#shut up!!!! the tile is clean and i mopped!!!

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

deep cleaned my bathroom. please clap

[transmunsons]

Eddie doing a deal with Steve at that picnic table after school. Eddie’s on his second senior year and pissed off about it. He’s trying to be cordial to Harrington, but he keeps remembering how the basketball team messes with his Hellfire kids.

So he up charges him, gets a little petty revenge; he’s sure Harrington can afford it anyway. The extra money can go toward Eddie’s T payments.

Something rustles in the woods and Harrington freezes, listening. Some kind of wet, furless animal jumps out of the trees in a blur.

Before Eddie can react, Harrington grabs his hand and pulls him up, heading to the closest sanctuary, the high school. Eddie’s freaking out. They run into the building, and Harrington pulls them into the janitors closet. He lunges to the back, reaching for a mop, but Eddie hears a wet skittering in the hallway and slams the door shut. Harrington whips around at the noise and the sudden darkness. Eddie holds his breath until the creature passes.

“What the fuck is out there?” He hisses at Harrington. The closet is cramped and the floor is littered with cleaning supplies. They're right up on top of one another in the small space. “This is crazy, this is so fucking crazy—”

“Calm down!” Harrington hisses back, closer than he expects, breath brushing against Eddie's cheek.

“Calm? Why are you calm, what's wrong with you?” Eddie's heart is pounding so hard he thinks it might burst out of his chest. He can't breathe. “We just almost got attacked by some fuckin' thing!” He flutters his hands to emphasize 'thing' though Steve probably can't see it in the dark. He smacks a shelf.

“I've seen something like it before, it's some kind of demogorgon.” Harrington says. Eddie splutters. The king of Hawkins High just made a DnD reference.

“How do you—that is not a demogorgon, Harrington! Demogorgons don't exist and even if they did, they don't look like that!”

“Hey, you asked and I answered. And my name is Steve.” He reaches around Eddie and tries the door handle. He's practically hugging him.

Steve swears and flicks on the light switch, illuminating the closet. “It's stuck.”

Eddie can see Steve's face properly now in all its glory. The overhead bulb gleams off Steve's stupidly long eyelashes. He almost wants to turn the light back off. His breathing is still restricted.

“Guess we're trapped in here until somebody comes by.” Steve says.

Eddie balks at the thought of being stuck with Steve in close quarters for so long. “No we're not, just gimme a second.”

Eddie shoves a hand up under his Dio shirt so he can pull his bindings a little away from his chest.

“What are you doing?” Steve sounds alarmed. His eyes are wide.

“Don't get excited,” Eddie winks because apparently he has a death wish, “just need to breathe. Get me a flathead screwdriver. The door opens inward.”

Steve snaps his fingers and points at him, “Right, the hinges!” He turns around to rustle through the shelves, which Eddie, uh, doesn’t mind. Goddamn.

He faces Eddie again with a flathead in his hands and a triumphant look. Eddie grabs it with a ‘thanks’ and goes to work prying pins out of the hinges. He can feel Steve watching him. Eddie gets the door loose and shoves it open, catching it so it doesn’t make noise.

Steve stalks past him wielding a mop like a weapon.

“Where are you going?” Eddie stage whispers.

Steve looks over his shoulder at Eddie, hair artfully falling out of place. “I’ve gotta find that thing, I’m not gonna let it roam the school.”

Eddie looks at Steve, looks back at the exit, looks down at the tile floor.

“Shit.”

He follows.

[lokisgoodgirl]

Supply Closet [Avenger!Loki x Reader]

A Link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: Just some filth in a supply closet tbh. (w/c 1.7k) Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Loki x female reader. Smut. Loki in a V-Neck, semi-exhibitionism, PV/Oral. Established relationship.

You looked over Steve’s shoulder as the door edged open and Loki’s face slid into view.

Steve turned, sighing as he saw the god’s chest sidle through the crack, his fingers curling around the inside handle.

"My sincerest apologies," Loki hummed unapologetically, "-but I need to borrow our darling Agent here. It’s urgent." Steve raised an eyebrow. "How urgent?" he said. "Quite urgent, I assure you.” said Loki gravely.

Another sigh rattled Steve’s chest. He fluffed the papers on the desk before scooting them towards you and leaning back in the chair.

“You heard the man-’ he barked, casting a perishing look over his shoulder. He pulled out his phone as you stood with mumbled apologies, saying you’d be back as soon as you could.

“Doubt it.” Steve said while his keypad beeped.

A smirk began to creep across the feigned innocence of Loki’s expression as you pressed your fingertips against his chest, edging him out the door. “What are you doing?” you hissed as Loki’s smirk grew wider. The door clicked shut behind you. He threw his hands up in remission, mischievous smile in full force. Your fingers grasped around the collar of his v-neck, pulling him into a kiss that knocked the air from his lungs. Loki’s tongue jammed into your mouth, wet kisses waxing and waning against the clash of teeth as you landed him against the wall with a thud. “I missed you,” he gasped as his fingers worked up the base of your neck. “It’s been thirty minutes-” you said, giving the back of his hair a sharp yank. ‘You said twenty-five.’

Loki hissed. His cock was hard and proud against his chinos, stretching in a thick column up to his hipbone and rubbing against your thigh. The v-neck clung like a second skin to the outline of his abdomen; flexing against the muscle with every shallow breath.

“This is a very compromising situation you’ve put me in, Agent-” he growled wet in your ear. You shot a glance to either side of the hallway. “Come on.” you said, sliding a hand down the thick meat of his forearm and linking his hand in yours.

Beside the meeting room there was a humble supply closet. You and Loki bundled inside, closing the door as softly as you could. A nervous giggle erupted from your mouth, immediately silence by Loki’s hungry kiss. He backed you against the shelves at the far end of the closet, catching a mop before it fell without even looking in its direction.

The cleaning supplies gave a brief rattle of discontent. Your pulled at his t-shirt, the quietly expensive material that clung so perfectly to every godly inch of him sliding through your fingers. You whined into his open mouth.

The god replaced his lips with a silencing finger. He kicked your feet apart with practiced skill; the finger pulling at your bottom lip as he sank to his knees.

Loki looked up from smouldering eyes beneath a dark line of lashes, brows peaking while his hands slid up trembling thighs.

"I want you to listen to me very carefully…" he said solemnly. His eyes flashed in the way they only did when he was interrogating a suspect. An enemy. You’d told him how you almost came when you’d worked a mission together recently and seen it in action. And now, it was time to play.

Loki’s voice was commanding even through a whisper. "You’re going to cum in my mouth, darling..." he said. "I want to be absolutely dripping. Drowning. Tasting you for days. I want you to ride my tongue like its your route to freedom. Do you understand?" You nodded mutely, hand clasped over your mouth as his thighs spread wider on the tiled floor.

"And then – I’m going to fuck you." Loki murmured menacingly, dragging a manicured fingernail against the plump of your thigh- "And you’re going to take all of me, everything I have to give. And you’re going to be quiet. Do you understand?" You nodded again, a small squeak of anticipation erupting. "I’m sorry…" you whispered, unable to contain a smile of utter glee. Loki frowned disapprovingly, but the side of his mouth twitched.

He hoisted one of your legs over his shoulder. Without another word, the god reached up and guided your hands to the back of his head, pressing them into his scalp. On instinct, they tangled in his curls as his tongue met your swollen clit. You let out a shuddering sigh.

The flat of his tongue reached to the back of your slit, already sticky and desperate for him. His nose rested on your mound, disappearing and dragging back on your clit with every breathy gyration of his jaw. Loki’s hand slid to your knee, steadying it from the shakes that had begun. The other pressed up against the back of your thigh near his face, opening more of you to the leisurely lap of his tongue. One of your hands left his hair, grasping at the shelf to the side. Your head fell back, unable to take the sight of the god of mischief spread on his knees; eating your pussy with his eyes closed and his brow creased in pleasure. You thrust against his tongue, each thick stripe and suck of his expert movements making you see stars.

"Loki…" you mouthed as quietly as you could manage as your head fell forward.

He suckled at your clit in worship, filthy moans bubbling in his throat. He opened his eyes, meeting your own as he flattened his tongue and withdrew it...making sure you were watching as he slid it back between your legs. Your grip on his hair tightened.

Loki’s cock was even bigger now- fat and straining against the chinos stretched across his thighs. It twitched for freedom while your hips began to shake; your fingernails scraping against the shelf. With a silent scream, you came shamelessly on his lapping tongue. Loki didn’t stop; easing the flat gently against your pussy as he held you steady to his face.

"Loki," you panted again, patting him on the shoulder. Loki shook his head. In seconds, the crest of another orgasm ran over you like a train; heavy puffs filling the air as you tried not to create a red alert.

"Oh my god, oh my god…" you slurred under your breath, flopping into Loki’s rising body as he stood. He kept your leg elevated, hooking it around his hip. You heard the pop of his trouser buttons, felt the dip of his knees as he hoisted himself free.

"Be a good girl for me, Agent." Loki whispered with a wolfish smile. Hair fell around his face, strands sticking to the glisten coating his lips and chin. You kissed him in response, sucking his bottom lip between your teeth while your arms slid over his shoulders. Loki growled. He dragged his heavy cock between your folds, coating it. "Quiet." he ordered calmly, before bottoming out with a single thrust. It lifted you from the floor. Bottles rattled on the shelf behind, knocking into one another. Loki’s hand steadied one about to fall, his fingers gripping against the shelf when he was done. His hips lilted against your core with the tiniest of movements; stretching your cunt the way he always did. One of his pretty little staggered moans fluttered over your skin. And then, he began to thrust. Loki’s grip tightened on your bare calf, sinking into the soft flesh as he bottomed out again and again. Your fingernails dug deeper into his shoulders, mounds meeting with every fuck between an obscene squelch. The scent of your cum on his mouth with every increasingly heavy breath made you clench, the t-shirt tangling beneath your grasping fingers at his back. You pulled the neckline down, sucking against his chest as his head fell back. Loki’s teeth were gritted to the ceiling, shadows carved into his cheekbones under the single fluorescent light that hung as witness. With every nailing buck of his hips, air was knocked from your lungs. But you kept your word – you were quiet; internally screaming his name as Loki of Asgard fucked you against the bleach and paper towels.

His head fell forward, slutty strands of hair sticking to a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. The effort of restraint was getting to him too, it seemed.

‘Going to cum,’ he mouthed with slanted, subby brows. You nodded, mouth hanging open. Loki’s lips crashed to yours, a force of air pummelling down your throat as he groaned his thundering climax deep into your mouth. His hips shook, the bottles behind you tumbling together. There was a thick crunch as the shelf he was gripping splintered in two. Loki broke from your kiss, moist forehead pressed to yours. He was panting heavily, Norse curses coming jumbled in breathy croaks.

"Fuck…" he choked. You slid your palms up his cheeks, pushing the hair back from his face.

"At least I was quiet," you whispered. Loki chuckled, sighing against your cheek. "This is what you do to me, woman-" he hummed, carefully returning your leg to the floor. There was a delicious throb in your pussy as his cock slid free.

You paused the work of his hand as he attempted to return it to his underwear; crouching down and sucking the remnants of arousal from the tip. He squeezed it from the base, making a fresh pearl appear. You licked it, placing a lingering kiss on the tip and looking up at him as you did it. "Fuck." the god repeated quietly. The hard K lingered.

You caught a glimpse of yourself in a dingy mirror in the corner. Cheeks flushed, makeup smeared, hair...un-salvageable. "We can’t keep doing this, Loki.’ you said decisively. ‘Steve’s not stupid."

“You asked me to come and save you from your scheduled drudgery with Rogers, so I did.” He stepped closer, drawing his nose down your temple, placing a soft kiss at the edge of your ear. “I always will,” he whispered, “you know that.” He wasn’t just talking about the meetings.

"I didn’t think you’d wear the tight v-neck, Loki…" you mumbled, trying frantically to fix your hair into some semblance of non-fucked-outness. "You know what that thing does to me." "Perhaps next time, you can assign an outfit in my possession that does not provoke this reaction," Loki purred, sliding his hands around your hips.

He kissed your neck, slow and deep; working his lips into the curve. "Personally I cannot think of one..." he whispered coyly in your ear.

A/N. Just a little note to say that my posting schedule (such as it is) is dropping slightly (actually, it already has - but I like being structured, so here we are) I'm planning to post a oneshot every two weeks for the foreseeable, at least the next few months. This will most likely be a Wednesday, as per 🤗

So, Wednesday March 13th, Wednesday March 27th and so on.

I'm balls deep in a project which I am SO EXCITED ABOUT and it's taking up a lot of time (which is great, because it's fun!) but as you know, my Loki stories and little fantasies mean the world to me and I love being involved here, it makes me really happy, so that's also very important. This way, I can manage both♥️

I know there will be no complaints, I'm aware how lucky I am to have some of the kindest, sweetest readers around. I just wanted to solidify The Plan™️. I'm still here in between posting dates with my usual nonsense obv, no change there 🤣🕵️

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[bzurk]

what gets dirtier the more it cleans?

series masterlist:

cw: DUBCON, oral (f recieving), coersion

thursday, week one:

Thursday, with its date circled in red on your calendar, almost nauseates you. Still, with your bank account dangerously close to overdrawing once your credit card bill hits, you have little choice but to return to the mansion.

You arrive at two o’clock and close the garage door behind you this time, and the space is empty. No cars, no occupants. Your heart just about leaps from your chest with relief.

You’re in the middle of mopping the floors when you hear the rumbling of the garage door open. You freeze, instantly tense, eyes darting to the laundry room just past the kitchen where the entryway to the garage threatens to come flying open at any moment. You hear a car door shut, your breath quickening, and you consider your options. Whoever is home knows you’re there; your car is parked outside, and it’s three o’clock on a Thursday. You could hide, but not for long, especially if the new arrival is who you dread it to be.

Left with little else to do, you force yourself to continue mopping. The gentle swings of it are like a second-hand, ticking away the moments before your entire day is ruined. Swish… swish… swish…

Footsteps make themselves known against the cold, hard marble tiles of the entryway, the sound amplified in your panicked state. Each step only hammers one more nail into your metaphorical coffin.

And just like that, he’s there, filling the doorframe to the kitchen.

Price.

Your stomach swoops and relief washed over you like a wave. Price. It’s just Price. He doesn’t even spare you a look as he kicks off his shoes and heads straight for the fridge, opening it and grabbing a beer from the top shelf. His nonchalance is refreshing, offering a nod and a smile before taking a drink.

Swish… swish… swish… You’ll finish as fast as possible, get out of his hair.

As you cleaned, you couldn’t help but sneak glances at Price, marvelling at how different he seemed from the man you had met on Monday. The cold calculated gaze was still there, but it was tempered with a hint of weariness. You found yourself feeling a twinge of sympathy for him, despite your better judgment.

Price's presence, though imposing, is oddly comforting after the chaos of Monday. His calm demeanour and the way he simply goes about his business without making you feel like an inconvenience help to ease the knot of anxiety in your stomach. He leans against the counter, sipping his beer, and you notice the deep lines of fatigue etched into his face.

As you mop, you try to stay focused on your task, but curiosity gets the better of you. You steal glances at Price, noting the subtle differences in his demeanour. There's a weight to his movements, a heaviness that wasn't there before. He catches your eye once, and you quickly look away, pretending to concentrate on a particularly stubborn spot on the floor.

"You don’t have to look so scared," Price finally says, his voice breaking the silence. "I don’t bite."

You offer a nervous smile, unsure how to respond. "Just trying to get my work done, sir."

"John," he corrects, waving off the formality. "No need for all that 'sir' business."

"Okay, John," you say, testing the name on your tongue. It feels strange, but not entirely uncomfortable.

He takes another sip of his beer, studying you for a moment. "You did a good job on Tuesday. Never seen the place so shiny."

You pause, glancing up at him. "Thank you."

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound. "I’m impressed. This place can be a lot. I hope Simon didn’t give you any trouble.”

Simon, Simon, Simon. You nod, not trusting yourself to say more without your voice betraying your lingering nerves and fear. Price’s presence is a balm to the anxiety that had threatened to overwhelm you, but you can’t quite shake the memory of Simon’s smug face and the feel of his touch lingering on your skin, his taste on your tongue.

"Listen," Price says, his tone softening. "If you ever need anything, or if there’s a problem, don’t hesitate to come to me. Alright?"

"Alright," you reply, feeling a surprising surge of gratitude. It’s a small reassurance, but it means the world in a place that had so quickly become a source of stress and fear. “Alright… I might take you up on that, sir- John.”

He finishes his beer and sets the can on the counter, giving you a final nod before heading out of the kitchen. "I have some work to do first, so you finish up here and come find me, yeah?"

"Yes, John," you say, watching him go. As soon as he’s out of sight, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. The relief is palpable, and you take a moment to collect yourself before returning to your task.

Swish… swish… swish…

The rhythmic motion of the mop is soothing, helping to ground you. You focus on the floor, on the task at hand, and let the stress of the last few days melt away with each pass of the mop. Price’s words echo in your mind, a small beacon of comfort in an otherwise tumultuous week.

He said to come to him if there’s a problem, he seemed so genuine, but can you really tell him about Simon? About his own housemate, ex-teammate? What if it makes things worse? What if Simon finds out you told? The mere thought of Simon's reaction sends a shiver down your spine. Let alone how John would react. Would he demand the money back? Blame you? Fire you?

You take a deep breath and try to focus on the task at hand, but it’s no use. The encounter with Simon on Tuesday haunts you, and you can’t shake the feeling of his eyes on you, his touch on your skin. Price’s reassurance was genuine, though. Maybe he really can help. You need this job.

As you finish mopping the floor, you glance towards the hallway where Price disappeared. Your heart pounds in your chest, a mixture of fear and determination. You’ve never been good at asking for help, but this situation is beyond what you can handle alone. Simon's presence is a dark cloud hanging over your every move, and you need to find a way to dispel it.

Swish… swish… swish…

You wring out the mop and set it aside, the decision solidifying in your mind. You need to talk to Price. You need to tell him about Simon, about the fear that grips you. With trembling hands, you tidy up the cleaning supplies and make your way to the hallway.

Each step feels like a monumental effort, but you push forward, driven by the hope that Price can help. You follow the the hallway to the office at the end of the hall. The door is ajar, and you can see him sitting at a desk, papers strewn about. He looks up as you approach, his expression softening when he sees you.

"Finished already?" he says, setting aside the documents and covering them under a manilla folder.

"Yes," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. "I’ve, um, finished all of today’s tasks, so- so I can just leave, if you don’t have time."

Price’s brows furrow, concern etching into his features. He gestures for you to come in and sit down. You close the door behind you and take a seat, your heart racing. This is it. No turning back now.

He stands from behind his desk and comes around to the other chair in front of it, turning the heavy piece of furniture until it’s perpendicular to you. The sound of its legs scraping against the wooden floor fills the silence. He sits down, his presence commanding yet comforting. Up close, you notice the fine lines etched around his eyes, the subtle signs of weariness that weren’t as apparent before. His beard, neatly trimmed, frames a face that’s both stern and kind, a dichotomy that makes you feel both safe and slightly intimidated.

Price’s eyes, a piercing blue, lock onto yours with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away. There’s a depth to them, a lifetime of experiences and stories hidden behind that calm exterior. He’s dressed in a simple, yet elegant manner, dark slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

The room is silent except for the faint ticking of an antique clock on the wall, each second amplifying the weight of the moment. The atmosphere is dense, charged with the unspoken tension of what you’re about to reveal. You can feel the steady thump of your heart, each beat echoing in your ears as you try to steady your breath.

His palm lands on your knee and you jolt. His eyes narrow further, and his hand squeezes for a moment before backing off. He leans in further, elbows resting on his knees, and hunched over he’s eye-level with you, sympathetic, earnest.

“Look at me, love.”

You hadn’t even realised your eyes had screwed shut, your breathing rapid and your fingers curling against the armrests.

“Breathe, alright? Deep breaths f’me. Can you do that?” His voice is silky smooth, rumbling and deep, but it doesn’t carve into your chest like Simon’s does, whittling down your ribs. Price’s voice is soft, rounded, gentle, but it’s so confident and authoritative that you have no choice but to listen. His voice is an enveloping blanket, warm and disarming, but you know it has the potential to become suffocating. “It’s just you n’ me, love.”

