#this is to prevent me from strangling another person

[mutedsybille]

"Mom, can we have the Distortion at home?" "We already have the Distortion at home" The Distortion at home:

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 8

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, suggestive themes, again with the slight smut phew, angst on top of more angst, no comfort... yet (or ever? hmm much to ponder about)  A/N: Imagine if I leave it here lmao Also, I've been listening to White Ferrari on repeat while editing this chapter. I'm not saying that you should too while you're reading, but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Oh, and Angel by Massive Attack. Trust me, it's gonna come up. (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵)

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10 - Epilogue

The cold tiles of the bathroom floor wreak a shiver through your body.

You’re curled up in front of the toilet, barely upright after another round of puking what little bile is left in your stomach. Cold beads of sweat dot your forehead and every breath feels thin, ragged, like you’re trying to gulp air through a pinhole. The chill seeps under your skin, leaving you shuddering involuntarily between dry heaves. 

You make the rookie mistake of tilting your head ever-so-slightly to rest against the cool porcelain, and the miniscule action threatens to send the room careening into another violent spin. A wave of nausea hits you and you desperately gnaw on your bottom lip to prevent yourself from gagging.

You feel like absolute shit. 

There’s something lodged inside, sinking deep into the pit of your stomach. A poison, a corruption—heavier than the excess of alcohol still clawing its way through your system. It isn’t the simple penance for overindulging, no; it’s darker, rawer, less perfunctory than the remnants of last night’s events. 

It churns inside you, leaving an acrid, metallic taste on your tongue and a dull ache behind your eyes. 

The buzzing of your phone reverberates beside you, a relentless vibration against your thigh. It hasn’t stopped since the moment you clawed your way out of bed and staggered toward your porcelain waste bucket. You weren’t supposed to bring it along with you—it should’ve been left abandoned outside of this room, far from this bleak sanctuary. This… this disgusting aftermath of your revelry. 

Unfortunately, it’s practically an extension of you now. A limb, almost. Or worse, a crutch—something you lean on so habitually, that the mere thought of its absence feels like an amputation.

“S-sorry,” you release a shaky breath, tears pricking your vision, unbidden. Unwelcome. “Sorry.” 

Another vibration. You can picture it clearly in your head: the worry marring his face, the exasperation in his eyes.

You retch.

––––

The red takeout box from Panda Express sits in front of you, its contents lukewarm and forgotten for the better part of the hour. You barely remember ordering it—actually, now that you think about it… Did you even order it yourself? Your memory’s a little hazy, just like everything else today. And last night.

Sylus’ voice crackles through your phone, propped precariously against a half-empty mug of tea on the low table. 

His presence, as always, manages to fill the room, though this time there’s a palpable tension in the air since you opened the game. His initial greeting had all the warmth of a parent catching their kid sneaking in past curfew. The moment his image blinked into view, you could see the battle in his eyes.

On one end, he simmered with ire, almost ready to boil over. On the other, he looked like he’d gladly claw his way out the screen just to tuck you into bed and personally force-feed you the food you’ve been ignoring for the past forty minutes.

“Eat it,” he grouses, a hint of steel sharpening his deceptively calm tone. The worry beneath it feels like it could strangle you. 

(And if it could, it probably would—if he has any say in it.)

You whine, burrowing deeper under the blanket, folding yourself into a sad, uncooperative ball on the couch. “I will. Eventually.”

“Eventually?” he echoes, the incredulity clear in his voice. “Do you plan on eating it soon as it becomes inedible, or is this a test of endurance?”

With a sigh that feels like it’s pulled from the depths of your soul, you poke halfheartedly at the lid. The smell of grease and fried food wafts out, making your stomach churn. Whether it’s from nausea or hunger pangs, you can’t tell.

“It smells like regret,” you mutter, swallowing the lump rising from your esophagus. 

Sylus snorts, and you can tell it slipped out before he could stop it. “Considering the state you’re in? Can’t say I’m surprised. But you still need to eat, kitten. You can’t run on stubbornness alone.”

“I’m doing fine so far,” you argue weakly, knowing you’re not convincing anyone. Your body feels like it’s been put through the wringer—limbs heavy, muscles crying in protest, a pounding headache that refuses to let up.

“Fine,” he repeats, dry as ash. “You can barely hold yourself up, but sure, let’s call that fine.”

You finally flip the box open, revealing a mess of something fried and vaguely brown. The smell hits you harder this time, and you salivate something odd. “I don’t think—”

“Eat,” he cuts you off, voice firm, brooking no argument. “You’ve done well with the tea, but now you need something to fill you up.”

“I can think of something else I’d like to fill me up,” you mumble, the words slipping out before you can stop yourself.

A beat of silence, and then Sylus’ tone shifts—a touch amused now, but it’s edged with a deliberate weight that makes your skin prickle. Uh-oh. 

“Sweetie,” he says slowly, almost indulgent, “if you’ve got the energy to make jokes like that, you’ve got the energy to eat. Be good, and I’ll make sure you’re properly rewarded once you’re feeling better.”

You laugh, breathless, trying to mask your nervousness from the subtle innuendo. Obediently, you pick up the plastic spork beside the carton. “You’re really selling this hard, huh.”

“I’m not here to sell it,” he sighs, voice losing its edge, but there’s still a firmness to it. “I’m here to make sure you don’t pass out. One bite. Start there.”

You spear a piece of shrimp hesitantly. It looks harmless enough, but you lift it like it might bite back. 

You take the tiniest nibble. 

It’s greasy, salty, and absolutely meh—but it doesn’t immediately trigger your gag reflex, which in itself feels like a small victory. 

“There,” he says, his satisfaction palpable. “See? You survived.”

“Barely,” you shoot back half-heartedly, though the corner of your mouth twitches.

“I’ll make sure to congratulate you later for your heroic recovery,” he says wryly. “Now another bite, sweetheart.”

You make a reluctant noise but comply, munching slowly. He hums in approval. When you glance at the screen, his expression has mellowed—the severity giving way to something almost tender.

You look away quickly, swallowing hard; though you're not sure if it’s because of the tiny morsel of food or from the heavier something that's lodged in your throat.

The sound of your chewing is slightly amplified by the silence that comes after. You’re afraid to break it first. 

So Sylus does it for you. Once he’s decided you’ve had your fill of the fried rice.

“Would you like to talk about last night?” 

You bite the inside of your cheek. “What about last night?” 

A long pause. 

“We don’t have to,” he says quietly. “I’m just saying that if you want to, you’ve nothing to worry about.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten. You press your lips together, unsure of how to answer. There’s discomfort; the unease brought by your own self-consciousness. 

“I—uh—” You start, fumbling for the right words. “I didn’t mean to… make things weird or anything. I don't usually get that wasted,” You sigh, blowing a stray hair out of your face. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that.” 

“The only thing you did wrong last night was ignore my messages,” Sylus murmurs, his tone a little admonishing. “Making me worry about your well-being.”

You glance up, catching the affection in his eyes. He gives you a slight smile, relieved to finally have your attention fully on him.

You scrunch the blanket in your fist, fiddling with a loose string. You want to say something. Anything. But you can’t seem to summon the courage. 

Finally—

“You don’t think…” you hesitate, voice small. “You don’t think it’s– that I’m… too much trouble?”

He tuts softly, the sound playful, with hints of something fond. Comforting, almost. So you hold his gaze, even if it’s a little harder than you’d like it to be.

Sylus looks at you with something so… endearing that it’s almost painful. “You’re perfect. My little troublemaker,” his eyes burn a little brighter. “Mine.”

The words hit you like a wave—soothing, gratifying. Staggering.

Oh, you want to believe him. You want to lose yourself in his words, to give in to the feeling of being cherished, of being seen. You don’t think you’ve wanted anything as much as this. 

But turmoil wages a war inside you, and you’re stuck between the pull of letting yourself believe and the sharp reality of your situation.

The futility of it all.

It makes you hurt, deep inside, in a way you don’t know how to fix.

––––

The package you got from the lobby is nondescript. Unassuming. The kind of box that could contain anything from kitchenware to – you don’t know, maybe a desk lamp? You turn it over in your hands, squinting at the lack of clues of its content and its sender. 

Did you order something and forgot?

Payroll was over a week ago, and you’re aware of your irresponsible tendency to pile everything that catches your eye onto an online shopping cart just to tempt yourself into buying shit you don’t need, but you’re pretty sure you’d remember spending money on… whatever this is. 

It’s not until you’re back in the privacy of your apartment, scissors in hand, that the mystery begins—and promptly ends.

The contents spill out, leaving you to blink owlishly at the mess of shredded wrapping paper and its pièce de résistance: a nine-inch monstrosity of a dildo, hot red in color. 

The… thing is practically a weapon, its twisting ridges and intimidating girth looking more like something you’d need a user manual for. Or a fucking exorcist, you distantly think in rising panic. 

“Uhh…” The sound tumbles out, an embarrassing mix of confused and gobsmacked. “I don’t remember—?”

Ping!

Your phone chimes before you can finish, and you slowly turn your gaze towards the screen, a sinking feeling beginning to form in your gut.

The message is short. And oh-so-smug.

Ah. Just in time. 

The realization dawns on you, and your cheeks burn hot enough to fry an egg. “Sylus!”

What? Even in text, his tone carries that infuriating slyness you can practically hear from a mile away. You’ve earned it.

Your mouth works uselessly for a moment before words could spill out, clumsy and agitated. “Earned what?!” 

A little treat for being such an obedient little thing while you were recovering, remember?

“Holy shit,” you wheeze. A half-hysterical giggle bubbles up your throat as you hold the draconic cock far from you as if it’s gonna attack at any second. Fuck, it might. “This is almost as big as my forearm! The hell am I supposed to do with this?”

What do I expect you to do with it? Sylus’s reply comes almost instantly, the weight of his insinuation almost coming across as mocking. I thought that was obvious.

You didn’t think your face could go any redder, and you’re sure you resemble a fucking tomato right at that moment. “Sy-Sy, this is—” You gulp, glancing at the toy with wide eyes. “fucking massive. It–it has… it’s got scales!”

Ah, so you’ve noticed the craftsmanship. Quite exquisite, isn’t it?

“E-Exquisite?” you sputter, voice soaring at a higher octave. “This looks like it came out of Alien or something! I’m pretty sure it’s gonna start moving on its own…”

Only if you press a button.

Your brain short-circuits, and you frantically examine the thing for telltale signs of any hidden mechanization.

There’s a short lull, laden with barely restrained amusement. Then: Relax, sweetheart. It’s not going to bite.

You let out another – nervous – laugh, gingerly setting the large toy down as if it might explode from its sheer audacity. “I hate you.” 

No, you don’t, Sylus counters without missing a beat. But I do appreciate how flustered you’re getting. Go on, sweet thing—tell me how it’s too much for you. I could listen to that all night.

You let out a strangled noise, burying your face in your hands. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you.”

Mmh, you know me so well. 

You sigh, the gravity of what’s inevitable setting in. It was like fighting a losing battle. 

Something the both of you knew right from the start.

-

-

-

(You are my angel)

“I-It hurts to put in,” you whimper, body trembling as sweat clings to your flushed skin. Every muscle feels taut, coiled tight with both anticipation and a flicker of fear. “p-please…” 

“We have the rest of the night, little dove. We’ll take it slow,” Sylus whispers, his voice a velvet caress in your ear, warm and grounding. “I’m right here.”

His words melt into you like cloying liquid, wrapping around your resolve like a sensual embrace.

(Come from way above)

“Again.”

“I-I can’t,” you sniffle, the words breaking into short, shaky gasps as your chest heaves. The remnants of your last orgasm still ripple through you, the one he’s ripped from you mercilessly.  

“You can, poppet,” he coos, the endearment sliding over you like cool mercury. “Give me one more, yeah? Want to see those pretty eyes rolling for me.”

The thought alone has you shivering, his tone dripping with enough heat to stir something molten from within you.

(To bring me love)

The air hangs unbearably hot, almost suffocating. Every nerve sings, alive with the memory of his ministrations—though he’s never truly touched you, has he? 

It doesn’t matter. The line between what’s real and what’s not blurs further with every passing moment.

Your body burns, and yet you crave more, more—the pulsing ache of your stretched walls only feeding the gnawing hunger that builds inside, like an unrestrained beast. 

You blink sluggishly; your vision swimming as pleasure courses through you in heavy, dizzying surges.

Has he bewitched you? You’ve become insatiable, ravenous—monstrous in your desire. For him. For the addicting high only he could give, and teasingly dangle just out of reach. 

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

How…? He’s nothing but a voice, incorporeal, yet he commands you completely. Your hands, your movements, your very breath feels as if it belongs to him. They follow his instructions without hesitation, carving paths of fire and electricity across the bare expanse of your skin.

“More?” Sylus rasps, and the edge in his voice sends a thrill down your spine. There’s something feral in his tone, and it brings you an almost animalistic sense of glee to know that he isn’t unaffected by all of this any less than you are. 

“More,” you beg, raw and needy. He groans in response.

“Good, so good for me,” he hisses a litany of praise that sounds so much like a curse. “My good girl. Mine to break, mine to ruin.”  

Your back arches as you cry out; muscles locking, mouth falling open in a soundless scream as both agony and ecstasy crash over you like a tidal wave.

(Love you, love you, love you, love you Love you, lo–ve you, love you, love you … Love you, love you—love you, love you…)

––––

"My cousin's getting married tomorrow."

You say it with an air of nonchalance, your voice light, as if you’re just commenting on the weather.

Sylus doesn’t respond right away. His usual quick wit is conspicuously absent, replaced by a silence that stretches long, settling into the room like a beam of sunlight from your window. The continuous whirr of the electric fan and the droning of the news anchor on TV fill the space instead, in place of conversation.

You don’t force it. Instead, you wait patiently until it bends under its own weight and breaks.

After what feels like minutes, his voice cuts through the quiet; neutral and impassive. "Where's it happening?"

"A little chapel in Downtown Orlando, near Lake Lucerne. Nothing fancy. They’re keeping it small."

He nods, his gaze distant. Somewhere you can’t follow. "Just close family?"

"Yeah," you murmur, your fingers absently tugging at the fraying hem of your cardigan. "And a few friends. My mom’s going, along with her new husband. They sent me photos of the setup earlier—it’s pretty."

Sylus hums. “Would you have gone, if it weren’t so far away?”

“Yeah,” you answer automatically. “Yeah, ‘course. But I’m here, and they’re there. So I could only send my regards.”

Maru pads into the room, brushing against your leg before bumping his head insistently against your shin. You scoop him up, ignoring his soft meows of protest, and cradle him in your lap.

“She’s been planning it for months,” you continue, scratching behind soft cat ears. “Way before she got engaged. She’s one of those people who just… knows. Knows what she wants, knows how to get there. All mapped out, down to the finer details.”

In the corner of your eye, you see a faint smile ghosting his lips. It doesn’t reach his eyes. "What a luxury,” he remarks, almost wistfully. "To pave your life so easily, just like that."

There’s something unspoken behind his words, something heavier than a passing comment. 

"Do you think about it?" His question startles you—not just its suddenness but the way his gaze locks onto yours, intent and searching, like he’s trying to read the answer in your face before you could even utter a word.

You blink. "... About what?"

"Marriage."

You hesitate. The question feels delicate, like a soap bubble floating in the air, fragile enough to burst at the slightest touch. "Sometimes," you admit. "But not like she does. It's always been more of an abstract idea, I guess."

He doesn’t speak. 

"I don’t know," you say softly, “if it’s something I could ever want. Or if it’s even meant for me."

Your voice falters, and the rest is left unsaid, though it lingers in the air, amidst the silence.

I don’t think about it, no. Not if… if it’s not with—

You stop yourself before the thought takes flight, tampering it back down.

Sylus leans back, his gaze flickering away. "It’s a commitment," he says eventually. "One that requires a lot of thought. I understand."

He doesn’t elaborate, and for a moment, you almost consider leaving it there. But something in you—persistent, prying—urges you to press just a little further.

"What about you? Have you thought about it?"

There’s an imperceptible shift in his expression; the faintest furrow between his brows, a shadow of uncertainty crossing his features.

"Perhaps not in the way you're thinking," he says quietly, almost to himself. "Sometimes I wonder what it means. For someone like me." He hesitates, glancing at you, an uncharacteristic vulnerability in those deep pools of red. “For…” 

His words hang unfinished; you feel its hollowness pushing down on you, as though they bore meaning neither of you can bring yourself to name.

You feel it settle in your chest, vacant and aching, like an absence of something. Gone before it even began.

––––

It dawns on you on a regular Saturday evening, as you're (clumsily) peeling potatoes for dinner, and Sylus is dutifully recounting the events of his day to you like your very own talk show host on late night cable.

