#time four wind and wild i fuckin got nothing

[valleyfthdolls]

RRRRRGH I WANNA DRAW ZELDA ART SO BAD.... modern au linkverse designs save me... save me

[gintrinsic-writing]

Halloween prompt (if it'sstill open): everyone trying to come up with the scariest costumes they can using only the equipment they have on hand (featuring Legend as a painting, Wild with a depowered Majora's mask that freaks out Time, and/or Four and Shadow tag-teaming something)

Latte, this idea ran away with me a little!!

--

Time settled back with a chuckle and put the All-Night Mask away. “Amateurs,” he teased. 

Legend smirked despite the fact that he was conveniently several inches further away from Time than he had been moments ago. “Okay, fine. You’re in the lead on account of your quests being fuckin’ weirder than ours.”

“Now hold on a minute,” Wind started, grinning widely. The spark in his eyes meant nothing good. “I’ve got a neat little trick that’ll outspook any of you brave enough to accept.” He reached into his bag and pulled out the Wind Waker, then looked around at the group. “Well? Any takers? Wars?”

“Your evil smile does not inspire trust,” Warriors answered dryly. “I’ll pass.”

Wind snorted. “Come on, someone. Who here isn’t complete cucco shit?”

Four raised his hand to several dramatic “ooh”s. “I’m game,” he said, leaning forward where he sat cross-legged. “What do I have to do?”

“Just sit there,” Wind said, sticking out his tongue as he began to conduct a song. An unnatural wind tore through camp, carrying with it ominous musical notes. Suddenly, Four’s eyes widened, and he sat up straight, body rigid. Wind smirked. 

“I don’t get it,” Twilight said, tilting his head. "How is this spooky?”

When Four didn’t answer, the other heroes visibly grew suspicious. Wind laughed a little, then raised the baton. Immediately, Four stood upright, stiff as a board. He was expressionless—a doll waiting to be controlled. Wind twitched the baton again, and Four turned on his heel. 

Wild whistled. Can he not break out of it? he signed. 

“Nope!” Wind said, forcing Four to turn around again. “That’s why it’s frightening for the person involved.”

Hyrule grimaced, studying Four’s too-blank features. “This is… I mean, I get why it could be useful, but it gives me the heebs. What if he’s scared? What if he wants you to stop?”

Wind pursed his lips to one side, then shrugged. “I have no way of knowing. It’s not like I plan to do anything bad with it. Anyway, I think I made my point, so I’ll—” He broke off with a yelp when Four suddenly turned his head, staring Wind straight in the eyes. “How? How’re you doing that?”

Four didn’t answer. He didn’t seem to react at all. A second later, Four’s shadow peeled itself away. It stood separately, nearly a mirror image to Four, yet it smiled. Its teeth gleamed in the firelight. 

“Fuck! Release, release!” Wind yelped, watching as Four abruptly shuddered and resumed control of his body. The shadow’s smile grew wider before it appeared to fade back into Four. 

“Oof, that was… not great,” Four muttered, rubbing his forehead. “You had complete control of me.” When the others stared at him with various expressions of shock and horror, he blinked. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Your shadow!” Wind yelled. “What the—Why did—That’s never happened before!”

“What never happened before?” Four asked. “I could only see what was directly in front of me.”

Wind’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. 

“I think,” Time began quietly, “there might be more to that melody that you realize, Wind. Perhaps you should be careful about using it in the future.”

“That wasn’t the Command Melody! That was… I don’t know what that was. It looked like a possession!”

“Even so,” Twilight began, “maybe you…”

As the others began trying to figure out the possible features of an ancient song from Wind’s era, Four did his best to hide his smile. I think I won that round, he thought. Shadow, spread across the forest floor behind Four, grinned in reply. 

[thunderheadfred]

🦅Hawks HC’s🦅

This is SO unnecessarily long. Some NSFW. Minors do not interact.

- - - - -

General

Has zero social life or hobbies outside of work. He knows it’s unhealthy, but like, who has the time?? Oh? Lots of people do?? Haha what are healthy work/home boundaries? He desperately wants to retire and always talks about a world without heroes, but the truth is he would have no idea what to do with himself if he got his way. Take him to a park at midnight and watch him turn into a giant repressed child on a swing. He’ll do a standing-360 and it will be terrifying.

Listens to music way too loud in his headphones to drown out wind noise. Probably half deaf at this point. His musical taste is wild; listening history all over the fucking place. Algorithms have no idea what to do with him.

That visor? It’s prescription. Wow is he far-sighted. He wears glasses. He’s not blind without them (rather the opposite) but they help him see things directly in front of him without massive eye strain. Yeah, he looks really hot in glasses.

Prefers communicating via text. Sometimes it’s a lot of dumb memes, but mostly it’s sincere. He can say what he means when he doesn’t have to put on a public front.

Smokes like a chimney. Self medicates with stimulants. Coffee, tobacco, sugar. Fidgety, likes things in his mouth or hands. Gnashes on toothpicks and popsicle sticks. He really should go back to therapy, huh? His teeth are sparkling white for the cameras but his breath could use some work. Chews gum a lot to compensate, and always does it really loudly with a big shit-eating grin.

Impatient as fuuuuuck. Rude about it. If you take too long doing anything, you’re going to hear a foot tapping. He’ll smile and laugh it off, never ever directly criticize you about it. But lord, the dramatic sighs. He WILL nudge you out of the way and take over in order to finish a task faster, and it’s truly fucking annoying.

LOVES food. Has the metabolism of an actual bird. Will seize upon any excuse to eat. No need to be self-conscious about eating in front of him; he wants you to enjoy it. Steals bites from you and talks with his mouth full. Prefers street food and take-out, usually eats while walking or flying. Sit-down restaurants are an invitation for gawkers.

He’s one of those celebrities that looks way taller on TV. In real life, he’s small and compact. So you’re surprised the first time you see him in person. He has a big head. Literally.

If you’re taller or bigger than him, he does Not Care. He treats everyone like they’re four feet tall, even Endeavor. Everything you do is cute. If you’re actually short, he’s going to carry you around all the time, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Collects big chunky overpriced watches. All the better to tell you you’re late.

Half his clothes are brand fucking new. Sometimes he forgets to take off the tags. (Don’t look at the prices, do NOT) He never seems to wear the same thing twice. He also never seems to go shopping. Brands just give him stuff, and he shrugs and goes “yeah okay.”

The other half of his clothes are old, faded, and patched up. Every item he acquires for himself has deep sentimental value. If you tell him to throw away that nasty ten-year-old pair of frayed cargo pants, be prepared to find out how wrong and evil you are for even suggesting it.

He doesn’t snore; he coos. Loudly. Like a fucking pigeon trapped in a megaphone.

- - - - -

Dating

Gift-giving is his love language. Bringing your favorite snacks. Leaving novelty magnets on your fridge. He found a copy of that book/game/movie you mentioned like a month ago, don’t you remember? If he has to go out of town on a job, he’ll bring back the ugliest possible souvenir, just to annoy you.

He likes gifting jewelry especially. Covering you in shiny baubles, little golden things. Not expensive, but unusual. Antiques or handmade, even bizarre vending machine crap. Gets really handsy if you wear or show off his gifts.

Since you’re the first person who has given him The Feels, if you are resistant to his advances (like, say, because he’s way too famous and you’re terrified he’s gonna break your heart) he’s going to go fucking nuts trying to woo you. Doesn’t have a single patient bone in his body but will wait as long as it takes for you to come around. He’ll act like he’s cool with just being friends at first, just hanging out, haha. Oh you’re busy today? That’s cool. Inside he’s shrieking like a tea kettle. Go ahead, make him wait.

Don’t bother giving him a key to your place. He’s coming in through the bedroom window or patio door. Just put out a damn welcome mat on your balcony... or a bird feeder.

A bit of a voyeur. He likes to watch you do your normal routine without interruption. He can see from miles away so if you’ve got your lights on at night, he’ll creep for a while before he comes in. It comforts him immensely, seeing a little slice of the world that isn’t constantly in need of saving.

Is super talkative and funny but a terrible communicator. Makes more jokes the worse he feels. Will almost never tell you what he needs. Most of the time, he doesn’t even know. You will learn to read between the lines and gradually notice his tiny unconscious cries for help. Back rubs make him emotional.

He shows up at your place at the weirdest times. All hours. You’re never ready. At first it was infuriating, because you wanted to look your best and have time to prepare, but you figure out pretty quickly that seeing you in your natural state is his favorite thing. He never gets to be around normal people, doing normal things. A boring, lazy afternoon is his idea of paradise.

He’ll pick through your things and ask a world of invasive questions. A medicine cabinet raider. He wants to know every fucking tiny thing about you, live vicariously through you.