You don’t know if that’s comforting or not.

You yelp loudly when you feel your chair move, grinding against the floorboards, and your eyes flash open to take in John’s hands around the armrests, easily turning your entire chair to face him, the display of sheer strength enough to force your brain to pause.

Gently, he guides your shaking hands into his, his skin warm and calloused, but it is a comforting heat, a reassuring touch. He slowly uncurls your fingers from the armrests when your breathing evens back out, his grip firm but not crushing.

“Now, what’s gotten you so spooked?” His voice is a low rumble in the quiet room, and you feel yourself open up under his touch, his thumb gently brushing back and forth over your knuckles.

Here goes nothing, you think, glancing away and back. You can’t find it in yourself to meet his eyes. “It’s... It’s about Simon.”

His thumb, stroking back and forth, doesn’t pause. A metronome, so calm and unfailing, a direct contrast to your heart that feels like it’s flailing about in your chest. He nods for you to continue and gives your hands a comforting squeeze.

“I would like it if he wasn’t in the house when I’m here.”

Price’s eyes narrow, his grip on your hands tensing ever so slightly. He doesn’t say anything, and the silence that follows is suffocating. You can practically hear your heart thudding in your ears, the ticking of the clock on the wall, and even the buzzing of a fly by the window seems to reverberate off the walls. He’s going to fire me, you think as dread sinks like lead in your stomach, replacing all other feelings.

“I-I mean, I just don’t feel... safe around him?” you blurt out, tone lilted up at the end like a question, and he raises an eyebrow at you. You’re digging a deeper hole for yourself - your grave, perhaps.

“Simon’s a big man, love, I know that he can seem intimidating, but I promise you he means no harm,” he finally speaks, and you begin to shake again, crossing and uncrossing your legs and nudging his in the process. You don’t want to explain why you’re afraid of him, you want to hope that he will just listen to your one request.

“No, I- he-”

“Want me to have a chat with him? You can come on another day if you’d like to, doesn’t have to be Tuesdays and Thursdays, but he’s home most days, love. Doesn’t like leaving the place.”

Tears are blurring your sight now, and you can’t stop the way you hunch in on yourself, palms slick and sweaty and he just holds onto you tighter. You don’t want to say it, to admit it, to confront what Simon had done to you, but the air is suffocating and Price is just staring at you, waiting for you to open up and you have no out.

“He paid me for a blowjob.” You blurt out frantically, and ice rushes through your veins.

The weight of your confession lingers, the fear you’ve been carrying now laid bare between you. The atmosphere is charged with an electric tension, a mix of dread and relief that leaves you feeling exposed and fragile. The rich scent of leather and aged paper fills your lungs, a stark contrast to the tumultuous emotions swirling within you.

You can feel the warmth of Price’s hands, a steadying presence that cuts through the fear. The stillness of the room is profound, the kind of quiet that demands to be felt, not just heard. Every creak of the wooden floor, every distant sound from the outside world feels muted, insignificant compared to the gravity of this moment.

Price doesn’t speak immediately, allowing the silence to stretch just long enough for you to catch your breath. His calm, composed demeanour is a balm to your frayed nerves, and you find yourself clinging to his presence like a lifeline. The soft, rhythmic ticking of the clock is the only thing filling the frozen silence, and five audible ticks pass before your brain restarts.

He’s calm. Why is he calm? Did he know already? Does he hate you, is he disgusted? No, no, he’s still holding onto you, tightly- why won’t he say something?

“Please, John,” you plead, the tears spilling over your cheeks, and you do not doubt that you look pathetic to him. “I need this job, please. I’m sorry I said anything-”

“Was it not enough?”

His words hang in the air like a sharp, unexpected knife, slicing through the momentary calm. The shock hits you first, a jolt that sends a shiver down your spine. Your breath catches in your throat, and the tears momentarily stop, your mind racing to make sense of his question.

The room seems to constrict around you, the walls pressing in with an oppressive weight. The silence stretches again, but this time it’s different, thick with a new kind of fear and unease.

Price’s face is unreadable, his expression of sympathy and care a mask that betrays nothing of his thoughts. The warmth of his hands no longer feels reassuring but instead adds to the confusion swirling within you, instilling a new fear, and they almost resemble shackles in your mind, chaining you to this moment.

You try to process his question, the implication behind his words twisting your gut with anxiety. Was what not enough? What did he mean? Did he think you were exaggerating? The uncertainty gnaws at you, leaving you adrift in a sea of doubt and fear.

The silence is excruciating, each passing moment stretching into an eternity. Your mind races, replaying the confession, trying to find where you might have gone wrong. The fear that you’ve made a terrible mistake claws at you, a suffocating weight that makes it hard to breathe.

Price’s steady gaze feels piercing now, as if he can see straight through you, past your defences and into the heart of your fear. You feel exposed, laid bare under his scrutiny, the fragility of your position starkly illuminated. The room feels colder, the rich scent of leather and paper now tinged with the acrid bite of panic.

You swallow hard, trying to muster the strength to speak, but the words fail you, your mouth opening and closing dumbly.

“What he paid you. Was it not enough?”

The world comes rushing back in and slams into you like a wave. The cogs of your mind become violently unstuck and your lungs are full of air again and the afternoon sunlight is too bright streaming across the polished wooden floor.

The security blanket that was Price’s presence is now tangled around your limbs, and you’re choking. The hypoxia is making you stupid, rendering you immobile.

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” You blubber, the taste of tears salty on your lips.

“What’s the problem, love? What’d Simon do?” You can feel the bones and joints of your hands creak under his grip when he squeezes again. “He didn’t pay you enough? Was he too rough? Did he force you?” He hums, deep and rumbling in his throat, the growl of a predator before his brows jump and he sighs, “Bet he didn’t return the favour, did he? Selfish bastard.”

The disbelief of it all is enough to make your head spin. You can’t believe the twisted meaning he’s just given to your confession.

“N-No- That’s not-”

“Think I get it now,” he says as his back straightens and his arms reach out, wrapping around your forearms with a gentle but firm grip and tugging until you lurch forward, and he easily tugs you into his lap, his hands trailing down your torso to rest against your thighs. “You’re just pent up, aren’t you, love?” His actions only further muddle your thoughts, as he cradles you like a child against his chest, rocking you gently back and forth.

You try to pull away, the panic rising again but his grip tightens. The way his fingers dig into your thighs is possessive and tight and it stings but not nearly as much as the look in his eyes when you finally meet his stare again. There’s something feral there that you’ve never seen before and it makes your blood run cold enough for gooseflesh to break out on your skin.

“Don’t have to be so scared. You just say the word and I’ll let you leave, don’t have to come back again. But I know you talked earlier about how you really need this job... You stay, be good, and I’ll take care of you.”

He didn’t need to say it outright. You know what he means, the threat underlining his words.

You swallow the bile that creeps up your throat and try to focus on anything but the way his hands are roaming so close to places they shouldn’t be. You can feel him against your hip now that you’ve stilled. Your mind is still reeling from the sudden shift in the conversation, trying desperately to make sense of it all. You stay, you let him do what he wants, you keep getting paid. A man, a very wealthy and attractive man, offering to ‘take care of you’ and pay you handsomely for it? You’d be an idiot to pass it up.

So why do you feel so gross?

“Y-Yes,” you mumble, cursing yourself for stuttering but you can’t help it when his grip tightens around your thighs and he hums again. “Please take care of me, John.”

His nose presses against the underside of your jaw, whiskers tickling and you shiver, “Good girl.” So quiet, so close, his voice is a growl. His hands begin to inch their way up your thighs, and you shudder, closing your eyes. “Takin’ such good care of the place, let me return the favour.” His hands deftly unbutton your slacks, tugging at the waistband until you lift your hips for him, rolling them down your thighs until they fall around your calves.

You let out a small sound of surprise, but he quickly quiets you with a gentle shush, firmly grabbing your thigh and pulling it open until the stretch aches, his other hand coming to rest on your hip as he guides you to turn in his lap, squeezing the flesh of your waist when you settle your back to his chest, curved and nestled into him. You can feel the strong thrum of his heart against your back, the way his chest rises and falls, so steady and confident compared to the way your heart flutters like a hummingbird. It’s calming, a metronome, forcing your breaths to align with his.

“Relax,” he mutters, and you shudder again as you feel him press his lips to your ear, his breath hot against your earlobe and his beard scratchy and coarse. His voice is almost a purr, low and sensual, and you feel yourself clench around nothing.

He must feel the way your breath catches, realizing at the same time that you do that you’re enjoying this. His hands skimmed up your stomach and over your breasts, squeezing and kneading them through your blouse like he owned them, like he had every right in the world to touch you like this. In a way, he does- your livelihood cradled in his hands. He noses along your throat, following the pulse of your heart down until he reaches the space where it meets your shoulder, pressing a feather-soft kiss against the skin. A long breath rushes from your lips, and he hums against your skin, a sound you feel more than hear - the vibration against your skin, the rumble in his chest against your back.

His mouth on your neck distracts you from his hands, easily undoing the second and third buttons of your shirt until your chest is bared to the cool air. His hands find their way underneath the fabric, and you squirm in his lap as he runs his fingers under your bra and cups your breasts in his calloused grip, his thumbs circling your nipples and the feeling is so foreign you continue to writhe atop his thighs until he groans behind you. Your breathing hitches as he rolls a nipple between his fingers, and you can’t believe how turned on you are by this, by him.

“That nice?” he teases, a knowing lilt to his voice as he pinches the other nipple between splayed thumb and forefinger. You gasp again at the sensation and arch into his touch. He tugs at the band and pulls it down until your boobs tumble free, held up by the material. “Anyone touched you here?”

He punctuates his question with a harsh pinch to your nipples, and you squeal, “No one!”

“Do you?” He purrs, giving your nipples a break to knead at the flesh, his left arm sliding across your sternum like a bar, holding you against him as he squeezes your opposite breast. His other hand trails down, splaying over your ribs, fingers drumming impatiently against your skin.

“Some- hah- sometimes,” you pant, hands resting against his arms where they surround you in some twisted facsimile of affection.

His hand leaves your ribs and you whine, but it only moves lower, down your stomach, skirting dangerously close to where you ache. He dips a finger past the waistband of your underwear, resting at the apex of your thighs. “What about here?”

“John-”

“Tell me, sweetheart. Do you touch yourself? Right here?” He pushes his index finger between your folds and you moan even as you deny it, hips bucking against his hand. A bright trace of pleasure jolts through you as a result, and your eyes flutter for a moment as you try to resist the urge to repeat the motion.

“Y- no, I don’t-”

He chuckles, “Liar.”

He groans at the warm heat of you, the little flutter of invitation that greets him. It’s enough to startle a wanting little moan from you, craning your head a little, unintentionally baring the bare flesh of your neck to him. John’s mouth presses against the skin there and lets his tongue go flat over the spot he’s seized before he seals his lips over the spot and sucks. His finger, coated in slick, drags back up until he can again tease your clit, circling the nub until your entire body is tense with need. The wavering, licking flame of lust inside you blazes brightly at the sensation, shuddering as the heat pulses low in your core, slick and warm and empty. You moan as he pushes a second digit inside of you and then pulls them out, repeating the motion until your hips are rocking against his hand of their own accord, your ass grinding against Price’s cock below you.

“That’s it, love, right there.” He hisses in your ear, sucking another bruise onto your skin before hooking his chin over your shoulder, watching the way your panties bulge and move with his hand, a dark, wet patch obvious, highlighting the movements of his fingers. “You’re so wet for me, aren’t you? All f’me?” His voice is like honey and yet it grates against your sensibilities, grating against your every instinct. You want to hate him for this, for reducing you to a quivering pile of need in his lap. But you can't seem to find it in yourself to care anymore. All you can think about is his fingers inside of you, the way his touch sets your body on fire, how good it feels. His fingers reach so much deeper than yours, calloused and rough and thick.

"John," you moan, voice rough with lust as he withdraws his fingers, leaving you aching and empty.

"Not yet," he teases, sucking another hickey onto the column of your neck. "We're not done yet." You whine as he helps you up off of his lap, but any protest that might have passed your lips dies on your lips as he stands and crowds himself against you, hands squeezing your hips and pushing until you stumble, ankles tied together with your pants, and you hiss in pain as your ass collides with the cold wood of his desk.

"Shit!" You exclaim, more shocked than hurt, but his hands are already tugging at your underwear, thumbs hooking in the sides and pulling them down until they're resting with your pants around your ankles. John takes a moment to run his eyes up and down your body, pausing on your breasts and between your legs, before he sinks to his knees. “What- what are you doing?”

“Said I’d take care of you, didn’t I?” He hums, lifting your legs until they rest on his shoulders, his head nestled between your thighs, eye-level with the place your body weeps for him. It's all the warning you get before he pushes his face into you, mouth dropping open to let his tongue lull out. Licking a scorching stripe from hole to clit. And, oh—

Your head lolls forward, chin to your chest, eyes slipping closed at the liquid feeling between your thighs. The white-hot sensation of his tongue laving across your slit. A needy gasp tears from your throat. Your hips buck. John clamped down on your body, leaving deep dents in your thighs. His wide, flat tongue strokes from bottom to top in languid laps. When he reached the tender nub at the top, you jolted again. He paused and swirled over the area a second time.

And then his lips are on you, his tongue lapping at your folds with enthusiasm that borders on animalistic. You make a noise in the back of your throat, awful and wet and choked. You can’t seem to take a fucking breath around all the hoarse cries coming out of your throat. It honestly sounds like you’re sobbing, and you wouldn’t be surprised if you lifted your hand to find tears forming in your eyes. The feeling of his tongue inside of you is good. Beyond words. It slips in more. The full length. You keen, arching, hips flexing, jerking against his mouth. He lets you ride his face like this, fucking your hole with his tongue, nose glued tight to your clit. You cry out, hands flying to his head, nails digging into his scalp as he teases you with abandon. Trembling legs clenched around his shoulders, burning him in a vice grip of quivering thighs.

His fingers find their way back inside of you, curling and twisting in time with the movements of his tongue, and it’s enough to bring you back to the edge. His tongue leaves you, sliding up your seam until it cups your clit. Laves over it. He lifts his chin, seals his mouth over you and sucks. Your nails score tracks down his scalp as you come apart in his mouth, pussy clenching around his fingers as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you like an ocean tide.

“Such a good fucking girl,” he pulls up your panties from between your legs before standing, still between your butterflied legs, and now that the ringing in your ears had quieted, you can hear him, the wet schlick of his hand around his cock - the hand he was using on you. “Fuck,” he groans, wedging his cock beneath your panties until the wet, hot head rests just above your clit, further darkening the wet spot you’d left. His hand continues its up and down on his cock, the movement jostling it against your still tender clit and releasing a pathetic, overstimulated whine from your throat.

“‘s too much, John,” you mewl, your hands slapping against his thighs weakly, and he growls again, deep in his throat, before a splash of heat coats your pussy and stomach, soaking into your panties.

He smears the head of his cock through his spend, painting it into your skin, and you yelp when he taps it against your clit one last time before pulling out from your ruined panties, tugging them up and into place again. His cum is warm against the lips of your pussy, and you can’t hold back the wince at the feel of the slick mess.

He holds down your thighs as he steps out from their embrace, a smug smile stretching his cheeks and crinkling his blue eyes, the cat that got the cream. He wiggles your pants up your legs again, over your hips, zips the fly and buttons them up, grabbing a handful of your ass before stepping back and slumping into one of the chairs. You refuse to move, to acknowledge the combined mess pressed into your skin. You’ve never been more glad for your black wardrobe.

John must see the disgust etched onto your features, and he just laughs, huffy and airy and quiet, “Couldn’t make another mess for you to clean, love.” You take a hesitant step toward the door, eyeing John, who seems to relish in your discomfort. “Best get yourself home before the boys return, eh? Wouldn’t want ‘em asking too many questions.”

You jolt at his words and hurry to the door, pointedly ignoring his laughter and the way your skin slides against your panties.

“Don’t forget to check your pockets when you make it home, sweetheart,” John cooes, and you make sure to slam his office door loudly once you pass the threshhold, but you can still hear him call after you. “Use it to buy something cute for next time!”

[dreamer-after-dark]

I could see Wally Darling being the kind to sneak into your room/house when you're away and steal your panties/underwear. You figure that maybe the washing machine is eating them at first until a pair you were wearing yesterday disappeared from the top of the pile.

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Side note, I have had my panties stolen before! Anyway, here you go ٭(•﹏•)٭

Part Two

Word count: 1,945

Wally is shameless.

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[Y/N]

It happened again.

[Julie]

What??

[Sally]

Panty thief struck again?

[Julie]

Twice in one week???

[Y/N]

It's not a thief! I refuse to believe it!

[Sally]

How many pairs does that make now? 12?

[Julie]

Close! 15!

[Y/N]

17

[Sally]

I fail to understand why this can't be the doing of a petty thief?

[Julie]

Y/N!

[Julie]

Y/N are you there?

[Julie]

Where did they go? :/

[Sally]

Alas, my darling Juliet! Tis I alone that remains here

[Wally]

Hello

[Sally]

Hi, Wally.

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Seventeen pairs of your best fitting panties have been lost, lost forever. Never to be found with the same elasticity or fit. You stared out into the empty street where the sun parted between leaves. You were too broke to afford replacing them and so you wandered this world commando when the pants offered enough coverage and comfort. Or even if it didn't you still had no choice should you plan around an inviting evening out.

With a huff you adjusted your basket against your hip, your unfolded clothes flopping a bit. The sunshower surprised you as it pelted against the non opening glass doors of the building's laundromat. After double checking the seats and dryer you headed for the opened door just off to the side. You entered a gray stairwell. Beneath the staircases was a collection of cleaning supplies, a yellow mop bucket, and a locked cabinet.

Your slippers echoed through the stairwell as you jogged up. The door to your floor was propped open with a rock. You used your free hand to open the door fully and slide the rock inside. You pushed it to the side with your foot not wanting anyone to trip over on it like you had. Your phone smacked your face leaving a nasty bruise under your eye. It still hurts to remember.

The door shut behind you with a rusty squeak. Your slippers slid lightly against the tiled floors until you made it to your apartment door. The handle gave way and you were thrilled to find it still open. Music boomed from somewhere within one of the rooms. The smell of weed wafted around mixing with the chilled air feeding in from the windows.

You inhaled deeply, shaking loose your worries. As you walked down your hallway you passed the open bathroom where giggling and hushed whispers could be heard. Julie and Sally were doing their makeup together, facetiming you assumed. Further was the kitchen where you heard the clinking of silverware against wood. The voices from the bathroom quieted.

Wally was stirring a cup of coffee when he spotted your annoyed expression, "Hello, Y/N. Are you alright?"

"Another pair off and vanished," you roll your eyes with a glance at your basket, "It's getting annoying."

"I can see how annoying that could get. Do you think they've all been stolen?"

"No! No. I'm sure it'll sort itself out. Have you got anymore coffee, Wally?"

Wally hands you the mug he was holding, "This one's yours, honeycrisp."

You thanked him as he turned away to prepare his own. His hair cascaded like waves down his back. The vibrant blue shining below the lights. Wally was amazing at coloring his hair. You turn away and head down the hallway where two doors faced each other. You entered the left one silently praying thanks to the great nothingness beyond for leaving it unlocked for you.

You placed your laundry on your bed. You would fold the clothes, but your keys needed to be found. You looked around your slightly cluttered room. The tapestry on your window was tied up letting in the sun. The smell of wet earth rose up as the rain thundered down. By the window was a desk. It was stained with paint and ink. On top was a journal, several colors of paint, and a large bottle of water. A mug with several drying paint brushes propped up within say atop the bookshelf.

Small plushies were scattered among the shelves and on the floor. Your bed was next to the wall by the door. The blanket was a pile on the floor next to the end of the bed. Larger plushies were squished from your tossing and turning. Pillows were crammed between the bed frame and wall. Eyes landing on your newly added laundry basket made you realize cleaning your entire room would help you find your missing keys.

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Hi, Sally.

Hi, Julie.

[Sally]

Wally, you wouldn't happen to know about the Boudoir Bandit?

[Wally]

No.

[Julie]

Maybe it's one of the other tenants!

[Sally]

Nefarious tenant!