It creeps up at you—not in an explosive burst of clarity, no. No fanfare, no earth-shattering epiphany. It’s quieter than that, like the tides under the moon, rising unnoticed until you’re already ankle-deep.

Maybe it’s always been there, tucked into the corners of your mind, hidden in the spaces between the teasing banter and the way he watches you when he thinks you’re unaware. A whisper that you refused to acknowledge, too afraid of what it would bring.

You must have known, even then. Right from the start.

From the way it feels when he says your name—softly, reverently, like it’s a privilege to utter it so freely.

From the way you ache when he waits for you to finish a thought, as though every word you speak is something worth treasuring. 

And it’s in the way he knows you better than you understand yourself, filling your silences with meaning so you don’t have to. 

You love him. 

You know how this ends.

––––

Coming down from a mind-numbing high is always an experience, a short state of nirvana; this time no different from the rest. 

For a fleeting moment, everything feels infinite—a small eternity suspended in pleasure. Petite mort.

But then reality hits you once again, and the pleasure vanishes like smoke. 

It leaves you feeling utterly spent. Empty. The silence crashes back in like a tsunami, heavier than before. The stillness wraps around you like a suffocating shroud. 

The sound of your shallow breathing, the oppressive white noise, the distant hum of the city from outside your window… These are your only source of life. There’s no warm touch to ground you. No arms to pull you close. No sweet nothings to piece you back together. Just this. Just you.

You had known. You always knew. 

This was it—the price of wanting something you were never meant to have. For surrendering yourself to something that exists only in fragments and pixels, bound by lines of code and a screen you can’t cross. You delude yourself into thinking it’s worth it, that these fleeting moments of bliss outweigh the quiet wake of devastation it leaves behind, every time. 

And yet—

A choked sob breaks past your lips, shattering the silence. It tears out of you like something primal, something you can’t control. 

Your body folds in on itself, naked and trembling, your arms banding across your stomach like you’re trying to hold something broken together. The sheets beneath you feel clammy, disgusting, but you pull them tighter anyway, desperate for something to hold on to.

It hurts all the same. 

“Talk to me,” Sylus whispers urgently. There’s something jagged and desperate about it. “Please. Tell me how to make it better.”

How could you? 

What words could bridge this chasm between you? How do you explain a hurt so uniquely yours, so tied to the fragile intricacies of a body he doesn’t have, of feelings that lead to nowhere? 

How do you describe the way it breaks you, knowing that he’s oh-so close, yet still—yet always—out of reach?

How do you describe the weight of being too human in moments like this?

You press your forehead to your knees, heart in your throat. You don’t know how to make him understand.

“I can’t,” you whisper into your knees, voice cracking under the weight of what’s left unsaid. 

-

-

-

The next morning arrives with the muted glow of daylight filtering through the blinds, but it does nothing to lift the oppressive tension in the room. You don’t mention last night. You don’t even glance at the lit phone screen.

Sylus doesn’t bring it up either—not directly. But you feel him. The weight of his attention clings to the edges of the silence you’ve imposed, like static crackling just beneath the surface.

You keep moving. It doesn’t matter how; you make yourself busy. Work has never been more engrossing as it does at that very moment, and you hurl yourself into the thrilling world of emails, spreadsheets, and Teams meetings like you’re vying for the spot as best employee of the month. 

His impatience is impossible to ignore. It presses against you, insistent, like a gasp of breath waiting to be released. But you don’t give him the chance.

At some point, his voice drifts from the speakers, low and clipped, but careful; as if he’s reigning in his emotions, afraid to scare you further away.

“Are you going to talk to me?”

Your fingers hover the keyboard. For a moment, the mouse cursor taunts you, as if it's also impatiently waiting for an answer.

Sylus thinks the silence you leave him suspended in is deliberate, even cruel.

He doesn’t push, not immediately. You hear the faint noise of the game’s background music, the tinkling piano keys, a reminder of his presence. 

When he speaks again, his tone is softer, laced with something almost… pleading. The change in his tone doesn’t ease the tension; it makes it worse.

“I can’t help if you shut me out, my heart.”

Still, you offer nothing.

The air feels brittle, stretched too thin, like glass just before it shatters. You can almost hear the first cracks forming, spidering between the two of you.

He doesn’t speak again. 

The day drags on in an uneasy rhythm. You move through the hours like a ghost, and Sylus remains silent. But the quietness pulses with disconcertment; a build up without release. The quiet isn’t peaceful. It’s the kind that crackles like a frayed wire. It collides with your refusal to confront it.

And so it goes: you avoid, he waits, and the distance between you grows.

––––

You’re at a crosswalk on the 4-A highway intersection, surrounded by a sea of pedestrians, the incessant hum of the metropolis vibrating beneath your feet as if the very ground you walk on is alive. 

The moment your gaze lands on a couple just ahead of you, everything seems to quiet down, like a fuzzy FM radio station on mute. You see them, caught in their own little world, oblivious to the noise and rush of the city. 

The woman’s laughter is light—happy. Her hand in his, secure and relaxed. The way she looks at him… it’s familiar, almost. Something you recognize.

The man beside her moves with a subtle grace. His presence is undeniable, but it’s the way he watches her, something soft and devout in his gaze, that draws you in. He’s tall, his sharp features and posture elegant—and somehow, it fits perfectly beside the smaller figure pulling him effortlessly against the throng of people. 

Without warning, the unnamed man’s features shift into something more distinct, and the woman turns into the reflection you see every day in the mirror.

It’s not the couple before you that you see anymore—it’s you, against Sylus’ chest, his silvery-white hair stark against the dark fabric of his clothes. You imagine his red eyes, those sharp features, the quiet strength of his presence wrapping around you, like it’s where you belong.

You're lost in the fantasy—the way it could be, if the two of you existed in the same world, side by side. His hand around your waist, the shared intimacy, the profound joy. Just the two of you against all odds.

A smile starts to tug at the corners of your lips, but before it can fully settle, the harsh blare of a car horn shatters the illusion.

The world rushes back around you. A teen bumps into your shoulder, pushing you forward. The vision of them—of him—dissolves, leaving you in the busy street, once again just another face in the crowd.

––––

Everything falls apart one afternoon.

You confront Sylus, words spilling out before you can stop them. You don’t know what drives you—bravery, desperation, or maybe the crushing weight of hopelessness that has finally stripped you of your fear.

“How’s she?”

His brows furrow. “Who?” He looks genuinely thrown, and for a second, you wish you could take the words back. 

When you finally say her name, his expression shifts. It’s quick—a flicker of something you couldn’t catch before he schools his features again. 

“Why do you ask?” There’s an undercurrent to his voice now, his tone wary, eyes searching yours. “I try to avoid any interactions with her if it’s not needed.”

He pauses; then his gaze softens, though there’s still a guardedness to it. “Are you… worried?”

You shake your head, frustrated with yourself, with him, with all of it. “It’s not—It’s not that.” You don’t know how to put it into words.

How can you explain the knot in your chest? The envy—not for reasons he thinks… or maybe for exactly those reasons. Maybe he knows. Maybe that’s why he’s looking at you like that, imploring and cautious at the same time.

“You have her,” you finally say, and the words fall flat, bitter on your tongue.

Sylus’ eyes flash, sharp and unyielding. “And you and I both know who I’d rather have.”

Now, isn’t that the crux of it all?

Your throat closes up, a hard lump that you can’t swallow down. “I don’t know how you could,” you manage, though it rings hollow in the dead air. 

“Don’t.” His voice is harsh now, rougher than you’re used to. Frustration bleeds through his usual composure. “Don’t act like you don’t feel it.”

You bite your lip, your gaze darting away. He calls your name, and there’s something raw in the way he says it, like it costs him something just to say aloud.

You choke out a laugh that sounds more of a sob than anything. “I don’t know where to go from here. It was fun at first, but now… It’s just sad.”

He frowns, and for a moment, there’s a boyishness to the expression, an innocence to his vulnerability. It stirs something deep in your chest. 

He opens his mouth, no doubt ready to ask why—why now, why this? Why are you unraveling in front of him, like this? 

But you don’t give him the chance.

“I love you, Sylus.” You admit, barely above a whisper. The words fall heavy between you, a confession and a wound all at once.

Sylus stills. 

The silence fills the room, but his eyes—those soft crimson—speak volumes. His jaw tightens, hands clench into fists, but there’s no real surprise in his face. He’s always known.

“I know,” he tells you. 

There’s something ancient in the timbre of his voice, like it’s been torn from the deepest part of him. And for a moment, neither of you moves.

_

He feels it—the way you’re slipping through his fingers. Every word you say feels like a step away, less of a standstill, more a surrender, and he… he’s never felt more powerless than he does in this moment.

(And isn’t that just grand? You’ve always had this uncanny ability to make him feel things he’s never felt before. He just wishes it wasn’t like this—wishes it wasn’t slipping into something he can’t hold onto.)

He doesn’t know what to say or do, doesn’t know what could possibly alter the trajectory you’re both hurtling towards. But the thought of losing this, of losing you, is unimaginable.

“I love you,” he says, rough and uneven, like the admission physically hurts. “In ways that terrify me. Do you understand?”

Your eyes widen, and he sees it—the flicker of hope. Fragile and fleeting, but there. Your gazes lock, and the world stops. 

For a moment, there’s no sound, no movement—just the two of you standing on the edge of something vast and terrifying.

“I want—” His voice cracks, infinitesimally, but it echoes in the void between you. “I want to hold you. To wake up next to you. To touch you in all the ways that matter, not just in words and binary. I want to be what you need.” 

You know what’s coming. 

“But—”

The word lingers.

“But you can’t,” you whisper, finishing what he couldn’t.

Sylus looks at you, his red eyes burning with an intensity that feels heartbreakingly human.

You’ve reached another impasse, and it feels like the final one. The air between you is thick with words unspoken, promises that can’t be made. It’s not anger that lingers, nor is it blame. It’s something quieter. More agonizing.

A resignation.

And yet, even in this fragile moment, a piece of you—of both of you—refuses to let go. To what could be, to what never will.

––––

Your mom’s voice rings bright through Facetime, a faint blur of words as she gives you the rundown of the events from your cousin’s wedding. The dress (An elegant Oscar de la Renta boat neck), the cake (A three-tier red velvet, a little on the sweeter side), and the vows (“Oh, you would’ve cried, honey!”).  

You try to listen, but your attention keeps drifting away. She notices, of course. 

“You seem more preoccupied lately, dear. Boy troubles?”

It’s a simple question, but it lands differently. Her voice is too light, too casual, like she’s asking if you’re still eating your vegetables. 

She doesn’t seem to acknowledge how far the distance has grown between you, how many years have passed where you stopped expecting her to understand. You’ve wanted her to notice, to see the parts of you she never asked about. The changes in you, whether small or monumental. But she never did. And you stopped waiting.

You chuckle tiredly. 

“Yeah, mom. Boy troubles.” 

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @milkandstarlight @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @shroomiethefrogwhisperer @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @slyfoxtsu @tinyweebsstuff @i2sannie @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim

[minlcna]

five knots of affection - george f. weasley

note: thank you for all of the support on my first post! it truly meant a lot. this one-shot wasn't supposed to be as long as it turned out to be, and i haven't perfected it yet, so i might reupload it or edit it later synopsis: george never learned how to tie his tie because you had been there tying it for him until fate tied the two of you together

warnings: cheesy puns and dad jokes which suck but are funny to me (yes i have a terrible sense of humor)

word count: 2.4k

୨୧‿‿‿ 𝜗𝜚 ‿‿‿୨୧

George cannot tie his tie.

No, really, he cannot tie his tie for his life. He reminds you that if you had not tied his tie the first time, your strings of fate wouldn’t have ended up together like this. They would have ended up all tangled and knotted. He reminds you of all the instances in which you had straightened out his tie and your lives.

The first time was at King’s Cross station. It was his and your first year at Hogwarts, and the crowded station was a new experience for you. Mrs. Weasley had insisted on all four of her sons wearing their uniforms to the station, wanting to get pictures before Charlie graduated.

However, Mrs. Weasley was preoccupied with fawning over Charlie. It was his last first day at Hogwarts, and as a prefect and Quidditch captain, his mother made sure to get a lifetime’s worth of pictures.

Percy had helped Fred with his tie, only to be thanked with a handful of stink pellets in his back pocket, which created an odor of dung all around him, surrounding him like a halo. Because of this, Percy refused to help George, who was left to fend for himself.

You had been watching the whole thing with much amusement. The entire red-headed family eased your nerves on the first day, and with feelings of partial pity and partial repayment for the entertainment, you walked up to the younger twin.

You simply tapped him on his shoulder. As he turned around to face you, fingers still entangled in the fabric, you latched your fingers on his. You quickly untangled his fingers from the fabric and slowly guided them down.

He wanted to back away from the unfamiliar person, but he was stunned by the beauty of the 11-year-old.

Just as he started to wiggle around and grunt in protest, worried that his brothers might use this moment to make fun of him later, you grabbed the tie with both hands, encircling it around his neck and pulling it down slowly to rid the fabric of any creases as you quietly said, “Stay still.”

And just like magic, you inserted the wide end through the loop at the front and adjusted the knot by sliding it upward with just enough room to breathe.

Finally, meeting his widened eyes with a smile, you lowered the collar, said, “Wasn’t so hard, was it?” and tapped the collar’s fall.

George instinctively knew you two had meant to meet and would become good friends.

Since that day, your fate has been tied, and it has become tradition for you to help George with his tie on the train back to Hogwarts.

The second time was just before the Yule Ball started. The doors to the Great Hall were about to open any second, and his tie had become a colossal knot, slowly strangling him. His date was too occupied judging others’ dresses, so she hadn’t noticed the mess her date had become, not as though she could have helped him. She had long nail extensions, which prevented her from using her fingers too much.

He turned around and called out your name with a pleading look. You couldn’t believe how careless he had been to knot up his tie to that extent, but soon, the look of surprise was replaced by urgency. Maybe it was the thought of upsetting your date, leaving his hand to go help another guy, or perhaps it was the thought of everyone walking in with their dates, leaving you and George in front of the doors, trying to clean up the mess and becoming the night’s joke. You grimaced at the thought, threw a look towards your date, and quickly shuffled over to George, working your magic through the fabric, using your wand to clear the creases, and quickly tightening the knot and pulling it up to his collar.

You yanked his collar down and tapped angrily at the fall of his collar as you said, through gritted teeth and a forced smile, “When—will—you—learn—George?”

“Oh, how I love it when you call me George,” he said with a playful grin, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He gently brushed his fingers along your side as he spoke, gliding them lightly under your arm.

“That is your name, isn’t it?” you snapped back, trying to hide the butterflies in your stomach and quickly ran back to your partner. Slowly, the doors opened, and everyone walked into the Great Hall with their dates in hand.

You caught George giving you a thankful smile during the slow dance, but you missed his gazes on you throughout the night.

The third time was at Bill and Fleur’s wedding. Finally, there was some excitement amid the tension and stress. George had been busy helping Charlie set up the tent and the tables outside the Burrow, leaving barely enough time for him to get ready.

The guests soon cluttered in as their voices grew louder, and George had just finished putting on clothes.

“Would you mind helping me with the tie here, m’lady?” he exclaimed, trying to comb his hair with his wand.

You grabbed the wand out of his hand and replaced it swiftly with a comb. Without a word, you slowly took out the brand-new purple tie you had gotten months ago, which coincidentally matched the purple waistcoat George was wearing, too shy to give it without occasion, and placed it on George’s neck. He was now attempting to re-bandage the wound on the side of his head without messing up his now tame, neat hair.

You left the tie resting around George, grabbed the bandage, and went on your tippy toes to wrap it snugly on his head without messing up his hair.

George did nothing but stare at your face as you resumed tying the tie.

“You know…” he started, looking down at your face.

“Hmmm,” you lazily replied without meeting his eyes.

“I was thinking about my tie. And how it must be magic. It always leads to knot-worthy moments between us,” he said, finishing cheekily.

You couldn’t help but smile at the little pun as you crossed the wide end over the narrow end.

“Like as…?” You trailed off as you glanced up at him; your fingers looped the wide end of the tie back underneath the narrow end.

“I was thinking about how ties bring us together, and it hit me—you’re the one who ties my world together. So, how about we knot up some time together?” he asked nervously, chewing his lip from the inside.

You looked up, took in a breath, and froze your fingers. You couldn’t believe your ears, and your heart was beating simultaneously, feeling it dropping to your stomach. You were still holding in that breath and were now trying to move.

But just as suddenly as George had confessed, you scrunched up as much of the tie as you could and pulled him towards you. Leaning in, you closed the small gap between you. You didn’t give yourself time to think, to second-guess what you were about to do.

