#smart wall socket

[gizchinaes]

Xiaomi lanza un nuevo enchufe inteligente con control por voz por solo 9,20 €

El Smart Wall Socket de Xiaomi, que anteriormente se encontraba en campaña de crowdfunding, ya está disponible oficialmente a través de JD por un precio de 69 yuanes (aproximadamente 8,90 euros). Este enchufe innovador presenta un diseño de caja inferior 86 que permite su reemplazo directo con los enchufes tradicionales. Así, los usuarios pueden controlar la alimentación de los dispositivos…

[theorist-fox]

Hesitate

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3.

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Word count: 6k

Summary: Simon loses sight of you for far too long. In that time, he realizes he can't go a day without having you within reach. When you return, he tells you in the only way he knows.

18+

CW: smut (fingering, PinV), but with plot. Tiny angst, fluff. Protective and possessive Simon Riley. Mentions of stabbing and blood. Minor injuries.

Masterlist 🦊 | In The Walls Masterlist 🦊

“Quiet.”

He barges in. Because of course he does. There isn’t a piece of flooring in this godforsaken base that hasn’t been violently reclaimed by Ghost’s boots.

Not even in your goddamn room.

Thankfully, you have the reflexes of a trained operative and have moved out of the way in time, otherwise you'd be sporting a wonderful, purple knob in the middle of your forehead. And while there is a certain distaste surging in your chest – the kind that makes your lips pucker and your stomach knot –, you know there is very little you can do to move the mountain that is Ghost.

So, you close the door behind you with an exhausted sigh, as he ventures further into your room.

“Good eve-“

He swivels on his heel as soon as your mouth parts to speak. “Where the fuck ‘ave you been, uh?”

The balaclava on his face does absolutely nothing to hide the hatred sizzling in his eyes. Funny, because you’ve always thought that it was the whole point of the thing – to hide his face. You wonder, sometimes, if he knows just how expressive his eyes are. 

Does he know he tells so much more with those than he ever does with words? 

Nevertheless, yours are as telling as his own, as they bulge out of your sockets. The odd look you give him is comical, compared to the ire that's practically singeing his clothes.

“Uh,” you stutter. “Deployment?”

He narrows his eyes at you into tiny slits. So tiny you have to squint your eyes yourself to catch a glimpse of his irises.

“Alone?” He asks, clearly skeptical.

To match the distrust in his tone, you tilt your head toward his, brows furrowing in confusion. 

“…Yeah?” You reply, and the more you go on the more sarcastic you sound. “We do that, sometimes. Lone ops, recon. Y’know, we’re in the UKSF, in case you, uh – forgot.”

He hums gravelly. A sound that causes his body to straighten up as if the cogs have finally started whirring and working seamlessly once again.

“Don’t get smart, now.” He warns, freezing you with a look.

You pucker your lips and instinctively show him your palms, cheekily replying with an “I would never.”

Wrong move, unfortunately. 

You are your worst enemy. 

If this conversation goes downhill, you are the one to blame. Schedule a punishing whipping for yourself, later – you better fetch the goddamn cat o’ nine tails.

The movement causes the long sleeve of your loungewear to slip further down your forearm, pooling at your elbow, and exposing a large bruise. A galaxy of greens and mauves in the shape of five fingers and a large palm.

Ghost’s eyes zero on your arm with the rapidity of a hawk. Price has always said it, after all: he only knows one sniper who’s better than Ghost, and she’s a thousand klicks away now. You miss her – Farah would’ve been a lot nicer about this than him.

When his focus returns to you, he doesn’t even have to ask. As you’ve already stated time and time again, he conveys a lot more with his eyes.

And they are absolutely fuming. 

You suck in a sharp breath, nodding your head slowly while returning your sleeve where it’s supposed to be. Fucking traitorous piece of cotton that should stick around your wrist.

“Y’know,” you start, your chest all puffed because – well, you ain’t breathing right. Not with Ghost staring you down like you’ve gone and killed the King of England. “I had to sneak in, grab the USB key our contact set up for us, and then – bang, vanish. And I did it, yeah? I was brilliant at it.”

The smile on your face is as fake as the cheerful tone you’re using to dispense this information. It cracks as soon as you see the fabric of the balaclava shift on his jaw. 

He’s grinding his molars into dust.

“And?” 

You gesture vaguely. Shift your eyes to the ceiling. Tongue your cheek. Try to downplay it. “Well, ‘s nothing really.”

“Sergeant.” He barks. If he had hackles, they’d be dusting the ceiling. 

You sigh. 

God, how long have you been holding onto that breath? You’re positive it was the air you’ve inhaled, like, ten thousand years ago.

“Someone thought I was acting a bit dodgy and had me pinned to the floor.” You made grabby hands with a cheeky smile, “I have meaty forearms. Plenty to grip.”

Humor is usually the key to lessen the tension that would strangle your and his lungs. Normally, he’d let it go. He’d listlessly smack the back of your head or pinch the flesh of your biceps and call it a day.

Now, sarcasm seems like the last thing you should’ve resorted to. His posture is stiff and straight. The night lamp on your bedside table sheds light against his back, making him look like he's the wolf ready to pounce what it's going to be his dinner.

It makes your blood curdle.

“Yeah, okay.” You huff, digging your fingertips in the back of your neck to release some tension. “Nothing happened. I jabbed him in the throat before he could shout for help and shoved him under a desk. Got myself a proper blood shower.”

Ghost’s eye twitches.

And then he goes silent. 

Not the news of the year, of course. He’s always silent. You know he doesn’t get his callsign from that, but you can’t help but find his personality incredibly fitting with the military nickname.

However, this isn’t the usual Simon shut-up-and-sod-off Riley. He’s so still you wonder if he’s breathing. You have half a mind to wave your hand in front of his eyes to check if he’s gone catatonic.

You don’t, of course. Dogs bite.

You sneer, more in concern than anything, and gingerly take a step forward. Initially, your question comes out simply as a sideway tilt of your head paired with a puzzled look – a question mark would be floating above you, if physically possible.

But when that doesn’t seem enough to coax an answer out of him, you blurt out an “Oi.”

His eyes are jaded as they swivel to your face. Always with the heavy-lidded gaze that makes him look like he’d love to be anywhere but where he currently is. 

He seems… calmer. You're not sure whether it's a good or a bad thing. You prefer it when he's fuming because, as the saying goes, better the devil you know. 

“Off.” He states. 

Of course, he prefers syllables to full, clear sentences. Expressions you (or anyone else, really) don’t seem to catch, unfortunately. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve told him that if he wants to have a conversation, he should start stringing words one after the other instead of settling for just one.

“What?” You deadpan. “Off with the bullshit? Off with my head? Words, L.T.” 

You don’t seem to have learned from your past mistake of using humor to sneak out of a predicament when Ghost appears to have all hell ready to unleash. 

He roughly points at your chest, “The shirt,” and then aims his finger to the floor. “Off.”

Look at you: dumbfounded. 

Sure, you two have fucked, occasionally – ever since he’d come to terms with the idea that he could do it without getting into trouble. It’s not like he gives two shits about someone finding out, he just doesn’t want to deal with commanding officers explaining to him why he shouldn’t stick it anywhere he finds fitting. God forbid someone puts him through one of those seminars about relationship policies and how they can disrupt the chain of command.

You splutter, “Wha – Excuse me?”

“Ya heard.” He reiterates. “The shirt. Off.”

You scoff. “You wanna fuck now?”

“Didn’t say tha’, did I?” He says flatly.

“Oh, sorry!” You snark. “Didn’t think there were other reasons why you’d want me to flash my tits.”

“Didn’t say tha’ either.” He deadpans and swipes his index finger in the air again. “Off with the shirt.”

You huff, pinching the bridge of your nose while, stubbornly, still wearing the t-shirt. 

“Not in the mood to have sex, honestly,” you explain, trying to stay calm in the face of the implications of the request. “I came back this morning, I’m beat. I need a cuppa and some sleep –“

He switches, then. “Take off that fucking shirt, sergeant.”

You bristle. Anyone would, at that tone.

Suddenly, you’re back to basic training in Pirbright with your wench of a drill instructor calling you a fucking idiot. 

Needless to say, you follow through with his order and rip the shirt off with more spite than cooperation. With a big frown on your face, you turn on your heel and start stomping angrily towards the bed.

“Make it quick.” You snap, getting on your knees on the edge of the mattress, ready to get pounded into oblivion. 

You’ll like it, eventually, even if you’re not really in the mood. 

Ghost fucks you good. It’s undeniable. 

You’ve soaked his sheets, his clothes, his mask – he’s that type of good. You won’t tell him though; his ego is already too big. If it grows more, HQ won’t be able to contain it and the whole base will blow up into smithereens.   

You’re saving lives, here, by keeping your mouth shut about it.

But he has other plans, it seems. 

“The fuck are you doin’.” 

It is not, in fact, a question. 

You look over your shoulder and find him still standing where you left him, a few paces back.

You quirk a brow, and shoot it back at him, “The fuck are you doing.”

“Why are you bendin’ over.” He states.

"To fuck?" You say, an unsaid obviously lingering in the air. 

Something shifts under his mask, as if he’s scowling. “Who said I wanted to fuck?” 

You splutter, yet again caught by surprise. “You made me get naked.”

He sighs, sounding exasperated, and approaches you, who is – by the way – still shamefully on all fours on the tiny bed of your quarters. 

Suddenly, all that spite sublimates under the heavy, hot weight of embarrassment. 

What are you doing, on your knees on the bed, half naked, if he doesn’t want to fuck?

In your defense, while the two of you often spent time chatting about everything and nothing, that happened in public places. Not once has he knocked on your door for a spot of tea and decent conversation.

Regardless, as soon as you manage to stand on your knees, you can feel him right behind you. Scorching fingers of shame crawl up to your neck. You feel your chest warm up, all the way to the apples of your cheeks. Awkwardly, you bring your arms up to cover your breasts. 

“Off,” he orders, again.

You swallow dryly, offering an insecure smile. “…With the pants?” 

He gives you a glacial look. Your blood freezes in your vessels. You think you might have turned cyanotic. 

“Fuckin’ hell – Off the bed.”

Obviously, your feet touch the ground with impeccable speed, because after that display, the least you can do is follow through with his orders before you make a fool of yourself twice in under a minute.

You feel his fingers curl around the top of your head, only allowing the pads to tangle through your hair and touch your scalp. It’s as if he doesn’t really want to touch you, but feels compelled to do so.

He flicks his wrist to give you a sense of the direction he wants you to turn to, and you do, waddling a little on your feet as you slowly twirl.

Your hands are tucked under your biceps, which are currently strangling your ribcage in an attempt to cover as much of your chest as you can with your forearms. 

When you’re finally facing him again, you look up at him through your lashes. His eyes, however, are not on your tits as you expect. He’s not even ogling, to be honest – which would be a blow to your ego, if the situation weren’t so… odd. 

Your brows are pinched. Your mouth parts only so you can suck in some air and then worry your lip between your teeth. 

This is much too intimate than what you’re used to. 

You realize, as he studies your body, with that weirdly placed hand on your head, that Ghost has never… seen it. 

Or – well, he’s seen it all right, but he’s never looked at it. Your encounters are usually very quick and to the point.

He fucks you. 

You come – once or twice. Thrice, if he’s feeling particularly generous.

He comes. 

Get yourself a glass o’ water and jog on. ‘M knackered.

Yeah, okay. G’night, prick.

Right back at ya.

That’s it.

Sometimes, you don’t even take off each other’s clothes. Sometimes, he doesn’t even turn on the lights. 

Now, his gaze is heavy as he looks at the dip of your waist, then at the fuzz below your belly button and where it leads, until the hem of your slouchy sweatpants that have seen better days. It’s like having lasers pointed at every nook and cranny of you, leaving scorching lines along your profile. 

He taps his finger on your forearm, the one without the bruise – a silent request to take your arms off your chest. Your hands are shaking as you comply, but you’re too preoccupied with him to notice. 

Ghost seems utterly uninterested at the sight of your tits bouncing down in response to gravity, instead setting his focus on the edges of your ribcage.

He flicks his wrist again, and you slowly turn the other way, giving him your back.

You feel his fingers twitch against your scalp, before a cold fingertip brushes against your right side.

"Here." He states, barely tracing the lines of your ribs. 

It's been so long since he's last spoken that you feel goosebumps rise along your neck. God, his voice will never not make your insides churn.

Regardless, you spread your elbows out, lifting your right arm so you can look at where he's pointing. You can't see much, but you definitely feel how the slight movement of your shoulder causes your right side to ache as if the skin were ready to burst at the seams.

“Ow.” 

You frown and curiously try again to take a peek at the cause of the pain. After some squirming, you spot the darkening patch of flesh, speckled with purples and yellows.

“Mh,” you muse. “Didn’t know that was there.”

The hand on your head finally abandons it, allowing the muscles on your neck to relax. 

You continue, somewhat feeling the need to explain why there is yet another bruise. “When that man saw me, he knocked me onto the floor. Must’ve hit it harder than I thought.”

He hums noncommittally. You could’ve told him the most absurd tale, and he wouldn’t have batted an eye, much too focused on the expanse of your back. 

You shrug, then. “’S alright. It’ll pass. It’s just a bruise.”

It’s then that he meets your eyes. 

There’s always a sort of veil over his, whenever the air around you both thickens. You wish you had scissors to rip it, sometimes. Or walk to the curtain and take a peek inside. 

“What is this?” You gesture at the two of you, looking back at him over your shoulder. “What are you doing?”

He deflects your questions with the same reflexes he uses to dodge bullets, answering instead with a question of his own. “You went to medical?”

Your lips twitch and you have to school your face into more muted frustration. 

Your response is a little petty, but you can’t help but give it to him. “No, just a couple of bumps, nothing that needs a trip to the doctor."

He is a looming shadow behind you, encompassing you with dark tendrils that threaten to swallow you whole. He sucks the warmth of the room with the ice embedded in his eyes – it forces you to look away, finding comfort in your own hands cupping your biceps.

You don’t even manage to reach for your t-shirt again, feeling the need to cover yourself up, that he curls an uncharacteristically gentle hand around your jaw. 

You stiffen. 

He seizes that moment to turn your head, his other fingers already hooked at the hem of his balaclava around the neck. He slides it up and off naturally.

There’s always some sort of solemnity when his face comes into view. 

Each groove and bump tell a story of their own, not a single one coming from the same tale, nor the same blade. 

He has crow's feet, but he rarely smiles – if ever. There are lines originating from the sides of his nose tipping at each corner of his mouth. They should symbolize happiness carved, but you fear it’s the opposite. 

Thick, convoluted scars paint him like rough brush strokes given by an angry hand – bristles of steel, paint of blood. 

Teeth peek out from a particularly gruesome injury that has torn the flesh off his upper lip. He constantly looks like he’s scowling at you, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d probably think he was. Would fit the character, and all.

Truth is, Simon rarely cares enough to scowl at anyone. You can either get a cold side glance or a disinterested one – if it’s the former, then you might be in his good graces. 

Right now, though, you don’t think he’s giving you either. His eyes are murky; a mud of anger, annoyance, and disappointment. He looks like he hates you with all his might, staring at you as if he could, by sheer force of thought, scoop out the eyes from your sockets.

“You wanna kill me?” You mumble, finding it hard to speak as he holds your jaw between his fingers. “Get in line, mate. There are at least a bunch a’ Russian men and their mothers before you, ever since I shanked their colleague.”

Then, his eyes leave yours to glance at your lips. He must think you haven’t noticed, because he doesn’t bother to hide it. However – and you’ve always found this incredibly interesting – Ghost tends to forget when he’s wearing the mask and when he isn’t. 

Each time, it’s like watching a child learning how to rein it in. Or, you know, like that sibling you have to surreptitiously elbow under the table at Christmas dinner when your pissed uncle is going off a tangent regarding the most idiotic, misplaced subject ever known to man.

That’s Ghost right now. 

The sibling elbowing him? Simon.

He blinks out of his headspace and then frowns, returning his eyes to yours.

“Don’t need to.” He grunts. “You’re doin’ a fine job by yourself.”

You scoff. “It’s just a bruise.”

His jaw ticks. 

“Yeah, but it’s on you.”

It’s said low and bitter, as if he’s had to fight tooth and nail to yank it out of his chest. 

You, on the other hand, are stock still in place – not only because of his hand holding you firmly by the jaw, forcing you to look over your shoulder to where he stands, but also because what was that?

You swallow but it's futile because your tongue is stuck to your palate. The air surrounding you crackles. The oxygen is lacking, and your lungs are suffering from it. 

You blink. That’s all it takes, and he lands his mouth on you.

Ghost’s kisses are always rough, determined to take your breath away and leave you wondering if you’ll ever say any other name but his own. This one is not much different, but you have to recognize that it is somewhat angrier. 

His lips part as if he could swallow you whole, working his tongue against yours and hindering your movements with his fingers holding your face, and a hand over your belly.

You can work with this. This, you know how to behave around. This is charted territory – the hunger, the stress, the need to decompress and find solace in the oasis you offer so generously between your legs.

You know the dance, and so you press your bum against his groin. You weren’t in the mood, like – ten minutes ago. You were a different person back then. 

If Ghost now wants to split you in half, you’d hand him the butcher knife.

You’re already turning feverish, lifting your right arm to tangle with his hair, ready to grab and pull and bite and – 

He stops you.  Palm to your knuckles, guiding it down once more. He doesn’t hold your hand, instead removing his own as though your skin were burning coal. 

Not as carefully, though, he snakes under your sweatpants and unceremoniously dips his middle finger inside your cunt.

“Fuck,” you hiss. 

You weren’t that wet, and while you're not one to say no to a bit of pain, this has caught you so off guard that you decide to chastise him by nipping at his lower lip. 

