and here we are. Watching her go through all of that was heart breaking but she lived it. But the one thing in her life that kept consistent was us, our plan. She needed this, so it happened.”

Her cheeks were hot now and salty streams had been running down them throughout her monologue, though she only noticed when a leather jacket sleeve patted down her left cheekbone.

“I’m sorry, this isn’t even my story and I’m…”

A hand brushed her face, cutting her speech off, and then a voice softly followed the action.

“No, don’t apologise. You are amazing. Wrenn is so lucky to have you.”

Max’s tears slowed and she began collecting herself when the voice spoke again.

“You have the most beautiful heart.”

You have the most beautiful heart. This jolted the ability to cry from Max, regulating her emotions back to a happy-neutral. How was Victoria so incredibly good at comforting her like this?

The two continued some ice-cream related small talk, mumbling away about the different flavours and whether they were team ‘tub or cone’, eating a scoop every so often as the other person spoke. It persisted this way for a while: the two spoke, connected eyes, went quiet, and circulated back to the start of the cycle to repeat it again.

Breaking this cycle after a while, Max drew her eyes away from Victoria and instead towards the view.

“This is my spot. I come here to read. I come here to watch all the city lights every night, and the stars too. Well, what I can see of them from here anyway,” she began, pulling the blanket tighter around her arms. “It’s weird because the city never sleeps but it’s the most peaceful thing to just observe it. That’s a bit of a juxtaposition now I think of it, so I don’t know how but the busy city at night is the most beautiful thing ever. Being able to sit here and just watch, it reminds me that I have achieved the life that I dreamed of.”

When she had turned her head back to face Victoria’s, she was caught off guard by the pure infatuated, smitten look carved into her expression - pure admiration, passion, and infatuation. Max didn’t even think she had realised the way she was looking at her.

She was looking at Max the way that Max looked at the city lights.

“What is it?” Max spoke softly after a moment, a light chuckle breaking apart each word as she spoke them.

“Nothing,” it was almost a whisper in return.

“Okay.”

The two blushed, the dark shadowing over it so it wasn’t visible to the other person, though they both knew anyway. It was quiet for a moment, until Maxine’s mouth started to move before she could even register the muscles tensing in her jaw.

“Victoria?”

“Mhm.”

Before she had even mentally processed the signals to speak again, the sound was escaping her lips.

“Can I kiss you now?”

“Yes, please.”

All of their built-up desperation, craving, desire – it all pooled together as their lips met. It was euphoric. Maxine was filled with fuel, and Victoria was the match – the fire of their passion ignited Maxine’s body, accelerating her heartbeat until it was close to ripping out of her chest. She couldn’t get enough of Victoria; she had craved her for so long. 

Their foreheads pressed against one another’s as their lips parted, inhaling a mix of each other’s scent and some air to normalise their breathing. Max rubbed her nose on Victoria’s, slowly moving her head side by side as she did so. Her eyes finally opened to see the pair (that were onyx coloured in this lighting) mesmerised by the face in front of her. That look again. Does she know she’s doing it?

Victoria snapped out of it suddenly, jumping up from her seat which startled Max.

“Oh my God, wait, come with me. Come.” She grabbed Max’s hand, intertwining their fingers and pulled her up playfully to stand beside her, through the apartment yelling to the others that they would be back soon, and out of the flat.

“Where are we going?” curiosity grew in Max’s voice, which just excited Vic more.

Eventually, they reached the roof of the apartment block and Victoria wedged the door open with a few bricks that were sat aside it to do so.

“I used to come and sit up here after work in the summer to watch the sunset. It’s perfect for stargazing and seeing the city lights. A better view than your balcony even.” Victoria was right: it was the most exquisite sight ever.

The view continued further on than she could see from her balcony, the lights smaller but glowing similar to that of the fairy lights she would wrap around her apartment. She spun her head around, eyeing the stars that were so clear from where she stood, twinkling in the moonlight. It was the perfect scenery. There was something so flawless about lights in the darkness that consumed Max’s attention at all times, and now that Victoria had handed her quite simply the best possible view of that, well, nothing was better than this.

Max was too stunned to even realise that she was audibly shivering as she took in the landscape around her. She hadn’t even recognised the leather jacket being held onto her shoulders by the dark-haired girl as she was too captured by the view.

When she had finally grounded herself, she looked up and met her eyes with Victoria’s.

“This is perfect. You are perfect. Thank you for this.”

Victoria wrapped an arm around her, kissed the top of her head and smiled, not too proudly, but proud enough that she had made the pretty girl happy. It was a silent ‘you’re welcome’ because this was Maxine’s moment – Maxine’s view – and Victoria wanted to keep it that way.