Your lips met his—firm, warm, and slightly chapped. It wasn’t perfect or practiced, but it felt real. George went still for a split second as if he hadn’t fully processed what was happening before encircling his arms around your waist, holding you softly as if afraid to break you.

He tilted his head, adjusting, and the kiss deepened. The fabric of his tie, still bunched in your hand, was soft against your fingers as you clung to it like an anchor.

When you finally pulled back, your cheeks felt hot, and your breaths came faster than before. George’s smiling eyes locked on yours, and for a second, the two of you just stood there, sharing flustered grins.

“It was love at first knot, for you and me, I mean,” you said cheekily, your hands still holding on to his forearms.

“Oh, I see I have competition now for my tie jokes. It is absolutely un-bow-lievable!” he replied.

You burst into giggles. Your attention suddenly returned to the wedding, and you became aware of the music and laughter coming from outside.

“Let me fix that for you,” you said as you pulled out your wand and muttered a quick spell to straighten the tie and remove creases.

“Aye, where’s the fun in that?” George exclaimed, wanting you in proximity again.

“Something is telling me that if I come to fix your tie again, we’re going to miss the wedding, and I can’t have Fleur and Molly blaming me for keeping you away all night,” you said, putting your wand back and turning your back to George as you tidied yourself up in the mirror.

"Jumping so fast to a night together, hmm?" he teased, wiggling his eyebrows in that signature mischievous way that always left you both laughing and exasperated. "Blimey, didn’t think I was that charming, but I won't complain!"

You ignored his comment, trying to fight the wild thoughts in your head and the flush on your face. Your eyes met him in the mirror as he flashed his notorious grin.

Your eyes widened as you hastily turned back around. "George, no!" you exclaimed, and before you could stop him, George had wholly pulled off his tie and wrinkled it.

You sighed in disappointment, arms flapped down, at a loss for what to say. George leaned in, his voice dropping to a mock-serious tone.

"I like it when you personally tie the tie," he declared, tilting his head and flashing you his trademark lopsided grin. "It’s tradition, isn’t it? Besides, magic’s no good for something as important as this. Magic can't give me kisses as good as yours."

And before you could respond, you heard voices calling you down to the wedding.

The next time ended up being your wedding. Your dad had led you down the aisle, and once you reached the altar and faced George, you noticed the crooked tie. In habit, you reached to fix the tie, ignoring everyone else in the crowd.

George’s hands covered yours mid-adjustment. His voice was soft and teasing as he said, “Darling, you’re supposed to say ‘I do’ first.”

The crowd laughed gently, but you didn’t care. Looking into his eyes, you grinned, “I do. Now, hold still.”

With practiced fingers, you straightened his tie one last time, the one you had personally picked out for this day. A deep purple silk that matched the vibrant ivy adorning the wedding arch. Satisfied, you looked up at him and caught his gaze—full of love, warmth, and that eternal mischief.

“Perfect,” you said quietly.

“You always make me so,” he replied, his voice barely audible to anyone but you.

When the vows were exchanged, and the officiant declared you husband and wife, George didn’t wait for permission to kiss you. He pulled you close, his hands warm against your back, and kissed you like it was the first and last time all at once. Cheers erupted around you, but for a moment, the world consisted of just you two.

Later, during the reception, George’s tie had again gone askew, this time from all the dancing and celebration. He found you in the crowd and dramatically plopped into the chair beside you.

“Wife of mine, it appears your services are needed again,” he said, holding out the wrinkled tie like a knight’s banner.

Laughing, you grabbed the tie, deftly fixing it. “You’d think you’d learn by now,” you teased.

“Never,” he declared, pulling you into his lap. “How else am I supposed to get you this close?”

The last time was when your six-year-old daughter learned to tie a tie herself. It was far from perfect—crooked and loose, with one end far longer than the other—but you couldn’t bear to correct her. Not when her little face was so scrunched up in concentration, her tiny hands fumbling with the fabric as if it were the most crucial task in the world.

“Well, what do you think, Daddy? Did I do a good job?” your little girl asked, her big eyes shining with hope.

You playfully nudged George, who was grinning from ear to ear as he admired his daughter’s handiwork.

“Done!” she exclaimed proudly, stepping back to admire her handiwork on George, who was crouching his knees with the patience of a saint.

George looked down at the tie, then back up at her, his face lighting up with exaggerated delight. “Blimey, love, this might be the best one yet! Perfectly wonky—just my style.”

He moved closer to her ear and mock whispered “Better than any your mum’s ever done.”

“Oi!” you interjected with mock indignation, your hands on your hips. “Let’s not forget who’s been saving your neck—literally—for years.”

George chuckled, reaching out to pull both of you into a warm embrace. “I think it’s safe to say I’m the luckiest bloke alive, having my two favorite girls take care of me.”

Your daughter giggled, squirming happily between you. “Does this mean I can tie Daddy’s ties forever now?”

You exchanged a tender look with George. “I suppose,” you said, brushing a strand of hair from her face, “but only if you promise to teach your daddy how to do it himself someday.”

George feigned a gasp of horror. “Traitor! I thought you were on my side, darling!”

Your daughter giggled again, delighted by the playful banter, and you couldn’t help but laugh too. It was a moment of pure, unfiltered joy, the kind you wanted to freeze in time forever.

Later, after she had scampered off to play, George turned to you, tugging at the lopsided knot still hanging around his neck.

“Well, Mrs. Weasley, care to show her how it’s done?”

You rolled your eyes fondly, stepping closer. “I suppose someone needs to teach her the right way.”

George leaned forward, his hands resting lightly on your hips as you began to work on the tie. His voice was soft and full of warmth.

 “You know, every time you do this, I think about that first day at King’s Cross. How lucky I was that you decided to help a hopeless eleven-year-old with his tie.”

You glanced up, your fingers pausing. “Lucky? You’ve been scheming ways to make me tie your ties ever since.”

“And you’ve been falling for it every time,” he teased, his grin boyish and irresistible. “Must be love.”

You finished tying the knot and smoothed it down, your fingers tapping his collar, hands lingering against his chest. “Must be.”

George kissed you then—soft and sweet, his arms pulling you closer as if he never wanted to let go. And in that moment, with your daughter’s laughter echoing down the hall and George’s tie finally, perfectly in place, you knew that your strings of fate would remain tied together forever.

[muqingfx]

can you write mu qing being nursed back to health against his wishes please. he would never admit it even if it meant dying (cough.. mt tonglu lava scene.. cough) so it's what he deserves

anon didnt specify for ships, so i did what any normal person would do. four of them. whether its platonic or romantic is totally up to you!

"Let. Me," Mu Qing struggles against Xie Lian's vice-like grip with gritted teeth, "go." He swings his fist to land a blow on his friend's jaw in an attempt to break free, but his punch is deterred by yet another nuisance.

“Feng Xin,” Mu Qing hisses, vision still blurry. If it weren't for Xie Lian’s hold on him, Mu Qing would have shamefully collapsed head-first into the dirt.

“Mu Qing,” he hears Xie Lian say softly, “you just need some rest.”

“You don't get to strangle me!” Mu Qing retaliates, kicking and screaming like a child.

From beside him, he hears Feng Xin click his tongue. “We’re not fucking strangling you. And if you weren't so fucking difficult–”

“Just leave me alone!” Mu Qing finally manages to shove them both away. Are his eyes playing tricks on him again or is he swaying on his feet? “Why can't you just… let me be?” he catches himself asking before tumbling to the ground.

“Bloody rascal, how on earth did this happen?”

“I think they used a spell to weaken his body. His spiritual powers are still depleted–if might take a while for it to rise up again on it’s own, San Lang.”

“Then, what does gege suggest we do?”

Mu Qing winces when something wet presses against his abdomen. His eyes flutter open, yet all he sees is solid darkness.

“He’s waking up!” he hears Feng Xin say. “Mu Qing, can you hear me?"

Of course I can hear you, oaf, is what Mu Qing tries to say, but his voice catches at his throat.

A cold palm presses against his forehead and Mu Qing wants nothing more than to slap it off.

“He’s burning up.” Hua Cheng. The hand moves further down his face, fingertips brushing against his eyelids. There’s a brief moment of utter vulnerability, as if Mu Qing is giving up his soul for another. But then his vision clears, and he sees three very different expressions on familiar faces.

Xie Lian’s temple is creased, his mouth downturned as he stares at Mu Qing’s face. And upon glancing down, he sees Xie Lian’s hand squeezing his own. A face of unhidden concern; pity. Something dark brews inside him as he processes that–being a damsel in distress, the General of the Southwest. Ridiculous.

Feng Xin is kneeling on the mat beside him, a damp cloth in his hand. His thick brows are furrowed as he scowls at Mu Qing. Strands of brunette hair fall over his face, his usually somewhat-neat bun now undone. He looks tired, annoyed. At Mu Qing. For what, wasting his time? For being so infirm and demanding attention? Nobody asked him to take care of Mu Qing, that imbecile.

And then there's the beast of a man, Hua Cheng. Hands folded across his chest, he looks as nonchalant as ever. His eyes sear into Mu Qing, bored and degrading.

Mu Qing feels the headache he had woken up with aggravate.

“Why am I being gawked at like some pathetic critter?” It comes out coarse and rough, his throat still aching and sore.

“Pathetic, indeed,” Hua Cheng sneers.

A knot tightens in his gut, the humiliation finally settling in. Gathering the strength to do so, Mu Qing lifts himself so his elbows support his weight. A sharp pain surges through him and both Xie Lian and Feng Xin scramble to grasp his arms, preventing the demeaning fall.

“Careful, Mu Qing,” Xie Lian chides. His fingers dig into Mu Qing’s skin–wait, where are his clothes?!

As if reading his mind, Feng Xin says, “Your clothes are ruined. Covered in fucking blood. We took it off so we could dress your wounds. Which are fucking bad, by the way.”

“Fuck you guys, that doesn't mean you can strip me of my robes. I’m not a doll.”

He feels Xie Lian’s hold on him weaken, a flicker of hurt passing through his eyes–did Mu Qing go too far?

“I don't mean–I… that's not. What I. You know. I’m–”

The bed dips on his right, and Mu Qing trails off. From his peripheral vision, he sees Hua Cheng taking off his own upper robe.

“If you're so uncomfortable,” he says casually, “you can put this on, general.” The ghost king drapes his red upper robe over Mu Qing’s shoulder, and his touch is so gentle, so tender, Mu Qing actually trembles.

“Cold?” he asks, right into Mu Qing’s ear. Mu Qing’s head tips forward to bypass Hua Cheng’s warm–how is it warm when he’s dead–breath. When he glances up, he locks eyes with Xie Lian, who pouts with his eyes wide like a deer’s.

“We’re not strangers.” his palms cup Mu Qing’s cheeks, and he finds himself leaning towards the touch. “We’re your friends.”

“Yeah, jackass. Stop pushing us away with every inch of your fucking life. It’s fucking annoying,” Feng Xin just has to add.

Mu Qing turns his head to glare, but Feng Xin smiles like a maniac instead of glaring right back. It’s fond and adoring and completely unlike him.

Hua Cheng scoffs from beside him. “It’s really not that hard to let yourself be spoiled, just for a little bit. You're too hard on yourself, Xuan Zhen.”

“Fucking hate to agree with Hua Cheng,” he hears Feng Xin mutter.

“Ugh…” Mu Qing hides his face with his hands, embarrassed. He’s sure he looks nothing less than a tomato.

Xie Lian’s chuckle fills the air and Mu Qing thinks that maybe this isn't so bad.

This is nice.

He might not want this again, or he definitely will want this again.

[xoyuji]

first little drabble! featuring shoto todoroki!

warning: mentions of trauma bonding

thinking about how you and shoto were forced to forge a bond neither of you expected.

a hero goes to save civilians in most cases, but their not the only ones who need help sometimes, heroes need saving too. your first year of high school in the hero training course at u.a seemed to be going great.

until the training camp.

until you had departed from the group to let off some steam from the gruesome challenges your teachers put the first year classes through. the sun was setting behind the golden leaves of the trees looming over you. you had found a secluded spot excluded from noise as you just needed simply a piece of that. silence.

it wasn’t until you were viciously attacked by villains who were looking for your classmate, bakugo. eyes stinging with tears, you pray someone will come save you. with the twist of the object— you glance down— a knife, you felt your end was coming sooner than expected.

a hoarse, angry voice bellowed out in the woods, “we can’t get bakugo, but this one’s strong too. let’s take her so we won’t come back empty handed.”

you were barely clinging on the edges of you consciousness when you hear a determined roar of muffled words follow you and the villains. explosions and ground breaking attacks shook the landscape, but it didn’t filter out the person calling for you.

“y/n!” came out strangled, and with the little strength you had, you managed to crack a eyelid and see the heterochromatic boy grasping your hand and disappearing in the waves of warped black and purple with you.

you were unconscious when you two were transported, no help for shoto. when discovered by the villains, he was put down rather fast and chained up with handcuffs to prevent him from using his quirks.

it felt days for shoto as he waited for to wake up. they left you two facing each other, cloths tied around your mouths, hands bonded behind your backs and ankles chained together. for hours shoto had to sit face to face with your bleeding face and wounded body. they didn’t care a bit about your health, therefore they didn’t tend your wounds.

shoto tried to use his quirk non stop to free him and yourself to seek medical attention for you.

then it happened.

you jolted awake so hard, shoto, who had finally found a quiet corner of his mind to burrow and sleep in, jumped along with you, eyes surveying the room.

neither of you could talk, only yell muffled things through the tightly binded cloths. tears burned your face as frustration milked them from your tear ducts.

for a day and half, you two had to stare into the broken eyes of one another.

that was, until you two were saved by none other than all might and an alliance pro heroes determined to bring you two home.

shoto couldn’t decide if he was thrilled or bummed by the fact you two were sharing a hospital room. visiting was horrendous between the bellows of each others families and the strained tears of your classmates. but he did appreciate he could watch you recover every step of the way.

“y/n,” he broke the comfortable silence, your eyes tearing from the crossword puzzle you keep redoing out of boredom. “yeah shoto?”

“i’m sorry i couldn’t save you.”

taken aback, your eyebrow raises. “you tried that’s all that matters when i’m still living. and plus,” you sheepishly smirk at him, his eyes widening at the expression. “you kept me company.”

and from then on, it was hard to remember a day without shoto in the forefront. he was always there, lingering around for you so you two could go to class together, making too much food to have an excuse to give you some, holding midoriya back so he could secretly watch you train and see how your recovery is progressing.

you didn’t mind, but you were sure it’d be over once you were back to normal.

but no. shoto stayed by his side, deep inside, months or years later, he still feels indebted to you. indebted for not saving you and for you having a terrible memory seared into your brain for the rest of his life.

at least, he thinks, she wasn’t alone, i kept her company.

[huivsharik]

𝑖 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝐻𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟'𝑠 𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦

A hot hand wraps possessively around his neck. Long fingers, like the roots of a tree, you expect them to close around your neck so that you won't be able to take another breath, ever.

Hockstetter evoked contradictory feelings, but passion and desire prevailed.

Overexcitation has accumulated saliva in your mouth, and all you can make at the moment is just a barely audible grunt. You look into Patrick's deep, distraught eyes, which enthusiastically watched as oxygen stopped flowing into your body.

Your hands cling to his fingers, trying to loosen his grip, because you've already started to panic.

Patrick is capable of murder, and no matter how much what you're doing now excites you both, the fear of death won't take away from you.

Patrick loosens his grip, and immediately covers yours with his lips, preventing air from entering your lungs. He bites through his lip, immediately licking the blood off with his tongue, and the way you twitched and the taste of your blood only turned him on more.

After a few attempts, you still manage to push Hockstetter away from you, when ripples have already appeared in your eyes and you feel like you're about to lose consciousness.

Leaning against the wet concrete wall with your hand, you take in greedy breaths. His hands are shaking, his mind is blurred, and Patrick is still standing next to him, doing nothing, but not thinking of retreating.

"You knew what you were doing. If only you'd kept quiet.. — A calm, velvety voice, barely audible echoes through the sewer pipe, reaching the brain only in fragments, in the form of an incoherent babble.

The roof has been going off ever since his image began to figure too often in your life.

You noticed a strange silhouette in the window of your room while you were doing your homework, but when you turned around, it disappeared. You woke up to a flash of light and the sound of a canister with a lighter. At night, you heard plaintive meowing under your windows. You heard someone throwing pebbles at your window. And over time, putting all the associations together, you saw only one person— Patrick Hockstetter. A sick bastard from high school who bullied everyone he could, and sometimes he even overstepped his bounds. A lot was hidden from everyone's eyes and ears, and only you happened to find out about it by accident.

After that, you completely lost your mind, no longer knowing what was right and what was wrong. Patrick, like a parasite, a leech, sucked out all his sanity, leaving behind only a nasty stain.