It’s not much of a punishment, you guess, because his hips jerk to rub himself against you. 

You wish to move and take this to the bed, where you can lie down and be his pillow princess. Let him fuck you until his heart's content, because you're tired and you'd love to get used for his pleasure and yours.

But he’s an unmoving statue, boots glued to the floor and hand shackled to your pussy, dipping in relentlessly until your knees buckle under the sheer pressure of his finger buried to the knuckle. 

When your hips start undulating to increase the friction – specifically of his palm against your neglected bundle of nerves where your pussy tips – he inserts a second finger, and you positively melt against his chest. It’s then that he releases your lips, allowing you to moan under your breath. 

He starts sucking blindly at whatever piece of skin he can find, leaving love bites on the length of your shoulders all the way to your neck. Teeth and tongue and words that escape his lips, while he curls his fingers inside you, drowning your thoughts in frayed growls from his mouth, and raunchy squelches from between your legs. His offhand gets busy and starts toying and pulling at your nipples. 

You're being absolutely ravaged; his nails are talons and he wants to rip you apart and eat you inside out after he's prepped you alright. It's juxtaposing - the pleasure, and the crudeness. It's new, but not unwelcome.

“You should’ve told me.” He grunts. You don’t pay it much mind, he usually murmurs a lot during sex, and less than half of the time you catch what he says – the other times, you’re already too stupid to use your senses.

“Should’ve.”

He snaps his finger upward, burying them to the knuckle.

“Told me."

Then rolls his palm against your clit.

"You were being posted." 

Finally, he curls his fingers inside, making your legs quiver.

You whimper and your eyes roll back. Is this your punishment? Hell fucking yes, then. You’ll keep your secrets more often. 

But alas, you do feel compelled to at least explain and apologize.

“M’sorry,” you breathe, “It was a last-minute thing. Got called the day before.”

Surely, he’ll understand. That’s how deployments work: they give you a timeframe, and you might or might not get the dreaded call. If you do, then you’re off – one day you’re lounging at the beach, the next you’re buried in gore.

No in-between. 

You don't want to distract him though. You're so close. If he just – moved a little, maybe? Or allowed you to rest your legs somewhere. 

You shift imperceptibly so that you can rub your clit at your preferred pace against his palm. The callouses on the heel of his hand make it somehow even better.

He allows you, meaning that even if you’ve kept the deployment from him, he’s feeling magnanimous.

You roll your head against his shoulder to nuzzle his neck, the tip of your nose tucked behind his lobe. You pant as he fucks you with his fingers, and murmur sweet things about how good he is to you, because he’s being kind and for that he deserves a generous stroke to his ego. You leave open kisses on his neck, his jaw, lapping the sweat off his skin with your tongue – to try and give back some of the pleasure he’s offering you.

When you come, it is with a loud groan muffled in his neck, and he holds you by the waist before you keel over. The orgasm almost stings, since he’s ripped it out of you so quickly and forcefully. It tingles from the tips of your toes, curling against the linoleum, all the way to the knot that finally snaps in your gut. 

Only then, when your vision clears and your skin still prickles in goosebumps, do you hear him through the ringing of your ears.

“You don’t understand.” He’s saying, like a prayer repeated gruffly to the skin of your neck. 

He doesn’t say it once, he doesn’t say it twice. He repeats it with fervor, and the more it escapes his mouth, the angrier it gets.

You feel the back of your knee being pushed by his own, and you stumble forward on the mattress. You’re confused, still descending from the high of your orgasm, feeling your limbs move under his command and notyours. Trying to find sense in his words. 

You don’t understand.

Your ears are cottoned – the orgasm has been that blissful – but you still catch the sound of a zipper being pulled down. Your front is plastered against the mattress, cheek buried in linen of freshly washed sheets. 

You don’t have the strength to stand, nor to look behind, so you can solely rely on your hearing, on your touch.

Shallow breaths. 

Shuffle of fabric – he’s taking off his shirt. 

His hand skims over your back, purposefully avoiding the bruise on your side. 

A finger pulls down the sweatpants to your ankles – the air feels cold against your skin, flushed and burning. 

Wet fingertips trail down your legs with uncommon reverence, until they reach down and yank the pants off your feet.

The denim of his jeans shifts. A thud – he’s on his knees.

He forces your leg to bend and kisses your ankle. Then the arch of your foot. Your toes, and it makes your cunt flutter around nothing. The actions are paired with a wet, rhythmic sound – he’s touching himself the way you’d touch him. 

He has fingered you with such voracity you thought you’d rip in half on his hand, and now he’s on his knees, kissing your feet. He’s switching rapidly – angry, then devoted. 

The former you know, but the latter is different. It’s new. 

You feel the mattress dip and protest under the additional weight, each of his thighs on either side of yours, keeping your legs flush together. 

A hand appears in your vision, gripping the sheets. 

You kiss the knuckle on his thumb, and he flicks it gently over your nose. 

His chest exudes warmth even if he isn’t properly touching your back. He simply hovers above it, putting his weight on his palm, while his other hand is busy stroking his cock.

You're wet and prepped just how he likes, in fact he slides in easily. 

You already came, which means you're hypersensitive – it feels like he's inserting something long and scorching hot inside. Your breath hitches in your throat at the intrusion, and he dips his forehead to your shoulder, leaving an apologetic kiss.

He fucks you slow and deep, dragging backward without ever pulling out. He wants to stay sheathed inside. He wants to bury himself in there, with your velvet walls squeezing him dry. You won’t complain. You’ll keep him snug until he’s sated. Until you are, too.  

This dance you know as well, and so you fold your arms behind you, bending your elbows so that he can grip both your forearms with one hand and use them as leverage to rail you until you’re only babbling nonsense.

But he… doesn’t?

He still fucks you, sure, but his hand doesn’t reach for your arms, preferring the sheets instead, and it makes you feel a little neglected, wondering if you're doing something wrong. Sure – you just came, he’s treated you to your nice little post-operation orgasm, and then proceeded to fuck you. So, he must still be into this – into you. 

Right? 

You thought this could’ve been a nice way to reciprocate, since you know how much he likes to get you to bend as he pleases.

A thank you of sorts. 

You reach up with your fingers, tickling his abdomen to make him notice that you’ve prepared yourself for him, arms knotted behind your back like a bow on a present – just in case he’s missed it, you know?

But he reaches down only to guide your arms back to the bed, distending them ahead. He goes to hold one hand but stops, instead digging his palm back into the mattress.

Just when you’re about to protest, lifting your head from the bed, he drags his tongue around the shell of your ear. 

You shudder. 

"I- I'm not good at this." He grunts as he fucks you slowly, dragging breathy moans out of your lips. "So jus’ listen for once in your goddamn life.”

It’s then that his pace picks up, punching a ragged groan out of your lips at the first abrupt thrust. 

He’s either doing it to shut you up, or to make you focus on something else while he speaks. So, maybe, if you’re busy molding your pussy around his cock and rolling your eyes to the back of your head, you won’t hear what he’s saying.

“Lieut –“

“Simon.” He chides loudly. “Fuck – Told you it’s Simon, ‘ere.”

You grip the sheets as your head bobs to the pace he takes. Your breathing is more akin to a wheeze, and your belly flutters each time he hits you just right.

“Simon,” you whimper.

“Yeah,” he croons. “Simon. Good.”

Simon is as breathless as you are, but much more contained.

“Need to know where you are,” he murmurs under his breath. “You got no idea wha’ I –“

He releases a shuddering breath that tickles your ear. 

You’re keening and shivering, trying to focus on his words but it seems like he’s trying his best to prevent you from listening, even if he’s the one who’s asked you to.

There’s something rabid in his motions. He bullies his cock as deep as it can reach, his hips brutally slap against your ass. You can feel the fat recoiling, the vibration tipping at the base of your skull. He’s feral and yet it’s so different.

He groans, but it's frustrated more than satisfied. 

“You got no fuckin’ idea, do ya?” He mutters the sentence like a curse. “No fuckin’ idea. You – “

You reach for his hand with your own, but he swats it away. 

You try again and he nibbles at your ear.

“Don’t." He warns lowly, stilling his motions until he’s hilted all the way inside. 

You suck in a breath as he shoves himself until there’s not an inch of space for him to move.

He’s ramrod stiff above you, struggling to keep his chest off your back – denying you of his skin. Of intimacy. Of contact. 

You twist your head that much to look at his face and find him staring blankly ahead. 

To say it worries you would be an understatement, especially if paired with the puzzling behavior he’s had all evening. 

You follow the trajectory of his gaze with your eyes and heartbreakingly discover that he's burning holes in your bruised flesh – the hand of that now-dead man still darkly imprinted on your skin. 

Skin still untouched by him.

You feel yourself falter. “Si-“

“You’re hurt.” he croaks. “I’ll hurt you more.”

You don’t know what staggers you the most: his cock up your cervix making you dizzy, or the hesitance in his voice. 

Hesitance.

Simon doesn’t hesitate. He’s not tentative. 

He takes.

If he can’t take, he delegates, and whatever he needs eventually will fall into his hand. 

You fell into his hand without too much of a fuss. He gave you the impression that you were the one demanding and obtaining, but the truth obviously lies elsewhere. 

Simon wanted you, too. He wants you, too.

He gave you the chance to sneak into his office and request an immediate closure to the cat-and-mouse chase. He delegated it to you.

And then he took.

Hesitance, clearly, isn’t in his daily vocabulary. 

This dance, you don’t know. You’re out of your zone. You don’t know which steps to take without tripping over his toes and disrupting the music. 

He’s unmoving inside of you, catching his breath with his lips on your ear.

“Can’t hurt you.” He breathes, and you have to focus to even catch it. 

“You won’t,” you whisper, trying a first step. “I’ll tell you if – “

And it’s the wrong one.

He starts again, pulling out and fiercely slamming back in. Your breathing snaps, palm coming down to slap against the mattress, “Fuck!”

It would feel oh, so good, if you were in the right headspace. 

He won’t allow you to talk. He’s begging you, in his contorted ways, to let him speak without judgment. Without the fear of knowing he has dropped the mask too low. 

This is his time. 

You should’ve shut your mouth, for once, and allowed him to speak. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

He asked for one thing. 

Jus’ listen for once in your goddamn life.

You purse your lips in a line and nudge your head against his own, a silent way to prompt him to go on.

I’m sorry. I’m listening.

“You got no idea.” He repeats again, but this time his voice cracks – overwhelmed.

He starts his voracious pace that always steals your breath and fucks your brain into a mush.

“I’ve looked for ya, asked ‘round – no one fucking knew. Got told you were off on deployment, and that’s it.” 

Each word is as accusatory and irate as the cock he’s drilling inside of you. 

“You weren’t comin’ back. One. Two. Three weeks. No fuckin’ sign of ya.” He thrusts in for each week you’ve gone missing, “I was – “

He stops. Inhales sharply. Hesitates, once again.

“Don’t wanna feel tha’ again – don’t put me through that again.”

Suddenly, you can feel everything at once. 

Your body perks up. 

Vision, hearing, touch, taste, smell – all filled of him.

And it’s not about sex anymore. 

It never has been, but how obvious it is now.

You want to hold his hand, but you decide to leave him space. 

The hand-shaped bruise on your arm glares at him like a promise he silently made with himself and failed to keep. You won’t make him feel like he broke a thing, because he hasn’t.

If anything, you’ve never felt more whole in your life.

You and Simon have never gone further than physical. You don't know how to soothe a heart so afraid if it belongs to him. So, you do the only thing you’ve learned that manages to get through to him.

You keen and moan and breathe, allowing tiny praises and sinful curses to leave your lips. 

Like that – yeah. Shit.

Yes, yes, yes. 

Deeper. Please.

His name – not his callsign, not his rank.

Simon, you croon. Simon, Simon, Simon. 

You feel the pressure of his come spurting out, flooding your walls like a dam has broken and crushed. His mouth on your ear won’t allow a single sound to pass, but he’s clearly overly affected – you know, by the way his breath comes. As if he’s clinging to life and has found purchase for survival right on your skin.

You want to kiss him, but you leave the choice up to him. You won’t squirm under the press of his forehead against your temple, but your lips are there for him to taste – moist and plump and ready.

Simon’s lashes flutter against your cheekbone as he regains his bearings. Looks at you. His eyes hint at regret – it’s a fraction of a second that has your stomach knot. But then he squashes it down, when he realizes that you saw nothing wrong in his words.

He kisses your cheek, and then your lips. Thankfulness seeps through.

"Don't hide from me again," he murmurs and gingerly hooks his thumb around your pinky. Not touching you yet, not so close to where you’re already aching.

You curl your finger around his own. “I won’t.”

[benisbeaaaaans]

Fragmented

Mirrors always made him uneasy.

The villagers who were aware of that always assumed it was because of his eye, the injury that was deemed so severe upon his arrival that he was given a patch to keep the non-functional socket clean and protected. He’d be lying if he said that wasn’t at least partially true, so he’d nod somberly every time it was brought up.

But it wasn’t the whole truth. No, he’d much rather they not have the burden of knowing the rest of the story.

It pained him to be reminded of what he was, and what he had left behind on Beast-Yeast.

It was the dead of night, the only night outside the window broken by tiny pinpricks of light, the moon gone from the sky tonight. He stared at the mirror on the wall, water dripping from his milk-white hair and down his back, seeping into the towel wrapped around him. His eyepatch hung on the bathroom doorknob, its lock slid into place more to hide him from unsuspecting eyes than for privacy. Witches forbid a villager or worse, Pure Vanilla Cookie come walking in and seeing the black scars on his body and the unnatural glow of his right eye. He looked like a monster in his reflection, and he was the one that was used to it. Imagining what would happen if he lost this second chance to something as easily concealed as his appearance-

He sighed. He grabbed the patch from the door handle, tying it back around his head over his eye. It took some work, given his hair was still heavy from his bath, but looking at himself too long gave covering it more priority than drying the mop of hair upon his head. He briefly contemplated cutting it short, before dismissing the idea.

‘Pure Vanilla Cookie recognizes me like this. I shouldn’t drastically change my appearance, especially so early on. I might frighten him if he thinks I’m a stranger.’

He stared at the mirror a second longer. He had yet to put on his nightgown, but even covering that hideous eye made him sigh with relief. He’d never forgive that wretched part of himself for such a vile change. He knew it didn’t care about appearances the moment corruption took hold, but to force it upon him, too?

He turned away. “It cannot be helped,” he murmured aloud. “It is simply the truth of the matter.”

‘Aw, my little parting gift isn’t appreciated?’

He froze.

“What-?”

‘And here I thought you of all people were honest about your feelings! I had to wait until you left before finding out about this!’

A cold feeling rushed over his body.

He looked back up at the mirror.

His reflection stared back.

Smiling.

That sickly cyan eye staring into his very soul.

‘Hellooooo, my darling other half~! Having fun playing family?’

‘What are you doing here?!’ Blueberry Milk Cookie’s words echoed in his mind, not daring to say another word aloud, lest he wake the entire house.

‘Mm, nothing in particular, really. Not much to do inside this wretched tree. I must say, though, I was really hoping for more excitement after the journey here… watching this is almost as boring as sitting for a portrait!’ Shadow Milk Cookie sighed, the reflection moving independently from the cookie projecting it.

‘How?? How are you able to watch me?! That shouldn’t be possible, you’re- trapped! Trapped forever, I should add, that should mean that you have no power!’

‘What a naive assumption. And here I thought you were smart,’ the mirror scoffed. ‘Did I get all the brains in the split? That’s rather unfortunate for you…’

‘I’m not stupid! The Witches chains bind you for all eternity! Any connection with me was severed when the Soul Jam’s power was split!’

‘Tch, tch, tch, sooooo naive indeed. You’re forgetting some crutial details, my “beloved” other half.’

‘Tell me, then, instead of dancing around it like a chicken with its head cut off!’

‘The Soul Jam’s power cannot be entirely severed. That’s why you were forced to bring that snot-nosed brat to a different continent to ensure I could not effectively puppet him.’

‘…’

‘Hehe~! Got your attention now, did I? Yes, I know about the heir. Too bad, so sad, you’re getting nepotismed right out of weilding your own lifeforce!’

‘Silence,’ Blueberry snapped, before thinking a moment more. ‘This must be why I’m here. So long as he doesn’t hold the Soul Jam, you have no will over him. But he still needs it eventually. I’m the beacon that must protect him not only until he’s grown, but from the very power he will grow to inherit.’

‘Yes,’ Shadow replied through a grating smile. ‘It’s so very inconvenient, all this “pure and good” nonsense he has to be. You must be so upset you have to deal with me! You’re already going mad listening to me mock you! Maybe I’ll make you have nightmares every night! Or! I’ll make you hallucinate spiders crawling under your clothes, and snakes in your shoes constricting your legs so you can’t walk! You won’t last so much as a day now that I-‘

“No.”

‘… What.’

“I refuse to be driven mad by you,” Blueberry Milk Cookie whispered, turning away from the mirror.

‘… Huh???! You can’t just- REFUSE to be driven mad! That’s stupid! I am not some meager insect that can be swatted away, you insolent fool!’ The mirror hissed, the furious cookie’s eye flashing with rage.

‘Perhaps not. But you do not worry me in the slightest. Now that I know we are still connected through the Soul Jam, I know exactly what I must do. Not just raise Pure Vanilla Cookie, but teach him. He will learn how to resist you when the time comes. I will ensure it, and until that day comes, I will suffer the consequences of holding the Light of Truth and its connection with the Sin of Deciet.’

‘That will take years! Decades, even, perhaps even centuries if his life is as long as ours!’

‘I’m sure that’s enough time to grow a tolerance for you.’

‘No one can last forever in torment…’ Shadow Milk Cookie growled, eyes narrowed into slits.