He actually lives in a top floor penthouse. Because I mean, where else? Never spends any time there; mostly he seems to roost on the balcony. He has used the front door maybe once. He much prefers your place, and will only take you back to his after months of dating. It’ll take like, an entire emergency. You’ll end up in his bed by mistake.

Because when you finally come over, he’s embarrassed. Its sparse. White. Things in boxes. A new furniture smell. Like he’s not done moving in, though he’s lived there for years. He wants you to move in So Bad but doesn’t want to be pushy. If you don’t start leaving your stuff there, he’ll steal things from your apartment. Where the hell is your favorite t-shirt? Or that pillowcase you like? Dammit Keigo.

He’s a decent cook, a habit he made himself pick up because he thought it might make him feel more normal. It... didn’t. He never actually cooks until you give him an excuse. He’ll bring you breakfast in bed and watch you eat every bite with big hungry eyes.

He’s got a separate wardrobe for his hero costume and all his feathers. Yeah. His feathers. Because he can detach and control his feathers at will, when he’s alone at home he kind of just... shucks off his wings. The first time you see him do it, your eyes fall out of your head. He walks around in a tee shirt and boxers with these ugly little stumps covered in brownish, blood-red down. It actually looks kind of gnarly, like he got mauled by a bear.

He’s never dated until you. No one has ever been in his apartment until you. No one has called him Keigo until you. He has some bigass intimacy issues. Because. Y’know. The trauma. But god, he wants you in his life so bad, even if he has no idea how to make time for your relationship.

He’ll want to keep you to himself for a while. Once you go public he’s going to have an arm around your shoulders at all times. Publicly Displays his Affection way more than is socially acceptable in Japan, and gives precisely -100,000 fucks.

His fans either love you or hate you. There is no in between. He will immediately take your phone and threaten to drop it from a great height if he catches you reading shitty gossip about the two of you. Does NOT care about his public image anymore, doesn’t want YOU to care about it either. He’s gonna retire soon anyway, remember? That’s a lie.

Being a charming motherfucker is the core of his public persona, so you will get jealous. A lot. He will flirt shamelessly without realizing it. He will get photographed in compromising positions with gorgeous people.

Once you accept that he’s basically an actor 80% of the time and that Hawks and Keigo are separate identities, you’ll both feel better. When he comes home (to YOU) and falls over exhausted and stops being Hawks(tm), when he scratches his ass or burps in front of you, when he yells to you from the bathroom, when he groans childishly about his shitty day while laying face-down in your lap, you’ll know you have nothing to worry about. Keigo is all yours.

Boundaries? Never heard of ‘em. He’s either a million lightyears away or he’s glued to your hip. The whiplash is astounding.

Absolutely says “I love you” wayyyyyy to soon. It thrills you but scares you off at the same time, because there’s no way Hawks - The Hawks - can actually mean it, right? (He does)

Rings? Nah. When things get serious, he will make a necklace out of a feather for you, and if you ever take it off, you better be asleep or in the shower. Even then you’re on thin fuckin ice. If you’re not wearing it he knows. He’s never mean about making you put it back on, it just makes him nervous if he can’t feel your heartbeat.

- - - - -

SPICY CHICKEN NUGGETS

High sex drive. Horny like 25/7. Probably a symptom of having way too much pent up stress.

Often takes care of it himself when he doesn’t have the emotional resources for anyone else, even his S.O. Figures you don’t want him coming on to you as often as he would like to, but he’s too stupid to talk to you about it first. Morning masturbator.

Yes he’s fucked around a lot but he’s not exactly a playboy either. People have always thrown themselves at him, and before he met you he let them do it. Especially when out of town and staying in a hotel. Whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, etc.

He’d never be unfaithful to you though; his loyalty and dedication are frankly a little unsettling. Sometimes you feel like the only thing in his life other than hero work. Teach this man to knit. Make him join a book club. Christ. Anything.

Does in fact have seasonal mating patterns and it’s super embarrassing.

An underwear-sniffing perv. He’ll definitely hump your pillow.

Gets a sick thrill out of breaking in and startling you. Coming up behind you in the dark, sneaking into your bed. It’s probably his worst habit, and even he hates that he does it. If you get better at detecting him he’ll be so proud. Land a slap on him and he’ll be a horny mess.

Dog-whistles at you. Often from rooftops, and you have no idea where he is but you know he’s leering.

He will call you a lot of really stupid pet names. He likes the way you blush when he finds a newer, stupider one. Calls you angel when he’s really far gone.

Likes to scratch you with his stubble until your skin turns raw and sensitive. If it annoys you or hurts a little? Even better. Making you squirm is his new favorite thing. Especially when going down on you. Your inner thighs are always exfoliated.

His cock is average in every respect. This is not a bad thing. He knows how to please you with every totally normal inch of that cock. He has some kind of homing beacon installed on your sensitive spots.

Goes absolutely insane for blowjobs. Any time, any place.

Likes to bend you around in all kinds of positions with an assist from his feathers to hold up an ankle here, an arm there. Get used to floating mid-coitus. It just seems to happen.

Spanky.

His number one priority is making you feel adored and at home in his bed. Ohhhhh he likes to make you smile. But if you encourage him to get pushy and dominant with you, you will have a good, good time.

He’s switchy, and will lose his shit if you initiate or take control. Again, he’s always horny for you, because he can finally let go. Breathe in his direction and he’s hard.

Doesn’t moan much, but Babe, he’s a dirty talker. He’s not smooth or deliberate about it, it’s more like he can’t fucking believe you let him do whatever he wants to you. You like that huh? Like he’s in stages of shock. He’s singing your praises to high Heaven and muttering oh shit oh shit oh shittttttt and laugh-crying as he cums. He never talks about his feelings; he fucks about them.

After. Care. King. He loves pampering and clucking over you anyway, this is simply another excuse to do it. He knows exactly how much water you drink in a day. Can’t take care of himself for shit, but you? You’ll never have a need he won’t try to fill. What’s all that hero work for if not this? Yeah, soak it up. You deserve it.

[not-me-simping-for-blasty]

I Melt With You - Bakugou Katsuki

All Parts:

Part 7:

You don’t see him for nearly four weeks.

Apparently, Bakugou actually listening to your request was a one time deal- and you’d already used it up a month ago.

You watch him though- once again leafing through newspapers and headlines and hero highlights. Day by day he looks a little more angry, high-strung and volatile as he brushes aside nosy press and zealous citizens. He’s never mean to them, Dynamite never is, but he is short- no longer sticking around to bask in the praises so many seem to heap onto him. You begin to think that maybe that’s a hint of Bakugou showing though; a bit of whoever he is when he shows up at your door. The thought leaves you checking your balcony at night, hoping and praying not to see him standing there half-dead.

You think you understand now: no matter what he agreed to, Bakugou was still trying to fix his problems himself. And that’s perfectly fine, you know full well you’re not anyone special, but still, a part of you can’t help but hurt for him. Can’t help but wish he wasn’t so intent on running himself ragged for the entire world to see. 

When you see him next, Bakugou is knocking on your balcony door. Knuckles against the glass, sluggish and slow as he wraps another arm around his abdomen. He’s still in costume, but forgoing the mask- it’s hard to miss the purpling under his eyes, even harder to miss the blood dried up across his forehead.

“C’mon, did we not just have this conversation?” You sigh, ushering him in quickly. “The whole reason I told you to start coming over more often is because of this. Believe it or not, but I actually take no joy out of seeing you hurt.”

“Yeah. Whatever. Stop complaining. It’s a few busted knuckles and some blood- no need to bitch about it like I’m fuckin’ dying.”

Bakugou shuffles past you, hunched over and slow. He’s grunting, huffing in pain, twitching fingers clutching at the seared edge of his costume. There’s a hole burned through the material. His exposed ribs are covered in pink, angry skin.

“No, it’s burns too. Apparently.” You tell him, hovering just behind him. You help him settle on your couch. “Sit tight, I’ll go get the first aid kit. Maybe a few damp towels too.”

You follow a quick routine, gathering your med kit, and dampening a few towels with cool water. You’re back at his side in record time, cracking and shaking an instant cold-compress between your fingers. You wrap it in a towel, handing it to him.

“Just hold it. And don’t fight, please. If your knuckles swell up anymore it’s just going to be an even bigger mess for me.” You stare him down until he relents. “Actually, on second thought- wait on that. Take your shirt off first.”

“What the hell? No.”

“What do you mean, no? You’re wasting time, just take it off already. The burn isn’t gonna clean itself up and I can’t help you if all the fabric is in the way and I-“ 

You pause, looking up at his face. Bakugou won’t meet your eyes but he’s blushing. Just slightly, but you see it and you roll your eyes.