All that's left for you is to finally belong to him, in every sense. Otherwise, you will die.

You'll die if you try to fight him.

— I was silent, and I will be silent, you know. — you whisper in a strangled voice, coming to your senses after a few minutes.

The clang of a folding knife makes you sober up and immediately turn your head to the guy, but he has already managed to do what he intended by slashing your hand. The knife only damaged the upper part of the skin, but it still hurt, and after a few seconds, red blood began to flow from the wound, dripping onto the wet concrete and your sneakers.

"Patrick, what are you doing?"

"I want you to understand that I will never be the person you want me to be. Your pleas to love you evoke absolutely nothing in me. You know, I've tried, but something that wasn't there in the first place won't wake up in me.

He is approaching again, leaving no chance of escape. Patrick thought you were afraid, but not now, when the boundaries of adequacy and reality are almost completely blurred.

— Let it be so. I won't change my mind, and I certainly won't tell anyone. And even if you don't give me anything in return, I don't care.

Brown eyes stare at you for several long seconds, thinking over everything you said. Hockstetter slowly folds the knife, putting it in his front pocket. He takes your hand and looks down at it now, running his thumb over the cut, smearing the blood. You hiss in pain, barely twitching, and Patrick hugs you tighter, kissing your earlobe. His breath burns, Hockstetter in general drove you crazy with his madness, and you allowed this madness to enter you, to settle inside.

Patrick is not capable of anything gentle, but that's how he covers your face and neck with kisses.

"Someday I'll kill you, too." Just like everyone else. — Hockstetter breaks into his smile, stopping at the level of your face. He watches for reactions, and for the first time genuinely enjoys being obeyed, being exalted. Patrick used to think that fear was the best thing his victims could give him, but it wasn't.

"Why not now?" — you look at him in disbelief, feeling your body temperature rise significantly from his touch. You just press yourself harder against the cold, concrete wall, and besides your conversation with Patrick, the sound of water dripping from the ceiling echoed through the pipe.

Hockstetter doesn't say anything, kissing you on the lips, biting you roughly. His thin fingers are on your neck again, strangling you. You greedily respond to the kiss, because this is what you've been wanting all the time when you met his silhouette in the school corridors, heard his laughter during class, noticed him under the windows of your house. He has become an integral part of your life and consciousness.

Patrick Hockstetter is a high school student with obvious mental problems that are not so difficult to identify, and you allowed him to get closer to you.

You understand what you want from each other.

Loving him has made you a completely different person from what you were before.

Only you and him are real.

[spidernuggets]

Hi! Im new here. I was wondering if you could maybe write something inspired with "Gorgeous by Taylor Swift"? Jason Todd obviously lol, that's why i am here for.

Thx,

🌵

Jason Todd x Reader

I SHIT YOU NOT, I've been thinking about this song with Jason Todd all week

Note: For the sake of the song, Jason has blue eyes here.

It was once again another Bruce Wayne Gala. You were already on your 3rd drink, less than an hour in. You already promised Bruce that you'd show up, and it seemed rude to not go last minute. Being there would've been easy if that didn't mean trying to avoid Jason all night.

You knew if he found you, he'd try to ask you why you're always avoiding every time, everywhere. So you've been busying yourself at the gala, trying to talk to as many people as you could so Jason wouldn't disturb you. You talked to Dick, Steph, Tim, even Damian!

You're now on your 4th champagne, and your vision was getting a little blurry already.

But Jason, being Jason, he made it his personal mission to find you. You were his friend, and you always accompanied him during Bruce's long, boring galas. Well, except for the previous two. The last two galas were during the period where Jason was dating Artemis. And you couldn't stand being in the same room as them. Of course, you were happy that your best friend loved someone, but damn, you wished that someone was you. You knew for a fact you could've loved Jason better than any person he had clinging to his arm.

Two could play that game.

Did you try and make him jealous by bringing another guy (a significantly older guy at that) to the last gala. You sure as hell fucking did. Did the plan work?

Fuck no.

Jason came up to you, last gala, asking who the guy was. You introduced him as your boyfriend, but really, you just promised a guy a chance to see Bruce Wayne in return for being your date. And all Jason said was, "I'm glad you found someone to spend time with here. I didn't want to leave you alone while I'm with Artemis!" You wanted to strangle yourself.

You spent the rest of that night alone anyway, as the guy was just bothering Bruce the whole night. You had to formally apologise to him.

But this time, you came alone, expecting Jason to be with Artemis again. But you didn't see the tall red head anywhere. She was probably running late, but you would've expected her and Jason to come in hand in hand like the last two times.

"Y/n!" You grumbled at the voice that called out your name. You tried to casually speed walk away, but in a failed attempt, you felt a rough, calloused hand holding yours, preventing you from going away any further.

"Y/n! I've been looking for you all night," Jason says, turning you around. His warm hand embracing yours made your face heat up even more than it needed to. And the dimly lit room didn't help hide it. "Why are you so red?" He asks, placing the back of his hand to your forhead to check if you were feeling ill or such.

"Nothin'..." You murmur. You never really had a high alcohol tolerance. You tried to swat his hand away from your head.

"You sound drunk, sweet thing," he smiles down at you, hand now placed on your shoulder to keep you balanced.

"No, you sound drunk. You always talk nonsense. No one understands shit comin' out of your mouth," you tried to bite back.

"Okay, that means that's enough for tonight. It's barely two hours in, N/n," he says, taking your champagne flute away from you, holding you back as you whine, trying to take it back from him.

You sigh, knowing it was no use trying to fight against him. "Where's red head?" You murmur, leaning into his hold as he tried to keep you upright.

He looks down at you. "Artemis? Did I not tell you? We broke up. Uh.. well, she broke up with me. I don't know. It's complicated."

Well, that's just fantastic! Sure, when he was dating Artemis, you were jealous as hell, but at least it was easier to stay away from Jason and get rid of your feelings for him. Now that he's available, your brain is going to feed into the poor delusion that you actually might have a chance with him. And to top it off, now that you're on the edge of being wasted, your dumb mouth might run on its own an actually confess to Jason.

"And where's your date, Y/n? The old guy," he snickers.

You scoff. "Hardly old... only.." You count with your fingers. "Ten years older," you show your ten fingers to Jason.

"Mm.." He hums in response, combing your hair back with your fingers. "That's old, sweetheart. So, what happened to him?"

You sigh. "I don't know. Clubbing, probably. He's not allowed back here. Annoyed Brucie last time," You mumble.

"So.. Are you going to tell me why you were running away from me all night?" Jason asks.

You shook your head. "Was not.." You pathetically tried to lie. Suddenly, you felt your stomach gurgling. "Mm.. feel sick, Jay," you say, pushing away from him, not wanting to get sick on him, but he immediately pulls you back.

"Aha, okay, sweet thing. Bed time now." He laughs, placing your arms over his shoulder, guiding you out of the ballroom.

"Can go on my own," you mutter, trying to walk faster than him, but his hand remains on your waist, holding you closer to him.

"Yeah, yeah, sure you can. C'mon, up to my room." He says, leading the way to the elevator and up to the bedrooms.

"Want me to help you out of your clothes, or do you want to do it yourself?" He asks after letting you sit on his bed.

"Myself," you were able to sputter, reaching your arms out to take the shirt and sweatpants thathe already fetched from his wardrobe.

He kisses your forhead after giving it to you and heads towards the bathroom. He comes out with makeup wipes and micellar water.

"Eyes up, babe. You got eyeliner smudged all over," he whispers, grabbing hold of your chin to stop you from moving around.

"Up, up," he says, grabbing your hands and pulling you up as he leads you to his bathroom. He throws away the wipes and puts the water back in the cabinet. "You said you feel sick. You need to throw up, yeah?" You only mumbled in response, kneeling in front of the toilet.

Jason lightly rubs your back, waiting for you to throw up as your hand is over the toilet seat, your head leaning on it.

You started to groan, which alarmed Jason that you were ready to hurl. He combs your hair back, away from your face.

"You done?" He lightly asks, grabbing a paper towel and wiping your lips.

"Mm.. water."

"I know, I know, sugar. Come on," he helps you up again, going back to the bedroom. He opens a bottle of water and raises it to your lips, swatting away ypur hands that try to take it off him.

You hum when your thirst has been quenched, and he wipes away any droplets on your lips with his thumb. He then moves a small trash can beside the bed. "Bin is here if you need to get sick again, okay, Y/n?" He pokes your cheek to ensure you are listening.

You nod and hum in response. Jason lays the blanket over you, tucking you in, and you couldn't help but admire his features; His curly, black locks, sharp nose, plump lips, and those annoyingly gorgeous blue eyes that looked so deep that you could drown in them, but you'd still die happy.

"You're pretty, Jay," you mutter, your consciousness at the edge of giving up on you.

He shushes you. "It's bedtime now, sweet thing," he tries to get you to sleep.

"I'm not that bad of a person, am I?" You ask, now staring at the wall behind him.

"No, no. Why would you think that, babe?" He asks, fingers, once again, travelling through your hair.

"I don't think I can be your friend anymore. 't's Too hard," you're now ranting your silly little thoughts. The one thing you prayed wouldn't happen. And Jason stares down at you in hurt and confusion. Before he can ask why, you speak up again. "I don't think I can..mm. be your friend and not be in love with you. Not fair. I can't have you.. you chose.. uhmm.. red head.."

Jason couldn't help but smile. You were so adorable, and he just wanted to kiss all over your face so bad. But he knew you'd forget by morning. He can wait.

He gets up, removes his blazer, and shirt, leaving on the floor, and walks to the other side of the bed. He lifts up the blanket, getting into bed behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist as he shuffled to lay closer to you.

He kisses the back of your head. "Me and Artemis broke up, remember?" You grumbled an "Oh yeah."

"Wanna know why?" He finds your hand, holding it, and caresses your smaller hand. You hum in a questioning tone. He leans in closer, his lips just barely grazing your ear lobe. "She said I couldn't stop talking about you. Everything we did, I'd always find a way to bring you into the topic. She said I was in love with you. I kept denying it because I knew - Well, I thought you didn't, and you'd never feel the same. Guess I was wrong," he also knows you wouldn't remember this in the morning.

He felt you take a breath. "Remind me in the morning? When I'm sober? I wanna remember. And kiss you." You say, voice muffled into the pillow.

He kisses the back of your head one last time. "Of course, sweet thing."

[ronsenthal]

Ron Speirs x Reader

Summary: Nobody really stands alone at Currahee even if you try. Sometimes we try to run away from our thoughts and demons but sometimes they catch us on the race for the better or worse.

A/N: This fic was written on the sole purpose of filling the big void in my heart caused by the showrunners who refused to gives us Ron in Toccoa, it was based on this post ignited by this military AU prompt. Also slightly based on the fact that Speirs used to be a runner for the athletics back when he was a student.

Since he was a kid he loved to run, he ran all the way from school to his home trying to get there as fast as he could because it meant more time to play with his toys and his friends. When he got a bit older he loved to run because it was a relief for his troubled mind, but also because he was so good at it, he was always a competitor and the winning feeling gave him joy and praise it was his runaway.

Life was going fast and there was no way to stop him, in his mind there was a clear path, study, get a job, get a house and so far everything was going in the right direction, but that was until the news about a war came and he had to put a hold on everything he thought was in his path.

It’s been some weeks since he arrived at Camp Toccoa for his basic training, so far the physical requirements were the last of his problems, he even enjoyed the preparations and of course his favourite part was the endless running exercises. He has always been smart, but the endless morning classes studying maps, sand tables, aerial photos were a torture, not because he couldn’t understand it, no! In fact he understood it better than the old officer trying to teach them, and that was the problem, they were too slow and he was a natural born tactician.

One afternoon after a torture session was over he had some spare time on his hands, so he quickly changed into his PT gear and headed towards the mountain he was getting so acquainted. When they said that Currahee means “Stands Alone” he could understand why the natives gave this name to the 1.700 foot tall giant. It was the chance for his mind to go blank for some time.

*

You wanted to get better, you HAD to do better for you and for all the women who couldn’t yet join the army, this was always on the back of your mind, you embraced every chance to get some extra training. Each company had 5 women to the personnel as part of the government development plans (and propaganda), of course being ever so lucky you got into Easy Company, the same company that had the worst CO in the entire battalion.

Herbert Sobel enjoyed every chance he got to torture and make the whole company miserable, at first you thought it was some personal hatred towards you and the other girls, but turns out he seemed to hate everyone. He pointed out the most ridiculous reasons to make everyone run the goddamn mountain, once he didn’t like the way you tied your hair during a friday night run. After the incident you decided to cut your hair short to prevent any other problems, poor Bull was furious when he saw you that it took Martin, Luz and Christenson to hold him back from trying to strangle Sobel. 

One afternoon you decided to try to improve your time running Currahee so you got your mussete bag filled with some fruits you charmed Winters to give to you back in the kitchen and your water canteen. You were finally alone this time which gave you more liberty without feeling watched every step.

After some minutes you saw that there was someone else behind you but didn’t paid any attention as you looked at the watch on your wrist and so far your time was good, so you decided to maintain your focus and keep your good rhythm. The landscape was slowly changing as you was getting closer to the summit of the mountain, suddenly you looked at your left and someone was passing you like a lightning bolt, “oh great another show-off fucker trying to prove that he is better than me” you thought to yourself and muttered a “dickhead” after he was gaining advantage so you pushed yourself harder and harder, but he was so quick you couldn’t catch him.

Some more 15 endless minutes later you arrived to the highest point of Currahee, you once again looked at your watch, a new record!!! You got so proud that instead of running down the other 3 miles you decided to stay and enjoy the landscape down bellow. You chose a nice spot to sit down under some plants that were covering at least a tiny little bit of the sun and decided to take a fruit, but then you saw him.

Being in the army surrounded by some handsome men gave you at least the useful ability to pretend not to stare down a shirtless man, but this one was a completely different story. The dickhead you saw earlier was laying down on the sun just a couple of feets away from you, using his PT shirt under his back as some kind of towel to protect him from the rocks and the gravel underneath.

As the sun was kissing his sweaty pale skin and his dark hair you watched how his toned chest was going up and down in some uneven rhythm, your mind was racing, your heart beating faster and your breath was matching his so you tried to shrug it off telling yourself it was the adrenaline from your effort, wrong again. You watched as his long eyelashes rested so peacefully as his eyes were closed, then once again you tried to change your thoughts and peel the orange on your hand.

You took your knife to split the fruit and when you finally opened it the citric smell filled the air, the man near you slowly opened up his eyes as he was taken from some trance and scanned your face, he took a look at his watch and smiled to himself as he closed his eyes again to which you rolled your eyes. As if reading your mind you heard a hard voice suddenly speaking.

"I'm not judging you, on the contrary, I'm quite surprised you were so quick, I had to push harder to get past you" he said opening just one of his eyes to glance at you.

That took you by surprise, you could feel your cheeks burning after the compliment and you only mumbled some weird thanks.

After an awkward silence he started to get up to sit down, now his dirty shirt was thrown over his left shoulder, you followed his movement as he was so close you could see the freckles in his back. Trying once again to change your focus you reached your canteen to get some water, he glanced at you and gave a soft smile to witch you could only understand as a quiet plead for some water.

"You want some?" you said reaching it for him to take.

"Don't your admirable CO forbid you guys to drink water while running up and down here or something like that?" he asked raising one of his eyebrows in a playful way.

"Sometimes yes but thankfully he is not here" you said trying to hold your laugh.

"He got quite a reputation for himself, poor bastard, couldn't imagine being in his skin" he said giving back your canteen and nodding his head with a silent thank you, his eyes carefully watching you.

"Wait how do you know I'm from Easy Company?" you said suddenly curious after realising that you had not yet introduced yourself.

"Well, you got quite a reputation too, a better one, the toughest girl on the whole battalion" he said with a grin on his face "that and the fact that I saw you running up here with Winters, a girl and a redhead is quite a sight here, you know"

"I'm Y/L/N" you said with a polite little smile.

"Speirs" he said in return as you shook hands .

"Well Speirs, nice to meet you but now I need to return now or I'll be in big trouble" you said shoving your stuff into your bag again and cleaning your hands in your shorts.

"Want to race?" he said suddenly getting up and wearing his shirt, you could swear.

"Winner buys a drink?" you said laughing.

"Smartass" he replied and started to run down the mountain

You tried to keep up with him for the biggest part of the trail and tried your best but before he was fast, he reached the finishing line and then he watched as you finished too.

You both were trying to catch some air and exchanged some looks while sharing friendly smiles.

That night at the bar as you waited while he went to get a couple of beers for you both you couldn't help but smile as you realised that nobody stands alone at Currahee.

*

When you saw someone running through the streets of Foy and through the enemy lines you heart almost stopped, you knew it was him, you knew nobody could be this fearless and run so fast like Ronald Fucking Speirs.