‘Not forever,’ he agreed, pulling on his blue tunic. ‘But this is my purpose now. Just as yours is to be trapped “forever”. Such fickle wording, don’t you think?’

Before the reflection could retort further, Blueberry Milk Cookie unlocked the door stepping out and closing it behind him.

[birdofwildness]

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆Fatal flaw part 1

Warnings::reader is basically mini-Tom so watch out.

Summary::Reader and Tom meet for the first time in the chambers. Turns out Tom is not the only game in town

Requested by @kalihien

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆Tom Riddle

In the chamber of secrets, the air was cool and damp. In its recesses, a thick black mold exhaled a rotting, underground smell. Tom Riddle silently jumped down into the chamber, his wand casting a faint light on the slippery stone walls.

And there it was, the statue.

From afar, the massive figure was already visible: Salazar Slytherin's stone face was furrowed and lifeless, its lips slightly parted as though it might whisper at any moment. The eye sockets were empty, like a wizard's soul after a Dementor's kiss.

There was no life here—only some ancient, forgotten horror, dormant between the stones.

Tom closed his eyes for a moment, deeply inhaling the rotting, ancient stench. This was his realm.

A noise broke the unnatural silence. It wasn't the hissing of snakes, nor the slow dripping of water. It was something else. A tiny, careless movement. A quiet, suppressed breath.

Riddle froze in place. His eyes stared into the dimness, his senses alert, immediately recognizing that he was not alone.

Slowly, with threatening calm, he raised his wand. Its light swept over the dark stones, illuminating the deep shadows of the statue, the slimy layer creeping across the floor… and somewhere in the shadows, within the crevices of the walls, someone was hiding.

The boy didn't make a single unnecessary move. "Show yourself," he said coolly.

A brief, heavy silence followed—the kind where everything is decided.

A shadow detached itself from the cold stone wall. He saw the movement, that slow, calculated step forward that gave no hint of fear. There was no rushing. No retreating.

The wand’s light slowly revealed the figure.

A girl stood before him, with dark eyes, her cloak casting a shadow over part of her face. One hand rested on her wand, but she didn’t raise it. Not yet. In the other hand, she held a pile of books.

Tom assessed her. He had seen her before at Hogwarts, but didn’t pay much attention, as she was a year younger than him.

Most people would scream and run away. Or at least tremble, beg, try to explain.

But this student just stood there. Watching him. Not nervously, not scared… but with interest.

The boy slowly lifted his chin. "Who are you?"

The stranger didn’t answer immediately. A small smile briefly appeared on her face—barely noticeable, as she seemed to enjoy the situation.

"That’s an interesting question, but the answer would be even more interesting." she answered calmly.

Riddle didn’t like such games—he was the one in control, not someone else. Slowly, he circled the girl like a hunter evaluating his next prey.

"What are you doing here?" he asked sharply.

Y/N turned her head, glancing toward the statue, then back at him. "The same thing you are."

The boy paused for a moment. He appreciated the answer. "And what would that be?"

The girl hesitated, thinking about her words. The cold air of the Chamber vibrated around them. "I'm searching for secrets."

Tom nodded slowly. Smart. She didn’t say much, but she didn’t try to explain the situation either.

"Your name," he demanded.

The girl considered for a moment but didn’t answer immediately. "Y/N."

She didn’t reveal much. But now the boy knew a piece of the puzzle.

"Oh...Y/N…" he spoke again, now quieter, slower, to observe her reaction. "Do you know where you’ve stepped into?"

Y/N smiled. It wasn’t a kind, innocent smile—it was the kind that was overly confident.

" I do. More than you do."

Riddle’s eyes narrowed as he studied the girl’s face. He didn’t like it when someone thought they were smarter than him.

"More than me?" he repeated softly, savoring the words. "That’s a bold statement."

Y/N tilted her head slightly, contemplating for a moment before meeting Tom’s gaze. "Bold? Maybe. But still true."

"Foolish little girl," his voice was mocking, but deep down, he was curious. "You claim to know more about Salazar Slytherin’s masterpiece than his own descendant?"

The student girl smiled for a moment, a bit surprised, as she looked over the older boy.

"I wouldn’t have guessed you were Salazar’s descendant," she remarked, her eyes reflecting some astonishment. "That’s… interesting."

Riddle didn’t respond immediately, pausing for a moment to think about her reaction. A brief silence hung between them.

"Why?" he asked, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Y/N leaned back slightly. "I just… pictured Slytherin’s descendant differently."

Tom raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "Differently?" he asked, his voice laced with faint mockery. "How exactly?"

"I don’t know… Bigger, more intimidating, darker." She smiled, but there was something challenging in her tone. "Not this composed."

Tom’s expression turned cold, and he folded his arms. For a moment, he simply observed Y/N, as if weighing what to do with her.

"I could turn you in to a professor," he threatened, his voice measured but calm. "As a prefect, I just have to say I heard voices and immediately rushed here."

Y/N paused for a moment, but her expression didn’t change, as the prefect would have expected. Instead, a small, enigmatic smile appeared on her lips.

"Would you really do that?" she asked softly.

"Why not?" he snapped back, watching her every subtle movement. "It would be justified. A younger student in a forbidden place that they have no business being in. A professor would surely find it interesting."

The girl stepped closer to him, staring directly into his eyes, as if searching for an unspoken question.

"Maybe." she said eventually, her voice still calm. "But if that were the case, you would have done it already."

Riddle fell silent for a moment. He didn’t like it when someone saw through him so easily. His gaze shifted to Y/N’s hand, and he took a closer look at the books she was casually clutching. A strange feeling ran through him—a primal curiosity that he couldn’t ignore.

With a swift movement, he knocked the books out of her hands. The thick tomes hit the cold stone floor with a muffled thud, dust rising gently around them.

"What the hell?!" she looked at him indignantly, then bent down to collect them.

Riddle, however, didn’t respond to her question. He just laughed—a quiet, amused chuckle that sounded more mocking than sincere. He slowly bent down to pick up one of the books. As he looked at the cover, his smile faded.

Under his hand was an old, dark leather-bound book. Its title gleamed in gold letters: "The Legacy and Secrets of Dark Magic."

Tom’s expression changed. He no longer laughed. Slowly, he straightened, still holding the book in his hand.

"Where did you get this?" he asked quietly, but there was no trace of mockery in his voice now.

The student picked up the other books.

"None of your business, Prefect."

Tom stared at Y/N for a moment, his fingers still resting on the book’s cover. She was too calm—too confident.

"Not my business?" he repeated softly, his voice dangerously smooth. "But if I tell a professor, then it will become my business, won’t it?"

She clenched his jaw but didn’t back down. "You know, that’s the problem with threats, Tom..." she started, taking a step toward him. "Yes, I know your name. Famous little prefect. If you use them too many times, they lose their power."

Riddle’s eyes flashed. "You think so?" he asked casually, as though the argument didn’t matter, but in reality, every fiber of his being was alert. "Well, let me tell you something. I don’t make empty threats."

"And I don’t back down." she shot back, her gaze almost challengingly piercing into his.

For a long, tense moment, they just stood there, sizing each other up. The air vibrated between them.

Finally, the boy sighed. "Alright. Let it be that way."

"What do you mean by that?"

Tom slowly extended the book toward her, but before she could take it, he added, "I’m giving you a chance. I won’t tell the professors anything… if you prove that you’re not just all talk."

Y/N raised an eyebrow. "And how do you suggest I do that?"

Tom smiled—but it was different from his previous ones. There was no mockery, no superiority. It was more like… a challenge.

"Meet me tonight." he said finally. "Show me everything you’ve learned from these books. Consider this a test."

The girl looked at him skeptically. "A test?"

Riddle nodded. "Yes, a test that will determine if you’re really as smart as you think you are."

Y/N hesitated for a moment, weighing her options. Then she took the book from the prefect’s hand and nodded with a faint smile.

"Alright. But don’t think it will be easy for you."

Tom simply laughed, then turned and walked out. "We’ll see about that."

...

Riddle stood alone in the dark room, the faint flickering light of the fireplace casting sharp shadows on the wall. The Slytherin common room was deserted, the other students long asleep in their rooms, but he was still awake.

On his desk lay an old parchment, covered with notes he had collected over the years. He ran his hand over them, then carefully tucked them away among his books. He didn’t know how seriously his new acquaintance would take their meeting...

He slowly stood up, his uniform immaculate, his movements tight and controlled.

He stopped in front of the mirror for a moment, looking himself over. Not that Y/N’s opinion mattered in any way, but for some reason, the mysterious confidence she displayed both irritated and amused him.

He grabbed his wand and hid it in his robes. Casting one last glance around the room, he stepped out silently, ready to find out whether the student would actually show up—and if she did, how much she was truly worth.

He made his way through the dark tunnels. As he got closer, a strange feeling began to settle in—not uncertainty, but curiosity.

When he reached the entrance, he stopped for a brief moment. The massive, snake-adorned door was already open. The girl had undoubtedly been the one to unlock it.

As he stepped into the Chamber, the cold air wrapped around him instantly. The towering stone columns cast motionless shadows, and the statue of Slytherin loomed menacingly above him.

And there stood Y/N. She showed no fear, didn’t hide in the shadows—she looked straight at Riddle, as if she considered herself his equal.

“You’re late,” she said simply, arms crossed.

The prefect gave a faint smile and slowly started walking toward her, his sharp gaze studying her.

“To my surprise, you are not.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly. “Did you think I wouldn’t come?”

Tom stopped in front of her. “People often throw around big words, but when the moment arrives, few prove they actually meant them.”

The girl smiled—the kind of smile Tom still couldn’t quite place.

“Well, now you know I’m not all talk.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “We’ll see.” He pulled his wand from his sleeve. “Shall we begin the test?”

Y/N stood still for a moment, then slowly drew her own wand as well. Her movement was calm—she knew exactly what she was doing.

“How do you want to start?” she asked, taking a step closer to Riddle.

He looked her over, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. “First, I want to test your knowledge with a duel.”

He raised his wand effortlessly and, with a swift, elegant motion, flicked it. A dark shadow slithered from the ground, twisting like long, thin tendrils across the stone floor. It wasn’t a real attack—more of a test.

“Let’s see how you react.”

Y/N immediately stepped back, her gaze remaining sharp. She didn’t hesitate for even a second. Raising her wand, she flicked it decisively.

“Finite,” she said calmly, and the shadows dissipated as if they had never existed.

Tom raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t impressed—but he wasn’t disappointed either.

“Not bad,” he remarked. “But I expected something more spectacular.”

The girl smiled. “I don’t waste my strength on unnecessary things.”

Tom was silent for a moment before letting out a quiet chuckle. “Oh, unnecessary things? We’ll see about that.”

With a swift movement, he attacked again—this time, not with shadows, but with a small yet dangerous spell. An invisible force shot toward Y/N.

But the student didn’t flinch. At the last moment, she moved—stepping aside and countering with a defensive spell aimed at Riddle. It wasn’t an attack—just a small shockwave.

Tom staggered slightly but quickly regained his balance.

“Well, well,” he murmured. “You’re not as useless as I thought.”

Y/N gave a faint smile, lowering her wand loosely by her side. “Thank you,” she said simply.

Tom narrowed his eyes, studying her as if trying to decipher her true thoughts.

“Don’t be so pleased with yourself,” he replied. “That doesn’t mean you’ve impressed me.”

“We’ll see, Riddle.”

Tom smirked—the kind of smirk that revealed nothing yet said more than intended.

“Now … let’s see if you’re truly worthy of all this. Show me something new.”

---

Tom walked alone in the Slytherin common room, a book in his hands, though he wasn’t really reading. Lately, he had been lost in thought more than ever. His school life had seemed so much simpler before he met Y/N.

Every night, the girl surprised him with new spells, techniques, and strategies. And although, at first, he was irritated by her knowledge, he could no longer suppress the deeper, more grudging sense of admiration he felt toward her.

But he would never admit it to himself.

Their initial meetings had been purely tests—magic, challenges, competition, quick victories. But over time, something shifted. Tom found himself not only observing the spells but also the girl’s every word, every movement.

Their encounters soon became routine. Tom even found himself looking forward to them sometimes, though he never showed it. And while, at first, her confidence had been difficult to tolerate, he had grown used to it now.

The jealousy inside him grew stronger, and he increasingly felt that he would be the one to put an end to all of this.

“I’ll get rid of her when I’ve had enough,” he thought one evening as he practiced a spell in his room.

The plan was clear: this had to end. Once he reached his goals.

Sorry I was gone guys😭

[what-have-i-unleashed]

baby, come home

for @peach-flavored-cyanide loveverse again :3 please i want more murmur PLEASE GIMME THE LOREEEEE

Mur hasn’t been allowed outside for a while.

Ia kept him locked inside the house “for his own good”. Said that he wasn’t stable enough, wasn’t ready to be back in the field just yet. That he would react badly to the outside world. That he would lose it if he stepped foot outside that gilded cage. Mur can’t help but think maybe Ia is right. Maybe Mur has lost something in that room of his, stitching the uneven seams, clinging to a jacket that smells less and less like the person who used to wear it. He can feel the way his mind frays away at the seams. The walls talk. The jacket whispers back to him. Sometimes, Mur can see something in the corner of his eyes. Something red. Something blurry.

He's getting worse. He’s regressing.

Maybe that’s why Ia has let him be here along with the others. He doesn’t have to do any work though, just sitting on the bench in the secluded hidden room in Waterfall, listening to the flowing currents and watching the grass billowing lightly in the wind. He has no idea how long he’s been sitting here waiting for the others to come pick him up until he hears a familiar popping sound.

He turns to the side and sees him.

Cypress.

No, not him. Not his Cypress.

This one is strolling slowly towards him, a cigarette between his teeth, one hand stuffed in the pocket of his jacket. The gait is wrong, the build is a bit to the left. But it’s close enough. Close enough to make Mur’s non-existent stomach churn. If Ia knows a Fell Sans is here with him, they will never let Mur go outside again. If they know how Mur is looking at this Fell, they will drag him back home by the ankle and make sure he’ll never see another ghost in the flesh again.

Mur wills himself to shrink into the bench, to disappear, but there is no place to go. He looks down, staring at the scuffed red shoes stepping closer to him.

“Hey.” The Fell stops a few feet away from him. The voice is the same but also isn’t at the same time. It lacks something – the weight, the wear of someone who has seen so much. This one sounds lighter, easier, like the world hasn’t pressed down on him too much just yet.

Mur’s hands bunch at the sleeves of his jacket – Cypress’ jacket. There’s a difference. Enough to make this Fell not his.

“Nice jacket,” the Fell says. “Almost thought you stole mine for a sec.”

Mur force himself to stay still. His SOUL is beating too fast in his ribs. He keeps the mantra going through his mind. It’s not him. It’s not him. It’s not him. Forcing a dry chuckle, he looks up at those red, red, red, and replies. “Guess we just have similar tastes.”

The Fell goes silent for a moment, then huffs a laugh as he takes the cigarette from his mouth and taps the ash onto the ground. “That. Or I have a long-lost twin I didn’t know about til now.”

Mur swallows. His eyesight blurs, and he’s not sure if that’s from the smoke or something else. The red is creeping from the corner of his sockets, and he resolutely doesn’t look at them.

“You look lost.” The Fell tilts his head. “Or just… tired.”

Mur forces a smirk. “Why not both?”

The Fell studies him for a moment, and Mur can feel something crawl up his spine. He forces himself to relax. After a brief silence, the Fell exhales a slow puff of smoke. “Well, bench is big enough for two, if you ain’t opposed to company.”

Mur hesitates.

Ia will kill him.

No. Worse. Ia will kill this Fell. Rip him apart like they did with Cypress. All just because he gets too close. Just because Mur wants something he shouldn’t.

But Mur has never been smart about his vices.

He slides further down the bench, giving the Fell more space. So they won’t accidentally sit too close. “Suit yourself,” he says, his voice wary.

The Fell takes the seat, legs stretched out. “So, what’s eating ya?”

Mur almost laughs. He hasn’t had a real conversation with anyone outside his own fractured world in so long. But there is no way he could answer that. So instead, he shrugs. “Life.”

The Fell snorted. “Ain’t that the truth.”

For a moment, they sit in complete silence. Murder steals glances at his unlikely companion, searching for the things that he has missed. The slight wideness in his smirk, the way his cigarette rests leisurely between his fingers, the way his shoulders aren’t as weighed down by things unspoken. Because he’s not Mur’s.

“This your usual haunt?” The Fell asks after a minute. “Never seen ya around before.”

Mur shakes his head. “Just passing through.”

“Ah.” Red nods. “Hope you’re not causing a ruckus around here. We don’t get visitors much.”

Too late, Mur wants to say, but he refrains. Instead, he just tilts his head. “Don’t intend to. I’m just waiting for some friends.”

“Hmm...” The Fell’s gaze flickers over him, assessing, sharp in a way that almost makes Mur jump. His fingers twitch at his sides. “Well, you don’t look like the type to cause troubles.”

Mur lets out a breathy laugh. “You think so?”

The Fell hums, taking another drag of his cigarette. “Well, maybe you are. But you’re too spooked now to do anything, aren’t ya?” He sweeps a glance at Mur again. “Relax. I don’t bite.”

Mur doesn’t respond right away. He just keeps staring at the Fell’s hands, watching the way his fingers curl around the cigarette, how he flicks ash away with practiced ease. It stirs something in his brain – a memory of someone so far away, so lost that Mur couldn’t reconstruct no matter how hard he tries.

“You ever get the feeling you lost something that you can’t get back?” Mur asks, suddenly, abruptly. He doesn’t even realize the question has poured from his mouth until too late.

The Fell lets out a stream of smoke, looking at a spot somewhere on the crystal cave ceiling. “Yeah, well. I think everyone does feel that at some point. ‘S just life.”