[Y/N]

It has to be the machine

Can't be anything else

[Sally]

Perish the thought! The Panty Snatcher must be caught and brought to justice!

[Julie]

Perish the thought!

[Wally]

Perish the thought!

[Y/N]

Who could it be?

[Sally]

I see you've come around.

[Julie]

It could be anyone!

Any of us!!

How scary!!!

[Wally]

It could be anyone?

[Sally]

List of suspects:

Sally

Julie

Y/N

Poppy

Wally

Howdy

Barnaby

Home

[Y/N]

Me??

Why me??

[Julie]

It's a crazy world, Y/N!

We cannot rule out anyone!

Not even you

[Sally]

Julie is exactly right, darling Y/N! We simply cannot rule you out!

[Wally]

I would hate to see you go without, neighbor.

[Y/N]

Ok :/

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You smirked at the messages filling up your screen. Julie's energetic texts became shorter and you could imagine her hot pink nails tapping against the screen of her phone. Sally's text became increasingly verbose in response. Wally was lurking as he always did, chiming in here and there.

The phone slipped into your pocket as music filled the already tidied room. Your keys had been found while sweeping underneath your desk. Along with a few scrunchies and a button, your heavily outfitted keys were dragged out. With such a clunky set up you wondered how you ever lose it to begin with. Work keys, house keys, anime characters, pepper spray, and a stuffed animal. All of it designed to be eye-catching and hard to lose.

You flopped onto your bed opting for rest. Your ultimate goal had been completed and you were horribly drained. Your mind drifted back to the mounting loss of your panty collection. Solid color boxers, high waisted panties, boy shorts, thongs, sick day panties. All of it is gone! Sally was right to call it nefarious, but believing that you were being specifically targeted was a level of fear you wanted to avoid. You turned off your notifications for the next hour and returned to cleaning up.

Soon your room was clean, your clothes put away, and the bathroom was finally open. The glow of the full moon was bright and brilliant tonight. Leaving your desk you grabbed a change of clothes, sans panties, and a towel. You stripped down leaving all of your clothes inside the now empty basket. Stepping out you noticed the room across from you was quiet. There was a note taped to the door reading:

Out for the next three days! Rent is on the table!

Sally and Julie were heading out to New York for a concert. All the more to enjoy a long, luxurious shower. Wally was in the room down the opposite hall. His room was the only one on that side. He had the biggest room in the apartment for all of his art equipment. Aside from his bed you couldn't tell it was his bedroom. The last you had been inside it was filled with disturbing personal works. Each one felt delicate and haunting. Completely unlike his pleasant and sweet demeanor.

The music was still going though not as loud. It was mellow and dragging. You could hear the bubbling of his bong. The sound made your heart race. You quickly stepped into the bathroom. The thick glass ceiling above always excites you. It was such a crummy apartment, but it had its ups with this being one of them.

Julie's stickers covered the thick sides of her movable mirror. Her makeup bag was left open covered in eye shadow dust and glitter. A pack of eyelashes were left open on the top of the bag.

A little smudged message was left on the mirror written in red lipstick, reading:

You're beautiful, starshine!

Julie was a sweetheart. The rain had stopped, leaving a silence in the tall bathroom. With a turn of the faucet cold water rushed out from the shower head. The patter of water against ceramic filled the room. You stepped under the stream shivering as the droplets thudded against your skin.

Stepping out from the shower you dried yourself off and slipped into your change of clothes. You felt rejuvenated! As you stepped out of the bathroom, a voice called for you.

"Hi, Y/N. Would you like a snack?" Wally was standing in the kitchen with reddened eyes.

"What are you having?" You couldn't help but smile at the sight.

"A cut up apple. I couldn't think of anything better," he giggled, "I have a few extra?"

You accept the offered apples, "Thanks. I'm sure I forgot to eat with all the other things I also forgot."

"I'm sorry that's happening, it must be tough. Julie did say you were left without much to wear."

You groaned imagining Julie explaining things in detail as she usually would, "I'd rather not make it into a thing. It's just so weird to even consider what they're saying."

"I have a pack of unopened boxers. They may not fit perfectly, but they should help?" He smiled completely at ease.

"That's.. Ok. I couldn't accept that." As weird as it was to have your underwear stolen, Wally offering you some was even weirder.

"Oh, Ok. I'll hold it until you're ready." Wally walked off into his room leaving you in the kitchen.

You heaved a sigh as you leaned against the counter. The apple slices crunched as you bit into it. Each one refreshing and cold. You rinsed the plate in the sink and switched off the lights. You returned to your room, but stopped just short of the door.

It was cracked open. You were sure the door shut behind you when you stepped out. With a gentle push you opened the door further. When seeing nothing out of place you stepped in and shut the door behind you listening for that click of metal against wood. When you heard it you let go of the doorknob and hung up your towel to dry.

You looked around your room again looking over every little detail. The still tidy room was just as you left it. Plushies put away, paints organized, bed made, and the floor clean. Your eyes glanced over the basket on the floor and your heart skipped. Your head swiveled back as your eyes scanned it once more. Leaning down you picked at the shirt and pants shaking them out. A pair of socks fell from the pant leg, but nothing else. With dread it dawned on you. The panties you had worn not even an hour ago were missing.

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[Y/N]

Wally

[Wally]

Yes?

[Y/N]

Where are they?

[Wally]

Where is what?

[Y/N]

My panties

[Wally]

Stolen, I presume?

[Y/N]

By you

Where are they?

[Wally]

You're welcome to check my room, Y/N

Do you want to come in?

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You heard the music dip low in the furthest room. You heard the door click as the knob turned. Your heart pounded in your chest as you heard him chuckle from deep within his room.

[a-living-canvas]

TW : Characters death, not very safe for your pretty mind, slight gore

!!!!!!!

Glued Intestines

Stubborn, little disgusting thing. Always disobeyed me. Letting their defiance get in the way.

Whumper dragged Whumpee by their ankle, ignoring those soft muffled voice that were pleading to them. "Shut up, pet. "

They brought Whumpee to their room. Whumpee was blindfolded so they couldn't see anything other than the pure darkness. There's something about darkness and Whumper that made them shudder. 

Whumper laid Whumpee across the floor. They walked around for a bit and picked up something. Their silence only made Whumpee's heart beat even faster before the sound of their footsteps approaching them again.

"You know, Whumpee, I need a new floor mop. The old one is broken. The stupid strings of yarn kept falling off. How inconvenient, right? I really need to clean my dusty floor right now."

Whumpee just listened silently, shifting slightly on their position. They heard another sound. The sound of Whumper mixing the mop detergent with water, swirling around in the bucket. 

"Come to think of it, I have kept you here with me for the past 3 years already. Maybe it's time to replace you."

Whumpee beamed up slightly at that. Going home? Whumper would release them? Finally! Finally! After all the pain and suffering, they would—

"This would be painful."

…What?

Whumper lifted Whumpee's legs and held it out in the air. They picked the wooden stick and without a warning, thrusting it into Whumpee's rectum. Whumpee flinched, pain immediately coursing through their body as they screamed through the gag, their body shaking and wriggling uncontrollably as Whumper kept pushing the stick inside them.

"Mmhh! Mmhhh!!"

"Shh…"

Whumper said soothingly, not caring as Whumpee's writhing and squirming under them. When they were done, Whumper tied Whumpee's ankles around the pole, humming softly while doing so. 

As if that wasn't enough suffering for Whumpee, Whumper used their whole strength and lifted Whumpee's body, making their head hanging upside down. Gently, they guided them to the bucket and lower Whumpee's head inside the foamy liquid. 

Soaking their long hair, Whumper pulled them up and started mopping the floor. Their movement was gentle, moving Whumpee's body back and forth. They could still hear their whimpers and cries, but soon they would die. 

And they would be nothing but a literal human-mop to Whumper.

"You are not cleaning well enough, pet."

Whumper commented, shaking their head in disappointment. "Could have done better in your last moment."

"Mmh…" 

Whumpee could feel themself getting weaker and weaker. It was so so painful. They hoped death wasn't as painful as this. They hoped it would be calm and peaceful and freeing. They wanted to be free.

They desperately did.

~

"Boss?" Henchman called out for Whumper, knocking the open door as Whumper's back facing him. They was moving the mop up and down in the bucket. Henchman felt dark aura surrounding him as he gulped nervously.

Something feels wrong

"Boss…? What are you—"

Whumper turned around to face Henchman as they gave a creepy smile to him. They let go of Whumpee's leg, making them fall into the bucket before their body stumbled backward to the floor. The water spilled across the tile, soaking the white carpet. 

Whumper smiled calmly, taking in the sight of horror in Henchman's pale face. They raised an eyebrow, smirking teasingly,

"Are you sure you want to know what I'm doing, Henchman?"

~

@nothing-but-glitter-and-lashes

[wzrd-wheezes]

Our Band - Remus Lupin x Reader. Part 2.

AN - thank you for the love on the first part of this fic. I'm having a lot of fun writing it so let me know your thoughts and if you want more parts. Also, pls let me know if you want adding to the taglist for this fic :)

1.1k words.

Remus Lupin x Reader - Band AU

Part 1 Part 3

A few days had passed before Remus returned to the coffee shop. It was another rainy night when he came, thundering and storming outside. When he entered, the sound of his boots hitting the tiled floor echoed through the shop. The door swung shut behind him and a slight shiver ran through his body as he let out a sigh of relief. The coffee shop was empty, most of the tables clean with their chairs stacked up as the freshly mopped floor gleamed. Remus looked around the empty café, his eyes eventually landing on the counter. He sauntered over to it, leaning against it as his eyes fell on Y/N. 

“Late shift again?” he raised his eyebrows as he looked at her. Y/N nodded and turned round to make his drink, not even asking him what he wanted. She handed him the cup and he smiled smugly. 

“It’s cute how you remembered my order,” he smirked, “sorry, am I interrupting something? You don’t look particularly happy to see me.”  

“No, no not at all.” Y/N said, smiling at him, “I mean, I have just cleaned down so if you do make a mess then I will have to kill you.” 

“Oh, good to know I’ll be murdered,” Remus commented sarcastically, chuckling. He looked around the empty café, his hands going into his pockets.  

“So, can’t sleep again?” Y/N asked, her eyes wandered over his face. His jaw was covered in a light stubble and his hair fell messily into his eyes. He wore the same jacket as he did a few nights ago but this time Y/N noticed a few pin badges that were attached to the lapel. 

“Mhm. Why? Is my insomnia amusing to you?” he smiled, “Why are you still here?” 

“Well, I was planning on going home but then this really annoying guy came in and started bothering me,” she smiled playfully at him, untying her apron and folding it up on the counter. As she took it off, it dislodged a few pieces of her hair, causing them to fall in front of her face.  

“I’m not bothering you.” he took a sip of his coffee, “Just admit it, Y/N, you love it. You like it when I come in here and bother you. I’d put money on it being the highlight of your shift.” 

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Y/N said, her voice was flat, but she was smiling a little.  

“Ooh, hit a spot, did I? I know you’re a lot more into me than you let on. Just admit it, love. Give it up.”  

Y/N rolled her eyes at him and turned around, pretending to busy herself with something so she could hide the fact that her cheeks had turned hot. She didn’t know why Remus made her so nervous all of a sudden. He had been coming into the coffee shop for a few weeks now and he had never normally been this flirty with her. He would occasionally make the odd comment here and there and Y/N would shut him down straight away with a sarcastic quip or something. She told herself that she had no interest in the cocky man that came and bothered her most nights, but she sure did miss him on those nights that he didn’t come in. After all, flirting with him did make her shift go a bit faster as the coffee shop was awfully lonely at night.  

When she turned back around Remus had disappeared and she assumed that he had just gone home. She carried on closing down the coffee shop, eager to get home after her long shift. She restacked some chairs and wiped down the counter for the final time that night, humming under her breath as she worked. 

“Humming my song, Y/N?” Remus’s voice suddenly appeared behind her, making her jump, “You should be careful, this could definitely be considered flirting.” His lip curved up, his eyebrow raising a bit as he looked at her.  

“I - er – I thought you’d gone home.” she suddenly felt flustered, embarrassed that he’d caught her. 

“You listened to our music?” a grin was plastered on Remus’s face, he tapped his fingers on the counter, waiting for an answer. Y/N shrugged. 

“I said that I would the other night. I went to the record store down the street on my day off and had a listen,” she said cooly, “you guys are alright, you know?” 

“Alright? Y/N, we are more than alright, darling.” his voice edging towards cocky, as it often did, “We’re gonna be the biggest band in the world one day.” Y/N let out a snort of laughter and nodded playing along. 

“Your confidence is admirable, you know that?” she said, smiling at him, “but, seriously, I did really like it when I listened.” 

“Is that a compliment, Y/N? It sounded a lot like a compliment.” he feigned being shocked, “Thank you though” his voice a lot less teasing now, the cocky grin that usually lived on his face swapped out for a more genuine one. Remus turned around and walked over to where he had left his bag, unzipping it and taking something out. He handed it to Y/N and she took it in her hands. 

She looked at what he had handed her, a dark fabric bundle. She unfolded it carefully, feeling the soft fabric under her fingertips. He had given her a t-shirt, the fabric faded and the print on the front slightly cracked. The print across the front read “Marauders.” 

“Is this the same shirt you were wearing the other night?” she asked. Remus nodded. 

“I was planning on giving you the one that I’d been saving for Sirius but he’s such a fucking drama queen that he threw a tantrum,” he chuckled, “so you can have mine. After all, you said that it was arrogant of me to wear my own bands merch.” Y/N laughed and thanked him. “Try it on then.” 

Y/N obliged, slipping the t-shirt on over the top of her dress. When she looked back up at Remus, he was staring at her, his teeth sunk into his bottom lip. He reached back into his bag and took out a polaroid camera. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Taking a picture of you. Clearly, you’re my number one fan.” he smirked, “Now, smile.” 

He snapped a picture of her, waiting for it to print out. He was grinning at her as he shook it, waiting for it to develop. 

“Can I see?” Y/N requested, trying to sneak a look. 

“Nope.” Remus took his wallet out of his pocket and slipped the picture inside, “Anyways, I better be off, it’s getting late.” He winked at her as he walked towards the door. Y/N stood, frozen, and watched him depart. Just before the door swung shut behind him, Remus spun around and shouted to her. 

“Oh! Before I forget- wear that t-shirt on Friday!”  

“What’s on Friday?” 

“My concert of course.” 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Unsolicited 4

Warnings: bad self-thought/talk, bullying, insults, low self-esteem, money problems, more dark elements to come.

Promise, Lloyd will pop up again soon.

Wouldn’t mind some feedback! Lloyd was driving me nuts so I had to do it. Thank you in advance 💜

You don't say anything. Instead, you let it eat away at you. Your days end in tears, your few hours to yourself spent sleeping until your next shift. Hours worked for what? The watch is gone and Colin's lost in his new job. With his ex.

How do you say it? How can you put your suspicions into words without making them true? If you accuse him and he hasn't done anything, he'll only be angrier.

On your sole day off, you sleep all of two hours and drag yourself off the couch. It isn't even noon as you tidy the house, sweeping, mopping, vacuuming, dishes, toilet, floor to ceiling spotless.

The last hours of the afternoon are spent cooking in anticipation of Colin's return. To make up for the night more than a week ago that it all went rotten. An apology. An act to show him you're worth something. You can take care of him. You love him!

You change into clean clothes and check yourself in the mirror. You do your best to look human. You put on the necklace he gave you all those years ago.

You keep the chicken warm in the oven and set lids over the broccoli and creamy fettuccine on the burners. You pace the kitchen tiles and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

6:30.

6:58.

7:14.

The chicken is dry, the noodles bland and limp, the beans overcooked.

8:06.

You scrape it all into the bin and turn off the lights. You run a bath and cry as the tub fills and you strip away your clothes. You check your phone as you sink into the hot water. Nothing.

You put the phone on the flat edge of the tub and lay back, closing your eyes as you try to enjoy the soothing heat. You can't free yourself from the tension knotted in your overworked muscles. Another heave rises just as soon as the last subsides. You only stop as you hear the front door.

Your cell shows 9:17.

You don't bother getting out. The water's cold but you don't care. You hear him walking through the house. He goes into the bedroom. You've been on the couch for days and he's out late, doing what? With who?

Your lip trembles and you splash warm water over your face. You're done crying. You sit up and sigh.

A gentle tapping comes at the door. You don't answer, the water stirring around you as you pull the stopper and stand. As you reach for the towel, his voice comes through the door, "babe."

It stings to hear the pet name. After so long. He wants to act like nothing is wrong. After he didn't even send a message. After you tossed out a whole meal.

You step onto the bath mat and dry off. The door clicks and you quickly wrap yourself in the towel, hiding from him. You're not a skinny blonde with glowing pink cheeks.

"I'm in here," you say.

"Sorry, I… I gotta go," he cringes, "and also, wanted to say hello…"

He puckers up and you cross your arms, "I'm done. Excuse me."

You ignore his attempt at a kiss. He doesn't move and you stare past him. He stretches his arm across the doorframe.

"You okay?"

"Don't. Don't act like nothing happened."

"I'm trying to talk to you-"

"Go piss," you snarl.

"Look, I believe you. That dude, you wouldn't fuck him. I'm just… I was caught off guard, I didn't know what to think. Things have been so tough lately. The watch was nice. Really nice."

"Please, I'm tired. I have to work in the morning–"

"You can't just shut me out–"

"And what have you been doing for the last week? Colin, please."

"Please, I…"

"Where were you? I waited for you. I made dinner, I cleaned. It's nine at night."

His eyes shift to the wall, "work. This new job, it's a lot of extra hours. Like you. Picking up all those night shifts. I feel like we don't see each other."

"You haven't wanted to see me," you accuse.

"I thought– I was stupid, okay? I got scared. It's like I said, I don't deserve you."

You roll your eyes and hug the towel tighter, "whatever."

"Oh, don't do that," he grasps your arms gently, "you know I'm an idiot. Isn't that why you married me?" You try to shrug him off and he slides his hands up to cradle your face, "I love you, baby. I picked up the extra hours so we can take a trip. Book a weekend off and we'll head to the lake."

"Colin," you stare away from him.

"We'll get a room with a hot tub," he lets a hand descend and plays with the top of your towel, "skinny dip… get dinner. This time for real."

"Please," you beg weakly as he tugs on the cotton.

"You always liked to play hard to get," he teases, "let's take the watch back, get you a pair of earrings, huh?"

You gulp, "no, no, I…I don't need earrings." You catch his hands and look at him, "it's gone. I left it at the restaurant and someone snatched it. So… can't even do that right."

"Shit, really? Well, it's just a watch. We'll be okay."

"We will?"

"Oh, for sure, I'm getting a raise. Plus travel pay."

"Travel pay," you cant help but relax as he tickles you playfully.

"Conference out east. I'll be gone a week but when I get back we'll go to the lake."

"Conference? Away?"

"Yeah, I told you I'd have to travel for the job."

"Who else is going?"

"What?"

"It's just you?"

"Well, no, my boss will be going and a few of the other account managers–"

"Your boss?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Nothing, nothing. Makes sense, she probably has to go right."

"Yeah, she–" he hesitates, "she would."

You nod and wait. Will he say it? Will he tell you?

No.

"Is she nice?"

"Who?"

"Your boss? Is she a good boss?"

"Sure, I guess," he pulls away from you, "man, I'm starving. Smells good in here."

"Uh, yeah, well… I burnt the food so it's in the garbage."

"Damn," he backs out of the doorway, "well, I'm sure we can scrounge up something."

"Guess," you skirt around him and head down the hall. He follows, "what are you doing?"

"Just tryna get a peek of the goods," he kids.

"Don't even," you keep yourself covered as you enter the bedroom and search the dresser. "So, you didn't tell me about the job. You like it?"

He pauses, he knows you're changing the subject. He leans on the wall as you keep the towel around you and quickly pull the night shirt on, then step into the loose pants that go with it. You tug the towel from beneath and face him.

"It's a job. Pays better, more freedom, coworkers are nice."

"That's good."

"How's night shift going?" He rubs his neck.

"Lonely, dull," you answer flatly, "nothing special."

"Ah, maybe…"

He lets his voice trickle off as you near him, "maybe what?"