“Seriously? Now is literally the worst time for shame. Just do it. I don’t care. I see people’s bodies every day of my life.”

It’s Bakugou’s turn to roll his eyes, but then he huffs, sitting taller. He sucks in a harsh breath, biting out a curse as he shifts, arms rigid and tight when he shucks the costume off.

Under normal circumstances- you would probably be flustered. Although you were telling the truth, you did see people’s bodies every day, theirs never looked like Bakugou’s. Never looked like his defined pectorals and utterly ridiculous abs. Fortunately though, this wasn’t normal circumstances. Instead of smooth skin, Bakugou was covered in a large burn. A nasty looking one sprawling wide across his ribs, lines of irritation continuing to crawl red and angry up his back. You wouldn’t focus on anything but that.

“Sorry if this hurts. Really. But I have to.” You mutter, pressing a cool rag to the burn.

Bakugou sucks a breath, hissing before he screws his eyes shut. You try to apply gentle pressure, but even so, you’re sure it still hurts. It must if he’s hardly even fighting your treatment.

“The good news is, it’s only second degree.” You murmur, removing the rag gently, careful not to accidently drag it against his skin. “But, it’s across your ribs so it’ll probably hurt while you’re doing just about anything.”

“Coulda told you that my fuckin’ self.”

“I’m just saying. Just telling you what I think. Can I- can I ask you something though?”

He opens his eyes, squinting for a moment before he nods.

“It’s- I’m not sure how to say this, but these look identical to the burns you cause. Did you- did you do this to yourself?” You ask softly, delicately. “Are these from your quirk?”

Bakugou’s glare seems to intensify, red eyes seething and angry. You try not to shrink up, but truth be told, Bakugou cut an intimidating figure. A moment passes, and then he relents- eyes softening just a tiny bit as he averts them.

“Villain had a stupid quirk. Called it repel or some shit. Got blasted before I even knew what was happening.”

“So they’re yours, sort of, but not really. That’s alright. I only asked out of curiosity. Wasn’t trying to insinuate anything.”

“Yeah whatever, leech.”

“Hey, can you at least try to be nice to me?”

“No.”

“Yeah, probably should’ve guessed you’d say that.” You sigh, before backing away from him. You turn, digging through the first aid kit to find some gauze and medical tape. “Alright, sit up for me.”

Bakugou grunts, but does as he’s told. He hisses when the burned skin shifts, and you feel sorry for him all over again. It truly did look painful.

“Hey- uh, do you,”

“Spit it out already.”

“You barely let me even start- actually, you know what? Never mind. What I was gonna ask was,” You pause, looking up at him. “It looks like it hurts. Do you want my help? Like, my quirk I mean.”

“Fuck no.”

Bakugou’s face contorts into a sneer, jaw set and lips drawn thin across sharp teeth. He looks wild, and the tiredness in his eyes isn’t helping.

“Okay- okay, I get it. I won’t. I was just asking.” You assure, pressing some gauze lightly over the burn. Bakugou hisses again, and you wish he’d just let you help him already. “But really, it looks like it hurts, and I can see how tired you are on top of that. The option’s open, is all I’m saying. I wouldn’t mind.”

He just nods tightly before averting his eyes. You try to smile reassuringly at him, but something still doesn’t sit right with you. Maybe it’s the way his eyes look panicked, darting and tracking every shadow of your apartment, or maybe it’s the slight tremors you can feel under your fingertips. You wonder what happened- if he’d even tell you at all.

You shake the thought from your head, making quick work with the gauze. With gentle pressure you cover the large burn, securing the cloth with thin strips of medical tape. Under your hands, Bakugou seems rigid. He’s twitching and tensing, muscles contracting with every breath, his hands fisting the fabric of your couch. You watch him bite back another wince, squeezing the couch cushion until his knuckles go white. You finish covering the burn, resolving to try your earlier question again.

“Burns are one of the most painful injuries, you know. And yours is nothing to laugh at. So even if it’s only a little, just my skin and not my quirk, I’d still like to help you.” You start, sitting back on your knees to look up at him. “Only if you’d let me, though.”

Bakugou just stares, breathing slowly. His eye twitches, and then he speaks. “Why do you keep helping me?”

You blink back at him, the wind almost knocked out of your lungs. You’d already answered a similar question, several times, but this didn’t feel like those other times. Now his voice was quiet, defeated and grumbling, bitten out through uneven breaths. He wasn’t asking about everyone else- Bakugou was asking why you kept helping him.

You begin to wonder all over again- where he’d been, who he’d been fighting. Whoever if was seemed to still sit with him; puppeting him into asking things the Bakugou you knew would never ask.

“Because I meant what I said earlier. I don’t like seeing you hurt- especially not when I know I can help you.” You sigh, crossing your arms around your stomach. “I don’t like seeing anybody hurt, you know? And I mean, I know I’m not exactly saving people on the scale you are, but I still like to try. In my own way.”

Bakugou seems to just look at you for a moment, before his shoulders are slumping.

“Fine. Leech.”

“Huh?”

“Take your glove off.” He says flatly, hardly even blinking as he regards you. “One. And don’t use your quirk.”

You straighten a bit, nodding minutely. Bakugou watches you with intense focus, tracking you as you slip a glove off. You’re not sure what to do next, but then he’s grabbing hold of your wrist, curling his slightly shaking fingers around it. For a moment you assume the tremors must be residual adrenaline- but the feeling coursing through your veins next feels anything but that.

Your side feels hot, a burn crawling across your ribs to mirror Bakugou’s; but almost as soon as the heat rises, it’s snuffed out. Instead of the subtle warmth you’d come to associate with him- it’s cold. A chill through your veins as if you’d been out in the snow for too long. It’s not overwhelming, but you feel it, shivering slightly as goosebumps claim smooth skin. It’s fear- but more than anything else, it’s sadness. Something slow and sluggish. Makes your blood feel like gelatinous sludge until he lets go of you.

You feel a little sick, a little nauseous, and when you look at Bakugou it only makes the sinking feeling worse. He’s got his eyes closed, huffing a deep sigh of relief. Something that covers his entire face in solace and has your heart shattering.

You didn’t use your quirk- but you could tell, from a single touch, that whatever he was feeling, whatever he was dealing with, should’ve taken just about anyone out- but there he was. Solid and stubborn like always.

You wonder where he gets that strength from. What possible reserves Bakugou could possibly have left to drawn from.

He must see the look on your face because then he’s averting his eyes. “Don’t fuckin’ say anything. I already know, and I’m not gettin’ into it with you of all people.”

His insult hardly holds any bite, just defensiveness and strange apprehension. You steamroll right on past it.

“It’s- are you sure? Bakugou, that’s- I’ve never,”

“No.”

His tone is steel, eyes boring into yours with a resolve you’d never seen before. Bakugou seems unmovable in that moment, unbreakable, even as his body nearly collapses from exhaustion. It’s an impressive thing; to watch a fire catch on embers you could’ve sworn were doused already.

You think there’s a quiet strength in that- a power all his own that has nothing to do with explosions, or shouting, or fists.

“Yeah. Okay.” You nod. “That’s- I get it. Not tonight.”

Bakugou seems abated by that as he sinks back into the couch. He looks at you expectantly, and then flicks his eyes back to his bruised knuckles.

“Gonna fix this shit or not?” He grumbles. “It’s your fuckin’ job isn’t it?”

And just like that you’re shocked back to life. You slip your glove back on, pulling his bruised hands toward you.

His hands are a mottled mess of bruises and burns and scabbed over scrapes. They’re warm, nearly pulsating with heat, and you try your best to handle them delicately. Luckily, the cold compress seemed to have helped the swelling, and all you have left to do is press a few butterfly bandages into the larger cuts. It’s quick work and before you know it, you’re wrapping his knuckles up with an ace bandage.

“Hey, I have a question.” You start, carefully weaving the bandage around his hand. “You don’t have to answer or anything, but I am curious.”

Bakugou rolls his eyes, but he looks a little more tired then before. Less combative. “Go. Ask.”

“It seems like you’ve always got these bruises? Do you not wear gloves?”

“No. Course not. How the hell am I supposed to make a massive fuckin’ explosion wearing those piece-a-shits?”

You look at him, and Bakugou’s eyes are a little more lidded than before. His voice sings sincerity though. More conviction than ever.

“Yeah. I didn’t think of that.” You laugh under your breath. “Sorry- dumb question, I guess.”

“Yep.”

“You’re not supposed to agree with me!”

“Had to. It was true.” He just shrugs, watching you intently. Then he’s sitting up a little, shifting to get more comfortable. “You fucked up the left one. Do it again.”