Mur nods, staring at his own hands. Hands that have held the dust-stained to his chest. Hands that have tried and failed to stitch back the pieces again and again. Hands that are too slow to save what really matters. Hands that are dyed red over and over and over, never washed clean.

The Fell glances at him again, more curious. “Ya lost something important?”

Mur nods, hesitantly this time. He doesn’t trust his voice not to blurt out the words. It feels wrong to burden a stranger with a familiar face with what he didn’t have with his own Fell.

It’s fine. (It’s not.) Everything’s fine. (Nothing will be.)

“Sorry to hear that. It sucks,” the Fell mumbles under his breath. “But ya know, gotta keep going. Gotta keep moving forward.”

(But how can you move on when this is all you have? When the good things are all in the past? When you wear the dead on your mausoleum of a body? When your bed smells of earth and dirt and rot like the flower bed from whence the flowers of his namesake will bloom again? When you want nothing but to be forever with him – him in the ground you walk on, in the air you breath, in the warmth you sequester? When everything is but broken memories of a broken mind? When you aren’t sure if he was even real at all, but it doesn’t matter anyway? How do you move on?)

Mur stands up abruptly, stuffing his hands in the oversized jacket. “I should go,” he mutters.

The Fell blinks at him, looking mildly surprised but not offended. “That soon? Thought we were just getting to the good part.”

Mur forces a smile, but it’s rigid and doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sorry to disappoint.”

The Fell studies him for a beat longer, then shrugs. “Nah, it’s fine. Take care of yourself out there, stranger.”

Mur nods, then turns on his heels and walks away. He doesn’t look back. He can’t.

Because if he did, he might have stayed. And that is something he can never afford to do. Not ever.

[imtrashraccoon]

Oh yes, even Dirk gets a chapter to discuss the tough stuff, or is that the next one? Hm...

@owl-bones

First, Previous, & Next Day

Bad Sansuary II: Killer - Take Your Time

Word Count: 1,051

"What do you mean you can't?!" you whispered harshly.

"i just- i can't teleport. I'm not out of mana, but something around here isn't letting me use that much at once."

You could only stare at him as your mind tried to process the situation. You were stuck who knows how far underground, hiding from a bunch of cultists, and no one knew where you were. Maybe you could hide here for a few hours, but they would eventually find you. To top it all off, neither of you had brought much in the way of gear or supplies.

When he sat up, you followed suit, gripping the sides of your head. "This is really, really bad. No one will come for us... Going anywhere without back up is like a cardinal sin to soldiers."

"didn't realize the army was a denomination," Dirk murmured dryly.

You shot him a harsh glare. "I'm being serious! This is like my worst nightmare made reality," you snarled.

"huh, i would've thought it was something like losing all your fur..."

You groaned and covered your face. "How can you make jokes when I'm having a nervous breakdown?"

Dirk was silent for a moment. Gently, he pried your paws away from your eyes and examined your face. "are you actually having a breakdown?" he asked in a more monotone voice.

You were so taken aback by his question and demeanor change that you couldn't say anything. After taking a few deep breaths to calm down, you shook your head. "No...not yet at least."

He let go of your paws but continued looking at you with a blank expression on his face. You mentally noted that the corruption that almost constantly leaked from his eye sockets seemed to be flowing faster and his target-shaped soul seemed a bit glitchy compared to normal.

"Sorry for nearly falling apart on you. I'm just... I've never been this nervous...and I've looked death in the eyes several times in my life," you whispered, placing a paw on his arm.

He nodded slowly. "it's almost thrilling...in a way. nothing like the threat of death to make you feel alive..."

You frowned at that since he was correct in a way. In the past, you had never been certain you would walk away alive whenever you had to march into combat. Despite this, there was a certain thrill to being in a situation where you might die that was addicting.

"i shouldn't have dragged you into this," he muttered, staring down at his hands. "boss is gonna kill me for sure..."

"No, he won't. I'll make sure of it," you said, squeezing his arm slightly. "Let's just focus on getting out of here for now, okay?"

"that would be the smart thing to do, but i don't know if that's even possible..." He chuckled, fiddling with the slightly sharp tips of his phalanges, "although, i have been itching for a fight as of late."

"You're thinking of fighting our way out?"

"only if you want to join me," he confirmed.

After considering it for a moment, you nodded. "It might be the only thing we can do. I'd rather go out fighting than cowering in the dark."

"i can't help but wonder what is suppressing my mana in this place..." Dirk muttered, summoning a small bone bullet in his hand before dismissing it again. "like, i can still do basic magic, but teleporting and summoning my blasters is a no go."

You nodded in agreement. "I'm wondering how deep these caverns go and what's at the bottom. Do you think we're on top of the presence Donovan sensed?"

"maybe," Dirk shrugged. "too bad the others decided to retreat..."

You leaned against the wall and closed your eyes. Despite what you had said, you weren't ready to get into a fight at the moment. You were no coward, but you weren't ready to die, not after only knowing your soulmate for two months.

"There's a good chance we won't get out of here alive," you whispered, finally stating the unspoken fact out loud.

"i know." He shifted, turning to look at you. "do you have any regrets?"

You bit your lower lip as you thought about every decision to bring you to this point. After a few seconds, you sighed and met his gaze. "Only that I won't get to see Donovan one last time."

"you have grown rather close in the past months," Dirk commented. He sighed and rubbed the back of his skull. "I guess I should apologize for doubting you were soulmates, huh?"

"It's fine." You chuckled and brushed him off. "What about you? Do you regret anything?"

He seemed slightly taken aback by your question. His permanent grin fell and he quickly adverted his eye sockets in a way that was rather telling. "i... i can't regret what i don't feel guilty for doing," he finally muttered.

When you gave him a confused look, he sighed and added, "i can't exactly feel emotions like everyone else."

You nodded slowly. "I think I know what you mean. Is it more like you feel bad if you're caught, than guilty that you did something wrong?"

"pretty much."

"Then, let me rephrase the question. Is there anything you would do differently if you could?" you asked.

He tilted his head as he considered it. "i don't think i can really pick. good people don't turn out like i have..."

"Humour me."

"look, i never had a chance to be anything more than an assassin." He clenched his hands into fists with a huff. "maybe if i hadn't joined those bandits, i would have settled down and started a family by now. or maybe if i hadn't grown up with a father who hated me, i wouldn't look like...this..." He gestured to his soul before running his hands down his face, smearing his black tears in the process.

You started to reach out to him, but stopped yourself when he moved away, not wanting to be touched. So instead, you just folded your paws in your lap and sat back again.

"I think there's a lot of people in this world who would agree with you," you started to say. "But, regardless of where you came from, your circumstances don't define who you are."

[scorchedmizar]

Aftermath of: This thread

Alcor deposits Mizar onto the ground as carefully as he can with how heavy he is. He murmurs apologies at how his Lord grunts and wheezes, propped up against the wall outside the throne room. The Lord's Star hums to life as soon as they're in their home dimension. The portal closes behind him. It's just as warm as he thought it'd be, especially with whatever modifications the Lord has made to it. A sense of peace fills him as he stares at him. His trembling subsides. It takes him a moment to realize this is because it reminds him of the Lord. Excluding their... earlier years, this closeness only reminds him of happy, content moments. It's hard not to rest his head against the Lord's chest when he's sitting in his lap afterall. Slowly he traces his fingers along it.

Go on then. Whatever you do, I deserve.

He gasps and feels the Star pulse. He'd forgotten where he was and who was waiting on him. Now that he has the chance to do a thorough inspection of the Lord's state he can't stop the tears spilling from his eyes. He's frustrated that the Lord put himself in this situation to begin with. Frustrated that he let his anger nearly get him killed. Frustrated that this has happened time and time again, even if this has been the closest call yet. Alcor has learned, why can't the Lord?

Alcor falls to his knees before Mizar, reaching out with one hand to trace around his gaping chest. Black blood trails down his torso. His leg is out of it's socket. That explains the limp. There's so, so many dents littering his body. Such a short fight and somehow the Lord still ended up like this. The servant sniffles and he lifts his gaze again to meet Mizar's. No! Don't look at him like that! Where's his defiance, his ego? There's not even a hint of mirth.

He sits himself down beside Mizar and stares at the Star in his lap. Somehow his defeated, slumped form rivals Mizar's. After all this time the Lord still thinks that little of Alcor.

I don't expect you to kill me quickly but...

Mizar grunts when Alcor hits him in the chest, a little too close to his bleeding internals.

Shut up! I-I-I- You- You still think I hate you! I don't! I've told you o-over, and over, an- and over again that I!- I love you but you don't seem to- seem to get it...

Alcor hiccups, now leaning into Mizar's side. Tears are harshly scrubbed away until he can see again.

I'm not keeping the Star. It's- It's yours. But I just... want you to... t- take care of yourself. And trust me...

This is something he's never done before but it's so easy to do. Star power feels different than he could have ever imagined. He shuts his eyes to take it in. He's far from smart and the Lord's brilliance is something he could only dream of achieving... and he's selfish, way too selfish but... maybe just this once.

Alcor manages to keep his concentration through the Lord's sounds of surprise and disbelief.

You're wasting it!

The words are spoken in a low hiss, mock agitation surfacing. He knows now that the Lord is just confused and trying to hide it. His systems tell him that his Lord can't be scared, but Alcor knows better. He isn't trying to scare him though and slowly takes the Lord's hand in his own as he repairs his body using star power. There's specifics and gaps in his knowledge of the Lord's anatomy that the Star seems to fill in itself. Slowly but surely the injuries sustained from his fight with Feige are healed and his body restored.

Promptly Mizar is pulled to his feet. Alcor might have given himself a little extra strength to do what he plans to do. Obviously he doesn't expect to immediately get dragged through his hallways by his servant. Why his bedchamber? If he's healed, why would he need to rest? But he's pushed back anyways, landing on his bed with Alcor on his chest. The Star is placed on the nightstand, out in the open, free for the taking. Two fingers are curled around one of Mizar's lower rays, bringing his attention down to the Sun model atop him. He hates seeing him cry.

You can... have the Star in the morning. I just- I just want you to- to hold me and... get some sleep...

izar's body spasms in a quick jerk. This isn't what he deserves. This is the last thing he could ever deserve. Mercy. Love. A sweet kiss on the corner of his mouth... It's been nearly a week, over a week, since he last slept. Since he last held Alcor in his arms like this. Fuck his dignity and his dimension, this is what he could've lost. God fucking damnit all.

His servant makes such a cute sound when he's suddenly tugged close and held tight. Maybe he is a little tired. There's so much from the past few hours alone to think about but... later. He's ignoring the wetness of his own eyes and going to sleep. Like his servant requested.

[abhainnwhump]

Prompt: When Cross says he could've been dating Killer, Dream says he agrees that Killer is hot and he wishes that it could be a polycule but *no*, Nightmare just has to keep Killer all to himself! Like a good brother knows how to share! Dream rolls his eyes and flips the bird, knowing Nightmare is watching.

And if he wanted a fun relationship then he shouldn't've arrested his party drug dealer.

(Can we see everyone's reactions?)

Masterlist || Chapter Context

(Content warnings: Mind control/hypnosis, eye gore, drugs. I'm assuming you meant Killer wanting the fun relationship because he technically helped arrest Cross and he's crushing on him.)

Dream couldn't tell what hurt worse, Cross saying he no longer loved him or his gouged out eye light. "Killer? Why- why do you want him instead? He's one of the reasons we're being tortured in the first place! You hated him."

Cross watched him with the glowing teal swirls in his eye lights. "I don't hate him, what are you talking about? He's hot, you're cute if I'm generous. He's fun, you're a pretentious bore. He's always lookin ahead and not letting anything hold him back, you're stuck complaining about the memories of your poor little baby brother He's up for getting high at two in the morning, you'd give a lecture about it. We did that a hundred times before you brainwashed me into loving you with your 'happiness' magic."

Dream put pressure on his eye socket again. He told himself not to run. This wasn't Cross, he wasn't in control. "I understand, a little. Killer . . . he's attractive and can carry himself well. It would be nice if we could both get what we want and be in a polycule." They thought harder on that. Killer may be a caring partner when he wasn't torturing them. More importantly, he could help them escape and Killer could even redeem himself. Dream sighed. "But that would never happen."

"That's a horrible idea. I'm not sharing with you." Cross clutched his daggers like he would kill Dream if he spoke one wrong word. "If you actually want Killer too, why haven't you asked him or talked about getting together?"

Dream ignored Cross' blatant hypocrisy. "Believe me, I would ask, but Nightmare has to take everyone and make them his. First Killer, then Ink, then Blue, now you! I thought family was supposed to share with each other! He did it when we were children! After five hundred years, he should've grown up." Dream huffed, ignoring his bleeding eye socket for a moment.

"Good thing I serve Nightmare now, I don't have that problem. Sounds like a you problem for you to deal with." Cross narrowed his eye sockets with his arms crossed.

"How dare you . . ." Dream looked around the corridor. Nightmare had to be watching them. If he could speak to them without showing himself and without a source, then surely he could see them too. He could mock their misery and watch them turn on each other.

He inhaled and flipped the wall off, assuming that was where Nightmare was. The negativity was strongest. Part of it was for Killer, Dust, Horror, and Ribbon too, for helping this happen, but mostly the first. They hoped the anger showed through their eye light. Cross scoffed.

Meanwhile, Nightmare watched the whole event with interest. His eye socket began to twitch and Ribbon cuddled him to calm him down, which worked. "Bold of him to claim I'm the immature one when he can't control his negative emotions."

"You are mature! And smart. And brave. And handsome. Don't get angry from it." Ribbon whispered to him.

"Dream thinks I'm hot too?" Killer seemed shocked, but it turned into a smug grin. "I knew he was into bad boys."

"Why are we . . . not talking about . . . the drug thing?" Horror asked. The quarrel disinterested him.

"No, no. We will, I still can't believe my brother flipped me off." Nightmare scowled. He turned to Killer. "When were you and Cross doing drugs behind my back? What kind? Dust already knows the consequences for those."

"Aren't those dangerous?" Ribbon looked away from the portal to look at the others.

"They are. That's why I never want you to have them." Nightmare rubbed Ribbon's cheek.

"What . . . supposed it makes . . . sense." Horror said. There had to be some explanation to Killer's unique behavior.

Dust shot a glare at Killer. "You didn't give any to me, asshole?"

Killer tapped his two pointer figures together. "Look, I can explain. Cross and I snuck out sometimes in the tun- during missions and he knew where to get the best marijuana and crack for a low price. Then we'd stay up and watch cartoons and laugh every time. Wanna know more?"

"In about two hours. I need you in my office and we will have a nice talk, understand? That's an order.?" Nightmare rested his head on this tendril, holding his forehead. He'd punish Killer and interrogate him more later, he was in too good of a mood. Dream finally ran away from Cross as the latter grew violent. Only Dream and Core stood standing and he wondered if any of them would survive.

[ser4gaki]

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ ジャン と エレン

⋆⑅˚₊ the burnt ashes of the dead never would have forgiven me...

erejean - "meet" ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐ "jean, come on!" connie urged, practically dragging his friend along by the wrist as he marched purposefully down the sidewalk. when jean stopped once again, he huffed and furrowed his eyebrows. he turned around, dramatically glaring up at the taller boy. "you're really annoying, you know? come on, we finally got you a chance with mikasa and you're sulking like a toddler," he remarked with a grumble. jean narrowed his eyes in befuddlement, staring connie down from his taller height. "who's 'we'?" he questioned lowly, clearly suspicious. connie shrugged, completely unbothered by the other's skepticism. "oh, you know, me, sasha, reiner, bertholdt, armin…" he listed casually, biting back a snicker when he noticed jean's eyes widening. "what?! all of you planned this?!" he snapped, completely taken by surprise. "you don't think i'm that into her, do you?" connie couldn't contain his laughter, and burst into a fit of guffaws. "you can't be serious, jeanie!" he giggled, cheekily adding in the nickname he knew his friend hated. "you're so in love with mikasa, we've all seen how you look at her when she walks past you in the hallways. it's like you can't take your eyes off her!" jean scoffed at the nickname, before his pale cheeks slowly became dusted with a faint pink hue of embarrassment once he registered what connie had just said. "shut up, idiot!" he retorted, slapping the back of his friend's head. connie reacted with a small 'ow!', rubbing the place he'd been slapped before quickly recovering and grabbing jean's wrist again. "okay, hurry up now, or you'll be late for your first date!" he grinned brightly, sprinting along the sidewalk with his friend in reluctant tow.

upon reaching the location of this date, that being only the most expensive sushi restaurant in the central city, connie gave an excited wave to a large group that was gathered outside the building's wall-long windows. "guys! i got him!" he exclaimed, causing all of the others to turn their heads. "hey, it's connie!" cheered someone who was immediately recognizable as sasha. as expected, she was stuffing her face with some sort of food she'd likely outsourced from a nearby konbini. "and he managed to get jeanie to come out of his cave, too!" "shut up, sasha," jean grumbled, averting his gaze to the rest of the group. standing there were reiner, bertholdt, and surprisingly, armin. it seemed they'd even managed to rope him into coming and spying on whatever this date was going to entail. "hey, loverboy," reiner smirked, condescendingly patting jean's head and messing up his perfectly slicked-back hair. jean retorted with an irritated mutter and a failed attempt to fix his hair, which only amused the blonde further. "lookin' smart. ready to impress the girl, eh?" the taller grinned. jean glared up at him, mumbling a feeble 'shut up', before looking over at the restaurant. merely from a glance it was clearly ridiculously expensive, causing alarm bells to go off in the boy's head. "how the hell did you guys afford this?" he demanded through slightly-gritted teeth. sasha spoke up through a mouthful of food, "hange paid." jean's eyes almost bulged out of their sockets. "hange?! they're in on it too?!" he exclaimed, shock causing his fists to clench. "of course they are! they were levi and erwin's matchmaker after all, of course they wanted to watch this romance unfold," connie teased, wiggling his eyebrows and striking a 'damsel-in-distress' pose to mock his friend. jean grunted in irritation and shoved his face away. "this is ridiculous," he muttered, before suddenly feeling two hands on his back push him towards the entrance of the restaurant. whipping his head around, he saw none other than hange behind him with a big, goofy grin on their mischievous face. "c'monnn, jeanieee.." they drawled playfully, tapping the boy's forehead. "you need to get your lonely self a girlfriend!" "hey-" jean began to protest, but was promptly interrupted by hange's finger over his lips. "shh! save your words for the poetry you're gonna show mikasa, okay?" they hummed, their voice lowered to a hush. "now, go get 'em, tiger!" with that, they practically shoved jean inside the double doors, causing him to clumsily stumble into the restaurant. he immediately blushed in humiliation, feeling more than one pair of eyes land on him from within the room. 'damn idiots..' he mentally seethed, looking out of the darkly-tinted windows and glaring at the giddy group outside. with a reluctant sigh, he approached the counter and was almost immediately greeted by a familiar head of blonde hair. "..annie?" he tilted his head in confusion, squinting at the recognizable girl. the waitress, who was in fact annie leonhart, 'tch'd in response to jean's puzzled expression and looked up at him through bored, half-lidded eyes. "girl's gotta make a living somehow," she muttered, searching behind the counter and handing over a laminated menu to jean. "here. your table's that way." she pointed vaguely to the right, earning a sarcastic 'thanks' from jean before the boy trudged away towards his presumed table. he soon noticed the small velvet card that read "1PM: Kirschtein + Ackerman" in clearly-rushed black marker. with a grumble to himself about how stupid his friends were, he took a seat at the table and stared at the empty chair opposite. where was mikasa? she was never late. if anything, she was always at least ten minutes early. jean's mind rushed with questions, before the highway of thoughts skidded to a halt.