"Maybe you could look for something else? A desk job or maybe do some home cleaning. Lots of rich snobs out there will pay top dollar to not see their own messes."

"It's not that easy."

"You could try," he says.

"Yeah," you hold back the mean thought, I don't have an ex to get me a new gig, "I'll try."

"Mmm, how's mac and cheese? Think I can manage that."

"Mac and cheese?"

"For dinner," he explains brightly and winks, "then maybe you can think of something for dessert."

[gosmigenergy]

KINKTOBER 2023 / Day Twenty

( Francisco ‘Catfish’ Morales x F!Reader )

UNIFORM / TITJOB / THIGHFUCKING

Summary: Francisco receives an early morning phone call.

Day Twenty of @absurdthirst's Kinktober

Rating: Mature 18+

Warnings: Language, dry humping, thigh fucking, slightly Dom!Frankie but not for long, P in V, unprotected sex (use protection irl please), no use of Y/N

Word Count: 2.1k

You were pretty sure your little apartment was falling apart on you.

A tile came of the wall whilst you were having a meditative soak after a long day, a handle came clean off a kitchen draw without reason, then came the day when the internet went down and the electrics blew.

Being in a relationship with the boys and staying round theirs meant you had an excuse to escape whatever the hell was going on here.

Frankie had no fucking idea what time it was when you called him, he just knew it was goddamn early.

“Aaaah, Frankie, help me, there’s water all over my kitchen floor and I dunno what to do!”

You didn’t breath when you spoke, your tone too high pitched for being woken to.

He yawned, “Have you tried turning the water off?”

“What? Where do I even do that? Oh my god!”

He patiently guided you through what to do, listening as your feet splashed through the water and as you struggled to shut it off but you did it. Then he dragged his ass out of bed and got over to yours.

Your appearance was disheveled when you opened the door, sweatpants and a t-shirt thrown on, eyes still sleepy. He didn’t say anything about it, he simply walked in and delivered a warm embrace, kissing you on the crown of your head. Your muscles relaxed as you smiled against his chest.

“Let me take a look.”

The kitchen was obviously a mess.

After you spoke to him on the phone, you’d tried your best to mop up with what you had and that was mostly towels. You’d managed to get an answer from one of your neighbours who had a mop and bucket and ladened you with more towels but there was a surface water.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?”

He hummed, “Not too bad.”

The pair of you stared at it a little longer.

“We’ll clean it as best we can then I’ll see what’s going on.”

You nod enthusiastically but it’s fleeting.

The cleaning is a lengthly process. You traipse back and forth to the bathroom to ring out the water clad towels and bring them to the kitchen over and over again. Frankie tries to help by draining them into the bucket and throwing it into the tub for it to go down the drain, at least the bathroom doesn’t have the same piping problem.

It took an hour, maybe more.

“Do you want a coffee before you start that? I can pop out and get us one.”

He was already on his back underneath the sink, tool bag to one side, hips balanced on top of a cushion.

“I’m good.”

You’re crouched down, elbows resting on your knees to hold your head up, you lips skew.

“Is there anything I can do, babe?”

“No, querida.”

It was best for him if you stayed out of the way, he realised he probably sounded annoyed with you so he brings his chin to his chest.

You look at him doe eyed.

“You can go and relax,” his tone was softer, “this should be easy.”

You spent the next half hour sat on the sofa aimlessly watching morning programmes and scrolling through your phone.

It clearly wasn’t an easy job.

You’d set the television volume low just incase he needed you. All you could hear faintly underneath the pointless conversations was him. His grunts and huffs, his mumblings in his second language as well as how he smacked whatever tool he was using with the bottom of his palm.

It wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t turning you on.

Should you be turned on by this?

You shook your head and tried your best to focus on the screen yet he was proving too distracting. Closing your eyes, you can see him so clearly, brows knotted as his curls start to cling to his head, the confining space hot. His tongue rolling into his plump bottom lip as he prays the next thing he does works, how he speaks through gritted teeth when it doesn’t. His broad hand on the tool, knuckles going white as he tightens his grip.

Your belly fills with desire.

Fluttering your eyes open, you bring your knees to your chest. It doesn’t help, only making you squirm as your juices dampen your folds, you need him. You pull of your sweatpants, keeping on your baggy t-shirt that you assume is from one of them and tiptoe towards the kitchen in your socked feet.

Not that he notices you anyway, to focused on what he’s doing.

You approach him, glancing down at his splayed legs, one bent at the knee and the other straight. Cocking your head to one side, he’s still working under the sink as you put one foot in the middle gap, your back facing towards him. You sink to your knees and push them closer to his thigh.

“What are you doing?”

He freezes momentarily.

“Nothing.”

He scoffs, “It doesn’t feel like nothing.”

You sit deeper, your wet pussy touching the roughness of his pants.

“Just entertaining myself.”

He went to look at you but was only greeted by your bare ass on his thigh, t-shirt bundle up so he could definitely see.

“Fine,” he carries on with what he was doing.

And you continue with what you were planning.

Brushing your hips up his leg, you felt the pull on your folds before pulling back. You sigh as the fabric catches your clit at a sluggish pace, the smallest of shivers going up your spine. Taking it slow, you stroke the same patch of his pants over and over. There’s a warmth building between your thighs grasp him tighter.

Frankie’s concentration was weaning before you entered the room.

He was certain he’d attacked this pipe at all angles, he’d taken it off and inspected it, everything looked fine. He’d twisted it in every direction yet each time he turned the water on, something was leaking. He should just admit defeat but then that was the other thing.

A stupid part of him was too proud to confess he couldn’t fix this.

You called him, you knew he was a dab hand at this shit and your immediate thought when you saw a leak was to phone him. His ego wanted him to be the hero, to save the day even though it wasn’t expected.

Now you were fucking his leg without a care in the world.

He could never remember your grunts and mewls sounded so sweet, so desperate as his pants became damp with your juices. You were boiling hot, constricting the muscle of his thigh like you do his face when he goes down on you. He peeked and watched as you thrusted forward, clenching your ass as you squeezed your cunt to stop your desire overtaking you.

His crotch grew tense.

You gave a choked cry as he notched his leg up.

“Frankie.”

He couldn’t take his eyes off you as you quickened the pace, rutting your clit hard against the ridge of the bone. Your toes were beginning to curl, your pleasure escaping as staggered giggles as your legs began to vibrate. Tossing aside his tool, he leant forward and coiled his thumbs over the countertop.

His darkening eyes bored into the back of your head and you felt the hairs stand on end.

Your hips slip but his right hand comes to your ass.

“Keep going,” he says, lifting his leg a little higher.

The fabric catches your clit, the bundle of nerves protesting at the limb pressed against it.

“I can’t.”

“I’ll help you.”

He pushes your lower half and you drag up his leg, whimpering as the sensation ignites deep in your belly. Letting you go, he catches you as you slide down and repeats the motion until your moving on your own.

Your hands claw at his leg as your inner walls clench around nothing, the heat travelling up your spine. Your head falls back, mouth shaping into an o as your eyes screw shut.

“Oh, fuck.”

You thrust a final time, forcing your clit to his leg and holding as the tingling spread over your pelvic. Your upper body shuddered before you collapsed into his lap, cheek resting against his knee as you breath the air back into your lungs.

He lets you have a moment until he can’t wait any longer.

“Sit up.”

His voice was low, followed by the sound of his buckle undoing.

Still shaking from the aftershocks, you climb off him and turn onto your side, your ass meeting the cold tiles. He lifted himself onto his knees, he opened his button and zipper before pulling out his hardened cock, pumping it in his fist.

Taking your ankles, he dragged you closer, your skin chafing over the tiled floor. He spread your legs wide, hooking your feet over his hips as he lined himself up. He brought his lips heavily to yours, guiding your back to the ground, jutting his chin into yours so you allow his tongue to enter. It ran along the backs of your teeth before dancing with yours, the tip of his cock teasing at your folds.

Placing his hands on your hips, he thrusts into your slick opening, swallowing your moan in his mouth.

He rocks his hips gently for a few strokes before plunging into you hard and fast.

You rip your lips from him as you gasp for air, head falling to the side. His fingers and thumb come to your jaw, squeezing firmly as he brings his mouth to your ear.

“Is this what you wanted?”

“Yes,” you squeak, his movements forcing your bones into the hard surface.

“You know you could have just asked.”

“You seemed a little preoccupied.”

He laughed, head dropping into the crook of your neck.

His breath danced hot over your chest, the lights of the kitchen so bright you find yourself closing your eyes. You didn’t have a comedown, you were still riding on sex fuelled ecstasy as Frankie propelled through your fluttering folds.

His shoes were slipping as they failed to grip onto the drying tiles, the wet patch of your juices sticking to his leg but you were overwhelming his senses. 

The noises from your chest as his length touched that soft spot, the smell of your perfume on the pulse points of your neck seeping into his nostrils. The handfuls of your flesh, your meat he was taking as he tried to keep your hips steady. The sight of your flushed cheeks, your back arching, body rippling as his motions run through you.

His thrusts were getting sloppy.

“Frankie,” you whined in his ear, your fingers entwining in his curls.

“I’m so close, querida, just a little longer.”

Your body was going rigid, your walls contracting around his cock.

At this rate, he really wasn’t going to last much longer, the pull against his length taking him over the edge. He took a couple more thrusts before he shattered, a hoarse groan muffled as he shoved his face into your neck, filling you with his seed.

The pair of you heaved, Frankie drawing out of you to rest against the cold floor.

There’s a minute or two where all you can hear is your breaths and then the world gradually came back to you, the mess of the kitchen you both lay in.

“I can’t fix whatever,” he waved a hand haplessly, “this is.”

You smile weakly, “That’s ok. I guess I’ll call a plumber.”

“I know a guy.”

Once you’d both caught your breath and got up from the tiles, he went and made a call whilst you staggered back to the living room, pulling your sweatpants back on for warmth. You make yourself comfortable but luckily for you, he wasn’t gone for long.

“He’s gonna be an hour or so.”

“Really?”

He nods, falling to the sofa next you, scooping up your legs to drape over his lap.

“Fancy that coffee now?”

You run your fingers through his hair and he leans into your touch.

“You’re going out after that?”

You scoff, “God no, I’ll get it delivered to the building entrance.”

Your fingers still played with his curls even though your attention was now on the screen, he trusted you’d order some food too. Then another thought slipped to his mind.

“Who’s week is it?”

“Will’s,” you say with a woeful expression on your face. “He had to go somewhere for work, he’ll be back tomorrow night.”

Frankie looked around your apartment, it felt cold and small and, well, lonely.

“How about you come to my place tonight?”

Sure, he may not think he’s a hero but right there, right then, he saved the day.

[tumblingdownthefoxden]

“The Assistant and The Star”

Chapter 3: Preparations

*Part 1

*2 hours later

"Who's there?" Demanded the boy named Safi. "I know someone is in here."

"Hello fair one." A voice replied in a smooth tone. "What is your rank?"

Safi set down his mop. "Where are you? Show yourself."

"Why don't you come this way and find me?" It teased. "I'm closer than you think. Right under your nose. Or should I say, your feet?" The voice chuckled at it's own joke. Safi huffed.

"Do not jest with me! Show yourself!"

"Oh, I won't do that just yet. But come and uncover my whereabouts!" It beamed. Safi stayed where he was. The last time he followed a voice trying to lure him deeper in the library, some rascal pranksters dumped a bucket of dust all over him. His allergies nearly killed him that day!

"If you won't tell me where you are, then tell me your name please."

"I am what I am." It answered. "But do tell me, what is your rank? Are you the King?"

Safi frowned. "No, I'm not. You don't need know my rank! Tell me your name please."

"Oh no, I'd rather not. Are you close with the King?"

"What even is your business here?" He demanded.

"Watch your tone." The voice gently chastised. "Such ill manner speak is unbefitting for a noble setting."

Safi mopped the floor in front of him. "And yet, you interrupt my work to ask about my position without properly introducing yourself. Actually. Talking to you isn't worth my time."

"You are testing my patience." It groveled. "Are you close to the King? Can you at least bring him to me today?"

"And what is your business with-?"

"No more questions." It intruded. "Tell the King to make my acquaintance and come to the library so that we may converse today. Now."

Safi put a finger to his cheek and looked to the side in an exaggerated wondering look. "Hmmmmmmm. Still rather vague. I haven't seen you and I don't know your real name so I can't say who is calling for the King's presence. Given my schedule, I might not have time to talk to him today." He sucked his teeth. "Not to mention that you have no respectable dignity. You want me to tell the King to see you today? Not even consider if he's as busy as me? Without even saying please? Even if I did manage to summon the King here, he has little patience for those who disrespect his associates." He began to walk away. "You're not worth the trouble. Sorry شخص غريب."

The library was dead silent after his remark. Safi dipped his mop in and out of the water bucket when the voice returned. "If you shall not help me, then leave my presence." It hissed.

Safi turned towards its direction. "I'm not finished cleaning."

"Get out." It demanded. The force of the sound vibrated the water in the bucket. Safi frowned. He's encountered arrogant nobleman before but none of them had an affliction in their voice such as this.

"Such ill manner speak is unbefitting of a noble setting." He recited, picking up the bucket. Maybe this was another magic nobleman?

"Get. Out." The voice repeated. It was softer but something about the voice was off. It's tone was venomous and the vocals sounded... accursed.

Safi reflected on their conversation and he got an idea for why this voice wouldn't share its name or show its face. Safi backed away and grabbed his other cleaning bucket in case he really did need to leave after asking this question. "Are you even a human being?"

"GET OUT!"

The boom in the voice shook the entire library floor. Several books fell from the bookshelves and Safi knees buckled as the sound shook his very bones. Only the upright mop kept him from falling. He looked ahead from him to the center library space and his face moved from shock to horror as he noticed a tile from of the floor. A green light was emitted from the edges of the tile. As quickly as he'd seen it, it vanished. Not willing to find out anything else, he stood upright and rushed out of the library, shutting the doors behind him with a gentle ~click~.

After a quick trip to throw away the mop water, Safi made his way to the castle storage closet where he simply set down the buckets and mop inside. Safi proceeded to fall against the door and release a heavy sigh.. As if the day hadn't been exhausting enough, there was, indeed, a thing in the library. He heard a rumor from the other cleaners that the Grand Library was haunted. If you went deep into the library, you could hear a voice. And because of that, the cleaners rarely did the whole library. Safi didn't consider himself much of a skeptic. He wouldn't deny that ghosts or spirits were real, but Safi rarely cleaned the library thanks to the dust bunnies that would ambush his senses if he wasn't careful. However, he hated how the other cleaners left most of the library to accumulate so much dust because of the rumor. Only today did he hear the infamous haunting but what was he to do about it? The other cleaners tried to report the haunting but whenever the guards investigated it, they found nothing to convince them that the haunting was true or could be dealt with.

You know what. Maybe he should leave the Library for another day. He cleaned half of it and it was last thing left to clean anyway.

A/N: Making this into 2 parts because Tumblr will only allow 10 pictures on a post and I need gifs for the rest of the chapter. Comics should not be this hard to make.

Here's a first look at a "new" character but the interaction I planned went sideways. I wanted Safi to find the voice and accidentally offend it but now he's deliberately offending it? Honestly, I like it better but why are you sassy now?!

Also, the Arabic text translates to "stranger", for those wondering.

@annymation @signed-sapphire @wings-of-sapphire @chillwildwave @uva124 @rascalentertainments @emillyverse @flicklikesstuff @mythartist21 @oh-shtars

[blood-mocha-latte]

stormy - a luztoye drabble

for an ask from @malarkgirlypop || request an edit/drabble || i loved loved loved writing this, thank you for the ask <3 <3

The apartment they've found is all brick, sturdy and warm, but George can still feel the shaking of the thunder under his feet.

He sighs down at the metal tin that holds rapidly cooling water and dissipating bubbles. The sad, soggy lump of washcloths in his fist serves as a makeshift mop, because for some reason, they don't actually have one. 

They were in the middle of painting the walls of the kitchen blue – a (hopefully) better colour change from the dark orange it was when George, of course, dropped a good half quarter of blue all over the tile floor.

The thunder rumbles outside again. George groans, like it's a queue, and bunches his ‘mop’ together better before dunking it into the pail.

Leaning his knees on a rolled up towel, avoiding the harsh tile of the kitchen floor, he scrubs rather absently for a while.

He likes menial tasks, like this. Turning his brain off, George feels, is something that is both long and far between as well as just. Absent.

When he thinks — always, always thinking, and talking even more — it’s almost always about the now. About needing to clean the floor, about when they’ll need to water the plant on top of the fireplace again, about how they need a new bedspread, because George got blood all over their old one when he accidentally sliced his palm open with a razor.

(A mishap, with shaving. Joe had dropped something in their bedroom, and George had jolted so badly he’d needed fourteen stitches.)

Sometimes, though, he thinks of everyday and it blends into what used to be everyday; disjointed thoughts that he’ll need to call Lip down in West Virginia and ask about confirmation for blasting a house in Hagenau, that he’ll need to get new running shoes because Currahee tends to get muddier with the rain, this time of year.

This time, he thinks about Joe. Who, admittedly, consumes the majority of his thoughts, now. 

He thinks of a joke, and thinks about telling it to Joe, and realises he’s already told it to him, because he’s the only one George tells anything, anymore. He wonders vaguely about something that existed when he was a kid, and has to go and find Joe to ask him if he remembers that thing too, just to listen to him talk. He walks by a shop window with all sorts of jewellery in it, and wonders what Joe would do if he brought home rings.

As he scrubs at the tile, blue paint chipping off and into the cloths and George’s hands, he wonders if Joe’d like it if he could find Flash Gordon Conquers the Universe. Maybe they could watch it. Maybe they’d watch it for two seconds and get bored. Maybe, if George talked through it enough, he could get Joe to shut him up with his mouth, anchor a hand in his hair—

“George.” Joe says from the other side of the room, voice almost frustrated. George looks up from the mess on the floor; made no better by his scrubbing, and drops the ‘mop’ back into the soapy tin.

“Something wrong?” He asks, wiping his hands awkwardly on the fabric of his pants as he makes his way over to where Joe sits on the couch, holding the paper against his good leg, pen in his left hand.

“No.” Joe says, too quickly, almost sharply. He huffs, once, through his nose, and shoves the paper up roughly when George comes to stand over the couch, bracing the palms of his hands against the back of it. “Just. I can't— fuck.” 

Joe gets like this, sometimes. Usually when it’s cold and it’s been a while since he last ate. Frustrated, sharp. More impatient than usual, maybe a bit clumsier.

George kneels behind the couch, grimacing slightly at the pop of his knees, and fights down the cushioning of the sofa to rest his chin on Joe's shoulder, skimming through the messy handwriting that Joe held up.

It's been easy enough to get settled in. The apartment is a decent size, both bedrooms are nice. George seems ecksausted

exosted

exausted

exaustid

“I don't know why the fuck I couldn't just say tired.” Joe says, dropping the paper back into his lap when George pulls back and noses absently against the shell of his ear to show he was done reading. His voice is strained, like he’s trying to make a joke.

“Well, you've got a big vernacular. Might as well use it.” George says lightly, using Joe’s good shoulder to push himself back up, grunting. “Christ, call an ambulance. Who let an old man get down on the floor?”

“You're only twenty-seven, George.” Joe says absently as George rounded the side of the sofa. “And I don't have a big fucking vernacular. Can't spell for shit. It's not like I use fancy goddamn words all the time.”

“You use fancy words all the time.” George retorts, plopping down onto the couch and slipping his hands under his legs. Joe’s eyes, dark against his skin and framed by even darker lashes, glare down at them. “You just said vernacular.”

“Because you just said vernacular.” Joe says darkly, posture slouched. “I can't even spell vernacular.”

“Well, neither can I.” George says amiably. “There's probably a ‘j’ in there, somewhere.” 

Joe frowns down at the paper. “Can you even read the damn writing?” He asks, flipping the pencil clumsily between his fingers. George leans further into him, jostling his ribs with his elbow. Outside, the rumbling thunder seems to make the glass in the panes of their windows vibrate.

“Well, sure.” He says. “Could tell that you kept misspelling exhausted, couldn’t I?” Joe doesn’t meet his eyes.

“It’s not legible.” He murmurs. George sighs, and gently pulls the paper out of Joe’s grip before he crumples it into a ball. 