[sunny6677]

The Omnia

(A Spooky Month Fan Story)

Summary: A person by the name of Vessel ends up staying in a suburban town for 5 weeks.

TWS FOR SERIES: OBSESSIVE LOVE, CHARACTERS DOING THINGS UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF SOMETHING, POSSIBLE KIDNAPPING LATER IN THE STORY, INSANITY, OBSESSIVE THOUGHTS, GORE MENTIONS, PROFANITY, CULT SHIT, CULT MENTIONS.

TW FOR CHAPTER: NONE.

(Clarification: Vessel is a character I made specifically for those who aren't really into obsessive love type stories to project other people or characters onto so they wouldn't feel as if they had to project themself onto the character. You are allowed to project anyone onto Vessel, whether that be a fictional character or someone else. And you can even just see them as their own character if you want.)

Chapter 2: Sweetened Humiliation.

————

THE pair of long lashed eyes that Vessel had stared into had swiftly then passed, glancing in another direction as if to make a mockery of their very existence. Vessel felt a strange sensation within their heart, as if they had been stabbed with a dagger at the very words the woman spoke. A plebian, she called them. The woman had already given them insult despite only having just met them.

Lips curling down into a frown—in one swift motion, Vessel moved out of the way for the woman to be able to walk by so she could exit the very store they had entered. A regal woman, indeed. A golden necklace wrapped around her neck like a tiara that only a woman of high authority would wear. Her eyes carried a sense of judgement, for in her eyes, Vessel must have been a peasant. And in her eyes, she was a queen of high superiority, of high class—a woman who could not associate herself with the common filth.

The woman began to walk past, her hands still placed firmly on her robust hips. She swang her hips around as she walked, placing her feet into delicate steps as the heels of her shoes clacked against the white floor. Artifical light shone from on high, illuminating Vessels wide eyes as they stared on at the woman as she began to leave. From the very dawn of their life, they had never thought to meet a woman such as she. But a woman such as she sounded imaginary—preposterous! After all, it wasn't like anyone actually felt themself superior enough to make others feel like worthless filth.

Even so, Vessel let out a sigh. Their shoulders lowered, and their gaze eventually left the ground and darted straight toward the counter. It was a regular white counter, with what looked to be some peculiar white box in front of it—with yellow windows that showed the confectionary sweet treats from inside. Perhaps this particular candy store also sold cold candies? If so, it certainly wasn't what Vessel had been expecting.

The blinding lights continued to pour from on high, but as they continued to stare at the counter, they then saw another pair of eyes. A pair of eyes for who the past few seconds, they had been staring into. Even though they were looking in that direction, it was as if they had finally really seen them. Perhaps their mind had been so clouded with a haze of thoughts that they were blind to see what was very clearly in front of them.

But the pair of eyes appeared to belong to.. a man. Yes, it was a man. A man who looked to be in his twenties, most likely around the age of 25 or so. His hair was a jet black color, the tufts at the ends of it sticking out like a dagger ready to pierce any mortal flesh it would soon penetrate. The man looked scrawny, and lanky—his limbs were long but skinny, and his torso was hidden behind the white button up of a shirt he wore. A bow tie was wrapped around his neck, and from what it appeared, he must have been wearing a black shirt underneath. The bow-tie was pink, resembling the shape of a taffy wrapper. The man looked to be wearing blue jeans, with black shoes underneath. And on the top of his head, there was a white cap with a pink 'C' symbol on it, with a line of a fresh and bright blue coating beneath the folds of the hat.

Yet the eyes Vessel had found themself staring into, the very eyes that belonged to the man carried a sense of glistening weariness. The pair of eyes finally blinked, and like a shudder of light forming after a switch had been flipped, it was as if Vessel had snapped out of their haze. With their eyes staring straight into the eyes of the man still, they finally heard him speak.

"Uhh... can I help you?"

It was a dull, low and masculine tone. The voice of a male baritone. The timbre of a man who had wished whatever was troubling him to be gone. Vessels shoulders slowly rose up again, and they quickly cleared their throat. How terribly nervous they were! They hadn't spoken the whole time they had been staring into the man's eyes. The man must have thought of them as a person without a mind now, or a dreadfully mad person!

Shaking their head from side to side, Vessel finally spoke back. Their tone wavering, they merely replied, "Oh, yes.. sorry. I just came to buy some candy." It was true. They had came to purchase some candy! They began to step foward, approaching the counter with a grin forcefully plastered upon their face like a mask they had to wear. But why would they say they needed candy if they had already come into the store? The man had already known they came to get candy. Automatically, he knew so, for he worked here! Internally, they cursed themselves.