'what if i've been pranked?'

he immediately whipped his head to the right, staring at his friends who were eagerly watching outside the windows. when he gave them a questioning glance, he noticed hange and connie furrow their brows in confusion and begin to look around. it seemed everyone else was confused too- why hadn't mikasa shown up? she'd agreed to come, there's no way she'd stand jean up.. after a few minutes, the doors to the restaurant opened and all of jean's friends stared at the entering figure with slacked jaws and wide eyes. jean was unaware, staring down idly at his phone until he heard someone sit in the chair opposite him. upon looking up, instead of seeing mikasa, who he expected…

he saw… eren jaeger?!

"mikasa couldn't come, there was a sudden meeting at one of her clubs. i'm here in her place," eren explained blankly, unperturbed by jean's gobsmacked reaction to his presence. jean stuttered and stumbled for words, eventually only managing to let out a shaky, 'huh?'. eren narrowed his eyes slightly. "i just said. mikasa couldn't come, so i'm here in her place." jean blinked rapidly, holding his face in his hands as he tried to recollect his composure. for some reason, he wasn't as bothered as he thought he'd be- he knew he should be getting up and leaving, apologizing for wasting eren's time and giving up on the hope of talking to mikasa here- but he found eren's presence.. somehow more comforting? he felt a pink dust creep onto his cheeks, one he silently willed away. he wasn't gay, was he? no, of course not! this was eren jaeger, his sworn enemy- he hated him, and eren hated him back.

what the hell was going on?

taking a moment to compose himself, jean eventually looked up and placed his hands in his lap. he cleared his throat, hoping to disperse the awkwardness of the situation. "um.. okay. well.." he trailed off, his mind blanking on something appropriate to say. eren raised a quizzical eyebrow, his own thoughts rushing enigmatically through his brain. he was already aware of the situation, and when mikasa had asked this favor, he had immediately accepted. he, too, knew that he and jean were seen as sworn enemies and were supposed to be in the eyes of his friends and everyone else who'd ever known him- but there was something bubbling in the bottom of his heart… affection. that was it. there was something about the blushing boy he used to merely see as a horse-face that drew him closer and made him want more than their current relationship. maybe even.. something more than friendship was the situation he desired. either way, he was secretly glad that mikasa couldn't meet jean, since it meant he could. the brunette picked up the menu jean had been given, beginning to look through it. admittedly, he had never been to a restaurant like this before- his diet mainly consisted of shitty food from drive-thrus and energy drinks, so seeing all of the fancy titles and long-winded lists of ingredients made his head spin a little. "…um, you need any help with that?" jean finally spoke up, having composed himself and ridded his pale face of the blush that'd tried to take over. eren looked up, clearly pretty lost. "yes, please," he mumbled, uncharacteristically polite. with a small, sheepish smile, jean carefully took the menu and began to read through it. "have you been here before?" he asked the brunette, to which he got a shake of the head. nodding in understanding, jean skimmed over the lists of dishes and ingredients, eventually settling on something that he was sure any sort of picky eater would be okay with- not that he knew anything about eren's eating habits, anyway. of course not. once he'd picked both meals, which had already been paid for (much to jean's wallet's relief), he handed the menu to the waiter who'd just left the table and hesitantly looked at eren. he forced himself not to stare for too long or prolong eye contact, trying to avoid the brunette getting any ideas about his opinion on this situation. some occasional mundane conversation began and ended in a matter of sixty seconds at most, neither boy knowing what was really appropriate to say despite clearly having the same thoughts about each other.

'i'd love to get him in my room.'

their meal passed without much conversation, though it was clear eren was struggling with the chopsticks- judging by his befuddled expression and fumbling with the utensils, he'd likely never used them before. at his confusion, jean let out an amused chuckle, reaching over and carefully adjusting eren's grip on the chopsticks. their hands brushed together for what felt like an eternity, with the pair of them locking eyes and sharing bashful smiles. from outside the restaurant, excited cheers and squeals sounded from jean's friend group- causing him to quickly draw away out of embarrassment.

"um-" he stumbled on his words again, looking down at the floor without noticing eren leaning over the table towards him. he looked up in surprise, seeing those deep emerald oceans boring into his own eyes. he leaned closer as well, almost involuntarily, and the pair shared a short, sweet kiss. 'he's warm,' jean thought as the embrace of their lips ceased. eren leaned his weight on the table, averting his gaze and clearing his throat as a faint pink hue formed on his cheeks. "..do you want to visit my place at some point?" he asked shyly, biting back a smile. jean blinked rapidly, exhaling a bashful laugh. "oh, um.. yeah. sure. here, you can put your number in my phone," he nodded quickly, handing eren his phone. he watched as the other's fingers deftly tapped the screen, and looked down at it as the device was handed back to him. "thanks. um.. see you."

"yeah."

[vlad-theimplier]

WIP Wednesday: Custos Custodium

This week marks an exciting new direction for the story, and indeed the series: after Jensen succumbed to the Orchid, our focus shifts to Daniel "Smiley" Fletcher. Will he rise to the occasion and win the battles Jensen could not? Will he get the girl, and/or realize she's an enemy plant? Will he absolutely serve in his new suit? All this and more awaits you here, dear reader.

Nah, Jensen's mostly fine, and now he has a whole installation to investigate. Too bad his pilot's a traitor--if only he knew another one...

It was the cold that woke him. A score of icy daggers pierced his chest and back, sapping his strength but unpleasant enough to rouse his mind. He prised his gummy eyelids open and blinked. His eye sockets ached. So did everything else.

With a stifled groan, Jensen lifted his head and looked around. Walls of rock and ice surrounded him where he lay in a narrow gulch carpeted in snow. A security ladder, its stringers collapsed together, rose in black and yellow stripes up one wall; a normal ladder led to a platform on the other amidst silos and compressed-gas cylinders. He was half-buried at the bottom of a mound of—he grimaced as he realized—corpses, frozen stiff where they’d been dumped. Dumped? Yes, definitely dumped. They were all lined up roughly parallel to the higher, currently inaccessible platform. Probably tossed by a pair of the Gold Masks, one by one. At least they’d insulated him a little.

Artificial joints aching in an unfamiliar way, he gathered himself and tried to stand, but he only managed to drag himself a foot or so out from the pile, into the fresh snow. His energy display read flat and dismal crimson: all out. He’d probably burned it all running his heaters. Fortunately, he had that pair of biocells. With fingers even more nerveless than usual, he fumbled one out and plugged it in. The rush of power let him plug in the other one and stand clumsily, the cold ache at his shoulders and phantom knees already beginning to ease.

The ladder was clearly the best route out. He knew the model: when activated, the stringers would separate, the rungs locking into place between them, and his remote-hacking suite should be able to reach the controls at the top. But when he tried it, his software threw an array of errors. He wondered whether the Orchid was still wreaking havoc on his body. He wondered how he’d survived. Chalk up another one for the good old Sentinel, presumably.

He clawed his way up the regular ladder to the platform by the silos. None of the controls there seemed helpful, or even active, but he laboriously scrambled across some of the pipes that bridged the gulch until he could hook his fingertips on the edge of the higher platform and pull himself up. Thankfully, he found a door, a red-bordered employee access like the other. He hacked it with care, awkwardly positioned to one side, but no one burst through and stabbed him this time. It let into a hallway lined with lockers, several hanging open to display cold-weather gear.

Jensen slumped against the wall as the door closed, relieved to be out of the cold and wind, and checked himself over. The injector was still stuck in his leg. He pulled it out, fiddled with it until the needle retracted, and pocketed it for possible later study. His limbs responded to his commands, as did his shades, but the remote hack system still fuzzed with errors. His blades stuttered and jerked as they emerged. The Tesla readied itself happily enough, but its targeting laser was on the fritz. The dart launcher, on the other hand, seemed wholly unaffected, but he wouldn’t rely on it without some practice under his belt.

Munching on an energy bar and watching his energy readout, he thought his bioconverter was acting sluggish, too. But smart vision worked fine, and once he had the energy to venture a cloak, it coöperated. His attempted Icarus dash was a feeble letdown, though. He hoped the aug would keep him from splattering himself if he fell.

They’d left him his weapons and grenades: the Destrier in its shoulder holster, the Sanction mag-locked to his lower back, the tranq rifle in its own bespoke holster and pockets. He hadn’t bothered with the Zap, thinking it superfluous to the Tesla—a choice he regretted, now. His ammo seemed untouched. His vest had held up to Marchenko’s sucker-punch, the aramid taking a few percent off its power before it rattled his ceramic plates against his ribs. He supposed he should be glad Marchenko had used the arm that was mostly flesh.

He bowed his head and struggled to dredge clarity from the mélange of images he hadn’t processed as he choked on his tongue and tried to scream his lungs out of his own chest. Someone had carried him through bare metal corridors. Shouldn’t there be more blood? Rucker was covered in it, he remembered hearing in a distorted voice. Perhaps one of the Gold Masks.

Rucker had more meat in him than this one. Maybe that’s the difference. That had been Marchenko, he thought, the voice close enough he’d probably been over the giant’s shoulder. Broken, like that drone in Útulek. It had been hard to focus.

But you’re sure he’ll die?

The Orchid has no mercy. His end will come. It will be slow. And it will be painful. Just time enough for a man to think on his sins.

Then his heart had stopped. The Sentinel had whined and kicked it back into shuddering motion, its sound drowned out by the conversation. Things had gotten even hazier at that point, though.

… the facility is compromised. We should…

… warned that this one was coming. We have time…

… friends from ARC?

The appeasers, Rucker’s clique? Those fools have… with the Orchid. Dump the bodies with this one. He’d hit the deck, hard, head bouncing limp from metal plates, stunned on top of the whiteout agony into missing most of what followed.

He’d squinted against the pain, behind his lenses, and focused enough to hear … stay here and proceed as planned?

Yes, Brown confirmed everything with Picus last night. Date and time.

Then heavy footsteps clomping away, while he’d slid on his back, flickering in and out of consciousness. He’d woken up a bit when the cold air hit, and a distorted voice had said, End of the line for you, friend. Then he’d flown, and fallen, and it had been lights out for real.

[immoralimmortals]

A Song With Ten Names

Chapter 40: Ship in a Bottle

Chapter 1 ☆ Next chapter ☆ AO3 ☆ Featured song playlist

Summary of chapter: If she dreams of the ocean, might as well start being her own captain.

Author's Note: The song for this chapter is Ship in a Bottle by Fin Argus. This chapter has also been long anticipated by many readers in the mood for something a bit more...godly. ;)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

But nothing can touch your happy thoughts anymore

With your glass ceiling, walls, and floor

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The steam of a sauna thickens and fades. Before the dead girl knows it, the clouds have swallowed up the inn...and dispersed.

The slightest bit of mist left from the strange, humid weeks is lingering on the ground, and as she looks out the window of her home, feeling distantly a throb on her healing thigh, she swears she can see it disappear before her very eyes.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Once again, like when she got the piano, rain falls and begins to clear the air, bring more distance in how far out you can look. What notes does she hear? The tune keeps changing whether it’s hopeful or sad. But no matter how conflicted, as the blue outside reflects into her eyes and shows raindrops slip down in shadows upon her face...the song is, without question, both somber and strong. That much she is sure of. Especially since that’s how she feels now.

One by one, the pairs of Akatsuki have their alone time with the girl watching through the window, waiting for the sight of the final two. She nearly wishes she had never met them before. It’d be easier, imagining whatever she wants. But she knows them. And they know her.

How much they know is the scariest thing of all.

And so she stares through rain-polished glass, even when it was made clear, beyond shadow of a doubt, that they will not arrive until she is well and truly alone.

Hidan and Kakuzu, of course, are first.

“Don’t let them intimidate you, girlie,” Hidan both encourages and pleads, taking her chin to redirect it from looking so fucking sad into the horizon past the trees. A flicker of a smile widens, and though it fades, it doesn’t completely disappear; he’s merely catching a bit of her steeled attitude. “Who’s strong?”

...A second passes and she blinks. “Me?”

And he grins to show teeth, kissing her forehead as a reward. For such a violent man, even as he crashes into her on purpose, he’s bad at pretending to be reckless; it’s as delicate as can be. He's still getting used to this.

“Keep your head,” a deeper voice rephrases, rough yet soft, right above her scalp. Hidan’s touch easens up to allow the disciple to tilt her chin straight up, looking upside down and backwards at a cautioned old man who folds his arms. “Be smart." A slight pinch of his brow, underneath the slash upon metal. "...Just like always.”

Kakuzu allows time for her to nod, a harrumph in his chest before he holds the side of her face and bends down, pressing covered lips upon the same place Hidan’s were a second ago. It makes the priest snort, narrow his eyes.

“Fuckin’ copycat. Get your own thing.”

Gemstones, green upon red, glitter with the rainfall at Hidan as Kakuzu’s cloaked head lifts up. “I quite like it this way,” he grumbles, halfway between a joke and a threat. The grim reaper makes a “tsk” sound and rolls his shoulders.

“As long as you get no one’s better at it than me.”

Her slight, small giggle is enough to tell them they both did just fine. The two men exhale, one loudly and one low, as it becomes clear they’re just lengthening the inevitable.

“You’ll be fine!” Hidan assures, perhaps more for himself than for her as he drawls out the last word. “Like what Kakuzu said! Be smart! All there is to it.”

The slightest eye roll in Kakuzu’s sockets at that, the indignant nature of something rather grim and serious, potentially. “Takara…” he murmurs, leaning down to whisper through his mask and into her ear. There’s one final piece of advice he has to give:

“They don’t know. We didn’t tell them.”

With that, the two zombies linger away, one walking backwards out the door with a lopsided smirk on his face and a sharpness in his eyes. The other, taller man turns his head and stops just before following the shorter one out. A lingering stare that feels minutes long...and he sighs one last time. Silly little nuances, relationships have.

He tugs down his mask to show her what she already knew: that he is smiling.

And they’re gone.

Unlike the first time they left, they embrace fear with a different kind of strength than before. They are not afraid to give her their joy. She will make it. It will be okay, and they will come back to her in the end.

…

But as their shadows down the hallway disappear...the corners of her mouth drop. A phrase repeats in her head, one that Kakuzu ironically said to bring her relief:

We didn’t tell them.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Sailing on a ship in a bottle

Anchor all your thoughts to the bottom

Pulling ropes and pulling your head back

To see what is breaking the foremast

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

She’s leaning sideways against the panel of the window, trying to hear the reverberations of the rain as it hits the siding of her haunted house, when Itachi and Kisame walk in. Just like the first time they met, she sees Kisame first, so very tall it makes the rest of the world scale down into a dollhouse, the way he has to duck under the doorway. The giant shows his teeth in what’s supposed to be a grin, but it looks more like a grimace, and somehow eyes so small can hold and display a lot more than others’ usually can. There's a glossy veneer about them, one that makes her want to pull him down into her arms. Kinder...gentler...than she could ever be. That's what the swordsman deserves for all he's been and done.

Kisame's stance laxes soon as one fish spots the other in the pond, and his arm lets go of the door’s siding, finally allowing space for a view of Uchiha Itachi just behind and beside. There’s a weariness about him, one deeper than usual, as he contemplates what he should or should not regret, what it means to use his eyes for someone besides himself. He is the bearer of her dreams, despite her bidding he keep his eyes far away mere weeks before she coaxed them right back.

“Miss Takara,” he greets, if only to break the ice, get words in the air. Somehow the way the magician sounds makes her heart ache even more, the awareness of how fickle a woman's desires are. His long, dark lashes blink, slowly as to shake off the spell of the sandman. “Are you well?”

Is she well?

A stab wound in her leg, nightmares in her head, and horsemen of the apocalypse arriving at her door, the answer is pretty obvious. “Yeah,” she says, and only someone who knows her can tell that despite saying it so soft, she is not being meek. It gives the two men relief.