“Well, it’s not easy on the eyes.” He says lightly. He tries not to lie, but he doesn’t like being any sort of unkind. “But you are, so it makes up for it.”

“George.” Joe says, same way he always does. Like the beginning of a prayer, or a story. George just shrugs. He lets his head drop to Joe’s bare shoulder, fingers smoothing across his wifebeater.

“‘S fine, Joe.” He says. He’s leaning against Joe’s bad shoulder, and he can feel the lines of scarring and tissue against his temple and cheek like streaks of lightning. He taps his index finger against the deepest scar; one that runs from the crux of Joe’s neck and shoulder and wraps around his bicep to halfway down his forearm. “I can read it fine.”

Joe’s quiet. He shifts against George, and dry lips press to his forehead. 

“I can’t write so good, anymore.” He says. George knows. George was there when Joe couldn’t even use his right arm without it hurting, could barely keep a grasp on a tennis ball. George also knows that Joe tends to get inside his own head, tends to think that things are worse than they actually are, that every event is the start of a chain of bad ones.

That’s alright, though. That’s what he’s got George for, whether he likes it or not.

“Writing doesn’t matter.” George says. “I heard somewhere that Mark Twain couldn’t hold a pencil. He just said stuff and had other people write it down.” Joe snorts.

“That’s bullshit.” He mutters. George spreads his fingers against Joe’s forearm, pressing his palm to the scar. 

“Yeah.” He agrees easily. “Who gives a fuck, though.” Joe huffs. The thunder rumbles, as if in agreement, and they both turn their heads towards the window.

“Still stormy outside, I’d guess.” Joe says. George hums, turns his cheek to press a kiss to Joe’s shoulder. Fuck the kitchen tiles. They can be blue. It will probably come into fashion at some point, anyways.

“Yeah.” He says. “Who gives a fuck, though.”

[gettingfrilly]

Can't get you out of my Ed

Chapter one of... 39 chapters lmao. This fic will kill me and I'll be damned if I don't take some of you down with me. Read it here or on ao3. Super mega thanks to @fish-bowl-2 for betaing and also for giving feedback on my massive outline.

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

“Ppbbbbbbththtbbbhththtthhhhh.”

“Dude.”

“Dude yourself.” Eddy mutters, not caring if Kevin objects to his bored mouth noises. What else is he supposed to do? It’s Wednesday, five pm, and raining. No one's been in the candy store for hours, and ain’t no one gonna show up before they close at six. So he stands here bored out of his skull, full weight propped against the counter with his face squished in his hands, elbows velcroed to the permanently sticky wooden surface. He keeps his eyes where they’ve been glued for the last hour, which is directly on the nostalgic kitsch wall clock with plastic lollipops for hands and pounded sheet metal with a scene from some 50’s style soda shop superimposed on it for a face. It goes well with the completely non-functional jukebox in the corner, the rows of dusty, empty, retro soda bottles lining the shelves on the wall opposite the front door, and the 40 year old ice cream machine behind the counter that’s been out of order since last summer. Eddy had felt giddy when Kevin first got him a job here his freshman year, tickled by his younger self’s hypothetical jealousy over how easily he could pocket a jawbreaker here and there. The garish clashing of the puke green tiles and pastel pink walls had filled him with bittersweet memories of childhood, familiar and welcoming for a first time job.

Now he just finds the whole store ugly. 

“You could, ya know. Work.” Kevin suggests. “Clean something. Stock something. Anything other than standing there with your thumb up your ass.”

“Oh? And you can’t?” He asks while side eyeing Kevin, who is also currently standing around with his thumb up his ass. More specifically, he’s leaning backwards against the displays behind the counter, wide shoulders slouched as his arms dangle at his sides. The clean hairline of his crew cut frames his wide, blocky face with sharp angles. He’s been made up of solid, sturdy shapes since he started playing for the varsity team in his junior year, and his workout regimen has further defined his muscles in the years since. Eddy wouldn’t exactly describe him as beefy, but his build is athletic for sure. He’s also classically handsome, Eddy begrudgingly admits to himself, though he’s not really his type. Too much of a normie for his tastes, with his basic sense of style and outfit compiled of store brand athletic wear. Guy shops at Old Navy for sure. Well, more like his mom shops for him there.

“I’m the boss. I’ve got underlings to do that kind of stuff for me.” An annoyingly smug smile graces his shovel shaped chin, and Eddy can’t help but grind his teeth.

“For your information, bossman, ” he hisses the title, “shelves: dusted. Floors: mopped. Inventory: stocked. Windows: windexed. Hell, I even ordered the lollipops by color out of fucking boredom. There is truly not a single thing left to do.”

Kevin hums and scratches his ten acre chin. “Oh. Well. Pbth.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

‘ Come now, with your cleaning skills, surely you left something amiss. Did you wipe down the floor trim? Deep clean the register? I see plenty of snack crumbs wedged between those sticky keys. And you didn’t even mention the employee bathroom, for heaven’s sake. ’

“Shut up.” He mumbles under his breath. “Huh?”

“Nothing. Hey, how’s Nazz doing?” Kevin’s and Nazz’s shaky relationship isn’t exactly his favorite can of worms to open, but he’s starting to get bored enough to peel his eyelids off of his face, so he better strike up some kind of conversation. 

“ Man- ” Yup, here we go, “I don’t get what’s up with her. Ever since she moved to Buffalo she’s been acting all different and weird. Dunno what happened to the Nazz we used to know.”

‘ She grew up. Which is something you may want to look into yourself, Kevin. 19 years old and no interest in pursuing a higher education or a greater calling like our dear Nazz has. Tut tut.’

“Yeah, it’s almost like she cares about shit now or something.”

“Exactly,” Kevin bemoans, completely missing Eddy’s sardonic tone. “I don’t get all the polisci stuff she talks about. I’m just not a political guy, ya know? Why can’t things just go back to being simple between us? College wrecks people, man.”

On one hand, even Eddy can tell Kevin’s being pig-headed about this. On the other hand, he can relate on a very painful, squishy, sore, and tender level.

‘Well you are quite pig-headed yourself.’

“She just outgrew this small town shit. We all should. I know I’m getting out of here as soon as I graduate.”

“Speak for yourself. I like it here.” Kevin mutters while crossing his arms petulantly.

“Of course you do, mister former high school quarterback nepo baby. You already got shit made here. Doesn’t your dad own the candy factory now?”

“Vice president. But yeah, he’ll own it soon. And he’s thinking of expanding. But what are you complaining about? Aren’t you all set up to inherit your old man’s dealership? That place makes decent dosh.”

“I’d rather eat nails.” The words come grinding out of his mouth as if it were already full of sharp, pointy metal.

“What? No way, man, you used to brag about that place all the time. Said it was your legacy and that you were gonna make it the hottest place in the county to get a used car.”

“Times change.” That’s the only explanation he’s willing to offer.

Kevin just shrugs, much to Eddy’s gratitude. That’s probably the best thing about being friends with Kevin; guy doesn’t ask questions. Makes him a solid person to vent to.

‘Especially if you’re allergic to discussing your feelings.’

With a long suffering groan, Eddy literally peels himself off of the old counter to do another useless perimeter search of the shop. He knows he still won’t find anything to do, but at least it’ll get his body moving. His sneakers squeak against the freshly mopped floors (so bored he even got out the mop, for chrissake…) as he eyes the displays, watching his reflection warp and transform from one glass container to the next, an endless hall of funhouse mirrors mocking him with his own boredom, irritation, and overall misery. His fault for scrubbing them all until they were spotless. The hole punched cardboard pallet that holds a variety of different brands of lollipops is just as hue spectrum oriented as he left it, so this time he goes for ordering them by size and shape instead. Well, that killed two minutes. Walk by the freezers, rearrange  some mismatched soda bottles he missed before. 30 seconds. Scrape a fleck of taffy off of one of the sliding door handles. 20 seconds. Stare at the wall for five seconds. Bang his head against it. Another second. Bang. Another second. Bang. Another second. Bang.

“I’m taking a smoke break!” He calls loudly over the shelves in the direction of the front counter, not waiting for Kevin to respond before frantically scrambling towards the backroom. He nearly trips over a broom as he bursts into the cramped space, swearing at it uselessly as he stumbles over to his locker. It gets jammed as usual, the damn thing, Eddy jiggling the handle with a growl before he finally tears it open. The hood of his windbreaker catches on one of the locker’s internal hooks, causing Eddy to shout obscenities until he finally shakes it loose and shoves his arms into the sleeves. He stomps towards the back door and bumps it open with his hip as he wrestles with the zipper, getting himself encased once he steps outside into the muggy July evening air.

The door slams shut behind him as he huddles under the small overhang of the dirty green awning adorned above the back door, fishing his pack of camel menthols out of the pocket of his windbreaker. The hush of rain against the pavement and rhythmic pounding of droplets plunking against the rusty metal of the awning harmonize well together, creating a nice soundscape to back up the click click click of his lighter. He mutters swears under his breath like a prayer, internally praising glory hallelujah once the cig balanced between his lips lights and he can breath in deep and slow, the mint flavoring tickling his nose hairs and soothing the burn of hot smoke in his windpipe. Smoke billows from his mouth and nose after he’s held in his lungful for as long as he can, his exhale audible and pointed heavenward, smoke catching and lingering on the underside of the sheet metal above. 

‘Those will kill you.’

“The sooner the better.” Eddy mumbles, letting gravity pull his loosening body down against the wooden door behind him, desperate for a paint job. He takes another grateful drag as he watches the rain bounce and slide off of trashbags, forming muddied puddles in the potholes below. The hit of nicotine puts a fuzzy blanket over the constantly firing nerve endings in his brain, making his eyes droop as he fights back a yawn. Double D doesn’t know what he’s talking about, calling nicotine a stimulant. Smokes practically put him to sleep. 

He sneers down at the ground. What’s he got to even do these days other than work, smoke, sleep, repeat? The only thing he has to look forward to are the occasional phone calls he makes to Ed at the military school his shithead mom shipped him off to last summer before they all started their junior year. Double D and Ed were inconsolable that day, clinging to each other and sobbing as Ed’s dad silently packed his red commodore with sparse necessities, the rest of Ed’s belongings in boxes marked for the salvation army. The memory still makes Eddy’s eyes burn, the same way they did that day as he blinked to hold back his tears, repeating to the other two that they’d call, they’d write, they’d visit, and once senior year was done in two years, the three of them would be out of here. Double D would definitely get accepted to some fancy shmancy school on a fancy shmancy scholarship, and the two of them would follow along, working whatever jobs available so that their combined income with Double D’s scholarship funds could net them a nice apartment in whatever fancy shmancy city Double D went to for school. They’d be free of this pimple on the map of America called Peach Creek, free from their families, free from public school, free to be themselves. There’d be a queer scene, he told Double D. They’d be accepted there, he told him. It wouldn’t be like it is out here in the boonies. They wouldn’t have to hide.

Well, his plan may have less people in it now, but he’s sticking to it. He can’t stand the boredom anymore, can’t stand the confinement. If he spends one more summer afternoon staring at his bedroom ceiling, has one more shift during the dead hours of the candy store, has to give his dad one more excuse as to why he’s not dating anyone now that he’s got a paycheck, he’s going to burst out of his own skin like some kind of insectoid, brain sucking monster from one of Ed’s B-rated black and white horror flicks and suck the noggins of everyone in a five mile radius. He’ll get out of this shithole come hell or high water. He has to get out.

‘And go where, exactly?’

‘Anywhere but here.’

‘To do what?’

‘Live. Breathe. Stretch out and run around and scream and cry and shout and kick and hit and go and go and go.’

‘With who?’

‘Ed. Or no one. Who cares.’

‘You’d be alone.’

‘I’ve always been alone.’

‘That’s not true. You know that’s not true.’

Water streams from the corners of the awning, creating a puddle dangerously close to his Air Force 1s. An errant raindrop lands right on top of the toe of his left sneaker, and he grumbles as he bends over to swipe it away, cursing himself for not looking at the weather report before putting these on. He curses louder when a chunk of ash falls from his cig and takes up residence where the water droplet just vacated, grabbing it from his mouth to hold it out to the side as he frantically brushes off his shoe.

‘Please, Eddy, be careful! Think of how much money your mother spent on such a frivolous purchase.’

Eddy snarls, sick to death of this incessant nagging. “Just shut uuUGHH!”

The smack of the wooden door against his ass throws him completely off balance, staring down at his shoes one second then catching himself on his hands and gazing at a puddle inches from his face the next. Adrenaline rushes through his body, making his lungs seize up and his eyes go wide, the rain falling on the back of his head feeling far colder than it should be on a warm July evening. He keeps himself propped up on one hand as he swivels around to identify his attacker, blinking owlishly when he sees Kevin standing in the lit doorway, giving Eddy the same, wide eyed look.

“Dude. You okay?”

Anger quickly intermingles with his gut-dropping fear, gritting his teeth as he pushes himself back onto his feet. “Watch where you’re going, shovel chin!”

Kevin places one hand on his hip while he holds the door open with the other, expression blasé. “Doors are for opening, man. Anyway, we’re closing up. Just wasting money at this point.”

He finally catches his breath, raising his cigarette to take another calming drag, only to feel something unpleasantly cold and soggy touching his lips. Damn it. His hand must have landed in a puddle. He groans and pushes his now wet hair out of his face.

“These ain’t fucking cheap.” He grumbles, flicking the unlit stub to the ground.

“Did you even hear me, man?”

“Huh? Oh.” Calmer and less distracted now, his brain finally catches up with what Kevin said. “Yeah, great idea, bossman!” The title is used in a much more jolly manner than before, giving Kevin a pat on the back and leaving a stubby, wet handprint behind as he pushes past him and back into the backroom to grab the rest of his stuff. He kicks off his nice sneakers to trade them for the ratty back ups he keeps in his locker, stepping into the worn pair as he puts his multi-colored Nikes into his water proof backpack for safe keeping.

Kevin sneers and murmurs something Eddy is sure was insulting as he looks behind himself and at the back of his shirt. “I’ve got to count money and lock up if you wanna stick around to help-”

Eddy’s locker slams abruptly, echoing loudly in the small space as he slings his drawstring bag over his shoulders and puts his hood up in quick, jerky motions. “Bye, seeya later, hasta la vista, sayonara, annyeong.” He half-jogs out of the back room before finishing his goodbyes, ignoring Kevin’s jeering as he slips through the door to the front room. He continues his half jog past the candy displays, snagging a jawbreaker and shoving it into his pocket next to his smokes before heading out the door and back out into the rain.

He breathes in a deep breath of freedom as he stretches his arms out to his sides and then over his head, making his way back to the cul de sac with a skip in his step. The world is his oyster now that he’s off of work. Now he can… he can… well.

The skip turns into a slow trudge as Eddy remembers he doesn’t actually have anything post work to look forward to, mood sinking further and further with each dark and empty store he passes by. Looks like Kevin wasn’t the only one who decided to close up early; all of downtown is dead. And it’s just not the cafe, the butcher shop, and the shoe store that are dark. It’s too early for the street lights to come on, but the sky is thick with heavy rain clouds, keeping the sunlight prisoner behind the bubbling veil of black and gray. His eyes turn down to the wet cement of the sidewalk with its divots and potholes, floating cigarette butts in the puddles that formed within them, scowling at his feet as they pointlessly move beneath him. What’s he even going home to? Another evening zoning out in front of the TV? Maybe lying upside down on his bed and listening to saccharine sweet slow dance songs? Then whatever he does will just be followed by chain smoking in the backyard until he’s tired enough to pass out as soon as his head hits the pillow, welcoming oblivion as an alternative to being left alone with his thoughts. It’s the same damn thing every day. And it’ll keep being the same damn thing every day until he gets out of here or dies. Dying may be the more convenient option at this point. It’d be a lot easier than having to finish high school before he beats it. All he has to do is wait for a car to come by and then jump out in front of it.

But no cars come. No one coming, no one leaving, a town stuck in stasis, the white noise enough to deafen him. His shoes are getting soaked. He’s gonna get cold feet.

Christ, he needs to quiet his fucking mind before he ends up as roadkill. He reaches into his pocket, fingertips brushing against the cool metal of his lighter before he finds his pack of camels, grasping onto it like a lifeline. He takes out the light with it, shaking a cig loose from the pack and into his waiting hand. He balances it between his pointer and middle finger, bringing it up to press it between his lips and under his hood so he can attempt to light it-

Only to immediately pull his hand away when he tastes blood on his tongue.

“The fuck?” He squeaks out, high pitched and startled. He looks at the cig and finds fresh red blood smeared on the paper and filter, but that’s not what’s most alarming; what has him wince and hiss under his breath is the sight of his hand, dark, slimy globules clotted together in the center with dried and flaky trails of blood running down between his fingers, some of it gathered under his nails, in his nail beds, and around the gold band on his ring finger. Rain splashes down into his open palm, the droplets saturating themselves with blood before they roll down the sides of Eddy’s hand and down his wrist, leaving trails of pink behind. He swipes his thumb gingerly over his palm and squints, scowl deepening when he discovers the cut beneath, small but deep. 

Damn it. Must have happened when he fell. Probably glass from a broken bottle. How did he not feel it? Stupid Kevin. Stupid door. He clicks his tongue and keeps walking, placing the cig back between his lips; he’s not gonna waste another one of these. It brings him minimal relief once it’s lit, his frayed nerves further agitated by the site, smell, and taste of his own blood. He’s had e-fucking-nough of that for one life time. Thankfully the shops start to become far and few between, with residential houses looming on the horizon. He’ll walk in through the back door to his room before his mom gets a chance to see his hand and starts freaking out. He’ll clean his hand, dry off his feet, and get out of this fucking rain. That’s something to sort of look forward to. Isn’t it?

When he turns the corner of rethink avenue several minutes later, all thoughts of the creature comforts of home disperse like a warren of rabbits intruded on by a fox. His cig, burned down to a stub at this point, dangles from his parted lips, eyes frozen on the looming portend of the past come to haunt him currently parked in his own fucking driveway. He’s freezing suddenly, all heat sapped out of him like someone pulled the plug, lungs becoming a vacuum as cosmic background radiation burns within them, singed by his only source of heat. It’s like he’s falling again, shoved from behind and just barely managing to protect his face from scraping the pavement. An unknown attacker from behind, the familiar sound of him breathing through his teeth.

He tastes blood on his tongue.

The cigarette butt falls from his lips as he turns away from the sight of the whale shaped trailer in front of his house, breaking out into a jog to the only other house he can think to go to, nestled right on the corner he just turned. His bedroom lights are on. His parents, as usual, aren’t home. He misses him with an ache deeper than anything else he’s felt in a long time.

He hopes Double D actually lets him in.

[a-crumb-of-whump]

A New Beginning #18: Family

Masterlist | AO3

Content: Break a dish trope (but he doesn't break anything), multiple caretakers, vampire whumpee, PTSD/trauma, recovery.

-

Carlos knew he’d made a big mistake the moment he saw the mess he’d made on the kitchen floor. All he wanted was to make something nice for Adam’s sisters when they arrived, and now there was cake mixture all over the tiles and on his clothing. The clothing that wasn’t even his to begin with.

Even as Ryker came hurrying down the hallway to see what had made all the noise, Carlos simply stood there with his mouth agape and tears already welling in his shock-filled eyes. How could he have been so stupid? All this mess, just because he couldn’t walk on his own two feet without tripping. 

“Carlos?” the human called to him as he maneuvered his way around the mess. He reached out a hand the moment he was close enough and used it to bring Carlos back to reality with a gentle squeeze to his shoulder.  “Hey, what happened? Are you hurt?”

It took a moment for Carlos to fully register that someone had spoken to him. When he finally did, nothing but a strained noise would come out. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight before him, so horrified by what he’d done. 

“Hey, It’s all good, man. You’re okay. No one’s upset with you.”

“...but I’m upset with me,” the vampire eventually hiccuped. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned to hide his face against the human’s shoulder with a muffled sniffle, face burning with shame as he thought about how much effort it was going to take just to clean everything. How could he have been so silly?

“‘m so sorry.”

Ryker didn’t say anything for a moment, but Carlos could feel him wrapping his arms around his upper waist in a hug. He gladly leaned into him and sucked in a deep breath, trying to get rid of the sudden anxiety that was now looming over him. He just wanted to hide for the rest of the day, somewhere where he couldn’t embarrass himself further. 