“I- I just finished that one!”

“Yeah? And? I’m telling you to do it again.”

“And I’m telling you it’s fine.”

“God, you fuckin’ suck at this. I’m a pro-hero, aren’t you supposed to kiss the ground I walk on?”

“No. Tried that already, remember? You still didn’t seem to like me when I was playing nice at work.” You roll your eyes, but start rewrapping his hand anyway. “You know, if all of the pro-heroes are as difficult as you, I might as well just quit now.”

“What- you haven’t fuckin’ met ‘em yet?”

“Nope. Just you.”

Bakugou doesn’t say anything, but when you glance up at him, he’s not looking at you. His eyes are staring straight past, focusing on a spot on the wall. It might just be the low lighting, but you swore you could’ve seen a smile edging at the corner of his lips.

“Not missin’ much.” He says, clearing his throat. “They’re all losers compared to me.”

You nearly balk at that- the brazen tone catching you by surprise almost as much as the words themselves did. You’re about to scold him, for his hubris and for his attitude, but when you look at him he’s smiling openly. A grin that only widens when you scrunch your eyebrows up.

“You’re too easy, leech.” Bakugou smirks. “Could say anything and you’d flip shit.”

“I would not!”

“What the hell do you call that then?” He nods in the direction of your hands, the way one of them is curled into a fist. “Look pissed to me.”

“That’s not even- and who even gave you the right- you hypocrite!” You sputter, almost growling when Bakugou’s smile just widens. “God, you know what, no- I’m not giving you the reaction. I know that’s all you’re after anyways. Jerk.”

“Been called worse. Gotta up your insult game, dumbass.”

“No, I think jerk suits you fine.” You finish with his bandage, placing his hands on his lap. You stand. “It’s a good name for someone who actively enjoys watching the world burn.”

“To fuckin’ ashes.”

You just rolls your eyes at his confident tone, trying not to screech as he suddenly tips to the side. Just a little, just a teeny bit, but more than enough for him to almost rub the dried blood on his forehead into your cushions.

“Oh my god- where you raised in a barn?” You scramble to tip him back upright, careful to avoid his burns. “You’ve got somebody’s blood! All over your face! Don’t just lay down on my couch!”

“What the hell do you want me to do?” He grumbles tiredly, rubbing a bandaged hand down his face. “Not- ‘m not gettin’ up again.”

“Why?”

“Your stupid quirk fuckin’ zapped me, leech. Your fault, you fix it if there’s such a fuckin’ problem.”

“There is a problem!”

“Okay- so you fix it.”

“You’re- seriously?”

“Yep.”

“Oh my god, you’re irritating.” You sigh, muttering a swear under you’re breath.

Then you’re heading towards your kitchen, tossing the rags you’d already used aside, and grabbing new ones. These are just as soft, because you’re way nicer than deserves, and you run them under warm water. Because, once again, you are way more considerate and kind than he deserves.

You squeeze the excess water out, striding back over to him. You stop behind the back of the couch, gently guiding his head back until he’s looking up at you. In any other situation, you’d probably just tell him to take a shower, but now you can see Bakugou wasn’t kidding- he didn’t look like he was getting up any time soon. Not if he continued to be as boneless and pliant as he seemed at that moment.

When he nods at you insistently, you roll your eyes. You think it’s rich that he’s trying to speed along a process that he’s entirely uninvolved in.

“Jesus, did you have to get so much of it all over you?” You gripe, gently pressing the rag to his cheek. “What’d you do? Stab the guy?”

“No.” He mutters darkly, almost pouting. “And it was a woman. A stupid woman who I had to use my fists against! Bitch could repel my quirk.”

“Okay- well, let’s maybe not call women bitches please-“

“What’s the big deal? I call you a bitch all the time-“

“Yes! I know! That’s the problem!” You sigh, already knowing it was a lost cause. “But still- this is a lot of blood. You really didn’t have to bash her brains in like that.”

“Didn’t. Hit her once- in the nose. Not my fault she fuckin’ sprayed everywhere.”

“No- I’m pretty sure that’s exactly the definition of your fault.”

“Yeah. Whatever. Shut up, leech.”

Then he’s squinting his eyes, falling into silence. You almost want to talk again, but once the quiet settles you find that it’s nice.

He’s a lot calmer now, tilting his head slightly to accommodate wherever you were cleaning. Bakugou mostly keeps his eyes closed, only peeking them open occasionally. It’s a rare glimpse, and he’s careful only to look when you’re not, but you don’t need your quirk to tell what he’s feeling. There’s vulnerability there- the same type of surrender you’ve seen from so many patients before.

You wonder if that would anger or soothe him- the fact that, at his core, Bakugou wasn’t all that different from the people he saved.

“I see you opening your eyes.” You speak quietly, dabbing at a spot of blood near his hairline. “Not falling asleep this time?”

“Nope.”

“Really? Because your eyes are closed right now.”

“And?”

“Kinda makes it seem like you’re falling asleep.”

“I- ‘m not. Shut up.”

You just smile a little bit, wiping away the red staining his forehead. You try your best to be gentle, but a part of you doesn’t think it really matters all that much anymore. Bakugou seemed to be entirely relaxed, going soft and languid into the plush cushioning of your couch.

“You’re lucky I’m nice.” You say, running the rag over a particularly persistent spot of blood. “And that I’m not making you do this yourself.”

“Mhm.”

“That’s all you got? Nothing else to say?”

“Nope. Tired.”

“Go to sleep then. I won’t mind- nothing’s stopping you.”

“Nah.” He breathes out, eyes fluttering beneath his lids. Bakugou goes quiet, so quiet you nearly believe he’s actually fallen asleep, but then he’s clearing his throat, grumbling slightly. “‘s nice.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Shut up.”

“Fine. Fine, whatever you want. You know, since you seem to be pretty intent at making yourself at home here anyways.”

He smiles a little at that, but it’s soft and quickly fading. You think he looks like a different man in that moment- someone much softer and smaller than he really was.

“Stop.” He mumbles. “Stop complaining.”

“Says the man who uses his oxygen to bitch more than he breathes.”

“Oi-“ He peeks an eye open lazily, red eye focusing on you intently. “Watch it, leech.”

“What’re you gonna do? Bleed all over my apartment again- oh, wait.” You joke softly, moving your rag so just the tips of it brushing over his closed eyelids. The way his eyes flutter at that makes you smile. “You already did that, didn’t you?”

“That’s fuckin’ it.”

“What is?”

“Say your prayers.” He threatens vaguely, voice hardly more than a grumble. “You’re dead when I wake up.”

“Meet me at 3 PM in the school parking lot?”

Bakugou cracks another small smile at that, but then he’s smoothing it out. Just as he always does. “Show up late ‘n I’m killing you twice.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. You know where I live, right?”

“Damn straight, woman.”

“Not gonna add shitty in front of that?” You laugh indulgently, swiping the rag near his ear. “Usually that’s your tagline.”

“Nah. Not bein’ that shitty- right now. Still too nice though.”

“Hey, everyone is too nice compared to you- I really don’t think you’re a fair judge.”

“I am.”

“Because you say so, right?”

“Yep. Kill ya if you disagree, so watch your mouth.”

“Colorful threat. I’d almost be scared if you didn’t slur your way through the entirety of it.” You smile, dabbing away the last bit of blood and soot on his cheek. “All done now- so go to sleep. Stop fighting it.”

Bakugou nods. He’s still, much more still than you’ve ever seen him, but there’s still fight in him. He seems determined not to let sleep catch up with him, rubbing loosely at his eyes with a fist; blinking away the bleariness as he regards you once more.

“Thanks.” Is all he mumbles, before closing his eyes, falling back entirely boneless once more.

You’re shocked- rooted where you stand just few inches above him.

“Did- did you just-“

“Say anythin’ and it won’t happen again.”

His tone is a little harsh, but the sleepy grin stretched across his face betrays him. Helps you see through the name calling for what it really is: childish mischief.

You think that’s rather fitting. The Bakugou you’d come to know was rather juvenile, after all.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, I’m a bloodsucking parasite. You gotta come up with new material, man.” You flick his forehead lightly. He has almost no reaction, doesn’t even flinch when you make contact. “Alright, now go to sleep. Because, and I mean this with full offense, Bakugou- you look like shit.”

You wonder if you’re toeing the line, playing with dangerous fire, but Bakugou just grins again. A tired, lazy, unbidden thing, that licks rolling warmth at the heels of his next words.

“Only look like shit because I keep associatin’ with you. Rollin’ in it at this point.”

“That’s- Hey!” You sputter, indignant as he peeks an eye open. “Don’t be rude!”

“Kiddin’, leech.”