In reply, the man's lips curled into a frown. And in an oddly husky tone, he replied after letting out a sigh, "Okay.. what kind of candy?". A grin had slowly slipped itself onto the man's face, and it twitched, as if he was struggling to keep up the facade of professional happiness. The facade of always feeling carefree enough to serve. The facade one could never truly live.

But what the man said had momentarily stumped them. That was true.. what had they came here to purchase? Vessel turned their head, and glanced to the left. There were shelves of rock-candies, hard-candies that were a bright green color, average-sized chocolate bars of both dark chocolate flavors and milk chocolate flavors. There were rows of yellow boxes that contained gummy-candies that could easily be chewed upon.

Vessels heart slowly began to thump from inside of them, like a fist repeatedly pounding against a drum. They didn't want to bother the man any longer, certainly, they did not! Their eyes drew to the nearest candy it could lay upon, and their pupils finally darted toward a peculiar chocolate bar that lay upon the top of the row that it was sat in. Vessel then finally uttered, swallowing a chunk of spit down their throat: "..just a milk chocolate bar. Nothing else."

The man arched a brow, as if observing them. His eyes darted below for a moment, as if staring at something, before finally darting back up to stare into their eyes yet again. The man let out another heavy sigh, and uttered, "Alright.. they're right over there, so you can go ahead and get one. That'll be about 2.50."

2.50.. a low, but considerably average price that those among the low class could easily play. Holding back a sigh of relief within their throat, they made a swift turn and walked up to the row in which they had seen the chocolate. They reached out a hand, and slowly slipped the brown chocolate bar into their grasp. The wrapper was both a brown color, and a light blue color—with the ends of it being tinted such a color. On the top of it, it merely said in white cursive handwriting: "Coco". It was a brand they hadn't seen before, but they cared not for such a small thing.

They made another swift turn, this time heading back toward the white counter. The man appeared to be ringing them up now, though wherever the cash register was must have been out of sight, for his hand appeared to be waving around below it. As they approached the counter, they set the chocolate bar down onto it. The counter slightly glistened within the artificial light of the store. With their eyes narrowed down, Vessel began to slowly slip out their black but plush wallet. Opening it, they began to slip the needed amount of money into the grasp of their fingers.

Eventually, after getting enough, they closed the wallet and reached out their hand toward the counter. They lowered it, and managed to place it onto the counter. Ah! What a quiet interaction this was. The man had been weirdly quiet himself, having only a look of half-lidded exhausted accompanied by his lips trying to turn up into a thin smile.

The man then finally looked back upwards. And for a moment, he stared back at Vessels eyes. In his eyes, there was the agony of a thousand souls lining up. The agony of a thousand souls chained, walking down a staircase for the eternity. Or for however long hell were to last. But it was impossible. For you could not see such imagery by looking into one's eyes. Perhaps merely, Vessel was only imagining things.

The man then looked back down, and with his dull tone laced with a hint of irritation that didn't seem quite directed at them, he uttered, "Alright.. thanks. You have a good night." He looked upwards, his eyelids lowered. Vessel could almost tell that it wouldn't be long before he would eventually go home and pass out on wherever his resting place was. Internally, they could merely picture him collasping onto the bed.

But in reply to the man's words, Vessel had simply managed a smile upon their lips, and replied, "Thanks. You too!"

Their hand immediately left foward, and slipped the chocolate bar into its grasps. They hadn't purchased as much candies as they thought they were. Though then again, one simple candy was most likely better than numerous, for if given numerous, there was a chance they might experience health problems.

They then began to turn, and once they did so, they walked away from the white counter. The artifical light shone down from on them, and the bright hot pink and yellow and blue colors were slightly darkened by the entrance that was blocked by two automatic plates of glass. They began to step slowly foward toward the entrance, and could almost already feel the cool air of the outside. But something internal had then ceased their legs from moving, and for a moment, they stopped in their tracks.

Vessel slowly turned their head, finding their gaze to lay upon the man once more. He seemed to be staring down at the counter now, his lips curled into a weary frown. The man's brows were furrowed, and a heavy sigh escaped his mouth. Energy, there was none. Happiness, there was none.

...Vessel felt their heart sink with something that couldn't be described. Perhaps it was pity, or maybe merely sadness for the man and whatever he was going through. But before thoughts could enter their mind and prevent them from saying anything unnecessary, words escaped their mouth like a rapid fire.