“I know it looks like a big mess right now,” the human eventually whispered as hooked his chin on Carlos’ shoulder. “...but I promise it’s not gonna take more than a few minutes to clean up, okay? We’ll give the floor a quick mop and wipe everything down, and I’ll put the bowl through the dishwasher for you. No one but us will even know it happened.”

He made it sound so simple. Like it didn’t have to involve beatings and punishments and all the things he’d been forced to endure for mistakes such as this. The thought that maybe he didn’t was almost enough to cause some irritation, but he was quick to stamp it out before it could get any worse. That was not the person he wanted to be, if he was going to be one at all. 

“So, do we have a plan?” 

Carlos gave a tentative nod and forced a smile, contentedly shutting his eyes when Ryker reached up to ruffle his rapidly-growing hair. “Yes,” he answered quietly, resisting the urge to make a small noise when the human stepped away to grab the metal bowl off the floor. He wrapped his arms around himself and shuffled on his feet a little, glancing down at the floor. “Thank you, sir.” 

Between the two of them, it took them all of ten minutes to clean everything up. Ryker took to mopping the floor while Carlos wiped down the cabinets and changed out of his dirty clothes. His face was still red with embarrassment, but he felt better knowing that everything had been taken care of.

Ryker had even offered to help him remake the mixture, and it was as they were putting it in the oven that they heard the front door open, along with multiple sets of feet stepping inside. 

Instinctively, Carlos grabbed hold of Ryker’s hand and held it a little too tightly in his own as the two exited the kitchen to greet them. His chest tightened and suddenly all he wanted to do was hide all over again. 

That was until he noticed the red eyes of the shorter woman. Red eyes and the two pointed fangs that appeared each time she smiled. 

No wonder they came so late in the evening.

For a moment, all Carlos’ manners seemed to fly out the window as he stepped forward and examined her through big, curious eyes. “You’re like me,” he whispered. “You- you’re a vampire, too.” 

“Ah. You must be Carlos.” The vampire extended her hand with a warm smile as an invitation for a hand shake. “I’ve heard plenty about you.” 

“This is Danny,” Adam informed him, resting a hand on his back as he verbally instructed him on how to shake hands. Carlos felt so awkward, particularly as he watched Ryker embrace who had to be Morgan without an issue. “Sorry I never told you. I figured it’d be a nice surprise if you ever got to meet her.” 

Carlos shook his head, eyes flickering between Danny and Adam, and then to Ryker and Morgan. He was so happy to meet someone of his own kind after at least twenty years of living solely with humans. 

“Would you like a hug instead?” Danny offered, opening both her arms as an invitation to step into them. Without hesitation Carlos accepted it, wrapping his arms around her neck and squeezing her as tight as he could. He hated how much speaking became a struggle when he got overwhelmed. “It’s nice to finally meet you, darlin’.” 

Carlos quietly nodded against her shoulder, his voice slightly muffled as he spoke. “Yes, ma’am. It’s been so lo-ong since I got to meet another vampire. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

He was so happy. Not only was this a vampire, but she was a free vampire. Adam had said so himself, on the night his and Ryker’s friends came to visit. She was the very thing Carlos was trying so hard to adjust to. She was proof that it was possible. 

Truth be told, he could have stood there for a lot longer than he was able to. It was only when Adam gently rubbed his back that he reluctantly released Danny from his grip and turned to look at his human with a small, red-faced smile. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against the sleeve he was pressing up against his mouth, suddenly conscious of how intense he’d been. “‘m sorry, sir.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for. I’m glad it made you happy.” Adam reached up to ruffle his hair as he motioned towards the taller woman. She and Ryker were chatting amongst themselves, but they both looked up the moment they realised everyone had gone quiet. “This is Morgan.” 

The vampire tilted his head, frowning. “Are you…?” 

Morgan shook her head before he could get the rest of his sentence out. “Just a regular old human, unfortunately.” 

“Humans are wonderful, too,” Carlos was quick to assure her, and he truly believed it. “My humans are my best friends. I like the- the nice ones very much.” 

Much to his relief, she smiled. “That’s very kind of you. Sounds like the boys have been treating you very well, then, hm?” 

“Yes!” he nodded enthusiastically, glancing over at Ryker for some sort of reassurance that what he was saying was okay. From what he could make out, nothing was wrong. He even had a smile on his face. “I love being here very much. I get daily meals and my own bedroom to sleep in, like humans do!” 

Adam responded by giving him a gentle pat on the back. “You sure do, bud. Do you think you could help Morgan put her stuff by the bed?”

“Oh, no, I got it-” 

Before she could protest further, Carlos had obediently followed his instruction and easily lifted both her bag and the bedding she was holding into his arms. It weighed virtually nothing to him anymore, and he was happy to feel a difference now that he was getting better. It wouldn’t be long before he’d get to experience the full capacity of his strength as a vampire for the first time in his life.

He gave Morgan a warm smile to try and ease the guilty look on her face. “It’s okay, ma’am! I like being helpful.” 

“Well, thank you, Carlos.” 

Without looking back at her, Carlos beamed at the recognition, no matter how small. Thank you. Such simple words, and yet they meant so much to him. It always made him want to be even more helpful. 

“You’re welcome!”

-

Carlos was extra careful in the kitchen for the rest of the evening. Ryker watched amusedly as he gingerly made his way towards the oven and pulled the cake out with an oven mitt on both hand as to not burn himself. Once it was set on the kitchen table, he let out the deep breath he’d been holding in and pulled the mitts off with his teeth to set them neatly beside the cooling rack. 

“Thank you for being so merciful about the mess I made, sir,” he whispered, purposely low enough that no one else could hear him confessing his accident out loud. He shuffled uncomfortably on his feet and took to fiddling with his fingers, glancing down at the ground to avoiding making eye contact with the human. “...and for helping me clean it up. I really am glad to be living here, with you and Adam and all these kind people that I get to spend time with.” 

Ryker tilted his head with a smile, reaching out to ruffle the vampire’s hair again. “We enjoy having you here, too. Danny’s very excited to spend some time with you over the weekend.” 

“Really?” 

The human nodded. “Yeah, for sure. I think everyone’s gonna have an early night tonight, but Adam would like to take Morgan shopping tomorrow, so you’ll get plenty of one-on-one time with Danny then. Did she tell you she’s been around for over three hundred years?”

He couldn’t help but laugh when Carlos’ eyes blew comically wide. “Really? A-are- are Adam and Morgan-” There was a small pause as he struggled to find the right words. “I’m so sorry if this sounds mean, but is Danny related to them? How- how can they be sisters and brothers?” 

“Not quite. I don’t think I’m the right person to talk to about the details, but she’s been a big part of their life since they were children. Not blood related, but still far better family than the people that were related to them.”

Carlos hummed, considering Ryker’s words for a moment. “Oh. I… I always thought family had to be related.” 

“Not really.” Ryker cleared his throat and leaned against the bench before lightly touching the top of the cake to test how ready it was. “Family is whoever you feel safest around. That’s the rule I’ve always gone by, anyway.” 

Once again, another few moments of consideration. 

“...Does that mean you and Adam are my family?” 

Ryker had to fight off the giddy grin that threatened to appear the moment he realised what Carlos meant. They’d been working so unbelievably hard to ensure that they were people Carlos could feel safe enough to confide in. It made him so happy to hear that it was working. 

“We’d be honoured to be a part of your family,” he eventually responded. “You’ve already been a part of mine for far longer than I think you realise. It’s only fair that we be a part of yours, hm?” 

The vampire smiled. “Yeah! Thank you, Ryker.” Then he hesitated, averting his eyes down to his feet once more before glancing back up again. Curiosity nearly had Ryker asking him what was wrong, but he managed to blurt out his thoughts before the question could come out. “I love you.” 

Ryker didn’t even try to suppress the grin on his face anymore. “I love you, too, man.”

-

As far as Carlos could tell, everyone that ate it seemed to enjoy the cake. Danny didn’t, obviously, but between the three humans they were able to drain enough blood into two cups for the vampires to sip on, too. It wasn’t until the end that people praised him on its deliciousness, and his heart felt full as he took the empty plates back to the kitchen at the end of the night and stacked them in the dish washer for the next cycle. 

I love you, too, man. The words repeated themselves more times than he could count throughout the night. He was just so happy. His younger self would never in a million years believed that he’d eventually find himself with a family. A family that loved and cared for him, and let him care for them in a way that wasn’t expected or demanded. 

He wondered if that family would grow in time. If perhaps Charlie would become a part of his family, or Morgan and Danny. It was a nice thought, though if it remained the way it was in that very moment, he’d die a happy vampire.

-

Taglist: @alexkolax @emcscared-whumps @espresso-depresso-system @inkkswhumpandstuff @pigeonwhumps @pumpkin-spice-whump @roblingoblin285 @sacredwrath @some-thrilling-heroics @stabby-nunchucks @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @trans-writes @whump-blog @whumpsday @whumpshaped @whump-things @whumpycries @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question @thekittyburger @choppedflowermuffinchild @whumpdreamz

[mondaymelon]

𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞… | rui x gn!reader

warnings/notes! | comfort, fluff, mizuki ultimate wingman, mentions of reader having a fear of cramped spaces, the two of you... are locked in the janitors closet...?

(a/n) ha. h aha a thank you @eaeaeasaggresively for this perfectly fine not awkward writing prompt at alllllll ajodsflksme ♡ the plot is all over the place send help

"…Great."

Just how did you get into this situation?

You had your head pressed against Rui's chest, so close together that you could hear his steady heartbeat from where you leaned against him, your back pushed to the cold tiled wall behind you.

"…Rui??"

"Stay still."

Everything had gone great until about 2 hours prior.

"Oh! Hey, over here!" Someone's voice called out to you, one that was high-pitched and one that you recognized. Turning around, you spotted a head of pink. Mizuki waved to you, grinning. "I have a favor to ask of you!"

"What is it this time?" You sounded exasperated, but you didn't care - Mizuki had the tendency to be… a bit of a mischievous person. Yet again, you suspected that they had something up their sleeve.

"Awww, what's with that mean tone? I just wanted to ask you to fetch me something, is all!" Mizuki's playful expression didn't change one bit as they feigned a hurt expression.

"Go on…"

"I left one of my hairpins in the janitor's closet a while back! It should be on the shelf... Please, please, pleaseee, can you get it for me??" Mizuki made a praying motion with their hands, staring up at you with pleading eyes.

"Why was it in there in the first place…? And isn't going into the janitor's closet prohibited...?"

"Uh… Ah… I did a favor for him a while back and uh… my hair was all messed up so… Just don't think too much about it, okay? Now hurry up and grab it before you'll be late!" They laughed awkwardly, using both hands to shove you out of the room forcefully before shutting it in your face. They gave you a little wave as you set off, grinning.

You stood there for a moment in utter silent. "...what... what was that all about...?" You paused for a little while longer, before heading down the empty hallways slowly and stopping when you reached the large door that lead to the said place.

"...Hello?"

Silence.

Creaking open the door, you saw the expected scene, a couple of chairs strewn about the cramped space, a broom, mop, bucket and other cleaning items in the corner and against the walls, and a couple of grey binders leaning against the wall. The entire space was dimly lit, light so poor that you could barely see anything, and you searched the wall for the light switch.

As your fingers graced against the familiar shape in the darkness, about to flick it on, something grabbed you from the shadows, and all of a sudden, you heard the click of the door behind you and the hushed breathing of the someone holding onto you.

"Let me g-!"

"Ssshh." You recognized the lilting tone, and the feeling of someone pressing a finger to your lips. Their skin was cold to the touch. Footsteps sounded outside the door, the long shadows stopping for a moment in front of the entrance before continuing onwards at a brisk pace.

The two of you stayed quiet for a minute or two longer before the man behind you finally let out a pent up sigh. "All clear," he said, releasing his hold on you. "You can talk now."

That familiar voice... you flinched at your realization, acknowledging the sudden heat that rose to your face. "Rui??"

"Hehe, oh, have I been found out?" There was a satisfying click as the man himself turned on the light, illuminating the room. From where you sat, bottom pressed to the cold ground, you could see his tall figure and mischievous expression. "I didn't scare you, did I?"

"Not at all, why would you? After all, it's not like I walked into a dark room, got grabbed by some unknown man, then got told to be quiet..." You sighed exasperatedly, but you knew you couldn't stay mad at the purple-haired man.

“Sorry~”

You knew he wasn’t sorry from the expression on his face.

You knew he just wanted to get a reaction out of you. He had said it himself a while before. “You’re just too cute when you’re mad, you know. I cant help it.”

You had turned bright red at that time, cursing immediately before hiding your face behind your hair. Rui, on the other hand, had laughed throughout it all, seeming quite pleased with himself. Sure, it annoyed you, but that was the way Rui was.

Now, as you stared up at him with an air of shock, he grinned. “Hehe, did you miss me that much? It looks like you can’t take your eyes off of me.”

"Stop flattering yourself." Face burning, you glanced about the space. "Why are you here in the first place?"

"Huh? Oh, Mizuki wanted me to go find one of her hairpins."

"..."

"...Something wrong?"

"...Ah. I see. So I've been played."

Rui seemed perplexed for a moment, but that expression quickly changed into one trying to hold back laughter. "You don't mean..."

"That's right. I was supposed to go find their hairpin too. Mizuki... they set us up." Scowling, you sighed, glancing at the shelf that they had said it would be on. As expected, there was nothing.

Rui chuckled quietly at your efforts, before shrugging nonchalantly. "Then should we leave? We can skip class together." The man began striding to the door, reaching out his hand to grasp the knob. "I have some secret places I'd like to show you..." He paused as he voice trailed off, freezing as his hand jiggled the knob to no avail. The door remained in place, and as the male tried again, his face slowly devolved into one of absolute dismay.

From behind him, you could barely see a thing past his tall figure, and you stood on your tippie toes in an attempt to find out what was causing Rui so much trouble. "Hey, what's happening?"

"Ah..." Rui turned around, face pale and grim as he smiled awkwardly. "We... may or not be locked in here."

"...You're kidding... right?"

It wasn't like you didn't hear him, more like you wouldn't hear him, as you stepped aside him and faced the door yourself. Grabbing ahold of the knob, you twisted with all of your might and shoved forward.

Nothing.

Glancing down, you saw that the brass knob was smooth - no locking mechanisms... yet, the closet was always locked...

"...The door locks from the outside with a key, doesn't it..." Realization slowly began to dawn on your features as you took a stumbling step backwards, bumping into Rui in the process - at which you tried not to think too much about. Trembling, you glanced up at him with large eyes. "R-Rui- I'm too y-young to die-! Am...Am I going to be trapped in here until I wither away??"

You couldn't help the terrified edge that creeped into your voice. Tight spaces, or just cramped places in general, always freaked you out. The feeling of no escape, walls all around so close you're suffocating... None of it was conscious. But you could feel your breath hitch and heart race as you alternated between staring up at Rui for reassurance and desperately glancing around the room for another exit.

"Hey." His voice was soft as you felt his hand gently take yours. With his other, he took your chin and guided your trembling face towards his so that you had no choice but to look at him. "You... You're claustrophobic, aren't you...?"

You made no movements of protest against his actions, already far too absorbed in your terror. "I..." Breathing heavily, you sighed. "Was it that obvious?" He's looking at you intently - all too closely, and it does nothing to help the tears that are welling up in your eyes. As they spill down the sides of your face unwillingly, Rui just sighs and embraces you tighter.

"It's okay."

"You're going to be okay."

"You have me."

"Rui."

"Rui Kamishiro."

"And I will do anything to protect you."

"Please, please, don't waste your tears."

"It hurts me to see you cry like this."

"So please, smile for me."

˗ˏˋ masterlist ˎˊ˗

[ziracona]

We’ve lived on the edge of a heart for the last four hundred years.

You grow up knowing that, you know, and it sounds so normal. So routine. We learn the world works on the decaying remnants of the old world, and that’s life, but it’s so different to see it.

I got a job working at the power center when I was just twelve. You can only work a few hours a day that age. You got school, and life, and laws that say it’s bad for you. And the work’s easy; all I did was bring people papers and drinks, one room to the next. Wait for a while until called. It was like chores at home. That, and my sister had done it before me, so I knew the routes going in, and I was fast; I was good. I wanted them to be impressed.

I guess they were.

When I turned fifteen, I got a job working basic cleaning. I got the older janitors to teach me repairs. I was good at it, and if you opened the windows on the second floor at night, you’d hear the concerts down the hill, and it was almost magic.

It was during a meteor concert I first saw the god. I knew how the power station worked, in theory, but they keep security tight close to the core, and usually I wouldn’t have been allowed near it with my rank. One of the old men in the job had fallen though, and injured himself late in the winter, and had to be taken to the doctor. The other oldest staff member usually there was out of town visiting family a few villages away, and that left just one of the younger men, and me. I’d offered to help, and rather than take all the lower floors alone, he’d said ‘sure why not,’ and let me though.

There was no one to stop us. And I’d earned trust. Honestly though, I hadn’t done it expecting to see it. I mean, I was curious generally, but I knew by then even if you were in the room, things were usually all bolted closed. Really though, I was so worried about Alberto, all I was thinking about had been him, and how close he was to the age of my own grandfather when he’d died last year. There wasn’t room for curiosity past fear and superstition.

The concert down the hill was playing loud though, a lunar event. Beautiful, probably, but I wasn’t thinking about having to miss it. I was thinking about Alberto, and trying to not think about Alberto, and trying to make my heart go slower, and the mop in my hand.

There were lights that activated through rune when you got close in the inner rooms, and I walked past a long wall of a massive tank, like an aquarium I’d seen once visiting the coast. Runes lit it blue and red as I went past, and thought about Alberto, and my grandfather, and the concert, and the mop. I kept telling myself, “I did the right thing. I stayed, and I worked a double and did his job, so he’ll be okay. It’s only fair. It wouldn’t be fair for him to die tonight while I’m working his shift. This will keep him safe.” It wouldn’t be like grandad, and the trip I’d passed on two nights before his death, to see friends instead, because I thought I had time.

I looked at the floor and I mopped till the runelight glowed in them, and focused on doing everything right. Everything. On meaning it.

And then I’d felt something move.

I can’t describe the immense horror of feeling something that size move in a room at night alone. It’s like the shadow of a mountain. It’s like the things you think are past your bed as a child.

And I saw my perfect runelight flicker in the tiles like something had passed between them and me, and turned to look up in that massive, empty fear of the night before that moment multiplied, and there in the tank was a humanoid figure I hadn’t realized was one at all, because it was five times as big. Its palm was the size of my head, and it shifted in that dark glowing tank, and I saw things that had looked like reeds move with it and registered them as chains. Its eyes were shut, but as I found swirling masses of matted black hair in the liquid, and what must have been a face beyond them, its eyes opened a crack. I saw glowing grey and black light in them, and they found me on that 2/3rds of a perfectly mopped floor, and pinned me to it like the corpse of a butterfly in a collector’s box.

I had never felt so afraid and so sure if something else wanted it, I was just going to die now.

The chains didn’t matter, the tank, the facility. It was too big for anything to possibly matter. So I stood there, hearing music of falling stars from the living humans below me what felt like a planet away, just waiting, for this big thing opposite me to will me dead.

It did not. It just looked at me, unmoving, like some corpse in the water. If I hadn’t been able to feel its gaze, I might have been able to really believe it was dead. But I knew it was watching me.

For about ten minutes I stood there looking at it, mop dripping water onto my perfect floor, too scared to move or think. And then slowly, fear beat out fear. I began thinking ‘No. You’re failing now. You stopped. You had to do his job perfect. He’s going to die.’ Louder and louder until it pounded in my head, and there was no room for fear of this god either past it, and I took my mop, and shakily went back to working.

I felt its eyes on me. I felt its eyes follow me. But I couldn’t stop, and so I didn’t.

I finished that room, and the next and the next, until the whole floor was done, and I went home at 10:00am two hours before my own shift should be starting, and collapsed, and when I woke up and returned to work after an hour and a half of sleep, and Hannah told me Alberto had pulled through, I believed it was me. I believed with immense relief I had traded with the universe last night this time and won it fair and square.