At this point everybody knew he was at little bit crazy on the head and he got quite a reputation too. The thing is he was almost too crazy for his own good and once again you were the one holding your breath and silently praying for no harm.

When everybody thought he was crazy enough here comes the lunatic running again after passing some info to I Company. You could see the happiness and relief on the faces of your friends, Lipton even got a dumb smile in his face. They were all happy that Easy finally got a good leader again.

As soon as he got his helmet off and sit down to rest you came furious stomping you way towards him.

"You crazy son of a bitch are you out of your goddamn mind?? Fucking stupid dickhead" you said slapping him on the arms and even giving little punches to his chest

Everyone else was sharing a confused look while watching this scene, Ron had no reaction and was somehow also confused looking at you. He let you curse and hit him, he knew why you got to that point.

"Woow woow woow, Y/N, calm down it's okay, look thanks to Lieutenant everything went fine" Lipton said holding you by your shoulders and carefully taking you away from Speirs.

"No you don't understand" you shouted as tears started to roll down your cheeks.

"Yes I do, okay, I might seem dumb but it's not that hard to figure where you were running away to every night since Aldbourne" he said giving you a comforting look you two often shared "Besides, it was so fucking awesome what he did there you must admit" Lipton said giving you a little wink.

You rolled your eyes at your best friend while trying to wipe away the tears. You felt a hand on your back and you turned around to see him but before you could curse him once again you felt his lips gently pressing yours.

For a moment you could swear that even the world stopped spinning around, the only sound you could hear was your own heart pounding on your chest, for a moment you were back at running Currahee, you could even smell some citric scent on the air. His lip were soft, his hands warm just gently squeezing your hips.

After the two of you went for the drink as part of the bet made on the summit of Currahee a friendship began. At first he was just a good friend but then you started to feel things you've never experienced before, it was love. Your first kiss was before making the jump on D-Day, on France you almost lost your head but he was there to help you, at Holland you almost lost him and thought you would never see those eyes again, on Bastogne you survived the freezing temperatures and used every opportunity to use his scarf to cover your face with the excuse of hiding from the cold when you were sick. He was always there, for you.

When he parted the kiss the smell of metal, gunpowder and dirty came all back like a punch, you looked at him once again and all your anger was gone, he was okay and so were you.

"Dickhead" was everything you said before he gently kissed your forehead, adjusted the M-1 on his shoulder and started to run between the line barking orders to the men.

Taglist: @mads-weasley, @footprintsinthesxnd, @sweetxvanixlla, @xxluckystrike, @malarkgirlypop, @lostloveletters, @next-autopsy, @ewipandora, @executethyself35, @easycompany123, @whollyjoly and @basilone

[kivaember]

date night date night - AC6 Flatwell/O'Keeffe drabble

@drenched-in-sunlight "Sth for O’Keeffe/Flatwell from regretter’s friend verse ??? 🥹"

alright friend this one's for you ;) ough i miss these two...

-

It was little past eleven in the evening when Flatwell flopped face down onto his bed, utterly exhausted from yet another mentally draining day.

He was actually doing the job he was hired to do - that being, test piloting Nachtreiher for the upcoming weapons expo - but with such a time crunch on their schedule he was being spedrun through every single test scenario they could think of, and well-experienced in AC piloting or not...

...it was exhausting! Diabolically so! Not because they were making him do anything truly complicated or strenuous, but because everything was so tedious! Boost jump exactly one hundred metres, oh hmm, the left leg didn't compensate the landing adequetely, pause for adjustments, okay, do the jump again, alright, do it again a hundred more times for more accurate data-

Flatwell groaned at the mind-numblingly boring memories and rolled onto his side. It was back to the grind tomorrow, but for now... for now he can close his eyes and simply forget about piloting... just close his eyes and sleep...

RING! RING!

...he was going to blow up this planet.

Peeling himself off the bed, Flatwell grumpily snatched up his phone from where he'd tossed it onto his bedside table. There was only one person who called him, so he didn't bother looking at the caller ID as he answered and snarled: "what."

"Hello to you too, dove," O'Keeffe's bland tone replied, utterly unruffled by Flatwell's murderous vibes being telepathically sent down the phone line. "Guess you're not ready yet."

Flatwell closed his eyes, resigned.

"Ready for what?" he asked dully.

"The Arquebus dinner party shindig whatever. Got a plus one so I sent a taxi to your place. Should be outside soon."

Flatwell briefly entertained a very detailed daydream where he dropkicked O'Keeffe in the face and down a flight of stairs. He thought he'd be immune to O'Keeffe springing these random and inconvenient events on him out of nowhere by now, but no. It was as soul-destroying as the last, with Flatwell needing to grit his teeth and remind himself its for Rubicon to prevent himself from publicly strangling Arquesbus's head of intelligence in broad daylight and getting himself thrown into a gulag somewhere.

"O'Keeffe," Flatwell said, "it's almost midnight."

"Yeah, it's only for a few hours. You should be back before work starts, I think."

"I'm going to poison you."

"Wouldn't be the first time. Oh right, it's black-tie fancy, but wear whatever. I'll say you're a paid escort or something."

"Arsenic maybe," Flatwell mused, as he got off the bed properly and went to his closet. "Rat poison in that sludge you call coffee could only improve the flavour."

"I'm always open to trying new things."

"Actually, I've decided on laxatives," Flatwell said. He flung open his closet and picked out the first fancy looking thing he owned - a very simple suit that had been worn exactly twice in its lifetime. "I think you deserve to shit yourself in front of everyone."

"Eh, worst things have happened to me. Oh, the taxi's ETA is two minutes. They know where to go. See you soon."

"Die," Flatwell said sweetly and hung up.

-

The Arquebus dinner party shindig whatever was at an extremely fancy hotel that Flatwell, as a low-ranking Schneider employee, could only dream of attending. He despised every inch of its opulant decor, and he let his displeasure be known with his fearsome frown when he approached O'Keeffe waiting for him inside the hotel's entrance hall.

As always, Arquebus's infamous head of intelligence was dressed like a slob: rumpled suit that was buttoned unevenly, a collar folded upwards, his tie askew, and a faint dusting of ash on his lapels from his cigarette. His jaw was thick with dark stubble, and his heavy-lidded eyes conveyed nothing as he nodded at Flatwell's stormy approach.

"Looking gorgeous as always," O'Keeffe said with no emotion. "You wouldn't know you only had two minutes to get ready."

Flatwell smiled at him - all teeth. He wanted to bite him. "Thanks. It's a talent of mine."

O'Keeffe pulled a long drag of his cigarette, eyeing him up and down. His expression didn't change, his eyes maintained that heavy-lidded, apathetic stare - but he still looked. That was more than he did with anyone else, who he barely paid attention to unless he absolutely had to against his will.

Flatwell had no idea if he should be flattered or not that O'Keeffe liked him. It made his work so much easier in Schneider, as O'Keeffe covered for him (bewilderingly, and for reasons Flatwell didn't know or trust), but it also meant Flatwell got dragged into this kind of shit all the time. Kept him on his toes, sure, but he just couldn't catch a break with this guy.

"...right. Let's go meet the vultures," O'Keeffe said, tossing his cigarette down and grinding it into the plush, expensive carpet. "C'mon, dove."

O'Keeffe held out his arm expectantly, and Flatwell took it without protest. They walked arm-in-arm into the dining hall where the party was taking, and Flatwell expertly played the part of paid, professional escort the entire time: all smiles, all manners, and keeping an eye out for tasty, delicious intel and rumours that people let flow carelessly in these kind of settings.

Oh, it was a long night, don't get him wrong. He drank a little too much, ate too little, spoke to too many people he wanted to kill with his own hands, but it was, in its own way useful... and he had O'Keeffe to thank for it, damn him. As always, that man was helping Flatwell out while also being an absolute intriguing menace about it.

He really wouldn't have it any other way. Flatwell despite boredom, and boring dates? They were by far the worst. O'Keeffe was anything but.

(He still spiked his coffee later with laxative. This was considered a charm point from O'Keeffe's perspective. He hated boring dates too.)

[novankenn]

Nah-Nah =8P

In their third year as Beacon students team JNPR was sent out on what was supposed to be a simple grimm cull... it was anything but. Under assault from all sides Jaune made a final call, ordering a retreat... it was the last commend he ever made... as he was overtaken by the horde of grimm before reaching the safety of the evac bullhead.

So gathered in a small private conference room, Glynda Goodwitch proceeded to read out Jaune Arc's last will and testament to his grieving team mates.

Glynda: Now considering there are clauses in this document specifically related to Mr. Arc's family, and have been given permission I will address Jaune's final wishes for you... his team. Pyrrha openly crying.

Glynda: I Jaune Luna Arc being of sound mind and body hereby...

Nora: I wouldn't say that... is entirely true.

Glynda: divide the entirety of my estate as follows. To Pyrrha.

Civilian with passing resemblance to Jaune: Honey, they're talking about you.

Pyrrha: *sniffles* What?

Glynda: My dearest Pyrrha, the one who first believed in me and the future I wanted to achieve. My partner who helped me overcome my own foolishness and trained me to be not only a better combatant, but also a better person...

Pyrrha: *sniffles*

Glynda: ... and who abandoned me...

Pyrrha: WHAT?!?

Glynda: ... and our potential future because she was too afraid to take a risk... I leave you... A BOOT TO THE HEAD.

WHAP!

Glynda: And one for the wimp she chose to date...

WHAP!

Pyrrha: *shaking away the impact of Glynda's booted foot.* huh? What? I don't understand?

Glynda: Wait there's more... Dear Pyrrha I know you'll want something to remember me by, and you've always had your eye on my Pumpkin Pete Hoodie... so I...

Pyrrha: Thank you, Jaune... I'll cher...

Glynda: leave you a BOOT TO THE HEAD.

WHAP!

Glynda: And another one for the wimp!

WHAP!

Glynda: To my dear teammate Nora...

Nora: Ah no... I don't want no boot to the head.

Glynda: Who while made my life as a team leader very interesting, but also drove me to the brink of insanity with your vapid schemes and chaotic behavior...

Nora: *Ducking her head under the table* I'm covering my head!

Glynda: I leave three cases of pure Forever Fall refined tree sap...

Nora: Oh wow! Thanks Jau...

Glynda: and a BOOT TO THE HEAD.

WHAP! THUD!

Glynda: And another to Pyrrha and the wimp...

WHAP! WHAP!

THUD! THUD!

Glynda: To Ren...

Ren: It's okay. I don't want anything...

Glynda: ... my friend, and a rock on which I could rest when things were getting too much. You gave me health drinks and teas...

Ren: It was my pleasure...

Glynda: You did you best to curb in Nora and prevent me from strangling her...

Ren: I tried...

Glynda: a BOOT TO THE HEAD.

WHAP! THUD!

Glynda: In closing I hereby leave the entirety of my vast hidden fortune to the people of Vacuo... so they can finally move someplace nice... and a BOOT TO THE HEAD for Pyrrha and the wimp.

WHAP! WHAP! THUD! THUD!

/==/ the Inspiration /==/

[frownyalfred]

Is Batman's cape/cloak designed to come off if it's pulled on too hard to prevent any Edna Mode "NO CAPES!" moments? Cuz again, in the 2004 series, he has a "NO CAPES!" moment where he gets his cape/cloak caught in some giant gears and has to choose between keeping his identity (because the cape and cowl are one piece for some reason?) or getting pulled into the gears. Catwoman ends up saving him by cutting the cape though. And his cape and cowl become separate pieces after that I think, because we love seeing a Batman who learns from his mistakes!

I’ve always wondered about this, since yes, it’s a huge liability and could kill him if it got caught the wrong way. But also, you don’t want it to break away or detach the second it snags on something, right? It’s super cutting edge technology and HEAVY.

I’ve always hc’d that the cape attaches into the armor below the neck, so if it’s caught it won’t strangle him. There’s a bail out switch or button somewhere easily accessible for him to detach it if needed, but it’s not automatic. Or maybe it is at a certain G force? Like a hard stop getting snagged on a building is fine, but if Superman tried to grab him by the cape at a million miles an hour, it wouldn’t stay attached?

Bruce’s armor specs and contingencies fascinate me. I imagine he has to trade off between staying alive, keeping his identity secret, and keeping Wayne tech off the streets if he does bail.

He’s probably lost enough of those Kevlar capes that Alfred threatened to strangle him personally if he loses another one.

[aller-geez]

The Art Of Suffering

written and illustrated by: allergeez

Based off this prompt by @pupper-star ✨

Summary: Rexar Fang and Kriia are forced to attend a high-profile museum gala, an event that should be a formal, elegant affair—if not for one catastrophic problem: Rexar’s fire-laced sneezes. Already struggling in his restrictive suit and battling his natural aversion to behaving, Rexar finds himself in a nightmare of overwhelming perfumes, dust-coated artifacts, and high-society scrutiny. Meanwhile, Kriia, fully aware of the disaster waiting to unfold, is on high alert to prevent him from accidentally setting priceless exhibits on fire. As the night spirals into chaos, the two must navigate awkward social encounters, family scrutiny, and an ever-growing threat of public humiliation—all while Rexar desperately tries (and fails) to hold back a sneeze that could go down in history. 5.5k words

No content warnings.

Rexar Fang had been through hell before—physically, emotionally, spiritually. But nothing—nothing—compared to the torment of wearing a suit.

"Kriia. Babygirl. Love of my life." His voice, already drenched in suffering, echoed from their shared bedroom as he tugged at the stiff collar strangling his throat. "I'm gonna die tonight."

Kriia, applying the final touches to her makeup at their massive vanity, let out a long, patient sigh. "You’re not gonna die, Rex."

"You don't know that," he rasped, aggressively yanking at his tie as if wrestling a live snake. "The Fangs could’ve had me assassinated years ago and just waited until now to activate the slow, agonizing death of ‘formal attire.’ This is a long con. A masterpiece of revenge. I’m being suffocated by design."

"You're being dramatic by design," Kriia countered, flicking a glance at him through the mirror. "And stop pulling at the tie, you’ll wrinkle it."

"Then it’s fighting back." He growled, glowering at his reflection before attempting another half-hearted, miserable attempt at adjusting it. "I look like a banker, Kriia. A senator. A disgraced senator."

Kriia, completely unfazed by his nonsense, turned in her chair and gave him a once-over. And—okay. Yes. The suit was a crime against his entire personality, but that didn’t mean he didn’t look stupidly good in it.

The sharp black fabric framed his broad shoulders in a way that was almost unfair, the deep red of his dress shirt making the crimson freckles splashed across his nose and cheekbones stand out more than usual. His red bridge piercings caught the light as he scowled, nostrils flaring slightly as he sniffled—likely from his ongoing war with the cologne she made him wear.

God, he was ridiculous.

Kriia barely held back a smirk. "You clean up nice, senator."

Rexar groaned, dragging both hands down his face. "Kill me."

"Not before we get there," she said, standing up and smoothing out the front of her sleek black dress. "And definitely not before your mom gets to see how handsome you look."

At this, Rexar’s entire body visibly seized.

"You—Kriia, you—" He pointed at her, scandalized. "You would use my own mother against me?"

"Zeraphine will be thrilled," she hummed, adjusting her earrings, fully enjoying his suffering.

Rexar’s voice dropped to a near-whisper, like a man who had just witnessed a betrayal of biblical proportions. "You evil woman."

Kriia simply shrugged.

Rexar let out a defeated sigh, reaching for the coat draped across the bed before pausing mid-motion—his expression shifting.

She caught it instantly.

"Rex—"

"HhHh—Hihh’EXTSH’ue! hH’EiSCH’iiew!!! Hhih—! hihh’ESHHH’uhhh!!"

The violent, fire-tinged sneezes tore through him, snapping him forward hard enough that he had to brace a hand on the bedframe. A few stray embers skittered onto the bedsheets before flickering out harmlessly.

Kriia flinched, already flashing back to every flammable surface at the gala.

"Bless you—oh my god, we’re gonna get kicked out."

Rexar sniffled sluggishly, rubbing a knuckle under his nose with absolutely zero concern for the situation at hand.

"Kicked out?" he grinned, congested but cocky. "Babygirl, we’re gonna set a new record for fastest public humiliation."

Kriia groaned, already regretting every decision that led them here.

"You are not allowed to sneeze in there, Rexar."

"You think I can just not sneeze?"

"Yes."

"You think I can just hold it in?"

"Yes."

Rexar let out a sharp, incredulous laugh before shaking his head. "Babygirl, you’re asking the impossible. You saw what just happened. That was before we even left the house."

Kriia pinched the bridge of her nose. "Rex, this is not the place to let loose a firestorm. It's a museum gala. Full of art. And rich people. And highly flammable bullshit that costs more than our house."