“You better be.”

“Mhm. Now go away. I’m fuckin’ tired.”

When he tips sideways again, you let him. Bakugou’s still in the bottom half of his hero costume, sure, but he’s not disturbing the bandages on his ribs. There’s no more blood either, so you count it as a win. It takes all over seconds before he’s out, and you wonder just how long he’d been fighting it. Why he’d even do such a thing in the first place.

There’s still something biting at you though- a bit of that cold he’d left you with earlier. Something sympathetic in you aches, and your fingers itch in your gloves. Almost without thinking, you grab the blanket for him. Bakugou hardly reacts when you tuck the cloth around his shoulders, just barely flutters his eyes and snuffles a bit. He pulls his limb in a bit, nestling into the couch and mumbling something you can’t hear.

A part of you knows it pointless, but still, you hope whatever he’s dreaming about is warm.

 --/--

sorry about the wait y’all!! had exams n felt a bit burnt out :// 

all good now tho!! refreshed n excited haha,, i hope u all enjoyed!!

taglist:  @fluffyviciousbunny @definitelynottrin @imsuperawkward @i-need-air @ahbeautifulexistence @brennabooz @jazzylove @flattykawadoorusmilkbread @katsuki-bakubabe @sorrythatspussynal @bakugouswh0r3 @cloudsgathering @un-limit-edd @thekatsukisimp @pollayra21 @the2ndl @officialtrashbusiness @waffleareniceandfluffy @monempathieetmoi @koiwoshinai @christianagrace9  @the2ndl @the-shota-king-masayuki @shy-panda02 @devastyle @shoto-supremacy00

[bunnys-beetlejuice-blog]

come on in, folks, i got some kind of goof ass Beetlejuice/Evil Dead crossover for you to enjoy.

He’s eighteen, and it’s Saturday, which means that he and Lydia are wandering around Manhattan, looking for trouble to get into. Lydia, eleven and ever his little shadow, is standing next to him, as they take a moment, on the busy New York street corner, to sip their boba and think about their next move. They were meant to be watching some horror movie that had looked alright from the previews, but ended up being so stupid, it wasn’t even fun, and the Deetz siblings had found themselves walking out, one hour poorer but a bucket of overly butter saturated movie popcorn richer. “I still can’t believe how bad that was,” Lydia says, again, huffing, because they’d actually paid money to see that stinker, instead of sneaking in, which is their usual habit. “Ya get one big name attached an’ everyone apparently stops givin’ a shit. Musta figured th’ droolin’ masses would eat it up,” he agrees, and he slurps up the last of his tapioca balls, and then proceeds to eat the plastic straw. “Is it too much to ask that characters actually be interesting, and, I don’t know, behave like normal human people?” Lyds bitches, as BJ takes a bite out of his cup, too. She glances up at him, dryly. “I mean, I guess maybe my standards for normality are low, but still.”

He grins at her. “Whatever could you possibly mean, sister dearest?” he puts on a posh, almost transatlantic accent, and she rolls her eyes, and sucks boba up in her straw, then shoots the pearls at him like a pea shooter. He snorts and laughs.

It’s a good day, despite the letdown at the movies. It’s nearly that time of year, just about the start of his seasonal depression, as the sun becomes shy and things go cold and gray. Still, there’s some time left with the sunshine, so he’s drinking it up, savoring it, and it feels good, to stand here with Lyds, and talk about nothing. “Alright, come on, let’s second act it,” he grins, and she perks up. “I think Wicked’s playing!” “Wicked’s always playin’.” “Well, I’m not sitting through Hamilton, it’s a Saturday. I’m not learning if I don’t have to.” “Totally fuckin’ fair. Music Man, maybe?” “Hugh Jackman’s weirdly brick shaped head freaks me out.” “There’s gotta be a show we can sneak into,” BJ frowns, scratching at the scruff of his chin, and then he catches a scent he’s never smelled before, as Lydia puzzles through their remaining options. It’s like death, sort of, but not. Like death warmed over, or death, refried. He takes his sister’s hand, and leads her away from the street corner, following the smell, nose in the air, pupils blown wide, and Lydia laughs. “Great, time to go poke a dead thing. That’s more fun than The Last Four Years, at least.” She’s seen him go like this before, and thinks she knows what to expect.

Neither of them know how to react when they follow the scent down an alleyway and see the violent fight happening in front of them.

Parked at the far end of the alleyway is a car, some 70’s make that he doesn’t know enough about such things to name, and between it, and the Deetz siblings, is an one handed man absolutely going feral on a group of three refried dead smelling zombie… things. “Deadly-vu,” he hears Lydia whisper, as they watch the man perform a scissor kick that sends a zombie head flying. It bounces like a basketball against the brick wall that makes the alleyway, rolls, and lands at the Deetz sibling’s feet. There’s a beat, as they stare at it, and it stares back, before the head on the ground opens its mouth and speaks. “DEMON!” it shrieks, and then it makes the life ending choice to roll at Lydia, teeth bared, and his boot is going through it, crushing through the skull like an overly juicy bug under his heel. He takes a second to wipe the gore from his sole onto the pavement. “Maybe Wicked could be good,” he turns and says to Lydia, who responds by ducking behind him, because the body the head formerly belonged to seems to be stumbling at them, clutching something in it’s boiled and infected and puss covered arms, and it thrusts the thing at BJ, before falling down and collapsing into dust. It’s a book. Some kind of creepy old demon book, from the look of it. He wrinkles his nose in vague disgust, and then takes a sniff. If the zombie things are refried death, this thing is a whole fucking Mexican food buffet of it, and it makes his head spin in a way he’s never felt before. He kind of likes it. He’s about to give the cursed reading material a tentative lick before a boom rings out from in front of them- the one handed man has pulled a sawed off shotgun off his back, and dispatched another corpse thing. There’s one left, and it’s circling the man, who by this point is so blood covered, he looks like he was tricked into being prom queen, or something.

“Is it just me, or do you freaks just keep gettin’ uglier?” the man quips, and the corpse lunges, a stumbling move which earns it the butt of the shotgun to the jaw, which goes flying. The zombie is shot through the gut, and drops, but is a twitching, squirming mess. BJ’s seen enough horror movies to know that thing is getting back up. The stranger has apparently, too. He takes a moment to reload the shotgun, then double taps, blowing clean through the thing’s skull. He blows at the slightly smoking barrels of his sawed off, twirls it, and holsters it, re-slipping it onto his back. It’s a pretty cool move, actually, and the siblings watch in rapt attention. It takes the three remaining people (well, two people, one demon,) in the alley a moment to actually focus on each other, and there’s silence, before the stranger speaks. “Uh,” says the man, covered in blood, and Lydia peaks out from behind BJ, and stares at him, with big eyes. “Kids,” he hears the man mutter. “Great, just what I need, a coupla kids, gettin’ in my way.. Hey, kiddies,” he says, louder, with a smile, which might be really charming when he’s not soaked in rot and blood, but the effect at the moment is not as sincere and friendly as he clearly thinks it is. “Looks like you two little heroes managed to wrangle my book away from those deadites. You wanna do your pal Ash a favor, and hand it over?” He makes a “come here” motion with his stump arm, and then seems to realize that’s not so appealing, because he tucks that appendage behind his back, worried, suddenly, about scaring them. As if a man with a missing hand is the weirdest thing they've seen in the last five minutes.

“What the fuck,” Lydia says, and BJ can’t help but agree with that sentiment. Also, he feels a vague sense of sudden responsibility for this weird old tome. It doesn’t exactly seem like the kind of thing a human should have. Maybe those zombies… deadites? Maybe they were trying to get back what was stolen from them. Though he’s not charitable enough to assume that they’re the good guys in this feud. The stranger, Ash, takes a careful step forward. “It’s alright,” he says, like he’s talking to a wild animal he’s trying to tame, and not a teen and preteen, respectively. “I’m not gonna hurtcha. Just need to get my book back.”

A sudden screeching wind roars down the alleyway, and both living humans react, ducking, as it bellows and swirls around them, kicking up dust and trash and chunks of leftover deadite. “Demon! Aid us!” BJ feels a presence in front of his face, something he can’t see, but a great, ancient something, reaching out to him, demanding, begging, pleading, for him to assist in whatever macabre goal it wants to meet. He responds by sticking his unglamoured tongue out at it. “Ewww, gross. No.”

The thing shrieks again, and makes a beeline for Lydia, which is just about the stupidest thing it could have done, because he drops his glamour fully and snarls, gives the ancient being a psychic push back, and he sends the thing that cannot be seen flying, out of the shady darkness of this alleyway, past what he assumes to be Ash’s car, and out onto the city street, into the sun. It shrieks and moans and curses him. He flips it off, as it dissipates. The vibe in the air, however, tells him it’s not “dead,” just gone.