But I wasn’t surprised.

Dreams of that thing haunted me after, for several months. Watching me. Following me. I felt it in dreams about my grandfather, where I tried to make it to see him, and failed.

I got sick with those dreams.

And then a year later, just seventeen, they started letting me into the room with the tank again, to clean as Alberto’s helper. It always seemed asleep now, when it was where we could see it, and it wasn’t always. Floating like a corpse.

I wished it would look at me again. I felt like if it did, at least maybe the nightmares would be about being eaten or crushed, not the death of my grandfather.

And then one night, waking from that nightmare in a cold sweat, I’d thought about the way the stillness had felt the very first night I’d seen the monster, and about the way I’d felt like I’d beaten something the next day, and I went back to sleep and the nightmare willingly.

I remember that dream. My grandfather was there, looking at me and crying from the other side of a tank wall, lit up blue and red from runelight, and I couldn’t reach him. Behind him, there was a blackness like lengthening shadows that I knew was death, reaching, reaching, getting closer and closer to him as his palms pressed on the glass I couldn’t break through to save him, and I knew like every other time he was going to die, and I would not save him. And off far to the right, was the body of the god, watching with those glowing grey and black eyes. Silent.

I did not pound on the glass. I did not cry and beg or fight. I placed my palms opposite my grandfather’s and said “I am so sorry I didn’t come to say goodbye. I didn’t know. I would trade anything if I could.”

And something in the dream had said, ‘but you cannot, not like that,’ soft, like the touch of your mother’s palm against your face as a baby, and I believed it this time.

“Please forgive me,” I said to the grandfather in the dream I had let die.

“Forgive yourself,” he said in a voice I thought I’d never hear again, even in a dream, “Say goodbye now.”

He smiled.

I said, “I don’t deserve it.”

He said, “You do. We both want it, so you do. It’s fair.”

So I said, “I love you.” Which meant “goodbye” more than ‘goodbye’ could, and I saw he heard me before the shadow reached his back and took him with it, and I woke up crying, but, I felt better for the first time I ever had with a cry, and there were no more nightmares after that night.

That day, the thing in the tank watched me.

For just a second, as I was leaving. I remember looking back at it when Alberto was already through, and saw glowing eyes for an instant before they shut. It was substantially smaller even in that short time, than the first day I’d seen it, but still huge to me, and it terrified me, that sight, but I also felt relieved. Like the only thing worse than it alive, was it dead.

No one knew much about what our city god had been, or if they did, they didn’t say.

I asked someone who’d been at the station a long time once, and he hazarded ‘law, or storms?’ because of the village history and locale. I wondered if it was either at all. I guessed it didn’t matter. Gods had been gods: all pretty much the same. And we all knew the stories.

Over a thousand years ago now, there had been the age of gods. They controlled men; they bought and sold us, used us, siphoned off our belief into power, killed us, drew us in for worship and controlled us with fear, and hate, and desperation. Demanded blood, demanded lives, demanded sacrifice. We worshiped them, and they gave us power, a little. But only ever a little. And then, almost a thousand years ago now, we had realized they could be beaten.

And for the life of us, had we.

We had fought back against their oppression, and we dragged them down to our level. We had been used for eons as power for them, but our ancestors turned those tables. We built traps, and curses, and used our belief as a weapon against the things that had tormented us for thousands of years for it. Mages and artificers found ways to reverse the power—ways to siphon off a god’s domain, and make that power for us. We took them down, and tied them down, and we took it, all. And for nearly a thousand years, we had it. Power, and freedom. Not always peace, but our wars were our own. We were no longer pawns to gods. They were dead now, and our future was ours.

Well, most were dead. Apparently, when my grandad was a boy, that had actually been a huge problem, and people everywhere panicked. We hadn’t realized that the gods could be used up until they had no power left to give, and died outright, but it started to happen, and how could we possibly replace that? Our whole cities were built on their backs. Sometimes literally. But the mages and artificers had found a way, like before, and we did replace it. We had developed new dams, and alchemy, leylines—we even harnessed lightning itself. It would be different, sure, but it was no longer a real concern by the time he’d met my grandmother.

Amazing, how much could change so fast.

When the gods we kept chained in our cities as power cores first began to die, those gods simply vanished. There had been panic with the first few—long before my grandad was born—but, by the time he got his first job, we had accept the loss of a resource, and found something to do with it. Now, when a god died, we made something of it. After all: we were saying a last goodbye to a whole era of our history. Now, when one was on its last legs, someone was chosen from that city, and granted the honor to kill it. To become a God-Slayer. And someday, someone would be the very last one. The last God-Slayer. And god, I wanted it.

I knew I wouldn’t be the last, of course; by the time I was eight I knew that—numbers had dwindled, but we were hardly down to two or something. That didn’t matter. I had just wanted to be one of them, as a boy. Someone who might be remembered forever, a nail in the coffin at the end note of the remnants of our oppressors. It had been like a fairytale.

It was why I took this job, originally. Why I had worked so hard.

By the time I got my wish though, I’d forgotten it had been, as a boy, what I’d wanted and worked and traded in all the life I would never get back for a shot at.

It was early morning, and and I’d walked in still sleepy for my morning shift, and there was energy in the air. The workers were chattering together in excited undertones, and I felt excited too without even knowing why, and hurried over to find out too.

“You’re in time,” hissed Kanne at me, almost vibrating with energy, “quick! The name collector moved to the next floor but they’re still making rounds!”

“The—” I thought my eyes were going to pop out of my skull. “TODAY?”

They were all nodding.

Nobody had to tell me twice. I ran. I passed the tank room on my way, and it was empty, and I felt sick with adrenaline. Even if I didn’t get picked, which was what, one in 15 to one in 20 odds? I-I would see it! I was there ON the day.

I found the man collecting names and he gave me a little black card and white chalk. I scribbled my name down and dropped it into the slot in his box, and raced back to my friends with his whispered, “Small staff today. It’s the two men from the overseers, you four on cleaning staff, the two technicians, and one enchanter. I never put in my own,” ringing in my ears. One in seven odds.

One in seven.

We waited on the ground floor for the announcement. The others kept glancing my way and grinning at me. I must have looked stupidly excited, I guessed, but I didn’t care at all. It was like a dream.

“Will they let us watch?” I asked suddenly, it having not occurred to me before they might not.

“Dunno,” said Wis thoughtfully, the youngest above me here today, and in his forties.

I hope they do. I prayed silently.

“As you all know,” came a quiet, level voice I knew even having heard it only a handful of times, as the manager of power stations on the area. We all turned and looked towards the horn amplifying sound from a few floors up and stopped breathing. I mean, I did anyway. I had to assume we all did. “Today, we have a God-Slaying. The old god of this city has reached its final death throes, and is being taken down. This is a monumental honor, and the reward for dedicating your life to a job I know is not easy, or especially rewarding compared to some others most days. Today, it is the most rewarding job of all. As is tradition in the southern region, we draw lots for the honor of God-Slayer, among all those in daily service keeping the local power core site running in person. There are less than twenty gods remaining now, in our world. Let’s see who one of the last slayers among our kind will be.”

I waited, wishing I could hear the rustle of papers. ‘Arano’ I thought, picturing the white chalk letters in my head and pleading for them with the world.

“‘Gav.’” came the manager’s voice.

YES! What?? I thought in rapid succession, I-Is there someone last-named ‘Gav’ here???

The rest of cleaning staff had erupted in cheers and were clapping me on the back, whistling, calling congratulations and giving hugs.

“Is that me?” I asked them, dumbfounded.

“You know your own name, right?” laughed Kanne.

“But I put my last—didn’t we-?” They were all grinning at me.

“Mmm I put your last name,” agreed Kanne with a sparkle in her eyes, “But one of the boys must have not.”

“I genuinely thought we were doing first names,” said Wis, flushing, and Alberto had given a toothy grin and tilted his head to the side.

“Wait—all of?”

They were all nodding. Beaming at me.

“Don’t you want-” I started desperately.

“Not as much as I want to see you get it,” grinned Kanne, “besides, wasn’t mine I guess anyway.”

Alberto gave a nod. “You’ve got a long time to enjoy it.”

“And cleaning staff sticks together,” added Wis, shutting his eyes and gesturing carelessly with a hand, “four in seven is better odds—”

“Odds of one of us winning would still be four in seven,” I laughed, and realized I was crying, and he grinned at me and clapped me on the shoulder.

“You earned it, kid. Go get it.”

They smiled and moved me towards the stairs, laughing and clapping my back and talking, and the horn above us called my name again and asked me to make my way to the artificer’s chambers.

The two men from the overseer branch met us on the way down and chatted, friendly and enthusiastic. I asked one if he’d ever seen this before, and he said this would be his fifth time. That was almost unimaginable to me.

“What’s it like?” I asked as we reached the artificer’s room.

It was clean and bright, which was the polar opposite of it in active use. The man gestured to a door on the far end I’d only been through a maybe twice before, ever. There wasn’t anything back there really, an empty room for a purpose I hadn’t guessed before.

The man considered my question as we moved towards the door. “Strange,” he decided, and he gave me a smile, “They fight usually. I’ve seen them go silent once too. It’s almost reverent, to me,” he added like he was surprised to find it, “seeing the end of an era. Finishing what we started.”

He ran a rune sequence against the waiting door, and it slid open, and he turned and gestures for people to wait.

“Gratifying too,” he decided, giving me another glance, “Like you can breathe easier with one more of the those gigantic empty leeches finally gone.”

I gave a nod.

“Okay. We’re taking him in first,” he addressed the staff behind me, which now included Reysa and Lili the technical repairs duo, and the assistant who’d collected names. “Once it’s ready to commence, the rest of you will enter the viewing area, through that door,” he pointed to a door on the left side of the room, then glanced at his partner, who gave a nod and me a smile, and they showed me in.

It had been years since I’d seen this room. It was empty, aside from pillars and a little pedestal, usually. But today, there were chains, and a mechanism I hadn’t seen before.

“What is that?” I asked, staring at the humming thing.

“It’s the same as the one in the basement, just smaller and concentrated,” replied the overseer.

Ah, a ward then. We had discovered a long time ago when we fought the gods, that there was very little we could make that hurt them, but we could capture their own energy and turn it on them, and the energy of any god could hurt another. These things stored that power, and imbued it through materials like chains, or the liquid in the tank our god had been kept in. The way they enchanted the energy, a god encased in it was unable to do the things we heard stories of them having done in the past: use their domain to crack open the sky and rain down fire, vanish and appear on another country, kill you with a look. They just became big dead bodies, not quite dead, like our god in its tank.

“You have the right to choose a weapon,” said the second man from overseers, gesturing to a set that was hung on the wall by the door.

Oh, I thought, feeling something between excitement and nausea at the sight. I really get to do this. I’m going down in history. I’m going to kill a god.

There was an axe, a sword, a spear, scythe—which I could not begin to imagine the self-confidence or impressiveness of choosing, a mace, a bow, and a dagger. I looked at them long and hard, heart beating out of my chest. I could see the faintly glowing coating of god energy on them. Enchanted for killing gods. A god killer. Such a magnificent weapon seemed too good to be real.

But here it was, and here I was, and the sword felt like what the hero would choose in a story, but I was a cleaner, whose friends had given me a gift, and I was to kill a god, and I remembered the way the overseer had said ‘almost reverent’ about killing the last of these things, and I reached out and took the axe.

It felt right in my hands. Impossibly heavy, but, somehow that was good. I knew it would kill in one blow, which hadn’t worried me before I chose it, but I was now enormously relieved not to worry about.

“Well chosen,” whispered the overseer with a friendly smile, nudging me in the ribs with his elbow.

I smiled back and straightened up, and walked over near the podium where I was directed. Across the room, I saw my friends ushered in and watching through glass, waving, staring. Excited too. And now maybe a little afraid, awestruck.

I’m ready, I told myself, turning to face the door the overseer was opening.

It opened, and six men from the overseer’s office came through, holding chains and weapons with coals at the tips. There was a track system in the roof of the room, and as they hooked chains into it, a mechanism started up, and dragged the thing towards me, surrounded by its guard.

It came fighting and stumbling, screaming, trying to break free, and I was dumbfounded.

I had never once seen it speak in the tank.

It had gotten so small, it was almost my size now, and it looked like a man, skin dark and ashy grey tinted like someone who’d lost too much blood, bedraggled thin curls matter to its head. The eyes still glowed fiercely.

The overseer began to speak, noting history and official rites, chronicling our event today, but I didn’t hear any of it. I heard the god scream and struggle. There was no room for other sounds past that. Shackles were secured around its hands and feet, waist, and neck, and the mechanisms in the ceiling and floor kept dragging it towards me, arms chained together behind its back, feet awkwardly apart and chained to the tracks in the floor so it kept stumbling and falling, and being caught by the chain around its neck that kept on dragging it towards me, and I followed the mechanism with my eyes and realized it would drag the head down on top of the pedestal and hold it still for me. For executing.

In my head I had always thought it would be like a mock fight, ceremonial, or…entering a cage, with a silent giant thing, labored breathing, putting it down. Like opening the top of that tank and aiming a harpoon down while it lay there still. I felt suddenly like I wouldn’t know what to do now when the moment came, and might do it all wrong, and I tightened my grip on the axe to stop the shaking in my hand.

No one looked at me though. The men around the bound god shoved and prodded it forward with their full attention, until it was dragged to the ground in front of me with a shout, and they hooked the chain around its waist to the floor so it was trapped kneeling, feet too, and head suspended against the pedestal by the one around its neck.

It was wearing tattered remnants of an outfit I should have known, but didn’t. Flowing and formal, but so old.

“Having reached the end of its usefulness to us, the god of Malcove will be slain by one of her citizens: Gav Arano,” came the overseer’s voice. I looked up and saw him raise his arms. “We dedicate this ending to the memory of the ancestors strong enough to end the age of gods, as we take our final steps in burying the last embers.”

“Stop!” shouted the god in desperation. It fought to wrench itself back up and couldn’t, and cursed in frantic frustration and fear, trying again anyway.

I looked at the overseer and he gave me a nod.

Feeling like I wasn’t really there, I raised my axe. This is a god, I told myself, staring at the wretched thing at my feet, I’m really-

“Stop! Please!” shouted the god, dragging its head to the side as far as it could to look up and see me, and I was so shocked to hear that word from a god, that I did. “Please, stop!”

“Go on,” came the overseer’s voice encouragingly as I stared at the thing with my arms raised.

“No!” called the god, turning its head to look from me to the overseer and back, then staying on me, “Do not go on! Why?” it begged, somewhere between rage and despair, “Why do you do this to me?”

“It’s alright,” said the overseer to me again, ignoring the thing, “go on.”

“Answer me!” shouted the god, frantic, “You!” it shouted, turning its head painfully far back and to the side to see me, “Why! What have I done?”

“You know what it’s done,” said the overseer to me, “It’s a god. Go on; slay it.”

I moved, and the god’s eyes fixed on mine and went wide, ragged with hate and fear and desperation. “‘Slay’ me?” Its voice cracked. “‘Slay!?!’ Look around you! This is no heroic god-slaying! It is an execution! And I have committed no crime; you are a murderer, showering praise for a murder!” It jerked against its chains futilely. “I am bound! I am unable to flee, or fight back! I have initiated no challenge! I am a prisoner! You have locked me away and tortured me for hundreds of years, and now you have used up my life, you will kill me for it!”

“They get like this sometimes, trying to talk their way out at the end,” said the overseer, nonplussed, “You don’t have to listen.”

“No! You will hear me!” shouted the god in a panic.

Someone activated the mechanism it was chained to, and its neck was dragged down hard against the pedestal with a pained cry and held there flat against it, so it couldn’t look up anymore.

“You coward!” It shouted, trying to see me anyway and failing, starting to cry, “You coward!! You will not even look me in the eyes and face what you’re doing when you take my life?!”

“Go on,” said the other overseer, much more quietly. I hadn’t heard him come over, but he had, and he put an encouraging hand on my shoulder, “It’s all talk. It can’t hurt you.”

“That is the point,” cried the god, voice seeped in bitterness and despair and hate, “I cannot. I am a god who served this land for three thousand years, and you are going to slaughter me like a cow!” It tore at its restraints again and screamed in rage when they held. “How do you justify it!?!” It shouted at the room of humans it couldn’t see who had come to watch its death. “You call my people monsters! ‘Unfair, unjust, leeches,’ for using you, and then you take us and trap us in walls to suck the life from for hundreds of years with no trial! No justice, no reason! You treat us as if we were all the same!”

“You are all gods,” said the second overseer with a twinge of annoyance, addressing it finally, “You are the same. You earned what you’ve been given. Accept it with dignity, or die in a pathetic tantrum at the end. It won’t change your fate.”

“The same?!” echoed the god, choking on the word in despair, “You would judge your entire species for the worst acts of a few?”

The man rolled his eyes and gave me a tired, reassuring smile. “They usually die with a little more dignity than this one. But these make a better story.” Again, he placed his hand on my shoulder encouragingly and gestured to the axe. “You don’t have to wait for it to finish spitting at you, Gav. Go on. Cut off the poison words at the source. It may talk a big game, but it’s harmless. You’re the only one with power here.”

I nodded slowly at him, and hefted the axe. Then I moved, slowly, over in front of it, and it looked up when it sensed me getting close.

“Wait! Please wait! W-We do not go on to a second life like you; we simply end! And still, you will take all our time and kill us like it’s nothing, and then call yourselves champions and just! You must see it is not! We are not the monsters!”

It got no answer this time, and it could sense the plea had failed. Breath heaving, and eyes full of tears, it held my gaze.

“Wait! Wait—will you not wait even a few minutes to give me time to reach some peace?”

“What would a god pray to?” asked the first overseer, somewhere between amusement and disdain.

Its expression shattered at the words, and it stopped looking at me and stared at nothing with wide eyes for a few seconds, then it hung its head and was silent.

I raised my axe.

“Do you even know what I used to be the god of,” it asked hopelessly, and I could hear it was crying in its voice, “Fair trade. I was the god of fair. trade.” It turned its hopeless face up towards mine a last time and looked its own death in the eyes for mercy. “I never massacred your people, or used them. It would be against my nature to have even tried. I protected deals between people who wanted it. I protected you. Many of us protected you, and look at what you have done.”

Its eyes were swollen, and stained with dirt and tears, its face so full of misery.

“You used to remember me,” it pleaded, despair in its eyes, “you used to like me. People would come to my temple on top of the mountain to ask advice, and blessings on their plans. To offer trades for the sick and dying. Sometimes they would leave gifts, to thank me, and I always got to think of ways to thank them back. Fair trades.”

The last words had been a whisper.

“Why,” it asked me and no one and everyone who had lived the last thousand years. Asked for justification, justice.

“Gav.” A prompt, almost a reprimand this time. I looked up and over, and the first overseer gave me a tired smile. “They’ll say anything. You can’t listen to a god; they would lie about anything to get what they want. It’s alright. Slay it.”

“Slay?! Call it what it is! Murder!” shouted the god, “I am alive! I have done nothing, and given everything, and still you have betrayed me! You know it is wrong!”

I looked up at the room around me, at the others, my friends, watching me across the room, waiting. Concerned. The guards, agitated by my delay, wanting to step in. The overseers nearly exasperated with my hesitation. The one at my side gave me a nod when I looked his way.

“Okay,” I whispered back, and I turned and I readied my stance again, hands sweating now. I raised the axe high above my head.

The god screamed in rage and despair as I moved. “We should never have cared for you monsters at all!” Frantic, it fought at its restraints till it bled, and tried to find me with its eyes, but I was too directly above it now. “You want to kill a god!? You want to rip away my life!?! Then take it!” it cried at the death it couldn’t see, and I watched a last something break in it, “Take my last trade! Take my life, and the curse you earn with it! My hate will follow your blood, eating away at your life and soul and everyone you love until you have NOTHING left, like you leave me! Take what you deserve!”

It was shaking. And it was alone. More than anything I could imagine.

I didn’t swing. I watched it. It couldn’t tilt its head high enough to see above my legs, and after a few seconds of terrible waiting for the axe to drop, the tension went out of it and it just went limp and cried, silent. Weak and hopeless.

“Why?” it asked the room in despair, “Why will you not even look me in the eyes when you kill me? How is that not fair?”

Fair.

I swung the axe.