“Good,” Kisame sighs, stopping an anxious grip on Samehada’s hilt that he didn’t realize he had. He’s somehow gentle even in the way he walks, though the way the floorboards creak still betray what a big monster he is. She doesn't care, of course not! ...But he does. The biggest beast of them all...slowly...trods...up...until the knight is so close that if he really wanted, he could open his cloak and swallow her up, shield from the entire world and everyone in it. He wants to.

He wants to.

But he can't. Sheepishly, his smile widens, gums peeking from the corner of his mouth. Is she ready for this? It only feels like yesterday that everything went to shit. Last time he was gone, the worst possible thing happened. And now he's being asked to leave again?

If it wasn’t the leader himself ordering it, he’d tell them to go fuck themselves.

Kisame is so lost in thought he didn't notice something shift, only grunting in surprise once he feels Itachi brush past his side. Before his very eyes, an event both terrible and marvelous happens next:

So delicately yet with no hesitation...the dark-haired man puts his arms around the woman. His fingers latch as palms rest on her shoulder, his cheek rests upon her head. He's so...loose. Like she's his bed standing up, a tree in the forest to rest his weary spine from travel, more and more of his weight pressing down and into her. Selfish, he knows. Someone such as he should never have to ask for this. And in the same gradual, dawning way as these movements...the woman eventually realizes what he’s doing.

It’s hard to be an Uchiha. It’s hard to be strong. It’s hard to ask to be held. And so she does it, no explanation necessary. Sometimes you’re just small, you’re worried, the little kid inside you opens their mouth and starts to cry in pain. No matter how nonsensical...no matter how collected you’re supposed to be…

...We all need a break from being the strong one, sometimes.

Kisame has never, not once in all their years side by side...seen Itachi ask for a hug before. Has he missed it? Was it always this subtle...? Memories flash in the days of travel where he leaned against his side, nights where as Kisame tried to sleep he'd feel a stare on him. Just tired...just pensive...that's what Kisame always thought. How can a man think so much yet so little?

With a racing heart, he swallows any words usually reserved for teasing, the parries he loves to pass to Itachi to get him to respond, react, show emotion. It isn’t needed. There it is... There it is.

Slowly, like moons raising off the ground...the woman that holds the Land of Fire's deadliest man to her chest now looks to her dutiful and obedient steward.

And something mutual is suddenly so very seen. She aches, yet she soothes; she yearns, yet she invites. He blinks, simultaneously so guilty yet so...unburdened. The explanation is simple as she releases one hand and curls her fingers towards him, tips kicking in the air like they're swimming to find his body. Just like in the cave...she takes his wrist and begs him to come close.

If she and Itachi are allowed to feel small...so does he.

That's all he needs.

An exhale and Kisame lets go, places down his facade of control and manners overcoming barbarian strength. It is delicately set upon the ground to be picked up again later, like putting on your shoes or pulling on a coat. They’re inside, right now, and at least for a moment...they’re together. The rain against glass is enough noise to soothe his pounding heart.

He puts his arms around the biggest pieces that make the puzzle that is his life...and as they both move their fingers to hold him back...he briefly feels safe. His princess smells like daffodils, golden as honey and just as sweet. To Itachi, his dreamer carries the spirit of roses, both dead as the ones outside at the bottom of browning bushes and living as the one frozen inside her broach. To her, she's surrounded by the scent of smoky fire and a coming hurricane upon the wind. The elements surround her, protect her, and she in turn protects them...however little she can.

The woman makes sure to etch this feeling onto her heart for when she needs it most.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

There are red spots under your eyes

From when you cry into the sky

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The rain’s been going on for so long now that it sounds less like rain and more like talking. News...business...gossip. Every whisper of lips made in this universe keeps their secret in a raindrop. It hits the earth in a "plink" and soaks into the dirt, never to be heard again. That's why there's so many of them. People want to make sure their truth doesn't go down without a fight. Prayers...and curses...and songs.

Lady's probably going a bit nutty, thinking something as elaborate as that out of thin air, she concludes.

She’s pulled a chair up to face the window, slumping forward in a way that will surely kill her back later. But she can’t bring herself to stop, to lay down, to leave this place. Goddammit. She keeps her vigil, if only for her own sake, shoulders hunched forward with forearms dangling between stretched legs, pillowed— at least— by the fabric of her skirt.

“Such posture,” a quiet voice says, “...Ill suits you.”

Sasori on the left side. And then:

“Who are you to define such a thing?” a louder one audibly smirks. “I think there’s something quite artistic about subverting expectations.”

...Deidara on the right. The day has gotten long, and it’s a bit more orange outside, drifting sunlight sinking into blue clouds so both colors line the artist’s faces. She glances between them with eyes alone, one side to the other, and she decides something about how they look…

...But perhaps shinobi don’t like being accused of kindness, so she says it of herself first:

“I’m going to miss you both...being here. I wish you didn’t have to go. It’d be...easier if you didn’t.”

And how right her assumption is. Deidara swallows, his smile becoming firmer, and Sasori’s lids pop up like you bent backwards a baby doll. Even this may have been too much...even the mere acknowledgment that she, too, is worried. Sasori recomposes first.

“Certainly it’d be,” he returns, as always so factual and sharp with a voice both dulcet and cold. “But so long as there’s no choice in the matter...well…”

The tiniest click that she almost misses as his eyes hood again, more like his usual self, as the scorpion’s skin absorbs and reflects light in a different way than the skin on her arm or that on Deidara’s cheek.

“...It can be withstood.” The closest he can get to assure, miraculously with no backhanded insult or bitter words. She’s walking a tightrope, talking to him with her heart, and she’s doing marvelously.

“More than withstood,” Deidara adds, as always needing to one up and make the themes of the moment readable, appreciated. He shrugs, and the relaxed nature of his gaze is more seen than the makeup that attempts to obfuscate it, make it bold. “You’ll meet the leader…” the sculptor explains, allowing what is between words to give her a plan. “You’ll see what he wants...and then we return. Simple...un.” A quick, one-eyed blink of his immaculately lined blue. “And then we can see what to make of it.”

...And that’s more than what she expected, really. It makes her perk up, straighten her back and put her hands on her lap to better evaluate Deidara’s intent, his expression. Cool, cool as ever...yet he runs so hot underneath. He isn’t so far from Tobi in that he very much tries to appear a certain way, but...she glimpses it.

He wants to help her get through this...if only so they can see where this is all leading to. And it’s possible to do things for selfish reasons...and still be kind.

Before she can say— do anything in return— a huff is heard behind her turned head.

“See?” Sasori observes, laying out the truth for his naive partner to see. “My dress falls better on her figure when the girl keeps her posture.”

“Ha! So you admit you can design something with flaws...un?”

And despite herself, despite the petty nature of these arguments...she really, really will miss this. A thumb and index finger go to the broach clasped at her neck, remembering that pink glass was once over her eyes and how everything stays, even if not in the way you expect.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Ocean waters rising above your neck

You feel the glass start to crack

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Even when she’s not watching with her eyes, she still can’t manage to leave.

Her back to the wall, curled up underneath the window as the remnants of sunset fall in the shape of four squares at her feet. Pink toes enter her view.

And she doesn’t flinch as much as he expected her to.

“Takara,” her name is said. It’s the darker one...the black side. A blink and her gaze flickers up, meeting two yellow fireflies that glow in the dark. This is her acknowledgment; she does not speak.

No matter what is to come, she is as ready as one can be. No matter what he’s said. No matter what is planned. She can do it.

If only to keep what she has.

And Zetsu, with his white half, frowns. The lid of a complete eye hoods, such great contrast to the circle that never blinks. Here’s the thing:

He knows.

She knows he knows.

And he knows that, too.

So what next? The answer is easy, at least for her: embrace it. All of her is seen, every iota, every emotion, ever relationship and every fear. Can't change it? Okay, then! Life must go on all the same. Part of her is indignant about it, though. It’s one thing to spy on her...but on her friends? Her loved ones? Even if it’s collateral damage...well…

She’s a lot more willing to stand in the way of danger, unflinching, if it’s for someone else instead of herself. Funny thing, bravery is.

So she challenges him, eyes alone that stare so exhaustedly above the knuckles that grip her knees. The light of the window is a boundary between them, laid upon the floor: a barrier, a chess board. All that’s left to wonder...is if he’ll step into it.

Seconds pass. On the cusp of day and night, a man much the same way, one inch at a time, makes his way to a choice. Pale lips part and a gold orb stares.

“I didn’t tell them.”

The only thing that could catch her off guard.

The ghost playing pretend gasps, chin jerking up in abrupt acknowledgement. Though the white half’s mouth is open...it wasn’t him that talked. No, it was unmistakably...the other.

White Zetsu is merely ogling her, in disbelief himself.

Her brow furrows, her bracing for impact broken and leaving raw feelings— a twitch in her eye, a tremble in her hands, a shake in her tongue.

“W—... You...didn’t...?!”

He lets the silence answer that— that and the way his gaze softens even more. Confusion races, racks her brain. If he did see everything...did he change his mind? Why the hell he'd do that...?! Does he pity her? After that big show of violence? After that intense release of love...? Is she pathetic? Is he...afraid?

Zetsu has a secret of his own, but he isn’t about to say it. So with empty answers, the woman swallows fear up and asks one, clear and coherent question:

“What...do you want from me...then?”

…

…

There’s a brief flash upon his face from outside, a lightning strike with a dull, purring grumble of thunder that follows. Slowly...slowly...he smiles. He smiles so calmly...yet she sees no sense of understanding nor peace.

And as he slips out of reality, she begins to wonder if the split man doesn’t even know.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Oh, captain, make up your mind

Before the salt burns your eyes and you run out of time

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Step.

Step.

Step.

Maybe it’s because he’s not a full-fledged member. Maybe it’s because he’s her best friend. Maybe he's just making a big mistake. Either way, a gloved hand holds hers and helps her fade away, out of the twilight and the clouds of a second-story window and into a dark hallway where she will confront her fears. He’s awfully quiet; so is she. Obito begins to realize this feels less like he’s introducing her to new friends and more that she’s being walked down the aisle to her own funeral. Perhaps he was too hasty...

The orange mask turns its black hole to her. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

He whispers it, so she knows he’s being serious, so she can tell he’s not speaking with his mask but through it, underneath. A suck in of air and a rise of her chest, she attempts to find words.

“I don’t…” How does she explain it? There’s so much involved...so much on the line, and it’s all hinging on what’s to come. Worst of all, she isn’t even sure how much she can do, how much of her fate has been predetermined, even before the Akatsuki leader and his celestial entourage packed up and started their journey over so she may kneel at their feet. “I don’t...know what to do,” she says, at first as an excuse but then finding that’s really just it. She has no idea what to do.

Tobi tilts his head. “What do you mean?” They continue to walk for a few more paces, a bite of her bottom lip as she thinks and feels, the murmurs of water more muted in these halls but not gone.

“I don’t know what they want,” she admits, eyes glued to their shoes. “I don’t know why, only now, they’re coming...and…” Her head bows even lower, expression more despondent. “I don’t know how to make them happy with me.”

So that’s it.

He nearly thinks to call her silly...but only his lady from the stars would care so much about being so good.

“Of course they’ll be happy,” the whisper continues, free of persona despite the simplicity, the lightheartedness of the sentence; the next weighs it down. “...Even if they won’t be right away.”

...That’s enough to make her look at him, intrigue and curiosity, the gray nature of life and the “what ifs”...that’s the most convincing truth of all. He never stopped holding her hand, but somehow, it seems more poignant now.

“If you are who you are…” a hurt, lonely soul says. “...Then everything will be just fine.”

She stares at him, lips parting to speak—

And just like that...he stops. Their destination has been reached. The piano waits for her, next to her propped up guitar, in the room where she’s played music for ears who listen like she’s sent from above. All she has to do, Obito knows, is manage it again. Do what she does best...and then he'll see what she’s really, truly capable of.

He has faith in that, as surely as his red eye will shine up in the sky.

A clasp, a tightening on her wrist— just enough so for her to know that Tobi doesn’t want to let her go yet as she tries to step away. Her hand moves back to her side, and black fingers slip in between hers, neither yet home to a ring.

But who needs that when you wear the crown?

The slight grit of moon-chilled ceramic presses onto her cheek, so very, very intentionally in the same movement as a kiss, though she will second guess that till the end regardless of any shivers or lost breath. Obito pulls away, and he has to be Tobi again.

“You’ll be great!”

A cheery voice to hide, to help her forget what just happened. By all appearances...it works. She smiles so nicely...and he finally lets go. The woman steps into her chamber and waits for the challengers of her next hard-fought battle.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

'Cause you're popping the cork, you get lost in your brain

And you lose touch with all the things that made you feel sane

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The rain always seems to miss touching them, Tobi notes, as he opens the door to the two he’s been waiting for. Not a single slick of water trailing down those red clouds, though perhaps considering the source of this rain, it makes sense. One bag each, Pain and Konan step through the threshold of their strange new base. Neither say a word, the darkness of an unlit house being peered at for details by keen eyes. Tobi allows them to enter...and then he slips away.

The rest is up to her.

The musician exhales, doing her best to release the tension in her shoulders as the sound of walking grows in volume over the coming seconds, moments, minutes. She sits at the bench of the piano, though her back is to it. She’s picked her song, and she tunes her guitar.

The pitter-patter of raindrops, of all the tears she’s cried...of every note she’s ever played. She funnels it all into the plucks of her copper strings...and she begs, so earnestly:

See me as your equal.

Be honest with me.

And I’ll try to be honest with you.

The rain falls outside and she steadies herself as once again, perhaps for the last time, the boat that is her life is rocked by the arrival of someone scary and new. It’s a lyrical melody so intensely desperate as you face the eye of the storm and try to plead to it...in order to bargain with your very self.

Konan feels lost breath in her chest as the song echoes from the belly of this strange house.

You can fit everything you know

In a bottle for you to show

As she stops, so does her god, because even he too needs to contemplate and listen.

Pick your brain apart and put it in

And like a ghost, the line echos, like you’re speaking into a cave. The next words swallow it up.

And build it again with needles and pins

Be smart, be vulnerable, be poised, be...you. The lessons her friends had to give before they left trace the goosebumps on her skin and soak in like she's being left outside with no umbrella. She hears the swishing of the ocean, like she's in the mouth of a whale that's cracked its lips open to eat...

In.

Out.

All the remembered from that day, at that time...was waiting. The water encroaching little by little, lap by lap, like breathing in and out as she waited on the beach to be taken away. Imagined or not...she swears now, only now...that she can hear what it was like when it finally embraced.

The stranger closes her eyes and just like that...three stories of a home are drowned underwater. She has rinsed her hands clean until she has flooded this house, and there is nothing to show for it except a waterlogged boat and its locked chest of treasures. It's hers. It's all she has...but it is hers.

Everything you have earned is a ship

With blue waves crashing into it

The other woman raises her orange-amber stare, bright in the gloomy dark. A glance to Pain and it is clear... He’s deciphering it, too. A long, long look at a ghost of her own...

Oh, Nagato, she wonders...what do you mean to find?

Perhaps he knows. Perhaps he doesn’t. That’s not her position to judge. Loyal till death, as soon as he walks again, she follows, nearly by his side but not quite. As they draw closer to the source, it gets louder. There are no drums— the performer only has two hands— but the intent is clear: the clamoring, the strength, the holding on for dear life. Crash, crash, crash. Shout orders to the mirrors in your psyche and hope they listen, lest you don't make it out alive.

The pierced man with the whole universe in his eyes will, he promises. He will hold on. He will discover. He will know.

So deeply that it’ll be like sinking to the bottom of the sea.

You set sail alone, there is no crew

No one on the deck who can help you

This is all your own battle to win

This is your ship and you are the captain

Her voice isn’t perfect. It quivers in her throat and words fumble into each other upon a tongue heavy with bravery. But that’s fine. It has to be fine.

Surely it is better if she drops the facade of being fine in any other way.

Please, she hopes...please…! All she wants from you, holy leader, is to be on even ground. But that's a tall order; she’s asking this from the worst person you can. He is, after all, no mere man.

But even his angel can see something tremble in the rings that make his eyes, an alteration in the orbit his existence takes, their path of pain. They’ve talked so much...thought so much, both said and unsaid. And even now, she isn’t sure...

...As she looks at the pale face of her possessed, dead friend...

...What he really is thinking when Pain hears the traveler's voice?

She focuses on this so much that it makes it easier to stop thinking for herself, if even for a moment. That is, after all, what she always intends to do.

Oh, captain, let's make a deal

Where we both say the things that we both really feel

I feel scared and I'm starting to sink

And I only sink deeper the deeper I think

The building, halls and walls and floors and all, drowned in blue and starlight guides them to their destination, to the source of all this mystery, into the otherwordly and unknowable and incomprehensible. Oh captain, the woman begs, deal. Shake my hand, tell me your secret, and maybe then I'll finally know why I'm still here. Have mercy— have mercy on a poor sinner such as she.

Oh, captain, deal

And her battle to fight alone begins, a few more, harsh strums of the guitar’s strings and it’s over. Standing in the doorway, dry as bones in the heart of a ship in a bottle, are Poseidon and Thalassa. If they want to find out about her world— her discovers theirs—...then here it goes. Draw swords and hear the blades sharpening as they strike together, and maybe in between will be something worthwhile.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Oh, captain, deal

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[thursdayinspace]

Hi! :)

What are your top 10 MSR moments?

A comment you made yesterday made me curious.

oh man, how to choose? I don't know if I even can name a top 10. i did something similar a little while ago but it changes all the time and also I might be forgetting some . . . let's see. these are not in order. they're just all favorites. and I'm going to go with only moments where both are actually present.

the amor fati "my constant, my touchstone" speech + the forehead kiss. it is such a declaration of love. telling her, basically, that she's The One. no matter what happens. so many moments summarized in those few words: "you saved me," "my one in five billion," "now I can only trust you," etc.

the hallway speech in ftf. I mean. he tells her she's the most important person in his life. just . . . yeah. excuse me while I die a little from feelings.