Ash straightens up and looks at him. BJ’s already slipped his human disguise back on, so the effect is that Ash has just seen what seems to be a slightly too pale and definitely overweight human teen somehow push back an ancient evil, totally unaffected. Now it’s his turn to let out a confused, “What the fuck?”

“Come on, BJ!” Lydia grabs her big brother’s arm and pulls him away, running from the gore and the confused zombie slayer. “Wait, kids-!” Ash rounds the corner, after them, but the Deetz siblings are already gone, disappeared into thin air, flash stepping the span of blocks in the blink of an eye, and they don’t stop until Lydia, sick from the teleportation, gives his hand a squeeze. They appear on a rooftop, confusing and traumatizing some pigeons that had been roosting.

“Wait, why did we run?’ BJ asks, and Lydia looks at him like he’s a moron. “Because that guy was clearly a monster hunter! And kind of really good at it!” she says. He mulls that over, and smiles. “Worried for your big bro?” he bats his eyelashes at her, and she responds by slugging him in the gut, which he reacts the barest amount to. “Last thing I want is to explain to mom and dad how you ended up with a shotgun blast through your skull,” she says, and crosses her arms, before leaning forward, to study the book he’s still holding. “So. What is that?” He grins. “Wanna open it an’ find out?” Read the rest of the first chapter here!

[paisley-print]

3:00am : George Strait Sang It Better.

About:  The two of you make your way home from the bar... 

Rating: SFW

Word count: 1635

Characters: Agent Whiskey x Reader

Warnings: HEAVY ANGST I AM SO SORRY (no I’m not hehehe), Curse words, fluff, mentions of death, grief, mentions of alcohol, mentions of vom*t ,implied age gap. 

NOTE: Not me making myself cry....not that. Also I love country music y'all can square up on me if you like. I find it funny how I am turning this satire of a character into a Nicholas sparks protagonist. Wild.

MIDNIGHT MASTER LIST

3:00am : George Strait Sang It Better

“I’m not drunk.” 

Jack had you slung over his shoulder “I don’t believe that’s a correct statement.”

“Are you proud of me for beating all those guys at pool?”

“Are you kidding? Of course I am sugar, you know…. I think the whole bar was lookin’ to take you home after that.”

Jack had spent most of the night sitting back and watching you interact with the other patrons. How you flitted about like a little fairy; all giddy and flushed from the alcohol.  He enjoyed seeing men and women ogle over you. The looks on their faces when he scooped you up to leave was priceless. 

“Wha?! No! Only you can take me home!”

He smirked “that is right babygirl- only me.”

You giggled and whispered to him, “Jack?”

He whispered back to you “what?”

“May I smack your ass please?”

You heard him chuckle “only cuz you asked so nicely.”

You gave his ass a light tap “boop”

“Excuse me mam I said smack not a boop. My ass is too incredible to have it booped.”

“Well, I booped you- watcha gonna do about it?”

“Might not help you take off your makeup when we get home.”

You gasped dramatically, “you wouldn’t dare!”

“Try me honey,” he shot back. 

You cleared your throat, “wait, put me down.”

His brows knit together, “you gotta throw up?” 

You hummed in response.

He took you by the waist and placed you down, keeping his hands there to make sure you didn’t take a header into the brick wall.

Before he could react you flashed him a bright grin, broke from his touch and proceeded to skip down the street. It took him a second to realize he had been conned; he had to jog a little to keep up with you. “Girl, where in the hell do you think you’re goin’?....... y/n?”

“Do you hear that?” You asked, rounding the corner onto a totally empty side street. This side of town was mostly strip malls and county buildings.  A record store was playing music from inside...it floated through the street and echoed lazily into the humid June night. “My father used to sing this song to me.”

The song was a cover of ‘Cross My Heart’ written by George Strait but sung by Dierks Bentley. “God I haven’t heard this song in years” you breathed, making your way into the street and laying down under the streetlamp.  You sang along, “I cross my heart And promise to, Give all I’ve got to give, To make all your dreams come true.”

Jack stood off to the side, getting more and more frustrated. “I’m not gonna scrape you off the sidewalk if you get hit.”

You laughed, unable to see that he was upset…. “hit by what? All the cars?” The street was completely deserted, most everybody was home in bed. “You will always be the miracle, That makes my life complete, And as long as there’s a breath in me, I’ll make yours just as sweet.” 

Jack shook his head, shifting uneasily on his feet. 

It was an absolutely beautiful night- full moon, warm, not a single cloud obstructing the sky. You gasped and sat up “Jack please dance with me!”

“I’m tired, put your shoes on- let’s go-”

You gave him the puppy dog eyes “but it’s perfect! The song is almost over anyway-” 

He snapped, losing his temper and shouting at you. “What part of I’m fucking tired do you not understand? Come get your shoes and stop acting like a goddamn child!”

You stared at him wide eyed while the music played on.  The two of you had little spats in the past….but you had never seen him do anything close to that.  Sobriety struck you in an instant. You held tears back and pulled yourself from the asphalt.  Silently, you took your shoes from him and placed them on your feet.

His tone was still a little harsh but not nearly as bad as before, “you want me to carry you?”

“No” you said quickly “I can walk - thank you.”

-

Jack pulled the car to a stop at an empty intersection and waited for the light to turn green.

You were the first one to speak “sometimes I get too excited and act stupid... I apologize for not listening to you when you said you wanted to go. I’ll listen better next time.”

He sighed and hesitated, “I’m sorry I didn’t dance with you.”

You shrugged, “it’s okay, you were tired...plus George Strait sang it better anyway.”

“No, it’s not that-” 

You could tell that he was fighting something, but you didn’t know what. His lack of verbal communication frustrated you at times, however it was something you had been learning to accept. Each day you noticed his tells and from those you would peace together how he was feeling. He would get boisterous when he was nervous, silent when he was focused, chatty when content...so on and so forth.

Although you would rather him tell you these things, you understood that he was a man raised in a way that forbade overly emotional declarations. He was getting better the safer he felt with you and it was okay that he wasn’t perfect with it just yet. Jack had spent years shutting people out, it was going to take time for him to break the habit.

“-that was my wedding song,” he confessed.

You nodded slowly, showing him that you were listening.

“You looked so fuckin’ beautiful and just - happy…….” he sighed again. “It’s uh- do you know that the two of you share the same birthday? I didn’t realize it until the other day when you mentioned yours …...three hundred and sixty five days in a year, what are the fuckin’ odds?” 

The light turned but he didn’t move, he was staring transfixed at the road - his mind somewhere far. You watched him remember her and a life that no longer existed. He always had a certain look about him when he was thinking of her. You couldn't really put it into words; he just seemed so at peace with the world….like the burden of loss wasn't weighing him down.

His hands gripped the wheel tighter “the birthday you have coming up will make you one year older than she ever got to be…. It’s like one day I woke up and twenty-four years have come and gone overnight.”

He started to choke up a little, but fought against it. “ I don’t know why it just hit me all of a sudden. I can go weeks, months, without feeling upset. Then one little thing just sets it off and everything comes rushing back at once…. and it hurts the same way it did then.”

His breathing hitched in his chest,  you could tell that he was probably on the verge of a panic attack.

You placed a hand on his leg “hey-”

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you. That wasn’t right….. I’m not that person-”

“It’s alright-”

“No it’s not. I’m sorry if I scared you and I’m sorry that I’m talkin’ about this. I know you probably don’t want to hear it-”

“Jack” you spoke softly in an attempt to stop his spiraling. “I always want to hear about what you’re going through. No matter what it is…..your wife, she sounds amazing.”

He reached down to take your hand, squeezing it gently. 

You brushed your thumb across his knuckles. “If you ever need to talk about her you can, I hope you know that. And what you said about it all rushing back….grief is not linear. It's not something that has a start and end...instead it’s like a box with a little ball inside. Every time the ball hits the side of the box you feel upset. Like tonight-”

Your other hand reached up to tuck a little strand of hair behind his ear, while you went on… “At first the box is tiny and the ball hits the sides of it often. However as time goes on the box gets bigger. Meaning that the ball has much more space to travel until it hits the sides.”

You paused for a moment to let him follow along. “You grew up with her; she is literally woven into the fabric of your soul. You are allowed to miss her and miss her deeply. Even after all this time. It is okay.  In the same breath though, you are also allowed to be happy. I know you carry around guilt - I see it in you constantly…….  but there was nothing you could have done Jack.”

You placed a finger under his chin and turned his head to face you, “and you didn’t scare me. You just caught me off guard is all.”

“I wish I danced with you,” he said softly. 