"Uh.. hey, I know this is a little sudden. But.. I think that no matter what's troubling you, you're doing a good job. And—and I'm sure however long this shift of you're might last, you—you.." The words had finally hit their thoughts now, and despite only having poured out, they ceased like folds of lava being turned into mere stone. A warm, fuzzy flush began to coat their face. The man's eyes appeared now attentive, and held another emotion they couldn't read, but they knew he must have expected them to say more!

Then, like a rush of fire, sputters began to escape their mouth. And instead, they swiftly shot their head back toward the plates of glass that held the entrance before them. "So—sorry, bye!"

Before the man could even speak a word, Vessels legs sprung foward. And automatically, the doors swung open as they began to step into the cool night. But despite the cold air, they could feel the warm fuzzy flush on their face trickling down it like a waterfall! Oh, dear—why had they done such a thing? What if rhe man thought them as perhaps even more mad? Or as peculiar or strange?

Vessel tightly gripped the chocolate bar held within their hand, and rapidly began to approach the vehicle they had driven to the candy store itself. The pouring and white artifical lights rained down like a flood of water. And their steps became more heavy as they kept springing foward, dashing toward their vehicle which began to become closer within the darkness—

...they looked to the left, and then to the right, stopping in their tracks before they could step on the actual road.

....

They then continued to walk foward, approaching their vehicle with great vehemence! A wavering groan escaped their mouth. An internal hope that the man at the counter didn't think of them as weird for what they had said glimmered from deep inside of them. Their free hand sprung foward, and swung open the car door. And with great intensity, they leapt into their seat, and slammed the car door shut.

————

The very time had struck the hour of midnight by the time they had finally arrived. And as of now, it was 12:30 in the morning. Vessel had eaten their chocolate bar rather quickly whenever they had finally arrived back at their new home. Their new, regular and radiant home that still appeared a little.. empty. But it was at least a start. Maybe the next day they woke up, they would be able to go to a nearby store. And perhaps they could pick items to decorate the house with!

Their bedroom was like every modern-bedroom. With plain beige walls—a TV sitting on top of a brown drawer that was mere feet away from the very bed they lay in. The bed was average-sized, with a large deep brown blanket coveting the top of them. There was a window that was sat right beside their bed. But already, they had tightly drawn the sills, in fear of someone peering in on them! Though then again, that was maybe just a phobia everyone felt.

There was a tight ambience in the air. The sound of the air conditioning from within their home, and the sounds of the little creaks their house would sometimes give. The darkness didn't exactly make it easy for them to not see little figures popping from out of the little shadows every now and then. And even if they knew what they saw was but a trick of their mind and nothing more, they couldn't help but feel as if they weren't at ease.

Vessel felt the soft sheets of their bed beneath them, and the warm feeling the blanket that was covered atop their legs had given them. A sigh escaped their lips, and outside, a fresh pour of light flashed for only a brief moment. Most likely, it was only a vehicle passing by. They even heard the slight whir of brief sound that would usually come whenever a vehicle passed too. Scents, there were none. Taste, there were none. Only them, alone in the dark of their own room.

Their lips then curled into a deep frown as they stared at the virtual screen of their phone. The time was 12:32 by now. The memory of the candy store cashier resided within their mind, the memory of his exhausted pair of eyes that they had stared into several times during their visit bearing a great sense of embarrassment onto them. They felt their face flush up with a fuzzy sensation anytime they remembered what they had said. Vessel still felt like giving themself a firm whack for even thinking such a thing was a good idea.

A yawn then escaped their mouth. Rest was what their body craved, and if their body craved it, that meant they needed it. So—onwards! Their hand that tightly held the phone within its grasp leapt foward as they began to turn slowly over. Their other hand reached foward, and pulled out the white line of the charger cord. After a few moments of brief struggling, Vessel had finally managed to insert the charger within the slit of the phone.

They yawned again. And with a short thud, they fell upon their back on top of the bed. For a brief moment, their eyes stared up at the ceiling, the dark brown surface of it being made almost black within the shadows of the room. They were now within their sleep chambers, and could be able to drift off to a quiet slumber.

Midnights hour had already drawn. And with their eyes slowly closing shut, providing a black shield over their eyes for the brief rest they would take for merely a few hours until the dawn of morning eventually came—the last thought that peered into their mind was simply: "I hope tomorrow'll be better.. maybe I won't embarrass myself then.."

...

...

...

...

..there was then the sound of a ringing. A high-pitched, roaring ringing coming from all around.

Their eyes slowly opened. For where was such a noise? Was it but their own ears, and would the noise soon fade?

As they opened there eyes, there was not the darkness of their own room that layed there to greet them. But in the once dark shadows of the room, a cyan light that was so bright that ir was impossible to really see anything—had suddenly poured from outside of the window, and into the bedroom.

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E