I'm just going to cheat and roll all the kisses into one moment -- I could write a separate post about each one.

the baseball scene, I mean, come on, the two of them just having fun together, laughing, being cute?

combining two irresistible moments into one: when she tells him she wants to go back to washington to work from there, and he lets her walk away with her dignity intact by telling her that hey, more experienced agents have fallen apart on cases like this, and if she needs to talk he's there, but yeah, working from washington is actually a really good idea, she should do that! and then after they find her, she can let herself fall apart in front of him because he's already shown that he respects her. he offered himself as a safe place already and respected it when she wanted to handle things her own way. that episode is so pivotal to the development of their partnership and friendship.

in anasazi, when he thanks her for taking care of him. he sounds like he doesn't quite know how to say it, but it's important to him. he's not used to being taken care of like that, he's not used to being loved quite like that. what she does is pretty insane, shooting him in the shoulder and taking him on that crazily long drive afterwards while he's unconscious. she risks so much for him, with no ulterior motive.

"i wouldn't put myself on the line for anyone but you." when has he ever been that important to anyone? kind of goes with the moment above. he's not respected by his peers. people call him spooky. they laugh at his work and his beliefs. and here is this smart woman who could have a brilliant career, but she's willing to risk it all to work with him. and she doesn't even believe his theories. she just respects him, and *likes* him. she wants to be by his side. and he wants her around so much. how does that have to feel, to hear that not only is he respected, he's *wanted*?

"maybe i did want to be out there with you" from htgsc. after being told by the ghost that most people would rather stick their fingers in a wall socket than spend a minute with him. and here she is telling him that it's not true. she chooses him. she wants to spend time with him.

the two of them in plus one cuddled up on that bed/couch in the middle of the night. he's holding her and she's asking questions, testing the water, not sure where they stand anymore. she is still so afraid but she loves him. and he doesn't push. he is just *there*. he makes it so very clear that he will always be there. i have a lot of feelings about the quiet, patient way mulder loves in the revival. he will be what she needs, he just wants to be there for her and wants to be allowed to make her happy.

in detour, "i don't want to wrestle" and their whole conversation where they jump from funny to serious to funny just like that, just two good friends having a conversation. his head in her lap is cute and all, but i love the way they just *are* together. they're comfortable with each other.

there are so many more. i wanted to pick a hospital scene but there are too many. the ending of je souhaite is missing. milagro. the scene in the rain from the pilot. the phone call in sleepless "i'm surprised i put up with you so long." the various hugs and forehead kisses. but those are the ten that stood out to me right now. the list is neither good nor complete. this is difficult!

thoughts and opinions? does anyone else have a top ten? or top 500?

[trifoliate-undergrowth]

Dollars fandom event day 1: Meeting

The man who called himself Angel Eyes could appreciate a good saloon. He liked whiskey, though this wasn't quite up to his standards, and he generally preferred to enjoy it in private rather than surrounded by a crowd of loud, noisy people--but the people were of course the main draw of the place. He studied them, their clothes and mannerisms, amusing himself by guessing where they lived and what they did, ending finally with the man sitting down the bar from him, the man he was deliberately not interacting with--yet.

He wasn't important, but in a world full of unpleasant people he had a special skill for unpleasantness, and a certain lack of self preservation instinct which had led him to antagonize a man who could afford Angel Eyes' payment. For all his swagger he was fairly boring.

Angel Eyes wouldn't attack here--too many people who might interfere, too many witnesses. Messy. But he'd watch, he'd find out where he was staying, and then he'd plan his move. Already by listening to his conversation with his friends he'd found out exactly how long he was in town, and where he was heading after. Angel Eyes considered ambushing him in the desert when he left, but he didn't feel like waiting a full three days for that opportunity. He was sure he could find a good opening sooner. Maybe he'd make it a little challenging for himself on purpose. Make it interesting.

He was idly considering the pros and cons of using a knife versus a gun when the man's head snapped to the side in a spray of red. Angel Eyes jerked upright on his stool. He'd almost missed it. A perfect shot, nailed him right through the temple and out one eye socket. He noted the broken bottle on the wall behind the bar, the rum now spilling off the shelf. Meanwhile, the man's quicker or more foolhardy friend had spun around and reached for his gun and also, unsurprisingly, been shot. Angel Eyes watched him slump to the ground and admired the perfectly centered bullet hole in his forehead.

The man's third friend sensibly took his hand away from his gun, and for a moment the shooting paused.

The shooter laughed. He wore no holster--interesting. Perhaps he appreciated the stealth of keeping his gun hidden in a pocket, or perhaps he couldn't be bothered. He wore light clothes, dusty from the road, wild dark hair clinging to his sweaty forehead. Probably Mexican, probably one of the local bandits. Angel Eyes didn't think he was wanted yet in an official capacity (though maybe today's stunt would finally get his face on a poster) and hadn't bothered to research him.

"Smart! Alright, you can live," he said, waggling his gun at the last survivor of the now-defunct conversation Angel Eyes had been spying on for the past half hour. Interesting. Angel Eyes would have shot him.

The man got up and slunk out, a bit shaky-kneed, following the shooter's prompting gun gestures--he handled it quite flippantly for someone with his level of skill. Then he turned his attention to the rest of the crowd, now huddled in shocked silence.

"Alright, you too! Everybody out! Not you," he pointed at the bartender.

The saloon emptied rapidly. Angel Eyes was surprised nobody tried to exit a window. He sat at the bar and watched the shooter, who was watching the person stampede in amusement.

When he turned, Angel Eyes and the petrified bartender were the only others left in the building. He seemed surprised by Angel Eyes.

"You like danger, huh?" he asked, subtly adjusting his grip on his revolver.

Angel Eyes contemplated the thin ring of liquor still clinging to the bottom of his otherwise empty glass and set it down on the bar with a quiet thump. "Buy me a drink."

The shooter's eyebrows raised. He considered this for several moments, then stepped to the stool one down from Angel Eyes, nudging the body out of the way with his foot. "Two," he said, waving his gun at the bartender.

Angel Eyes took his drink and toasted to him. "Much obliged."

The shooter took a gulp of his own drink. "You like this?"

Angel Eyes shrugged. "I've had worse."

"Look, you take what you can get out here--" the bartender started, before apparently remembering who he was talking to and cutting himself off.

"Quite right," smiled Angel Eyes. He let his drink rest on the bar and leaned slightly towards the shooter. "Now, that man you just shot--"

"Which one?" the shooter grinned.

"The first. He'd upset a rich man. I imagine he upset you, too, at least he was egalitarian about it."

"Ewhat."

"My point is, I was planning to collect money for killing him."

"Ah! That's funny, I got here first! Well, pay me half and I'll let you say you did it."

Angel Eyes laughed. The sound was like something breaking, and the room became, somehow, quieter than before. "No. When I'm paid, I always follow through. But I don't take payment for a job I didn't do. It's just professional pride, you understand."

The shooter looked at him without comprehension. "You don't want the money?"

"I want you to compensate me for claiming my kill."

"HA! I did your job for you and now you want me to pay?"

"Careful," said Angel Eyes to the bartender, who had started to reach for something out of sight, and who immediately froze in a very suspicious manner.

"That better be a bottle you're reaching for, señor," said the shooter, reaching behind the bar.

The bartender raised his hands and backed away.

The shooter pulled an old musket out from behind the bar, laughed derisively and tossed it to the floor.

"Well. Perhaps we should continue this conversation elsewhere, before the rest of the town arms themselves," said Angel Eyes, finishing his drink and standing.

"What is there to discuss? I'm not paying you for doing your job, you should pay me," the shooter grumbled, but grumbled on his way to the door.

Angel Eyes paused in the doorway to look down the street. No posse just yet. He took a moment to light his pipe, then turned and shot the bartender.

"What was he going to do?" the shooter asked, staring.

Angel Eyes shrugged, smiled, and beckoned Tuco towards the horses.

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[imtrashraccoon]

I love snow days but the last several winters have been mild where I live so we mostly just get freezing rain. For the Americans out there, -15°C equals 5°F.

@owl-bones

First Day, Previous Day, & Next Day.

Bad Sansuary: Dust - Rival

Word Count: 1,947

The weather was awful outside. Like minus fifteen and billowing snow that made walking, let alone driving, quite dangerous. So you'd done the smart thing and elected to stay home from work. Thankfully, your coworkers had apparently all made the same decision, so no one would be judging you when you did go in next.

So now, you were currently sitting by your window with your thickest blanket and a half finished mug of hot chocolate. You liked watching the snow fall outside and completely cover everything in a white blanket. You also liked knowing that you were nice and cozy inside rather than out in the freezing cold.

Then you heard one of your floorboards creak, like someone had stepped on it. You glanced sharply in the direction of the sound to see who or what had caused it.

You immediately made eye contact with none other than Dust, standing in the middle of your living room with his hands in his hoodie pockets.

"hi..."

"Hi."

He stared at you for a moment and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. While you could tell he was tired today by the dark circles underneath his sockets, he didn't seem nearly as bad as some of the other times.

"so, uh, what's up?" he asked quietly as he walked over to the window.

You shrugged and took a sip of your hot chocolate. "Not much really, I'm just watching the storm and seeing if anyone's stupid enough to be outside in this weather."

"fun..." His tone of voice actually sounded completely serious rather than sarcastic, which for a moment threw you for a loop. He sat down on the floor next to you and leaned his skull against the window panes.

A smile played on your lips and you couldn't resist teasing him a little bit. "So what's the deal today? Colleague driving you up a wall again? Boss working you too hard? Did Axe finally find out you've been secretly hanging out with his best friend?"

His mismatched eyelights flicked to you and he cracked a wry smile. "nah, although the colleague has been as pleasant as ever."

You chuckled and finished up the last of your hot chocolate. "Are you just here to take up space on my couch or something then?"

He glanced over at your couch with an almost wistful look. "that sounds pretty tempting actually..." he muttered.

"You're like a stray cat or something with how often you hang out here now."

He gave you a weird look but didn't deny it. "your place is quiet and comfy..."

You hauled yourself to your feet and wrapped the blanket tighter around your shoulders. On your way to the kitchen to put your dirty mug in the sink, you called back, "Did you want anything while I'm up?"

"nah, i'm fine..." he answered.

By the time you'd returned to the living room, Dust had predictably made himself at home on your couch. He'd done it so often by now that you swear the cushions practically molded to his body whenever he sat down on them.

"As much fun as laying around and doing nothing all day sounds, I'd rather spend time doing something with you." You tapped your chin thoughtfully before an idea sprang to mind. "How about a board game? Those are always good for stormy days like today."

He briefly raised his head from the couch cushions and you thought there seemed to be a glimmer of curiosity in his eyelights for a moment. He shrugged but didn't make any effort to get up.

"depends on the game..."

You opened the small cabinet where you kept the few board games you owned and some old puzzles that were doomed to be forever unfinished. "I got Uno, a couple decks of playing cards, Chess, Dominoes, Monopoly..."

"you know how to play chess?" he asked suddenly, ignoring every other suggestion.

"Hm? Oh yeah, I was in my high school's chess club a while back."

You figured Chess was probably the best game to play with Dust anyways as it required little effort and wasn't generally a chaotic game. Now that you thought about it though, he kind of seemed like a very particular type of person. He liked his coffee black with nothing added, he didn't crack jokes at the drop of a hat, and he apparently liked Chess.

You ended up hauling the coffee table a bit closer to the couch so that both of you could be comfy while playing. Dust chose to be the black pieces which left you with the white ones, not that you minded as it meant you would go first.

He seemed a little unsure of where some of the pieces went, but soon figured it out without needing to ask. You couldn't help but notice how purposefully he set up his pieces and he'd even sat up straighter to do so. His hood and gloves stayed on though, which at this point, you would've been weirded out if he took them off for any reason.

"Have you ever played before?" you asked before the game actually started. While you figured he had at least some knowledge of the game, you didn't want to assume how much he actually knew.

He made a so-so motion with his hand before answering in an off-handed kind of way. "yeah, a couple of times, it's been a while though..."

"Same actually," you hummed. "May the best mind win..."

The game proceeded fairly quickly at first. You were playing carefully to try and get a read on his skill level, while Dust just sort of randomly moved his pieces around the board wherever he felt like. It was a bit confusing as you got the impression he wasn't actually trying, especially when he'd make a pretty obvious mistake like leaving important pieces exposed.

"Checkmate," you said while sliding your bishop into position.

Dust stared at the board for a moment, double-checking that, yes, you had just won the game. Finally, he seemed satisfied and nodded slowly.

"fair enough."

You took a deep breath and stretched your shoulder muscles. You still had it, even after all these years.

He began setting the pieces up again and glanced up at you expectantly. "rematch?" he asked.

There was a sort of spark in his eyelights that you couldn't quite place. Almost like he was excited or maybe passionate was a better word. It kinda thrilled you to see and you couldn't deny him now.

"Sure, why not?" you shrugged.

You ended up playing several more games over the next few hours. While you managed to win one, Dust seemed to have found his momentum and won every other game from then on. It was kind of impressive actually, seeing him study the board and then move pieces you hadn't expected him to. You quickly realized he was probably playing at least three or four rounds ahead of each move.

You didn't mind losing to him though. It had been so long since you'd played against anyone actually challenging and you were having fun. With each consecutive game, he was getting faster at beating you and you were beginning to realize that you'd vastly underestimated how clever he was. It could also be that he was just really good at figuring out patterns though.

One surprising thing was that he started talking during the games and not just trash talk or making related comments either. He was actually talking about himself for once.

"you know that idiot colleague of mine?" he asked and shifted a rook over slightly.

"Mhm?"

"he seems to think he's better than me at everything and constantly challenges me to these stupid contests..."

You moved one of your pawns up a space and glanced at Dust to signal that it was his turn.

"he also has to be a constant pain in my coccyx and can't help purposely annoying me at all hours of the day."

"Sounds lovely..."

"it's really not... he even goes so far as to steal exp from me whenever he gets the chance." He moved one of his pawns in front of the pawn you'd just moved to block it. "i hardly stand to be in the same room as the guy..."

"I assume that's a bad thing because of the...withdrawals, as you coined it?"

"it's mostly just an annoyance but yeah."

You fell silent for a moment as you considered your next move. Dust had already taken one of your knights and both of your bishops so you weren't left with many ways to attack him. Finally, you just elected to shift your king towards the corner where he'd be more protected.

"That sucks, why do you even work with the guy if he's so awful?" you asked.

He shrugged and scanned the board for a moment. "don't have much choice i suppose... we all essentially owe our boss so we gotta keep doing whatever he wants." When you frowned slightly, he added, "it's not so bad really, i'd be stuck in an empty world for the rest of time if he hadn't found me. at least this way, i get to do stuff and travel around a lot."

"I guess that's not too bad then..."

"killer's from pretty much the same type of world as me, although he's probably even more messed up."

"I assume that's your colleague's name...?"

Dust blinked when he realized that he'd even mentioned it. "yeah...and before you ask, no, his parents didn't call him that either." He cracked a crooked smile at you before moving his queen out.

"Very funny."

"i don't actually hate the guy though, even if i probably should. we get along when it counts... i've got his back and i know he has mine, if that makes sense?"

You hummed in acknowledgement but continued to stare at the board rather than actually respond. He had you in a tight spot all of the sudden now that his queen had come to play. Actually, he'd slipped up and left one of his bishops next to one of your pawns.

So, you slyly captured his piece and smirked at him to rub his mistake in his face. "Makes sense to me," you finally answered.

He didn't even look upset and slid his rook over across the board. "checkmate."

You stared at him blankly and took a deep breath. "Wow...you're like a Chess prodigy or something." You stood up to stretch your legs before adding, "That was fun but my brain's tired. You're a great opponent though, I haven't had to think that hard to beat someone in years!"

For a moment, his permanent smile widened into a more genuine one and his mismatched eyelights seemed to sparkle. His expression shifted back to a passive one seconds later though, which was slightly disappointing. He looked good when he was happy.

When you were cleaning up your apartment later on after he left, you had a sudden thought. Did Dust like you? He had willingly hung out with you today rather than appear out of nowhere all creepy like. Maybe you were starting to get through his cold exterior shell?

You weren't about to count your chickens before they hatched. If he wanted to be friends, you would wait patiently for him, and until then, you would continue being a listening ear if he ever felt the need to open up more. He kinda seemed like the type to bottle everything up until the stress from doing so becomes too much to bear any longer.

It was strange, but you felt like some progress had been made today.

[crybaby-bkg]

sᴄᴏʀɴᴇᴅ | ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ғᴏᴜʀ

Bakugou x f!reader Warnings/Tags: graphic depictions of violence toward OC, mentions of the dead coming back alive, brief mention of being tortured (not graphic), fight instincts kicking in (no actual fighting), allusions to being killed Word Count: 4.1k Minors/blank/ageless blogs DNI!

Main Masterlist AO3

“Thats a stupid and shitty fuckin’ idea, I’m afraid.” Vanity tells you with an almost disappointed huff, pouting her bottom lip at you as she shakes her head. You groan, leaning against the wall in her room at the warehouse, her back turned to you as she hunches over her crafts table. 

“You’re not afraid,” you grumble quietly under your breath, frowning when she glares at you over her shoulder. One eye is a dazzling bright gold, the other concealed under an eye patch, and the scar that runs from her eyebrow to the corner of her mouth twitches when you match her glare. 

“Stop being a brat,” she huffs at you. 

“I’m not being a brat. I just think you should at least consider his option.” You presented the idea Dynamight gave you to Vanity, and she hasn’t been taking it too kindly. She thinks the idea is stupid, a set up, a way to capture you and then the rest of your friends, including her. 