“We’ll have plenty of time to dance, Jack.”

He looked so utterly exhausted; you dropped your hand to let him focus back on the road. “Yeah” he agreed, then lifted his foot off the break to continue on.

The open windows let wind rush through the cabin. He kept a tight hold on your hand, it was the only thing keeping him grounded at the moment.

An idea surfaced in your mind….  “I think we should include her this year. We can pick up some flowers - maybe a little toy for the baby, and have a picnic. I’ll make cupcakes and we can blow out a candle for her as well ….would that be something you want to do?”

He rubbed his eyes and nodded. 

“Then that’s what we’ll do.”

“Thank you.”

You smiled softly “you don’t have to thank me Jack.”

[unpack-my-heart]

i am no bird (no net ensnares me)

The first time Eddie decided to leave for the bright lights of the big city, it was a rainy Tuesday afternoon in January and he’d been drunk on a fermenting promise to himself that was becoming slippery. So slippery was this promise that at any moment he feared he’d drop it, and it would splatter on the floor, messy and irrecoverable. He was nineteen years old; old enough to know better but young enough that his hare-brained decisions could be written off as the recklessness of a youth not yet over. When he’d told the others that he was planning to leave, with the phone crackling wildly under the strain of their seven way conversation, they had all whooped loudly, cheering a victory that he hadn’t yet won.

“I knew this would be the year you’d leave, Eds! I could feel it in my dick”

Fucking gross.

After he’d chewed Richie out for being crude, faux-annoyance honeying his words, he’d remained silent for a very long time, listening to the others trip and stumble over each other, babbling about how good emancipation felt, how the air had never tasted as sweet as it had the day they’d left, the day they’d left Derry and never looked back.

He’d planned to leave, had always meant to leave, had gotten as far as idly scrolling through flight schedules late at night, the moon watching him with her soft, sceptical gaze, but something held him back. The invisible red tether that cut deep welts into his heart tightened viciously whenever the thought of leaving fluttered through his brain, butterfly smooth.  His mother tugged on the tether, and reminded Eddie that his wings had been clipped a long time ago.

When Richie left Derry, nearly two years ago, Eddie hadn’t cried. Dry-eyed, face bright and free from tear-tracks, he’d rubbed soothing circles into Richie’s back as Richie cried, great heaving sobs that dampened Eddie’s almost-scratchy jersey sweater. He’d cried on Eddie’s shoulder for eons of time that they didn’t have, until Richie’s phone began to buzz fiercely. Eddie’s eyes remained firmly, petulantly dry. They’d remained dry when Richie told him, in a voice thick with sorrow, that out of all the Losers, out of all the people he’d ever met and even the people he hadn’t, that his Eds was his favourite. Eddie’s eyes remained dry when he watched Richie shove his guitars and the half-broken metal box full of old mixtapes into his half-broken old car that wheezed almost as much as Eddie did. The car sagged under the weight of Richie’s entire life, with no room for Eddie to clamber in, to mould himself around the suitcases. Eddie’s eyes remained dry as he watched Richie drive mouse-slow out of the driveway, and they’d remained dry when Richie shouted out of the window,

“I’ll never forget you, Eds! Not ever! I’ll always remember you and those fucking shorts!”

Those shorts remained folded away in the back of his wardrobe, unworn, unloved, almost-forgotten.

Eddie didn’t leave.

The second time Eddie decided to leave for the bright lights of the big city, he was twenty-four years old, and working full time at the pharmacy that he’d spent so many wasted hours in over the years, queueing up dutifully, waiting for the prescription to be filled, jittering from foot to foot, as if the verruca cream piled haphazardly on the shelf to his left would leap at him. He’d hop from foot to foot, wondering whether these pills would stop the bruising of his heart, or the mocking voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like his own, “you’re cracked you’re damaged you’re ruined”. So many years and so many sugar pills, enough to turn his stomach and make his teeth itch.

The pharmacy was much the same as it ever was, a stagnant pool suspended in the centre of the roaring sea. Aisles of cough syrup and dandruff shampoo bracketed the counter, and Eddie spent his days drumming his fingers on the counter, each pound of each pad against the dull white surface a declaration, a plea.

“You’re never going to leave if you don’t do it now. Rip the band-aid off, Eds, and stop being such a fucking pussy!”

Richie was right in that very frustrating way that Richie was always, always, right, especially when it came to Eddie and his pathological tendency to self-sabotage himself into oblivion. Rather than cradle his life in both of his hands, a fragile little thing that needed nurturing, Eddie had instead condemned it to a solemn existence of apathy and a pretentious sort of melancholy, all the while staring at the little white pills that he’d taken for so long; the little white pills that took the pain away only until they didn’t anymore, lined up neatly in their piss-coloured plastic bottles on the shelves of the pharmacy.

He’d packed his bags with all the gusto he could manage that evening shoving t-shirts and pressed, crisp chinos into an old, dusty rucksack with wild abandon, until he stopped. He stopped, and stared at the bag, really stared at it, and dropped the sweatshirt he’d been holding to the floor. He hadn’t packed his favourite books, the movie ticket stubs he’d saved from when Richie took hilton see the new Star Wars and Eddie had complained bitterly about how ridiculous it was until he’d annoyed Richie so much that he’d been dragged forcefully from the theatre, and they’d gone for burgers instead. There was no room for his favourite shoes, the sweater with the holes in it that Bev had leant him when he was cold and then given to him because the dull purple made the green in his eyes shine brightly, a freshly cut lawn on a summer morning.

Eddie emptied the contents of the bag onto the floor, and stepped over it. Tomorrow, he assured himself, tomorrow he’d leave. Tomorrow.

Eddie didn’t leave.

The third time Eddie decided to leave for the bright lights of the big city, he was thirty-three years old and couldn’t remember why California called his name so loudly, why its siren call echoed across the country, fingers beckoning, seducing. California, a nihilistic melting pot of overworked and underpaid wage slaves who bowed to the corporate bell and submitted themselves to the scrutinizing eye of the Silicon Valley start-ups. That’s what his mother had told him when she’d loomed over his shoulder, pin-ball eyes scanning the screen of his computer. There was nothing there for Eddie, a pharmacist with two degrees under his belt but no actual understanding of how the world worked beyond the safe confines of his small town existence. Highways, supermarkets with more than ten aisles, electric cars, save the turtles, sandals in winter and heatstroke in summer, sweat on your upper lip and tan lines on your knees. California.

His phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Is this Eds? Eds Kaspbrak?”

“Don’t call me that! Uh … Who is this?”

“It’s … Rich. Richie?”

A question, not a statement, as if the caller is asking, is that okay? Is it okay that this is Richie?

“Richie? Richie who?”

A pause that stretches like tar, sticky and black.

“Oh shit!”

Remembrance slammed into Eddie, sucker-punch strong. He remembered a tangled mop of dark brown hair, often flecked with paint. He remembered bucked teeth and freckles that skated across skin like grains of sand tossed up in wind. He remembered the lisp, and the gangly limbs that hung awkwardly, octopus limbs that were too long, too grabby, too energetic.

“Richie fucking Tozier!”

“The very same, Eds. Gotta be honest, I was sort of hoping you wouldn’t pick up, that some housewife would answer all, ‘he doesn’t live here anymore’, but … here you are.”

“Here I am.”

“Still there.”

“Still here,” Eddie confirmed, and his gut trembled with the sort of embarrassment that hung in the air low and heavy, like smoke. Like smog.

“I’m in California,” Richie says eventually, “got a sweet little place on the oceanfront, if you ever … y’know …”

Oh. There it is. The static that had been buzzing around Eddie’s brain when he thought of California, the angry bees that stung him for not remembering finally subdued, finally dropped down dead, because Richie was on the other end of the phone, still lisping, voice a little deeper, a little hoarser, a few too many cigarettes and not enough sleep, perhaps, but he was there, and Eddie had remembered.

“Ocean front, you say?”

The most reckless thing Eddie had done before this was leave the house during a torrential rainstorm with only a showerproof coat, knowing full well that the long fingers of Flu would be tapping at his arms in the morning. Now, here he was, sitting in a tacky sea-food restaurant, pushing prawns around on his plate, with someone he hasn’t seen for over a decade, and he’s drunk. Not too drunk, he can still see without his vision blurring, can still count all of the wrinkles that texture the canvas of Richie’s face, and the freckles. He’s not too drunk to wonder whether these are new freckles, or whether these are the same freckles that he used to stare at when they were lying in the quarry, shirts off and chests to the sky, sunning themselves like heat-starved lizards.

Nevertheless, here he is, Richie Tozier, stuffing paella into his face with one hand and waving wildly in the air with the other as he talks through bites of rice.