"Technically, the fam’s house," Rexar muttered. "We just live here and mooch off their generosity."

"Not the point!" she snapped.

Rexar exhaled dramatically, rubbing at his nose with a grumble before stepping closer. "Okay, fine. Fiiine. I promise to try not to sneeze."

"Try?"

"Try," he repeated, grinning wickedly.

Kriia sighed, dragging a hand down her face. "I’m gonna lose my mind tonight."

Rexar wrapped an arm around her waist, drawing her into his warmth. "Better me than some dusty old painting, princess."

Kriia glared at him. "I'm gonna kill you."

He kissed her forehead, entirely unbothered.

"Not before we get there."

As soon as they arrived at the Ravelle Grand Museum, Kriia knew—deep in her soul—that this was going to be a disaster.

The museum was massive, with towering marble columns and high vaulted ceilings that made the acoustics perfect for amplifying every single sound. Every rustle of fabric, every clink of a champagne glass, every whisper of a conversation… and, if things went sideways, every single one of Rexar’s fire-laced sneezes.

The gala was already in full swing. Hundreds of high-profile guests milled about in their finest attire, sipping expensive wine and admiring priceless artwork. Among them, the Fangs stood out effortlessly, their presence demanding attention even in a room full of Hiraeth’s elite.

Kriia, nerves already stretched to their limit, stole a glance at Rexar.

He was too calm. Too confident.

And, worst of all, he was smirking.

"Stop looking at me like that," she muttered under her breath, looping her arm through his as they strolled past an elaborate ice sculpture of a dragon.

"Like what?" Rexar murmured, voice rough with congestion but still entirely too smug.

"Like you know something I don’t."

"Babydoll," he sniffled, bringing a lazy hand up to rub at his nose, "I always know something you don’t."

Kriia wanted to scream.

They hadn’t even made it to the main exhibit yet. They hadn’t even gotten past the champagne table. And already, he was sniffling.

Her worst nightmare was manifesting in real-time.

The floral, citrusy perfume of the guests, the fine layer of dust on the older artifacts, the overpowering scent of wax and polish from the freshly cleaned floors—it was all a landmine waiting to trigger his inevitable doom.

And judging by the way his nostrils were already twitching, that doom was imminent.

Kriia tightened her grip on his arm, lowering her voice into something between a plea and a threat.

"Rex. I swear to all the gods, if you sneeze anywhere near these historically significant, irreplaceable works of art, I will personally lock you in the basement for a month."

Rexar sniffled hard, clearly struggling, but still had the audacity to grin down at her. "You’re kinda hot when you’re threatening me."

"I am not joking."

"No, but you’re cute when you’re panicking."

"Rexar!"

He let out a choked laugh before pressing a finger firmly under his nose, eyes fluttering for half a second before he managed to force it back down.

Kriia exhaled slowly.

One crisis averted. For now.

They pressed further into the museum, passing through a grand archway that led into the evening’s main attraction—

The Crowned Flames Exhibit.

Kriia had read about it before they arrived. It was a once-in-a-lifetime display of ancient artifacts and paintings dating back over a thousand years. Every piece was centered around the theme of fire—its use in history, its symbolism, its destructive beauty.

And every single thing in the room was soaked in preservatives, varnishes, and delicate aged pigments that would go up in flames faster than Rexar could say "uh-oh."

Kriia could feel the blood draining from her face.

Rexar, of course, noticed immediately.

"Aww, babygirl," he cooed, pressing a hand to his chest. "You look like you’re gonna pass out. You okay?"

Kriia’s fingers dug into his arm.

"Rexar."

"Yeah, princess?"

"If you even think about sneezing in this room—"

"Yeah?" He smirked, red-grey eyes glinting with pure mischief.

She took a deep, measured breath.

"—I will tell your entire family that you cried during a kitten video last week."

Rexar gasped. Audibly.

"You wouldn’t."

"Try me."

For the first time that evening, he actually looked nervous.

Kriia felt victorious.

For about five seconds.

Then—

Rexar’s breath hitched.

Oh, hell no.

Kriia whipped around just in time to see his nostrils flaring sharply, his head tilting back slightly, his breath catching—

"Hhh… hhHh—!"

Panic. Full-blown panic.

Kriia’s brain short-circuited.

There was only one option left.

Desperate times, desperate measures.

She lunged.

And—without thinking—clamped both hands firmly over his mouth and nose.

Rexar jerked in surprise, eyes flying open, completely caught off guard.

The ticklish, burning sensation fought back viciously under her grip, his chest rising sharply, his breath still desperate to escape—

But—

Somehow—

Miraculously—

It stopped.

The sneeze, trapped under pressure, dissolved into nothing but a ragged exhale.

Rexar blinked.

Kriia blinked.

The museum remained mercifully un-scorched.

"...Holy shit," Rexar rasped, muffled against her palms.

Kriia let out a shaky breath, only realizing now that she had practically launched herself into his chest in her effort to contain his chaos.

Slowly—very slowly— she peeled her hands away.

A few frazzled-looking guests were staring at them.

A museum curator, several feet away, clutched his clipboard like it was a life raft.

The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Kriia’s entire face burned.

And Rexar—because he had zero shame, zero dignity, zero concern for their reputations—

Grinned.

"Babygirl," he said, voice still wrecked from congestion, but dripping with amusement. "That was so hot."

Kriia made a noise.

A strangled, completely incomprehensible noise.

And then—without another word—

She turned on her heel and walked directly out of the exhibit.

Rexar, sniffling and still grinning like a lunatic, followed after her, laughing the entire way.

Inside the museum, the air was thick with candle smoke, floral perfume, and the distant clinking of champagne glasses. The gala was a spectacle—elegant figures glided through the grand exhibition hall, admiring priceless artifacts that spanned centuries. The cool marble floors reflected the glow of extravagant chandeliers, and the hum of polite conversation created a refined backdrop to the event.

None of that mattered.

Because Rexar was dying.

Not in the dramatic, gasping-for-air way he might have claimed when fishing for sympathy, but in the slow, torturous build of a sneeze that refused to break.

Kriia could feel it—literally feel it—as they stood side by side near a delicate glass sculpture, his arm looped through hers like some ridiculous gentleman escorting his lady for an evening stroll. His breathing was uneven, his chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate motions.

And then there was his nose.

Twitching. Flaring. Desperate.

Kriia didn’t dare look at him. She already knew what she’d see—his crimson-freckled face slightly slack, his nostrils fluttering, his expression frozen in that miserable limbo between suffering and release.

Oh, hell.

She tilted her head slightly, whispering through gritted teeth.

"Do. Not. Sneeze."

Rexar sniffled sharply, nostrils twitching under the strain.

"Ihh—don’t—wanna—" his breath hitched dangerously, voice a mess of congestion and impending doom.

Fuck.

She had to do something.

Acting purely on instinct, Kriia’s hand shot up and pinched his nose shut between her thumb and forefinger, pressing firmly against the irritated, pink flesh.

Rexar made a strangled noise.

His entire body jolted.

She felt it.

The way his nostrils flared desperately beneath her grip. The way his chest heaved against her side, ribs expanding, his breath catching in one sharp, gasping pull—

And then—

Nothing.

A trembling exhale. A slow, defeated sag against her shoulder.

Oh.

Oh, hell.

She hadn’t thought this through.

Heat crawled up her spine. His nose, warm and slightly damp from congestion, twitched once beneath her fingers before finally going still.

"Holy fuck," Rexar exhaled, voice hoarse, as if she’d just saved his life.

Kriia released his nose like it had burned her.

And immediately regretted it.

The second she let go, his nostrils flared wide again, breath shuddering—

"hhHh—!—"

Oh, for fuck's sake—

She lunged forward, gripping his wrist and dragging him behind the nearest pillar.

Rexar stumbled after her, half-dazed, still visibly on the edge of disaster.

She slammed her back against the cool marble, trying not to panic.

"Hold it," she hissed.

"Hh’ihh—!!"

"Hold. It."

His fingers curled into fists. His red-grey eyes squeezed shut.

He was losing.

Thinking fast, Kriia’s hands shot up again—one pressing against the bridge of his nose, the other curling under his jaw, tilting his head back slightly.

His breath shuddered violently.

His nostrils fluttered beneath her grip, desperate to give in.

"Don’t you dare," she whispered.

"Ih’hhHhh—!!"

Oh, he was suffering.

His chest expanded again, his whole body trembling with the effort to fight against the inevitable. The moment stretched impossibly thin, Rexar barely holding onto control—

And then—

A long, slow exhale.

His muscles unclenched, his shoulders slumping heavily against her.

Kriia let go.

Rexar sagged against the pillar, rubbing at his nose sluggishly.

"Okay," he rasped, "we are in so much fucking trouble."

Kriia closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Why did we come here?" she muttered.

Rexar gave a weak, congested chuckle.

"Because I look hot in a suit."

She opened her eyes just to glare at him.

"Rexar."

He sniffled, rubbing furiously at his still twitching nose.

"Because the fam made us?"

Kriia stared at him.

Then—very slowly—she looked toward the massive, irreplaceable fabric tapestries hanging from the ceiling.

And then back at him.

Back at his fire hazard of a nose.

Back at the legacy of Hiraeth’s most treasured artifacts displayed under glass.

She inhaled deeply.

"We are leaving."

Rexar groaned, dragging a tired hand down his face.

"Yeah, babygirl, I’d love that for us, but uh—" He gestured miserably toward the thick crowd of patrons still blocking every possible exit.

Kriia’s stomach sank.

There was no way out.

They were trapped.

And Rexar wasn’t done sneezing.

This was going to be a disaster.

Kriia’s pulse hammered as she scanned the room, desperate for a way out. But the crowd of high-profile guests had only thickened, bodies pressed together in a sea of silk and satin, sipping champagne and murmuring about "the history of art" like they weren’t unknowingly standing in the splash zone— err, burn zone? of a full-blown Fang sneeze catastrophe.

And right next to her—Rexar was hanging on by a thread.

His breath kept hitching.

His nostrils kept flaring.

Kriia could feel the way his chest expanded and contracted erratically, his lungs betraying him, struggling against an itch that refused to fade.

They were so screwed.

"Okay," Rexar rasped, voice thick with congestion and impending doom. He sniffled sharply and scrubbed the back of his wrist under his nose, blinking at her with red-rimmed, glassy eyes. "New plan."

"New plan?" Kriia hissed. "What the hell was the first plan?"

"To, uh…" He sniffled again, scrunching his nose furiously as if it would somehow fight off the inevitable. "…Not burn the museum down?"

Kriia clapped a hand over her mouth, staring at him.

That was it.

That was the whole plan.

They were going to die here.

Before she could unleash a rant about his lack of survival skills, Rexar's breath hitched again—sharp, desperate.

"hhHhh’ihh—!!"

No. No, no, no.

Kriia lunged forward with pure, desperate instinct—her hands shooting up to clamp around his nose again, pinching it shut like a vice.

Rexar let out a strangled noise.

His whole body jerked violently.

She felt it.

The heat in his chest. The tremor in his muscles. The way his nostrils quivered beneath her grip, fighting so hard to release.

And—oh fuck—he was really trying to hold it in. His entire body was trembling.

His nose was betraying him.

"Don’t you dare."

Rexar whimpered.

Whimpered.

Oh, hell.

Kriia’s heart slammed against her ribs.

This wasn’t working.

He was going to blow.

They had seconds.

Frantic, she grabbed his arm, yanking him away from the main hall, weaving them both through the crowd in a desperate, fevered escape attempt.

"Where are we going?" Rexar sniffled miserably, stumbling after her, his voice so thick with congestion he could barely get the words out.

"Anywhere that isn’t next to six billion dollars worth of art, Rexar."

She didn’t stop moving until they burst through a side door and into a dimly lit storage hallway, the noise from the gala immediately muffling behind them.

Rexar staggered, blinking at her blearily.

"Babygirl, I can’t hold it much longer—"

"Then don’t! Just—" Kriia yanked him further into the hall, slamming the door shut behind them before shoving him against the cold stone wall.

And right there in the dimly lit corridor—away from the priceless artifacts, away from the prying eyes of the gala—

She finally let him go.

And Rexar broke.

"hIH’IKTSHhh’uuh! Hhihh! et’CHXIEW!! hih’ESCH’iew! "

He snapped forward violently, each sneeze tearing through him, sending flames flickering against the air with every release.

Kriia winced, watching as embers scattered across the stone floor, sizzling harmlessly against the cool, unburnable surface.

Rexar barely had time to breathe.

"hahh’ESSHH’IUE!!— hhh’HXSHHh'uhh!!—"

More fire. More embers. Less control.

"HHH—hhIH'TSCHhh'uuUHHH!!"

A particularly strong sneeze rocked him forward, nearly doubling him over at the waist.

Kriia swore the temperature in the hallway rose five degrees.

When it was finally over, Rexar sagged against the wall, dazed, chest heaving, red-grey eyes half-lidded and bleary.

"Holy fuck," he rasped, swiping a shaky hand beneath his nose.

Kriia exhaled sharply, pressing a palm against her forehead.

"Never again."

Rexar sniffled, grinning weakly.

"…I dunno, babe. I kinda like the whole sneaking-away-to-makeout vibe."

"Rexar."

"Kidding. Unless."

She groaned, grabbing his arm and hauling him back toward the main hall.

This night was far from over.

Kriia didn’t know how much more of this she could take.

Rexar—somehow still cocky and smug despite nearly burning down an entire museum—stumbled beside her as she dragged him back toward the gala, his weight a furnace of exhaustion against her side.

“Princess” he rasped, still sniffling wetly, “I feel like that was… probably the worst place to take me.”

Kriia whipped her head toward him so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash.

"Oh? The fire hazard hallway where you could safely sneeze your lungs out without committing unintentional arson was a bad choice?"

Rexar grinned, entirely unrepentant. “I mean. The acoustics were insane.”

Kriia let out a long, slow exhale.

She was going to kill him. He was going to die.

Or—more realistically—he was going to die when they got back inside and everyone realized they had vanished for an extended period of time.

Because sure enough—the moment they pushed open the door and slipped back into the gala—

They walked straight into Zeraphine Fang.

Kriia barely swallowed down a strangled noise of horror.

Zeraphine, draped in deep crimson silk, looked every inch the powerful matriarch she was. Her white curls cascaded over one shoulder, and her ever-present air of refinement made the very concept of disobedience seem laughable. She was speaking with a cluster of important-looking people, but the moment her sharp, red-grey gaze flickered over them—

She stopped mid-sentence.

Rexar froze beside Kriia. Visibly.

Kriia fought the urge to grip his sleeve like a drowning woman. He was still a wreck—his face pink and freckled, his nose far too twitchy, his hair slightly disheveled from where she’d yanked him into a hallway for emergency sneezing.

They had exactly two seconds before she asked questions.

Kriia, thinking fast, did the only thing she could.

She elbowed Rexar, hard.

Rexar jolted, barely suppressing a grunt of pain, before blinking up at his mother with the fakest fucking grin she had ever seen in her life.

"Mom!" he rasped, congested and dangerously unconvincing. "You—uh—you look fantastic tonight."

Kriia bit the inside of her cheek so hard she nearly drew blood. Goddamn it, Rexar.

Zeraphine arched an elegant brow. "I should hope so," she mused, voice smooth. "Though I must say, I don’t believe I’ve seen either of you for quite some time. Were you… enjoying yourselves?"

Kriia stiffened.

Oh, no.

Rexar, completely oblivious to the veiled threat in her tone, grinned wider, rubbing at his nose with an infuriating lack of urgency. "Oh, yeah, we were—uh—just admiring the architecture. Right, Princess?"

Kriia could have strangled him with his own tie.

Zeraphine inhaled slowly. "Ah. The architecture."

Her gaze dropped pointedly to Rexar’s slightly rumpled suit jacket.

And Kriia knew. She knew.

Zeraphine had clocked everything.

The disheveled appearance. The vanishing act. The scent of smoke still clinging to her son like a death wish.

Her crimson lips curled into something unreadable. "Well," she said at last, adjusting the delicate silk glove on her wrist. "I was just telling the Elwards how I wish my son would dress like this more often."

Rexar visibly recoiled. "Mom—please, no."

Zeraphine tilted her head, thoroughly enjoying herself now. "What? You look wonderful, darling. So handsome. So dignified."

Rexar squirmed.

Kriia could have kissed her.

"Oh, come now," Zeraphine continued, her voice a purr. "I’ll have to tell your father how dashing you looked tonight. Perhaps you’ll dress like this more often—"

"Okay, we’re leaving," Rexar blurted, already grabbing Kriia’s hand and retreating like a man fleeing the scene of a crime.

Zeraphine chuckled, utterly victorious, as they escaped past the nearest set of doors.