“What’s there to consider when it comes to entrapment?” She scoffs, finally putting her suit down as she spins around on her bench to look at you. “It’s so obvious that he’s playing you to capture you in the end. I thought you were smarter than this.”

“I am fuckin’ smart,” you snarl at her. It makes you think back on all the times your intelligence had been questioned, had been put down, berated in order to keep you underfoot. Vanity knows this, knows that this kind of topic is triggering, and she throws her hands up in surrender when your face screws up. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” She states quietly, bows her head once at you. It doesn’t make you unfurl from yourself, puts your guards up for the rest of the conversation now, which is exactly the opposite of what Vanity wanted. 

“What I meant was, I thought you were more guarded when it came to trusting men. We all are.” She whispers, hand gesturing out to the rest of the warehouse. You had found it first, the emptied place, after you started making a name of yourself. You thought you were being followed one night, and didn’t want anyone to put together the pieces of where you lived and who you were. You didn’t want them to know that Miruko had helped you only for you to dissolve into this “societal degenerate.” 

So you started camping out here while you got your shit together, and found someone living in one of the rooms after not visiting for a few days. It was Vanity, telling you that she had followed you a few weeks prior to this place, that she wanted to help you, belong somewhere, be apart of a greater mission. She had stood in front of you, with one golden eye shining with tears, the other eye lost, a browned and reddened bloodied path streaking her cheeks, the socket itself empty. The gash on her face was still fresh, still gushing puss, but she had stared you down with such passion, such fervor. Proclaimed to you that she would be with you, because she herself had a mission to find the men who did this to her face. 

After that, more and more people started joining your little misfit band. Other vigilante’s using this space as a hideaway or a need for medical supplies or somewhere to reload. It became almost another shelter you worked at, another safe space, for those who only wanted to correct the world where society’s heroes had failed. 

“You can’t put them in danger.” Vanity whispers to you when another vigilante walks past the door cheerfully with their big smile, a katana strapped to their back. For a second, your heart squeezes painfully in your chest at the thought of this safe space being seized, being violated, of everyone looking at you for betraying them when they needed your comfort most. 

“I just wanna hear him out,” you whisper, pulling at a loose nail in the floorboards until it makes the first layer of your skin peel back. You don’t see Vanity get up until she sits across from you, pulling your hand into hers. You look up at her, mouth pulled down, sullen, as you focus on her eye, on the scar that still gives her phantom pain when the flashbacks become more and more prominent. She squeezes your hands tightly, chin trembling as her eyebrows furrow. 

“Whatever decision you decide to make, just please, keep us out of it.” She pleads, coming closer until her forehead rests against yours. “We have to stay safe for everyone out there.” Her words come out barely a whisper, tone shaking as it makes you hiccup an almost silent cry. You nod at her, pulling her close until you can embrace her fully, feeling her tears dampen your shirt as yours does the same. 

“I’ll always do everything in my power to keep you all safe.” You promise her. You just hope you don’t ever unintentionally break it. 

…

You find yourself in front of an entirely too big building bustling with people of all kinds of looks and sizes. You stare down at the paper in your hands, before looking back up. You had never messaged Dynamight to tell him when you were coming, secretly hoping he wouldn’t be clocked in today so that you could at least say that you tried. 

You take another breath, looking down to make sure that your sweater is high enough to cover your blood red tattoo, before you finally take a step in the building. You’re a little overwhelmed to say the least, with so many people in one space, everyone talking to sidekicks and on their phones, fussing and barking out orders. 

After a scan of the area, you finally find something akin to a front desk. You make your way over, greeted by a blue haired receptionist and before you can open your mouth to tell her what you’re here for, a familiar voice shouts out your name. You whip around to find it, greeted by the tall blond whose frowning, making his way over to you. 

“Ya didn’t tell me you’d be coming by today.” Is all he greets you with when you both meet halfway. He’s taking all of you in, with his hands on his hips, too big arms exposed and without bandages anymore. There’s a scar though, jagged and round on his shoulder, and for some reason, you don’t feel as good as you usually do when seeing the aftermath of your destruction. You only frown back at him, matching his stance as you try to make yourself look bigger. 

“I was hoping I’d miss you.” You tell him honestly. Dynamight huffs a small noise from his nose, shaking his head at you as he starts to turn on his heel. 

“Cmon,” he guides you, jerking his chin behind him as he starts to walk off without waiting for you to catch up. You do, with a few sprints after trying to weave your way through the crowd. It’s like everyone parts ways for him though, and closes back up immediately when he passes. After bumping too many people in only a few seconds, you let out a frustrated noise that you didn’t think too many people would hear. 

But, to your surprise, Dynamight turns around on his heel, eyes searching for yours in the crowd before his eyebrows turn down. He grunts, stomping his way back over to you and twists around until he stands diagonal behind you. He doesn’t touch you besides a nudge to your shoulder, before letting his hands drop to his side, as you both start walking again. Only this time, because of his close proximity, do you finally make it to the other side of the large room without any mishaps, unaware of Dynamight’s glare to everyone who gets too close to you. 

You two get on the elevator, and its a spacious one, but its still packed to the fucking brim. Everyone crams in, a too big hero with a bulky middle apologizing for taking up quite literally half of the space. You don’t pay it much mind, trying to focus on breathing and not panicking right now due to the small space, not noticing the sidekick who’s been staring at you since you got on. He chews his lips for a few seconds before daring to make a move, suddenly stopped by a big arm standing in the way. 

Dynamight looks down at the sidekick, all snooty-like, before he mouths something that you can’t see. The sidekick slinks back to his spot, shoulders hiked up to his ears. The rest of the elevator lift goes by uneventfully, since Dynamight ignores your glare to the side of his head the whole ride up. 

By the thirty-eighth floor, you two are the only ones left in the carriage, and you still haven’t stopped glaring at him. He hasn’t stopped ignoring you either. Not until you finally call his attention with a hiss. 

“You don’t have to treat me like a ticking time bomb, you know.” You snarl, turning to face him fully. Dynamight only faces the door still, glancing down at you with a side eye and pulled thin lips. 

“I know you can handle yourself.” He says gruffly, eyes rolling back to both of you guys’ reflection in the elevator mirrors. You look so meek compared to him, with your heavy cream colored cowl neck sweater, ruffled black jeans and combat boots. But he knows you carry a bite that might even rival his own during the height of battle—and that’s on a good day of yours. 

“So why keep doing that,” you shuffle on your feet, trying to find the right words “stuff back there for me? As if I couldn’t protect myself?” You ask him, wishing that he’d just turn his head and fucking look at you when you speak. 

“One—I don’t need you shooting anyone else in this agency.” Dynamight holds up a finger, gives you a pointed look that immediately disarms you. His eyes bore into your own, and you glance away to his scarred shoulder. You huff, stomping around to face forward, met with his disapproving stare again in the reflections.

“Two—just because you can handle yourself, doesn’t mean you should have to. It ain’t fun having to stay on guard twenty-four-seven.” And you wish—you so fuckin’ wish—that he wasn’t right in what he said. That it’s actually loads of fucking fun to constantly be looking over your shoulder, worried that the dead might become reanimated, that you’ll be haunted again. That your sins will catch up to you and put you through the torture you had finally escaped. You didn’t like having to live like this—it was draining. But you had to. 

You only sulk beside him, folding your arms over your chest as you bury your chin and nose in your sweater. You cut your eyes at him, his gaze never leaving you all the while. 

“Idiot.” You mumble into the material, hurriedly stepping off of the elevator the moment the doors open on the sixty-fifth floor. 

“Dumbass.” Dynamight counters back, standing in place as he lets you walk down the hall as if you know where you’re going. When you don’t hear his footsteps behind you, your shoulders hike up in annoyance. As you pass him in the hallway going the other direction, you swear you hear a snicker from him. But when you turn around, his mouth is set firm and his eyes are focused on the end of the hallway. Asshole. 

After passing by a few doors, Dynamight stops in front of an office with his name on a gold plate. He says something to you, but your ears have suddenly filled with cotton as an ocean wave of nerves suddenly crash over you. 

What if this really is a set up, like Vanity had suggested? What if, on the other side, its police waiting for you to arrest you? What if they’ve already found your warehouse, your safe space? What if they strip you down to be sure that you’re the Red Medusa? What if they humiliate you? Torture you? What if old demons aren’t as dead as you thought they were?

“Hey.” Dynamight’s gruff voice suddenly pulls you out of your thoughts with a heavy hand on your shoulder. You gasp as if he’s burned you, backing away from him with wide eyes, body instinctively going into a fighting position. You don’t want to fight him, but you’re willing to do whatever is necessary to keep yourself safe. 

You’re the only one in this world who can keep you safe. 

And instead of taking you up on your offer, Dynamight only fixes you with a confused look before suddenly, realization takes over. He lowers his chin, hands falling limp at his sides, as he speaks quietly to you, like you’re some heightened prey, and he, the predator. 

“‘M not your enemy.” Dynamight says quietly, eyeing how your fists shake and tremble as each second passes by. Your teeth grit as you try to stop the chattering of your jaw, fear and anxiety fueling you to do what you know best—fight. 

“Then what’s on the other side of the door?” You snap at him, eyes glancing from his own scarlet ones, to the shadows under the door that freeze when they hear you. 

“Just a couple’a shit head friends of mine.” Dynamight nods his head over to the door, looks down to see the shadows too, before he locks eyes with you. You stare at him for a few seconds, pain radiating in your forehead from the stress of it all, scared that you might implode and ruin all of the fancy walls in here with crimson. 

“And what do they want with me?” You whisper shakily, leaning on your front leg, fists still guarded in front of you. Dynamight takes in your position, but he still doesn’t move, doesn’t try to disarm you, even though you both know that he could right now. 

“They just want to talk, so they can get the full gist of your story. Figure out a way to help you.” He nods his head to you and then jerks it over to the door. You both glance at it before you look back over to him. 

“I don’t need your help.” You snarl, hands trembling so hard that you know you couldn’t throw a good punch right now if you tried. But Dynamight believes you—believes your fear and your readiness to attack, and he lets you have it. Lets you sit in it the entire time, gives you the control, throws the ball into your court. 

“I know ya don’t.” He replies with a jut of his chin at you. “But I don’t wanna see you wind up dead because of some egotistical scumbag that does everything in his power to take you down.” His voice lowers, damn near to a whisper, and you didn’t know the explosive hero could get so quiet. It disarms you, for the moment, holding your fists up for another second before they drop heavily at your sides. You suck in a heavy breath, rubbing at your temples, as the weight of his words sink in. 

You’re scared to admit that he’s not wrong in how you’ll probably leave this world. 

“If anyone of you try to hurt me, I’ll put a bullet in all of your skulls.” You tell him, voice steady and sure of itself. Dynamight releases a breath you hadn’t realized he’d been holding, nodding to you with a quiet huff of a chuckle under his breath. 

“I don’t doubt that for a second.” He tells you, resting his hands on his hips before facing the door again. “Now, are you ready, or do you need another minute?” He looks over to you, face clear of any signs of annoyance or irritation. 

You spin around on your heel so he can’t see your face, as you squeeze your eyes shut and whisper a few phrases you give your clients when they experience high levels of anxiety. You repeat them a few times, hugging yourself all the while, even though you only believe half of what you say. 

When you’re ready, do you finally turn around to face him, only this time with your chin held high and a new spark of confidence in your eyes. You nod, shoulders squared, as you face the door beside him. 

“Readier than I’ll ever fuckin’ be.”

…

“I’m not ready to do that stupid shit.” You tell the men in front of you, dead faced, tone bored. The green haired hero splutters in shock, and the dual haired one only rolls his eyes at his friends surprise. 

When you had walked in the room, you were met with heroes Deku and Shouto, and a Hero Commission higher up that Dynamight explained was “chill as fuck.” You didn’t believe it, with his too tight suit jacket and neatly styled hair and overly big glasses frame. But he’s been sitting there, quiet, in the corner of the room, after introducing himself with the nickname Yuu. You didn’t trust the rat looking fucker for a second. 

Deku had greeted you first, and after pleasantries had been established, did you all discuss what you were all there for. Deku had shared that the three of them had looked at your file when you were first attacked, and it made you more uncomfortable than anything. Having your story be told over a cup of tea, feeling violated all over again. To be viewed as some victim, some sob story, a case of a scorned woman taking revenge on all men, when that wasn’t all you. 

“We think you should rebrand as a hero.” Shouto had blurted out when Deku started rambling on for too long. You can see Dynamight shaking his head in the corner, pacing back and forth as he whispers expletives under his breath. Your response to said stupid shit is met with a heavy sigh from Yuu, who you had forgotten was even there. 

“What’s the hookup with rebranding as a hero?” He asks, chin resting in his palm as he looks at you with furrowed brows. You feel too scrutinized, and turn a little in your rolling chair, subconsciously facing Dynamight who’s come to stand beside you. 

“What isn’t a hookup?” You scoff, looking at your nails, glancing back up when you realize that the room has fallen silent as they wait for you to explain. You twist your mouth, hands wrangling in your lap as you try to gather your words. 

“As a vigilante, I can be there quicker than you guys.” You look up to face the heroes of the room, who look at you in questioning. “You guys gotta wait for protocols to fall in place, if you have permission to interfere. Then ya gotta do paperwork shit, write letters to families for destroying their homes after saving a thousand people. You have to report to someone. 

“Me?” You point to yourself as you look around the room. “I’m there at any given time when someone needs me. Be it, for something the higher ups deem as small, or as big as what happened on the train the other day. I might not have a useful quirk or anything, but I can protect the people who need saving.” 

The room falls quiet, with Deku opening and closing his mouth a few times before he pinches his bottom lip between his fingers in thought. Shouto blinks at you for a few seconds before giving a tiny shrug and sigh, Yuu nodding quietly. You look up at Dynamight who has been staring at you all the while with this funny look on his face, arms crossed over his chest as he stands above you. 

You kinda want to hit him in the knee to break him down. Not because he deserves it, but just to be an ass. 

“Performing heroic duties as you do on the street illegally can be very dangerous for you, though.” Deku speaks after a few beat of silence, his eyes hazy as he seems to be lost in thought. “But why you do it, should be praised and accepted more in hero society. I just don’t know if we’re ready for that, yet.”

“I’ll make ‘em ready.” You tell him, jutting your chin out in defiance. “And if they’re not, then I’ll continue being who I am and doing what I do until the day I die. Nobody can take that away from me.”

“Until they can.” Yuu interjects with a bored look on his face. You prickle at that, as does Dynamight, as your hackles rise, defenses up and guarded. 

“The fuck does that mean?” You lean against the table until you’re in his space, sneering at him. The man doesn’t look half bothered to even be here as he tilts his head at you. 

“It means, think about a rebrand, or your stints will be—”

“Shut the fuck up.” Dynamight barks at him, bending over to rest on the table with his palms, his face beside yours as he gets close to the worker with his own snarl. 

“We’re not gonna fuckin’ threaten and strong arm her to get the results we want. We get shit organically, or we don’t get shit at all.” His tone holds a level of finality, that makes Deku step forward in case things go left, Shouto straightening his back at the sound of it. You almost want to back down yourself, but you don’t waver, only glance over to the blond, wonder how long its been since he shaved the chin hairs prickling at his skin. Yuu glances from Dynamight to you, smoothing out the wrinkles in his suit jacket before he stands. 

“Think about it.” He tells you, leaving the office without another word. Everyone sits there, tense, and in silence, wondering how to go about everything. You let out a heavy breath, sinking into the chair behind you as you cover your face with your hands. Vanity’s words bounce around in your head besides Yuu’s, and you don’t think you’ve ever been so conflicted before. 

“Lemme walk you home.” Dynamight says quietly to you, and if you were in your right mind, you’d tell him to fuck off. But you stand up shakily, without ever saying goodbye to the two heroes, turning on your heels and following the blond into the elevator and out of the agency doors. 

Thankfully, the walk is no more than thirty minutes, and most of it is in silence. As you start nearing your neighborhood, does Dynamight strike up conversation with you. 

“If you do rebrand, what hero name are ya thinking?” He asks quietly, hands swinging at his sides. You side eye him, as you tuck your hands in the front pocket of your sweater. 

“Not something as obnoxious as yours.” You shoot at him, and it doesn’t have its same bite that it used to. At that, Dynamight snorts, shaking his head at you. 

“You’re a dickhead, you know that?” He says to you, looking over at your twitching lilt of a smile. 

“Yeah, I’ve gotten that once or twice.” You shrug at him playfully. When you see your apartment nearing, you slow to a stop as Dynamight does the same beside you. You turn to him, squinting from the halo the sun casts on his ash blond hair behind him. He looks soft like that—nothing you’ve ever seen him display on TV. 

“You know, I only let you walk me home because I figured you already knew my address on file.” You mumble, arms folded across your chest now, as he mirrors you. 

“Yeah, I guessed that.” He shrugs. “But I’m surprised I came this far.” He tells you, honest. You blink at him for a few seconds, try not to let the implications of his words sink too deep inside of you. So you duck your head, chin tucked into your sweater, gaze on your boots. 

“I gave you my number for a reason, dumbass. Use it if you ever need it.” He tells you, prompts you to look at his stupid mug. You nod, before abruptly turning on your heel. 

“I’ll never need it.” You call, hoping he understands the meaning of your words. But instead of stopping you, Dynamight only huffs a little, before exclaiming, 

“Stop being stubborn and fuckin’ call if you need it!” His loud voice makes you cringe, and you start speed walking, throwing up the middle finger over your shoulder. 

“Eat a dick, Dynamight!” You respond equally as loud. He cackles at that, loud and ugly and stupid. But for some reason, it makes you laugh too. Just a little.

Chapter five

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