As hard as I could.

And I let go, and watched the blade embed itself in the enchantment mechanism sending god energy coursing through the binding chains.

The mechanism made an awful sound, and suddenly the air was full of shouts.

“Go!” I shouted at the God, willing it to flee.

It did not.

It made a sound like a gasp, and there was an overwhelming surge of energy in the room, like electricity in the air of a storm, or smoke and heat inside a burning home.

I saw guards rush it, heard friends and strangers shout alike, and watched the god snap its chains in an instant and with a surge of power come upright, and grow.

In a millisecond, it changed, until it was towering like that first night in the tank. Like all those nights in my dreams. Hair floating, eyes glowing like stars, ashy skin glowing faintly of a grey like smoke.

And it began to laugh, long and desperate, and not entirely sane, and guards slammed their weapons into its legs and it didn’t even take note.

“Yes! Yes! NOW see what you’ve earned!” it shouted with relief and a vengeance, and its voice was clear like before, but so loud it hurt, and it raised a finger and a wall exploded, shattering debris on the first of the overseers and burying him. It felt a stab from a guard finally and glanced down, and swung at them with a hand. It was like watching a cat bat a mouse, and the four it hit were hit so hard they went through the wall. The last two it turned to look for and brought a foot down on, crushing them to pulp beneath it.

Everyone who could move was running now. Everyone but me.

I could only stand frozen in shock and horror, watching this thing I had done, and then it turned its head and saw me.

Oh no.

I thought to run, but I only made it back a step before it reached for me, and I thought, this is pointless, I’ll never make it, and I didn’t. It grabbed me with a hand as big now as I was, and lifted me off the floor towards itself, and I felt the most immense terror I ever had.

“Wait,” I tried to choke out as it brought me even with its face, and I realized then it was beaming.

“Thank you!” it said, “Do not worry. You will be safe.” Its expression changed, and it narrowed its eyes at the rest of the room. “And everyone else in this miserable city will not.”

It raised a palm.

“Starting with this hell prison that has taken everything I had. It may be too late for myself, but I swear, I will take it with me.”

I felt a huge wave of energy surge around us.

“W-Wait!” I shouted in terror.

It stopped, and glanced at me.

“Wait please! I-I know you’re angry,” I begged, staring up at this massive horrifying thing that had looked so human moments ago, and now could swallow me whole if it chose to, “And you’re right! What was done to you is unforgivable! But please—there are people who haven’t hurt you here! M-My family lives minutes from here: please don’t kill us!”

“Tell me where your family is, and I will spare them,” it agreed, and it turned its attention back to the building.

“No wait!”

It stopped again.

“I-I—P-Please, not just them! I-I am like everyone here! If it wasn’t for luck, I wouldn’t have been the one with the axe; I’d be one of the ones fleeing! They don’t know, the people in town! We don’t even understand what gods are! Please! Th-The people like me who work here, even, cleaning! We’ve never known any better; they are good people; please, don’t kill them!”

Its posture changed a little, and it tilted its head slowly, eyes on me.

“Please! Y-You said you wouldn’t judge everyone by the worst actions-”

“-Of a few,” it finished. It looked away, thinking, then slowly lowered its hand, and the expression in its eyes changed and the excitement was replaced with sadness. “Very well,” it whispered, “You showed mercy. So will I.”

There were sirens blaring now, and people shouting.

I was sick with all kinds of fear, but somehow this thing being shredded with magic after stopping would have been almost as bad to watch as it razing the town.

“People will come-” I started.

“Attention!” The god projected its voice, and I heard it echoing from halls all around me, everywhere, deafening, “This building will be leveled in four minutes. You have until then to clear it. If you value your life, do not re-enter.”

It stood there for a moment in the blaring of alarms, looking at nothing, glowing, but less bright. I saw the power that had come around it begin to fade, saw weariness and wear beneath it again.

“I am going home,” it decided, and it smiled.

Everything vanished.

There was a bright white light, and I had to shut my eyes, and when they opened, we weren’t in the building anymore, and I wasn’t being held in a hand.

I was standing on the grass on a mountainside—my mountainside, I realized, because I could see the whole city built into the side below us, sprawling down to the coast. N-Near the top, I thought shakily.

I turned, looking for the god, but I didn’t see it. Nothing but a massive, empty grass flat here near the peak, scrubby brush, a few old boulders covered in moss. I was alone. W—how? What do—?

Below me in the valley, I heard an awful sound, and turned to look, and watched as the power center shattered. A beam of grey light tore through its core like a geyser, and eviscerated the place I had spent the last ten years of my life in an instant.

As the light vanished, fear gripped me, and I stumbled to the edge of the flat, and for a horrible few long, long seconds, I expected to watch the whole valley shatter like that.

It did not.

Heart beating uncontrollably in my chest, I let myself stumble back from the edge finally, and fell to the grass, sick with fear and relief at the same time.

Behind me, there was the sound of a metal clink, and the relief vanished.

Nerves frayed, I rolled onto my stomach and scrambled up, ready to fight or run. It took only an instant to find the source. There, about twenty feet off, lay a figure on its side in the grass.

As I stood, I recognized the god. Small again now, like me. Arms and legs and neck still shackled, just to broken chains now, and they clinked quietly as it ran its hand along the grass there weakly.

Unsure what to do, I watched for a moment, and then walked over and knelt a few feet to the side.

It heard me coming and looked over and watched, and gave me a sad, weak smile as I joined it.

“What happened?” I asked, very unsure myself, “Did…destroying the power center..?”

“No. I am dying,” it answered quietly, none of the panic from before, “You knew this. Your people have taken all the life I had to give from me. I’m out of belief, and out of time now too. I may have sped things up by a few minutes, but there was no other end for me.”

“…I’m sorry,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say.

And I was sorry for it. Sorry that I’d spent thirteen years dreaming about killing it. Sorry that it had been trapped and hurt for hundreds of years. Sorry I had needed to ask it not to kill everyone who had hurt it. Sorry that I still was not thinking of it as ‘he’.

“Thank you,” it said like it meant it, and it smiled weakly at me.

It let out a shaky breath, and rolled onto its back and looked around, and I thought it would cry.

“This was my temple,” it told my, eyes on the sky above us, “There used to be trees here. People planted them for me. So many. You could sit on one and hang right over the edge of the world here, look down at the city below. It was a stone temple. Your people made it for me by hand.”

I watched him in silence.

There were tears in his eyes again, but I knew the kind this time. It was the same as the way my mother had looked telling me stories about her childhood with him, when we buried my grandfather.

Love.

And loss.

“It was beautiful,” he told me with a shaky smile, “Rough and imperfect. Repaired many times, and people would etch things into it as little gifts. After time, old words wore away and new ones covered them, like a tapestry. Children would write their name for the first time here, to trade for bravery for school. I loved it.”

The love became sadness, and it was almost unbearable to watch.

“They tore it all down. All of it.” He looked at me. “I cannot even sense the stones of the foundation. All of it has been destroyed.” He looked away again and tried to smile. “I had thought. That the trees might have made it. They wouldn’t have known, that those were mine, would they?” He asked me, almost desperate to be right. “Or did…the people who used to come see me help them tear it all down? Did…”

He was quiet.

“I don’t understand,” he said finally, very quiet. He looked at me again. “Am I wrong? Have I done something terrible I do not comprehend?”

I couldn’t possibly know. But at the same time, I thought I did,

“I thought I was doing well,” he promised the sky.

and the answer was no.

“I’m sorry,” I said again.

He looked at me and studied me for a few seconds. “I had not thought there were humans like I knew left,” he said with a slow smile, “I am glad you are not gone. You are named Gav?”

I nodded.

“Zesham,” he told me.

“Zesham,” I echoed.

He smiled.

For a moment he closed his eyes, and then he looked up at the sky again. “I wanted to come home to die,” he told me, “This is the only home I’ve ever known. I was not a major god. Only god of here. But my home is destroyed. Along with all memory of me.”

He shut his eyes. I watched him cry in silence and wished I knew how to comfort someone dying.

Slowly, I reached out and placed my hand against the one he had wrapped around blades of grass.

He felt strange. Cold, like a corpse, but vibrating or humming, like a cat almost, or a tremor. Zesham opened his eyes when I did it, and looked over. At my hand, then me.

“You worry,” he said like he was very surprised to find it.

“I…” I thought about my grandfather. Alberto. My life. Debts, regrets. Deaths. “I wish I could have saved you.”

“…I am okay,” he told me, and I knew he was lying. He tried to smile. “This is my earth.” He dug his hand in, and weakly held up a handful of loose turf for me to see. “They cannot have taken the dirt too. The temple, the gifts, the flagstones, the trees, the flowers. But not the dirt. They would not know it was mine. But it must be. There is still dirt here, and they would not have brought in new, so it must be the same I used to walk in, and that knew the roots of my trees, and the sounds of the footsteps of people coming to see me, and weight of my flagstones. So, I made it home still. See? Even after all that is lost.”

I squeezed his hand gently.

He tried so hard to look proud. His breath was ragged and his skin ashier.

“Yes, you did,” I agreed quietly.

“So. I think. I will go to sleep in my home, and not waking up will not be so terrible. And I have one human who has stayed by my side, so I have the rare honor, for a god, of…of not…” he was struggling to speak, but he managed it, “d-dying alone.”

And he smiled weakly at me and looked happy, almost. And shut his eyes.

I held his hand and watched. I wished I could think of something to say. Goodbye but not goodbye. Goodbye but right, like my grandfather, and I knew I was about to run out of time.

“I wish you would stay,” I whispered finally.

And I could see he had heard it, and knew it meant goodbye more than goodbye could.

I watched death come for him like a shadow, and I thought, ‘I would trade you anything for it if I could.’

And suddenly. That was a thought like it hadn’t been.

.

.

.

[hannahssimblr]

Chapter Six (Part 2)

Later on, I arrive home to a house that smells like butter and sugar. My dad mutters a gruff “howya” through the ajar living room door as I hang up my coat and bag on the stairs. He’s watching snooker. I pause at the door. “How’s it going?”

“Grand yeah. Good match?”

I shrug. “It was alright. Not sure I’m converted into a football lover yet.”

“Tullamore win?”

“Yep.”

“Good stuff.” 

I go through to the kitchen where my mam is cleaning, as usual, and even though it’s turned cold while autumn has blown in, she’s in a sweat, wiping her brow with her sleeve as she works the mop into the floor with a vigour. 

“Hi.” I say. “Were you baking?”

“I was. A bit of tea brack.”

“Aw, yuck.”

“Yuck yourself. It’s always the sweeties with you, chocolate this, jellies that, there’s nothing wrong with a bit of good old fashioned brack.”

“Well I don’t like sultanas. Still.” I remind her. “Do you have anything for me?”

She stops cleaning and rests her elbow on the end of the mop. “What kind of ‘thing’?”

“I dunno, something quick, I just want to grab something before I get the bus back.”

She makes an outraged sound, shaking her head as she swipes the mop across the floorboards. “Sure you’re only just home and you’re gone again!”

“Yeah I know, there’s just not much to do here, I was going to go back and sort myself out for work on Monday, like, I dunno, maybe go to the stationary shop and get new pens.”

“New pens.” She repeats, like the thought of me wanting to get them is completely ridiculous. “If you want something to do I’ll find something for you to do.”

“Well, I don’t particularly-” I begin, but she’s already had an idea, so protest is futile. 

“You’ll clean your room.” She announces, and I groan. “Mam, no, I don’t have the energy for that.”

“It’s a tip! I’m sick of going up there and having to look at the mess on the floor, you’d think that you being long moved out would mean the place’d be spotless, but no-”

“Just shut the door then and you won’t have to look.” 

“-it’s still a state, every day. The amount of stuff you have in there that’s old and doesn’t fit you, or is no use to you whatsoever. The last time I was in there I saw the shoes I got you when you were going into your junior cert year, they’ve the soles hanging off them and all. What use are five year old shoes to you now?”

I roll my eyes. “Mam…” she props the mop against the counter and starts rifling through the bottom drawer in the kitchen. She seizes a roll of bin bags and tosses them at me. I miss, and they unroll ridiculously across the tiles. As I’m bending down to pick up and re-roll it she announces. “You’re going to go up there now and get rid of everything that you don’t want anymore. Put your clothes in a bag for the charity shop. And then you’re going to dust and hoover every inch of it, and it’s going to be sparkling clean when you’re done.”

“Yeah. Alright. Fine.”

“Good woman.” She says, wielding the mop once again. “I’ll bring you up a sandwich in a while. Off you go.” 

I’d never admit it to her, but my mother is right about my room. It’s bad. It’s always been bad, and while I’ve never explicitly cared that much about how bad it is, I can’t truthfully deny that it’s unacceptable. I don’t even know where to begin. I know that under the bed is crammed with stuff, old school books, birthday cards I can never bring myself to throw away, photographs, art supplies, sketchbooks. 

The wardrobes are bursting with clothes, none of which I wear, seeing as my entire adult wardrobe lives with me in Dublin. The drawer where I pulled the Tullamore jersey from earlier has collapsed off its roller slides and lies crookedly, half of it on the floor with piles of t-shirts and mismatched pyjamas spilling out of it. A cheaply constructed wall shelf my dad put up when I was ten is bowed in the middle from the weight of the old teen magazines I used to collect and props up the broken CD player I got from uncle Sean on my first holy communion. Looking at all of it makes heat rise to my neck and my chest heave slightly in panic. I don’t even know where to begin. 

I leave the bin bags on the floor and drop to my knees amongst piles of clothes and shoes, bits of useless papers and old bags. The breath that exits me is shuddering. What’s wrong with me? Why do I let things get like this? I pick up the first thing that my hand touches; A knee length white sock that was part of my school uniform. I haven’t worn these socks in over two years. I don’t even have faith that I’ll locate the other one, and I don’t care enough about it to try. This is the first thing that goes into a bin bag. 

After this it gets increasingly easier. Gone are the mickey mouse pyjama bottoms with an unravelling seam, the stack of coloured paper, scribbled with sketches I never liked, the lid of a vanilla body spray that I used up years ago, expired mascara, a tea stained leather coaster, broken earphones, the padlock from my old locker without its corresponding key. Before too long I have cleared the floor, exposing the carpet to the light for the first time in years, probably. I’d half forgotten what colour it was. I tackle the wardrobe next. 

There’s not much that interests me in it, out of style clothes, clothes that were potentially never in style in the first place. A heaping mass of hoodies, leggings, jersey shorts with drawstring waists and t-shirts, the clothes of a girl who desired only to blend in, dreading terribly the day that somebody might comment on her outfit. All of it goes into the charity shop bag. I am ruthless. Not a single item is spared. 

Once the clothes have been cleared, I turn my attention to the suitcase and the gear bags piled at the bottom. I recall that the suitcase is broken, those wheels got me nowhere on our school tour to Paris in fourth year, and I remember how a rock from the pavement got trapped in the wheel, preventing it from spinning, but instead of fixing it and holding up the tour, I decided just to drag the bag behind me, the bottom corner of it scraping horrendously against the paths until the wheel was worn completely flat on one side. I have few good memories from that tour anyway, as for most of it Kelly was in a strop over something that happened on the ferry, and went off with girls from her new maths class instead, leaving me alone to forge an emergency friendship with a group of Polish girls who refused to speak English to me even though they were fluent. I toss the suitcase into the discard pile by the door, then grab a gear bag.

There are things still inside one of them. I’m surprised to find it heavy, so I curiously lay it at my knees and undo the zip. More clothes. Yellow swimming togs. A few pairs of ankle socks, a denim skirt. I chuckle to myself as I uncover a pair of knickers. I remember these, mint green with a decal of Ariel from The Little Mermaid on them, the most embarrassing pair of underwear I ever had, and kept until I was far too old for them. I put them straight into the bin.

The bottom of the bag is grainy with sand, and when my fingers brush over it I’m transported back to the sunshine and the smell of salty air. This is the bag I brought to the mobile home that summer three years ago. I don’t realise I’m holding my breath as I look through it until my chest starts to hurt and I force it out of me. Memories from those scorching months spring up with every old piece of clothing I draw out of it. It’s so vivid that I can practically feel the sunshine on my face. It’s like a time capsule. I’m surprised I never unpacked this bag. Was it too painful to? Was I too distracted?  

At the end is a rolled up t-shirt, soft, grey, worn. I unroll it and hold it out, letting it drape over my thighs. It isn’t mine. The label reads a mens large, and I take a sharp inhale when I realise what it is. Hadn’t I ever given this back to him? I was always sure that I had. I lay it onto the carpet in front of me and snap a picture of it on my phone. 

Opening up my messenger I attach the photo, typing a quick message. 

By any chance is this your T-Shirt?

Jude is typing…

Hole in the armpit?

I check. 

Yes. 

I was wondering what happened to that. I assumed my mom had tossed it out after doing laundry. 

Well apparently I’ve had it for 3 years. Sorry! Hope it’s not your favourite.

Omfg definitely not.

Does this mean you still have my bikini?

Your bikini?

From when we went swimming. You said you’d wash my bikini and t-shirt. It was orange with a tie in the front.

Oh. THAT bikini. I’m wearing it right now, sorry, I thought it was mine. 

I’m taking that as a no.

No, I don’t have it. Are you sure I never gave your stuff back?

Pretty sure. 

It might be at the beach house? I’ll probably go back again next summer, so I’ll look for it. 

Oh! No don’t worry, it isn’t important, I just thought it was funny. If you want this T-shirt back you can have it.

Will you personally deliver it to Berlin? 

Hardly.

Come over though. 

You want a t-shirt with a hole in it that badly?

Come with or without the t-shirt. 

My stomach does a flip. 

Is that an official invitation?

A full minute passes before he texts back, and I stare at the screen the whole time. The little typing dots appear and then disappear. 

February?

Wow, that’s far in advance. It’s October.

Yeah but there’ll be a huge birthday party for someone, it’ll be fun if you’re there. 

One of your extravagant dress up parties?

Haha. Yeah. At my friend’s. He lives in a nice apartment. Plus, flights are cheap in February.

Cheap flights? I’m sold. 

Nice. 

It feels like the conversation has come to its natural conclusion, and yet I find myself wanting more. 

How’s Berlin right now? 

Alright. 

Nothing weird or wonderful?

Nah. 

Ah, great. Good talk.

Ha. How’s Dublin?

The same.

Nice. 

Yeah, nice.

Another minute passes. I leave my phone down and go about clearing out the rest of the gear bag, more old socks, a mostly empty bottle of suncream, cheap flip flops, a coin purse with two cent in it. The phone buzzes again and I reach for it. 

Hey, could you do me a favour?

I frown. 

Yeah…? 

Will you ask Michelle for her number for me?

Your ex?

Yeah, she got a new phone ages ago and I don’t have her number anymore. I know she’s going out with that guy you work with, so if it’s no hassle would you mind? 

Yeah okay. I just don’t know her that well. 

You can tell her that I’m the one asking. She’ll know what it’s about, but if you don’t want to, I completely get it. I can find another way to get it. 

I think I’m seeing her next week, actually. We’re going to the same party, so. 

Ah, Shane’s Halloween thing?

That’s the one.

I’m sorry if it’s weird to ask.

It’s not really, it’s fine. I’ll ask her for you.

I almost type “Jen doesn’t have it?” Before quickly curling my fingers into a fist. There’s so many things I want to know but I can’t ask him anything. Even if I did, I know that he wouldn’t tell me. It’s infuriatingly secretive, like the polar opposite of Jen, who tells everyone everything.  

I really appreciate it, Evie. It’s not urgent or anything, it’d just be good to have her details. 

Do you want me to give her yours?

Yeah, that makes sense. 

Alright. 

Thanks. 

I toss my phone onto my bed and head towards the chest of drawers, preparing myself for the ancient horrors that await me there, and it’s bad, like I expected and yet I don’t really mind it anymore. It’s a bit cathartic, honestly, to dump all of this old stuff. It’s like I’m clearing space inside myself too, emptying psychic drawers to make space for something new. It’s two hours before I’m finished, and as I lie exhausted on my bed afterwards, I reach for my phone to discover one last unread message. 

You’ll have to swear you’ll visit me in Berlin, btw. I meant it when I invited you.

I grin. 

Yes, of course. We’ll make it happen. 

Nice.

Nice.

x

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