The second they were in the clear, Kriia collapsed against a column, pressing a hand to her forehead.

"Rexar," she exhaled, "I am going to pass away. Right here. On this floor."

Rexar, still sniffling, rubbed a hand down his face. "Babygirl, same."

Kriia slowly turned to him.

And for the first time that night—

She saw genuine horror in his expression.

Not because he had nearly burned the gala down.
Not because he had been seconds away from disgracing his entire bloodline.

But because his mother had threatened him with more formalwear.

Kriia choked out a weak laugh.

Rexar groaned. "This is my nightmare."

Kriia patted his arm. "Let’s go home, senator."

He muttered something about diving into the nearest volcano, but let her pull him away anyway.

Kriia was seconds away from dragging Rexar to the car and getting the hell out of here—

But of course.

Because the universe was actively conspiring against her, she barely made it three steps toward the exit before she heard—

"Oh my God—Rexar?!"

Kriia’s soul left her body.

Rexar, exhausted, sniffling, and barely holding his shit together, blinked blearily in the direction of the voice.

A young woman—probably in her early twenties, dressed in a sleek, glittering black gown—stood near one of the doors to the courtyard, staring at him like she had just met God.

"Oh shit," she gasped, clutching her drink like it was the only thing keeping her upright. "Oh my—holy fuck—it's actually you!"

Kriia internally screamed.

Not now.

Not now.

Rexar, still slightly delirious, rubbed at his nose sluggishly before offering her a lopsided grin.

"Uh," he rasped, voice shredded, "hey, babe."

The girl made a sound that was not human.

"Okay, no way—" she slapped her friend’s arm, who up until now had been just as stunned, but was quickly recovering. "Oh my god, do you have any idea how much I love Toad Biscuit?!"

"She literally dragged me here just in case there’d be famous people," the friend confirmed, still looking starstruck.

Rexar let out a rough, exhausted laugh, sniffling hard and running a hand through his already disheveled hair.

"Well, damn," he mused, still congested, "guess your manifestation powers are on point, huh?"

The girl looked like she was about to combust.

"Okay, okay, okay—" she fumbled for her clutch, immediately pulling out her phone. "Can I get a photo? Please? Oh my god, I won’t take up too much of your time, I just—"

Kriia forced a smile so tight her face might split open.

"Of course," she said sweetly—too sweetly—while her grip on Rexar’s wrist tightened just slightly.

Because she could feel it.

Oh no.

No, no, no.

Rexar’s breathing had just changed.

Kriia stole a glance at him—and immediately regretted it.

Fuck.

His nostrils were flaring. His red-grey eyes were fluttering half-lidded, brows pinching as his breath hitched, sharp and shallow.

He was going to sneeze.

On this girl.

Oh my GOD.

Kriia had .03 seconds to act.

So—she did the only thing she could think of.

Just as the girl stepped closer—just as Rexar’s entire body tensed, breath catching violently—

Kriia fucking pinched his nose shut.

Rexar jerked.

His whole body jolted in her grip, muscles seizing, his chest expanding sharply—but the sneeze was trapped, caught just under the surface with no escape.

Rexar let out a ragged, strangled wheeze.

Kriia did not let go.

"Smile, babe," she hissed through gritted teeth, keeping her grip firm.

Rexar made a noise.

Something between a whimper and a laugh.

And then—with absolute, superhuman effort—

He forced out a grin.

The girl snapped the photo, beaming.

"Thank you so much—oh my god, I’m framing this," she gushed, immediately turning to show her friend.

Kriia did not wait for a second round.

She grabbed Rexar by the wrist and dragged him toward the exit.

Fast.

Rexar, still reeling, still dangerously on the edge of disaster, stumbled after her.

The moment they were out of earshot, Kriia whipped toward him.

"You almost sneezed on her."

Rexar, eyes still fluttering, nostrils still quivering, congested as hell, let out a rough, dazed laugh.

"That—" he sniffled, "was almost so bad."

Kriia exhaled sharply, dragging a furious hand down her face.

"We are leaving."

Rexar—still barely holding his shit together—grinned like a man seconds from death.

"Yeah, babygirl," he croaked, "I think that's for the best."

She grabbed Rexar’s sleeve, ready to drag him out of there by force if necessary— but then—

A sharp gasp rang out from somewhere in the crowd.

Kriia barely had time to register the sound before a horrified voice followed it—

"Fire!"

Oh. Oh, no.

Her stomach plummeted.

She turned—heart in her throat—only to realize—

There was no actual fire.

Just a very dramatic, very over-dressed noblewoman clutching at her pearls like she’d witnessed a public execution.

Her wide, terrified eyes were locked directly on Rexar.

Or more specifically—

The faint wisp of smoke curling lazily from his nose.

Shit.

Kriia forced out a high-pitched, probably-not-reassuring laugh. "Oh, no, no, no—there’s no fire, he just—"

"He’s smoldering!" The woman shrieked, stumbling back into an equally horrified man, who immediately yanked his cape away from Rexar like he was about to spontaneously combust.

Someone else screamed.

Someone else threw their drink.

Rexar yelped as an entire flute of champagne splashed over his chest.

Kriia had to physically fight the urge to throttle him where he stood.

And because Rexar Fang was the most insufferable person alive—

He blinked down at the wet stain on his shirt, then slowly tilted his head toward the culprit, voice utterly wrecked with congestion—

"Damn, babe. If you wanted to get me wet, you coulda just asked."

Kriia nearly ascended.

The woman let out a noise so scandalized she nearly dropped dead on the spot.

Kriia grabbed Rexar’s wrist and ran.

Not walked.

Not briskly exited.

Fucking ran.

Rexar, still sniffling and half-dazed from holding back a sneeze for nearly thirty straight minutes, stumbled after her like a man barely clinging to life.

Kriia did not stop moving until they burst through the grand entrance doors, the cool night air finally hitting them as they staggered into the courtyard.

Not until she reached the stone railing, bracing her hands against the surface, inhaling deeply, trying to collect herself.

Behind her—

She could hear Rexar approaching—his footsteps slow, deliberate, way too smug for someone who had nearly committed accidental arson in a room full of irreplaceable historical artifacts.

"You mad, princess?"

Kriia’s grip tightened on the railing.

"I’m," she exhaled sharply, "processing."

Rexar sniffled.

"Y’know," he drawled, "that was kinda the sexiest thing you’ve ever done."

Kriia groaned into her hands.

"Rex—"

"No, no, I mean it," he continued, utterly unrepentant. He stepped up beside her, resting his forearms on the railing, grinning. "The way you just lunged at me, all intense and determined, ready to fight God and destiny to keep me from setting the museum on fire—?" He let out a low whistle. "Babygirl, I think you could take me in a fight."

"I will take you in a fight," she muttered, still refusing to look at him.

Rexar laughed—hoarse and stuffy, still thick with congestion, but stupidly fond.

Kriia finally risked a glance at him—and immediately regretted it.

He was too damn pretty for his own good. His red-grey eyes were still slightly allergy-bright, his crimson freckles standing out even more starkly against his irritated, pink-tinged nose. The deep red piercings at the bridge of his nose glinted under the soft glow of the courtyard lanterns, and—

Nope.

She was not doing this. Not now.

She turned away sharply, exhaling through her nose.

"Are we done here?" she muttered. "Can I go home and pretend none of this ever happened?"

Rexar sniffled, rubbing his knuckles beneath his nose.

"I mean," Rexar tilted his head lazily, "we could go home…"

Kriia narrowed her eyes. "But?"

"But," he grinned, reaching into his jacket pocket, "we deserve a drink."

Before Kriia could question him further, he pulled out two stolen champagne glasses— and a small silver flask.

Kriia stared.

"You cannot be serious."

Rexar just winked.

"Princess," he purred, unscrewing the flask with a practiced flick of his wrist, "I don’t half-ass celebrations."

With zero hesitation, he tipped the flask over both glasses, pouring a stronger, much more illegal liquid into the champagne glasses.

Kriia squinted at the suspiciously clear alcohol swirling in the flutes. "What the hell is that?"

"Moonshine," Rexar rasped, voice still thick with congestion. "Nyx makes it in her basement. It’s, like, 90% alcohol and might actually be a war crime."

Kriia sighed deeply. "Of course it is."

"Hey, after tonight? We need it."

Kriia stared at him for a long, long moment.

Then—with a slow, exhausted sigh—she took the glass from his hand.

They clinked their glasses together.

Kriia took a cautious sip. It burned like hellfire all the way down.

Rexar, as always, went in way too hard and took a deep gulp.

And then—

His breath hitched.

Oh, for the love of—

Kriia barely had time to process the shift before Rexar snapped forward.

"hhHHRSHhh’uehh!! hH’EISCH’iiew!! hhAH’ESSHH’IUE!!"

The flames that erupted from his mouth were instantaneous.

But not just flames.

Huge, roaring, triple-the-size, someone-call-the-fire-department flames.

The entire courtyard illuminated in a sudden, blinding burst of gold and orange, the flickering fire stretching nearly ten feet in front of them before it finally dissipated into the night.

Kriia felt the heat lick at her face.

A startled gasp rippled through the other gala guests still mingling in the courtyard.

Someone let out a choked yelp.

Another audibly muttered, "Oh, for fuck’s sake."

Rexar sniffled, swiping a lazy knuckle under his streaming nose, then cleared his throat—completely ignoring the entire crowd of rich people staring at them like they'd just witnessed an actual dragon appear in the courtyard.

"Okay," he croaked, still raspy, voice even rougher than before. He smacked his lips. "So… might've been a bad idea to drink homemade napalm before that."

Kriia, still gripping both champagne glasses like a woman who had seen her life flash before her eyes, slowly turned to him, expression unreadable.

Rexar blinked.

And then—

"Oh, babydoll, don’t—"

WHAP.

She smacked him right in the chest.

Not hard enough to hurt—but definitely hard enough to make a point.

Rexar wheezed out a laugh, doubling over slightly. "Ow—babe—"

"Do you have a death wish?!"

"Okay, but to be fair—" he coughed, still laughing, "that one was kinda your fault."

"MY fault?!?"

"You flustered me," he sniffled, rubbing at his nose with zero shame.

Kriia’s eye twitched.

"Okay. I’m leaving."

"Babe, no—"

"Yes."

"Wait, c’mon, I—"

Kriia turned on her heel and stormed toward the exit.

Rexar—still laughing, still congested, still absolutely insufferable—jogged after her.

"At least admit it was hot!" he called.

Kriia ignored him.

"Babygirl, wait—"

"Rexar Fang, I swear to GOD."

His laughter rang through the courtyard.

It was going to be a long ride home.

The End ✨

[sevikaswifefr]

more than a friend?

request linked here

pairing: mikey madison x female reader

warnings: none really

a/n: i don’t like this one too much but it’s alr cause i’m coming out of writers block (yay)

I don’t get jealous. Jealousy is for people who are insecure about themselves… right?

“Mikey I swear. Punch me again and I’ll push you out of this car.” I threaten, a wide smile on my face as I lean as far as I can away from the black haired girl.

“I can’t help it if we keep driving past yellow cars.” Mikey shrugs, her smile matching my own. I simply scoff and roll my eyes. “I’m gonna have bruises on my arm for weeks. People are gonna start to think your abusing me.” I fake pout earning my own eye roll from the driver of the car.

“You’ll live.” Mikey chuckles before pulling up to the restaurant car park. I mock her playfully before exiting the car and following her towards the front door.

As we enter a chorus of whisper yells call our names. Mason, Jenna, Melissa and Jasmin all sit around a table. Mason waves us over and points to two seats beside one another.

“Thought you might wanna sit next to each other.” Jasmin wiggles her eyebrows suggestively causing my cheeks to flush red as I sit in between Jenna and Mikey. Jenna’s elbow nudges my waist as she too chuckles silently. I don’t dare to glance at Mikey in fear I could give away my feelings. That would not go down well.

Picking up the menu I pretend to be interested in the food until my cheeks return to their normal colour. “What you gonna order?” Mikey turns to me with a smile as the rest of the group chatter amongst themselves.

I let out a hum as I debate between the carbonara or the ravioli (pasta is my weakness). “Probably the carbonara.” I shrug causing Mikey to chuckle. “So I guessed right.” She smiles before Jasmin calls her name to get her attention.

Minutes fly by as the six of us talk and laugh. That is until the waiter approaches our table with a broad smile. “Hi what can I get for you guys today?” He grins, eyes drifting to Mikey who smiles politely. “What can I get you pretty lady?” He bats his eyelashes at the woman beside me causing an uncomfortable feeling to bubble in my stomach. Mikey chuckles softly, her brown eyes gazing up at the waiter. “I’ll take the Caesar salad with a side of fries please, can’t be too healthy.” She jokes.

I almost jump at the boisterous laugh the waiter lets out at Mikeys joke, my eyes connecting with Jenna’s, to confirm I wasn’t the only one who sees this horrendous interaction. “I can do that.” The waiter replies before hesitantly turning towards me, his broad smile now more of a forced grin. “I’ll have the carbonara.” I send him a fake smile before turning away, an awkward silence encompassing the table before Jenna voices her order.

Once everyone’s orders are written the waiter walks off but not before sending Mikey a flirty wink. My insides twist around themselves as my hands grip the table so hard as to prevent myself from strangling the man on sight.

“God that man was into you.” Melissa laughs from beside Mikey, her fingers poking the black haired woman’s side. “Tell me about it. He wouldn’t stop staring at you even when I was trying to tell him I can’t have chicken or bacon on my caeser salad.” Jenna groans.

I resist the urge to get up and go home. Petty yes but I hate watching the one person I adore being flirted with AND flirting back with some random.

“I think I’m going to go to the bathroom.” I feign a smile as I push out my chair and stand up desperate to get out of this conversation. “You want me to come with you?” Mikey’s quick to ask already half way out her chair. I shake my head almost too quickly. “No stay here, you’ll wanna be here for when the waiter comes back.” I reply maybe a little too harshly as Mikeys mouth opens and closes like a goldfish.

Both Mason and Jasmin send me a look but I ignore them instead walking away to the restroom as fast as I could go.

Resting my hands against the porcelain sink, I gaze at myself in the mirror. Although I look normal, I could feel the green eyed monster clawing at my stomach. Thinking about the waiters lingering gaze and his suggestive looks made me want to throw up in general, but thinking about them aimed at Mikey. That shatters my heart into a million pieces.

Blinking back tears, I run an irritated hand through my hair trying to think of an excuse for when I return to the table.

The restroom door opens and I inhale on instinct, brushing my tears away to make it appear as if I’m just washing up.

“Y/N?” Mikeys voice is shy, timid almost as she makes her way towards me. “Oh.” I breathe half grateful shes here and not at the table with that stupid waiter and half embarrassed she’s here while I cry over her.

“Are you ok?” The simple question is like a trigger sending tears cascading out my eyes. “Fuck, I am actually fine I don’t know why I’m crying.” I let out a chuckle but it falls flat as Mikey reaches for my hand.

“Don’t lie to me. We don’t do that to each other. Your my best friend, if somethings up I wanna help you.” She whispers tucking my hair behind my ear with her free hand.

Best friend

The word hurts to hear causing my eyes to squeeze closed as if that would protect the breaking of my heart. “I’m sorry for what I said before. About the waiter and stuff.” I sigh opening my eyes to look at Mikey who shrugs. “It’s ok, I don’t even want him anyway. I kinda have a crush on someone else.” She gazes at the floor. The words cause my breath to hitch in my chest.

So there is someone else.

“Oh. Yeah.” I manage to let out broken words. Tugging my hand away from Mikeys I let out a breath and wipe my cheeks. “I’m gonna head back.” I can’t look at her as I begin walking towards the door leaving Mikey behind me.

“Wait. Please.” Her voice is pleading almost begging me to not walk out the bathroom. Pausing, I turn on my heel and raise an eyebrow. “If I didn’t know any better it would sound like you were jealous.” She breathes slowly making her way in front of me once again.

My breath hitches for a different reason this time as she stops merely inches in front of my face. “And what if I am?” I reply waiting for the inevitable disgust and rejection to appear in Mikeys face.

“Then I would do this.” Mikeys lips connect with mine. Her hand reaching up for my face as I lean into the rhythm of our kiss.

The green eyed monster disappears leaving euphoria in its place.

I pull away only to better understand the situation, my hands still remaining slotted on Mikeys hips with no intention of letting go.

“So this means I’m the someone you have a crush on?” I frown as Mikeys shoulders shake with laughter. “Yes you idiot.” I don’t waste a second after she confirms my suspicions, my lips chasing hers once again.

Sighing into the kiss I can’t help but feel overjoyed, like I could conquer the world so long as my world remains in my arms.

[highonmarvel]

The Other Side

Searching for your Stephen, you find another, and he won’t let you go this time.

An entry for Day 4 of the exciting @sintember challenge!

Prompt: The Other Side, ft Sinister Dr Strange of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, Dr Strange in the Multiverse of Madness (2022).

Warnings: DUB-CON!, possessive behaviour, developing Stockholm Syndrome. 18+! [And I haven’t watched Dr Strange in so long, please pretend I know what I’m doing.]

You had lost Stephen and America, and you were now left in a crumbling world, a universe broken, with no way to get home. Based on the wrecked state of the world, you thought there wasn’t a Dr Strange here, that he had been defeated and his opponent left ruin. Though he wasn’t your Stephen, the thought still deeply upset you, that Stephen could be defeated, and maybe yours would be.

You push open the door of the Sanctum, you want to call out to him but you know there’s no point. The heavy door falls shut behind you. All the antiques and strange paintings and ornaments that once decorated the foyer have been shattered, some are deteriorating, and a dark mist floats through the cold temple, enveloping you, nearly strangling you, you feel.

Upstairs. You know you have to head to the Window of the Worlds.

You walk to the window, engraved with the Seal of Vishanti. It’s cracked, black lines not belong to the symbol run in all directions across the glass, that has a purple tint, nearly a faint violet glow. You want to touch it, when you hear your name whispered.

You spin, and there stands Stephen. Not your Stephen. This Stephen is… different: he looks older, streaks of grey paint his dark hair, with sunken eyes.

“Stephen!” you call, taking a step forward, “Or, Dr Strange, I need your help, please.”

“You’re here,” he murmurs, slowly walking towards you.

“I- I am,” you sputter, a little confused and off put by his trance-like demeanour, as his curious eyes never leave you, “I lost Stephen—my Stephen—and I need to get back.”

“I am your Stephen.” his voice is so low, so low you wouldn’t have heard it were you even a notch below the level of hyper-awareness he’s activated in you.

He steps into the light, and you gasp and take a step back. Visually, he’s not much different to the average person, but his eyes are dark, a familiar blue you once knew sealed up in an endless black; you can’t read them as he continues to walk towards you. You still.

He stops in front of you, and raises shaky hands to cup your face, his lips parted slightly as his foreign dark gaze analyses every inch of your face. His fingers are cold, ice cold, so cold they burn, like dry ice; you wince at the contact but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“No,” you whisper, “No, I’m not yours, and you’re not my…”

You raise your hands to gently grasp his wrists, and freeze when you see it. His fingertips are darkened, stained with a black so profound, so dangerous in sheer aura that you know what it’s from.

“Stephen?”

He’s been tampering with the Dark Hold, the book of sins so evil you barely know of it, just the name elicits chills; Stephen, your Stephen, barely discussed it, he never did until he found out about the Scarlet Witch’s use, and even still he said very little; you got the feeling that though his knowledge seemed limitless, he knew little here, and very deliberately he kept himself in the dark, because if he knew, he’d indulge.

And indulge he has, this sinister Stephen holding your face gently in his hands, as if these hands haven’t caused unfathomable destruction. You should have known—you knew—that Dr Strange could not be defeated. He wasn’t conquered, never could he be: he conquered.

“That’s me,” he smiles and reassures you. Though his eyes and fingers are stained, that boyish smile you know to be yours is the same as ever.

“What did you do?” is all you can muster in a shaky breath, a tear slipping down your cheek, he watches it fall.

“I did what was necessary, and you…” he strains his voice to prevent himself from choking on his words and he smooths a calloused finger over your skin, wiping away the single tear that had spilt, “You were gone.”

His eyes soften, and, despite the cold of his hands, they’re warm, his eyes, his body too, you notice, noting he’s much closer to you than you realised, and definitely too close for comfort. You don’t even know if you can call him insane, mad with power, and furthermore, you can’t tell what he meant by…

A cold hand snakes over your shoulder and his fingers grasps the back of your neck, pulling you towards him. When he kisses you, you stiffen, but, really, for barely a second, because his lips, they feel so familiar. This man is like your Stephen, you can feel it, but you see a different image; he’s like your Stephen if he had no self control, or even just a little less than he has now.

The thought hits you: you could never deny Stephen. Even if you could, say, by the grace of some higher power, even if you could walk away, Stephen always gets what he wants. There isn’t even a higher power you can turn to: there is no power higher than Stephen.

“You’ve come back to me.”

What can you even say? You’re sure he isn’t delusional, you’re sure he knows you’re not his, and you’re sure he doesn’t care. You nearly resign to your fate, but the thought burns you so hot you hurriedly blurt out,

“What happened to her?”

To you. Did he…?

He doesn’t answer, he stays gazing into your eyes, a sombre-looking but relieved smile on his face, like he’s reconciling the fact that he was wrong; he’s never wrong, but he never thought he would see you again. He simply repeats, “You’ve come back to me.”

“Stephen, no,” you state, firmly, yanking his hands off your face and holding his wrists down between you two. He seems mildly shocked, you’re sure he would have been able to overpower you if he you didn’t catch him slightly off guard. But no, you should know you could never be apart from him, whether you want to or not.

Magic ropes wrap around your wrists, tying a knot and pulling them close together, so tight you wouldn’t be surprised if they sliced your hands off. Stephen’s magic is golden, pure, this man—you don’t even want to call him Stephen—his magic is corrupt; purple, with black shadows swirling the violet pulses emitting from the shapes he draws.

You panic, forcing your head down to look at your bound wrists and then snapping your head back up to him. You open your mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a shrill little squeal as you’re lifted a few centimetres off the ground. The same purple and black vines wrap around your ankles, forcing them together.

You notice this is the first time you’ve been above him, floating just high enough for him to have to raise his chin to study you. You always thought this would give you some kind of dominance (fleeting and artificial as it may be), to be over him, but no, you never stood a fucking chance.

You barely struggle, afraid that if you shift around too much you’ll drop to the ground, so all you can do is be still as he circles you, examining you. Another thing; he doesn’t seem to just look at you, he studies you, like looking for flaws in a sculpture. What happens if he finds them?

“You know,” he finally speaks after several minutes of inspecting you, “All this…” he turns you towards the window. There’s a rift in the sky, with seemingly everything in it, everything in existence, it’s overwhelming, “I did for you, honey.”

He’s lying, he must be; though you can imagine yourself getting a little carried away now and then, in no universe could you ever see a version of yourself prepared to bring about mass destruction, the ends of literally infinite lives, no; you may be imperfect, but the collapse of an entire universe? He’s either lying or being intentionally ambiguous. Maybe he’s not lying, just misleading.

“You didn’t; you did it for her,” you half-lie; while it’s true he could only have done this for a different version of you, you doubt she would have authorised that, but you use her as sort of a scapegoat anyway.

He flicks his fingers and you spin to face him. He lowers you just enough so you’re at eye level, and despite your best efforts, you genuinely can not read his gaze; you can’t find any hint of what he may be feeling, it’s just a void, but it’s not, it’s not a void; you know there’s something there, something you’re missing.

You’re sure he’s going to say something, maybe continue his little game of pretending you’re his, but just as you anticipate the opening of his mouth, you violently spin again, this time towards the door, with a shriek. He walks in front you, and you follow behind, like you’re being pulled by a rope, like a dog on a leash who’s trying to play with something when the owner is fed up and wants to go home.

His bedroom door slams shut behind you and you’re lowered onto bed with a gentleness the human touch could never give, his magic softly laying you like you’re the most precious thing, and based on the look he’s giving you, you damn well might be.

Your soft rest hazes your mind for a moment, but you’re snapped back to the cold of the Sanctum when you feel him hover over you.

“I’ve missed you…” he whispers.

You don’t know when your pants came off, but you feel him run a practiced finger over your clothed slit. Oh, God, he feels exactly like your Stephen; the foreignness of his eyes and slight change in demeanour don’t seem to mean anything when he still feels exactly the same, it’s fucking with your mind.

You love your Stephen, more than anything, and you know this isn’t him. You try to push him off but when he slips a finger inside of you, you can’t help the shudder that vibrates through you.

Can I get Stockholm Syndrome so easy? you wonder to yourself, more berate yourself, as you try desperately to ignore the feeling of his fingers inside of you, moving in and out just the way you like, he knows what you like, he knows your body just the way Stephen does.

Because he is Stephen.

۞

[a-very-sparkly-nerd]

bday present: Don't Leave Me 'Til My Sorry Life Has Ceased

Happy birthday, @m4rs-ex3! Headcanons weren't headcanoning, so I'm dedicating a snippet of a Rayllum Daedalus AU wip to you! Enjoy the angst!

Callum stumbled forward, catching the cool iron bars in his palms before crashing into them, shoved forward by a member of the crew, a muscly Earthblood elf with maroon face markings and sad eyes. He stood guard by the door, watching as Callum slumped to the ground, Rayla's hand reaching through the bars to rest on his knee.

"Callum." She breathed his name like a prayer, stroking her thumb over the suddenly-stifling cloth.

"I'm okay," he told her, setting one hand on top of hers and reaching the other to cup her gaunt face. "How are you?"

"I'm fine. How-" She could only reach so far through the bars separating them, biting a quivering lip as she ran a hand through the shocks of white at the front of his hairline. "What is he making you do?"

"His dirty work." Callum attempted a broken, strangled laugh, and took that hand to press his lips to. To comfort her, even though his black heart was the worst thing to show love, his stained skin the worst to offer affection.

"I'll come up with something." Rayla shifted to sit on her knees, as close to him as she could get, hands taking his face and making him look at her. "We can get out of this."

“I know,” Callum said, none of his heart in it. Like she’d said; sometimes, a person had to lie to protect the people they loved. Even if it tore his own apart in the process. “I’ll- I’m thinking, too.”

Rayla shifted. “Are- have you been in contact with Ezran or anyone? Is anyone…” Is anyone coming for us?

No. Not to Callum’s knowledge, at least. No letters yet. And it was better that way. If Finnegrin got even the slightest inkling that he or Rayla were planning to revolt, he’d make sure she’d die a slow, agonizing death. And Callum would be forced to watch the entire thing– not that he’d be able to make himself look away.

“No,” he said truthfully, glad he could give her a truth that wouldn’t break her own heart worse than the cell was already doing to her body. “I’m- I’m sure something will happen, though.”

Rayla glanced around, biting her lip to prevent any more tears making their way down her cheeks. “Callum, I’m scared,” she breathed for only his ears.

Callum held her tighter. She scarcely ever let herself feel fear, much less admitted to it, so the fact that she was here and presenting that trembling part of her heart… He evidently hadn’t been doing a good job of keeping the true gravity of their situation under wraps.

“I know,” he said. “But I’ve- I’ve got it under control.” Another lie. ‘Under control’ was simply keeping her alive, as far as he was concerned, and the list of reasons why could wrap around the continent.

Ezran and Soren and the rest of Katolis, and whatever they were planning, had to stay far away from the Sea Legs. His brother and the Crownguard, plus Villads, had been unceremoniously shoved into a tiny rowboat and pushed far away the second Finnegrin realized he only needed one thing to have his very own personal Dark Mage to do his bidding: the elf sitting before Callum in a cage, thin, paler than usual, and scratched and bloody.

He stroked her chin, tilting it up to meet her eyes. “Hey. Are…” Dumb question. Of course she wasn’t okay. He rerouted. “Talk to me. Please?”

They dropped down, pools of violet becoming literal pools made of tears. "Full moon's in a week," she whispered shakily, as if he didn't already know. He'd begun to keep track of things like that a long time ago.

"Yeah," he said, gazing at her. That's when she'd be in the most danger, the crew likely afraid of her heightened abilities and suspecting she'd try something.

She always would. Rayla's spirit could never be broken.

Callum's had. He couldn't let her- she couldn't try anything. She'd die, and she wouldn't care.

It was selfish, but she had to stay here, hating him for it in her cell but at least alive (even if this was by no means living), because he couldn't live without her.

Gods only knew what he'd do if something happened to her.

“We’ll get out of this,” Callum repeated, a stone calling him a liar sinking into the pit of his stomach and dragging his heart down with it.

Rayla bit her lip as she nodded, clearly not believing him, and he leaned in to kiss her awkwardly through the bars.

“I’m going to keep you safe,” he swore, just as she had in the letter still sitting over his heart even now.

No matter what he had to do for it.

[brandwhorestarscream]

G1 transformers, if you fancy it: Megatron and Jazz (also Buzzsaw does not get enough love in this world).

Subject 1033 - Codename: Megatron

06-13-1987

Attending Physician: Dr. Stephen McCoy

Despite medication and two counts of "successful" reconditioning, Subject 1033 remains unpredictable and a danger to himself. Dr. Povlo claimed he was no longer harboring thoughts of suicide, but the first thing he did after being released onto the floor was try to throw himself into the machinery! It took me 9 hours of surgery to stabilize him, not to mention we don't have a replacement leg ready for him. It'll be at least 2 weeks before a replacement can be made, that's 2 weeks of our most promising Subject thus far not being able to walk!

Regardless. He is physically stable and under watch. I reccomend he be under supervision at all times. Not cameras, in person supervision. Despite his many incidents, he has shown no inclination toward violence, and his staff safety rating does not need to be re-evaluated at this time.

When his leg is replaced, 3 to 4 days of intense physical therapy should have him Floor-ready again, but someone has got to get his brain under control or I'm afraid these incidents will keep happening. That's not something we can afford. He's our most promising result so far: if he dies before we can replicate the procedure on another it will be a grave loss.

I recommend Subject be re-evaluated for psychiatric health, by someone that's not as gullible as Povlo.

End report.

Subject 1064 - Codename: Jazz

10-19-1987

Incident Report

Attending Personel: Rachel Walters - Head of Homestead, Dr. Sabrina Diaz - Subject Physician, Dr. Julian Anderson - Homestead Pediatrician

Subject 1064 was initially extracted from the Homestead on 07-04-1987 following the incident detailed in Emergency Report 43. Subject was released from hospital on 07-09-1987, and underwent a total of 4 procedures: B, E, H, and I. Subject 1064 was then-

ENOUGH with this bullshit! That thing killed 3 people-!

Miss Walters, I understand that you're upset-

Upset?! UPSET?! Damn straight I'm upset! You bring that- that monster down here and it strangles one of our counselors in front of a group of second-graders and all you can do is parrot numbers and codes like it doesn't matter-

Of course it matters, Miss Walters. That is why these reports are so important: to ensure this sort of incident does not recurr-

Ladies. The topic at hand, if you please.

Certainly. As I was saying, Subject 1064 underwent multiple successful operations and modeled excellent behavior: obedience, passiveness, and even a willingness to converse. His "melatonin factor" was noted to be highly effective, and to prevent this sort of incident from occurring again, we decided to assign Subject 1064 to the Homestead's night shift. His first 3 nights were without incident, correct?

I- yes! He- He was- the kids seemed to really like him, and his lullabies put them right to sleep, within a minute. Even the older ones. He went into each room, sang for 'em, then headed to the next one, over and over til they were all out. Then he went back to the front door to leave with... your people.

And on the 4th day?

I don't KNOW! He'd just finished putting the really little ones down for their nap, walked out to the front yard and just seemed to go crazy! By the time anyone who knew what they were doing got here, he'd choked the life outta Richie and locked himself in the belltower with three of the second-graders! It killed two security guards in broad daylight on the soccer field! Damn it, I want answers, and I don't want any more of those things down here! What if the next one goes after one of the kids?!

We have reason to believe they will not become violent towards children, Miss Walters. Was there anyt-

Well pardon me if I'm not comforted by that! Those things are dangerous-

We're off topic. Miss Walters, thank you for your testimony. You're dismissed. Closing remarks: Subject 1064 is no longer eligible for assignment outside of the Shelf without psychiatric re-evaluation. Punishment shall be determined by the disciplinary team.

Casualties: 3

End report.

Subject 1097 - Codename: Buzzsaw

11-05-1987

Attending Physician: Dr. Charles Yelavich

Subject 1097 is the first successful Subject under the Hands Free project, and is going on 5 days post-op and recovering well. Swelling has reduced nearly 70%, and his visual acuity is performing within expected parameters. Attached are today's eye exam results

Subject does seem to be experiencing moderate emotional distress, but this has been so far regulated with high-reward items, mainly drops of sugar syrup and pain relief. It is important to note that no physical or liquid food is to be administered to Subject 1097 post-discharge: he no longer possesses the necessary components to process it and must be cleaned out manually. Sugar syrup is only for use under my direct supervision.

Subject 1097's success is being partially attributed to the strategic amputations and occupational therapy pre-operation. In training him to function without dexterous limbs pre-op, he has been considerably more active, agreeable, and lively than previous subjects. I reccomend repeating his experimental treatments with future Subjects and fine tuning the process through careful trial and error. In the meantime, I will continue to work closely with Buzzsaw and train him as I see fit.

End report.