“Do you remember when you got kicked out of band?”

Richie groans, wounded.

“Don’t fucking remind me, I was scrubbing the deck for weeks after that old trout rang my mother. Real pissed she was, insisted that trombones are certainly not supposed to be used for such nefarious activities. I still think she shoulda’ been more adventurous”

“I’ll never forget the look on her face, Rich, she was so ready to beat the absolute living shit out of you!” Eddie brayed, stray pieces of pasta escaping his mouth as he spoke, disgusting, but in the dim light of the restaurant, Eddie didn’t care.

The wind whipped at Eddie’s face when they staggered out of the restaurant three hours and ninety dollars later, and Richie grabbed at Edide’s chin roughly.

“You never left, did you?”

“You know I fuckin’ didn’t”

“I shouldn’t have left without you, I never should have left you there.”

Eddie pushed at Richie, gentle enough not to hurt but with enough force that Richie staggered backwards. “It wouldn’t have made a difference. I’ve grown roots, Rich. I’m … I’m stuck there, like one of those plants that hibernates over winter but blooms in summer. I would have dragged you down with me.”

Richie readjusted his grip on Eddie’s chin, and tipped Eddie’s head up. Their eyes met.

“I nearly kissed you when I left, you know.” Richie said. “I really nearly did, got this close, but you looked so …”

“So what?”

“Fine. You looked fine. You didn’t even cry.”

Eddie blinked. “I cried every day for a month after you left. Then every other day for at least six after that. I cried so much my mother sent me to the fucking doctor because she thought I had hysteria.”

Richie barked out a laugh, a sad wet noise that sounded more like a sob. “I left you.”

Eddie pushed his face up, out of Richie’s grip, and pushed his lips against Richie’s trembling ones. The kiss is small, timid and Richie wrapped his arms around Eddie’s shoulder and clung, limpet-like.

It doesn’t last. Richie’s crying too much.

The next day, Eddie leaves.

The fourth time Eddie decided to leave for the bright lights of the big city, he leaves, and never looks back.

(this has been sat in my drafts since early March.)

[getallemeralds]

explorers of arvus: heading back / 3.11.21

zoom and enhonse

LAST TIME ON ARVUS taure passed out and we are now down a healer! also we met a disciple of halvkar, and surprisingly did not murder her. this is fine. we have instantly gotten distracted by our various carts. cats. our various cats

DID ANY OF US CATCH TAURE, SHE FELL OVER sieron tried to catch her and smacked charlie+thorne in the face (he rolled a nat1, f) BUT the catboy is to the rescue bc silje is the designated Not Incompetent of the group today

CONSULT THE CHILD hewwo yrel yrel: her mind is being consumed by the serpent of nightmares. :D charlie: HELLO?????//

so, dendar(?) the night serpent is imprisoned beneath arvus! she was formed from the nightmares of the first sentient being, and sometimes she eats people's nightmares. if she's exceptionally hungry, she'll force nightmares onto people for her to feed off their fear. yrel thinks taure will Probably wake up. there's a thing on arvus mentioned by the locals called a "sleeping sickness" where people will fall asleep for a few days, sometimes longer, but will wake up. its magical in cause, the people afflicted by it have horrific nightmares, and its just kinda. a thing. wowza

(i have gone back to spelling yrel's name as yrel bc i think it looks nice)

OH HEY SOMEONE POSTED A THEORY ON ONE OF MY STICKMOLUS ANIMATIONS man i should get back to stickmolus sometime. once dsmp releases its awful grip on me.

i keep getting distracted by seeing myself in the camera preview. i have a tooth gap! what the fuck its cute?? K I KNOW WE'RE SUPER BLURRY IN FRONT RN BUT PLEASE HELP ME STAY FOCUSED I SWEAR -leo

we're gonna build a sled! to put taure on. thorne: i have a good strength score. ....i say, out loud charlie: i am four feet tall. [cue argument between thorne & sieron about them both being horcs but sieron has a +0 bc strength is his dump stat] OH, OKAY, THORNE ROLLED A NAT20 TO CARRY TAURE. NICE

[discussion about what to tell everyone at camp vengenace] thorne: the last thing we need to do is a witch hunt charlie: --and we already hunted the witch! the witch has been hunted.

time to discuss strategy! we need to figure out how to head back to camp vengeance, eg if we want to follow the path we already took or if we wanna do some trailblazing. looks like we're gonna try and take the most direct path! which means we'll prolly risk tangoing with some undead but im willing to risk it TINY HUT STAIRCASE sorry i just remember it now and then

nyx: [meowing at his cats] thorne: uh... why is silje meowing? jorb: silje's food bowl is empty jorb: you look at silje's food bowl and there's a divot in the middle and the food is all on the sides emotionally, we must bully the catboy silje saw something interesting and started meowing

thorne: ill take first watch silje: ill also take first watch. charlie: [quietly] gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyy (but, like, extended for 15 seconds)

silje: [takes watch] [rolls a nat1 and gets distracted by looking at his crush]

THORNE HAS LOCATED A DOG the dog does not give a shit about the tiny hut. THE DOG HAS PEED ON THE TINY HUT goodbye dog

EVERYONE IS ROLLING AT LEAST 1 NAT1 thorne: wow! that sure is a dog. thorne has drawn the worst possible dog. thorne has erased the worst possible dog. we dont speak of the worst possible dog its the dog version of honse. DONSE

sieron is now on watch! MAN we are havin trouble rolling today. at least kali's here to make sure sieron doesnt stare at a rock for 50000 years sieron sees a mouse! bottom text

charlie is now on watch! kali is havin a big ol thonk. nothing meaningful has come of this

i am perceiving some deer. sieron is not perceiving some deer. silje is perceiving some deer, but better the deer are fucked up and undead! silje has gone from "we should hunt these deer for food" to "we should hunt these deer for sport"

charlie: i do not feel like being jumped by five thousand skeletons

charlie takes first watch with sieron! WHY ARE OUR ROLLS SO TERRIBLE taure is super cursed right now. that's not very pog charlie: this place sucks. thorne: to be fair, we havent-- charlie: YOU'RE ASLEEP, SHUT UP

oh hey coolname galvanic finally partied. nice.

thorne is at watch! solar: hey, is leomund's tiny hut an orb? there's a critter digging around! AH, THE CRITTER IS UNDEAD. this could be a problem

solar: hey michael, how much does the horrific sin against god dog i drew look like this creature michael: [dice roll noises] about 50%.

michael: if anyone likes, they can make a nature check-- solar: ME MEMEMEMEME ME ME ME

its a bulette! aka a land shark. problem: they are not normally undead. this one is undead.

jorb: imagine if you could tame one of those and use it as a mount. leo: IT WOULD JUST DIG UNDERGROUND AND LEAVE YOU THERE

we are just calling it a weird dog

we're going to mail a letter to the heart of arvus. HEY, CHECK OUT THIS WEIRD DOG,

JORB FOUND ART OF A BABY BULETTE. WEIRD PUPPY!

solar: hey guys, check out this sick art of a bulette i found

silje kept a lookout for the weird dog but its just fucked off. goodbye, weird dog give it up for day 3!

man there's been like, three incinerations today in blaseball. what's up with that. I SWEAR IM MOSTLY PAYING ATTENTION its just been an eventful day in blaseball. also im wearing my garages bomber rn. jaylen is home wooOOOO the wind smells stinky. this is fine.

we're actively avoiding whatever combat michael keeps nudging at us bc we're carrying around an unconscious person and i SWEAR hes gonna throw something directly at us once he's done with our shenanigans

UHH MICHAEL ASKING FOR PASSIVE PERCEPTION LOL

huh. this place used to be inhabited? we're in the woods rn but there's some like, stone ruins? like, VERY ruins. like, not really any structures standing, but enough evidence to show there Were things. WE FOUND A STATUE charlie: i want to smash my face against the lore.

used to be a circle of standing stones, but most of em fell over or got overgrown. inside of the circle has been cleared, although v roughly-- ground's torn up statue is of fjolnir! warrior holding up a spear and shield. AH, THERE ARE CORPSES, a human got REAL fucked up here. one of the corpses is straight up impaled on fjolnir's spear. n ... not pog.

i am trying so, so hard to pay attention. but i also kinda wanna take a nap.

charlie: [stares at statue] [rolls a 4] i wonder if he had a dick.

okay so something rolled in, tore up the overgrowth inside the circle, and murdered a couple dudes. and was also super tall and human-adjacent. hrm.

oh my god why are we rolling so shit today. time to stealth away and hope we dont get casually dismembered

k: jorb's hair is so long... leo: K, PLEASE,

time for a break! i am very tired but im gonan see if i can push through a little further. nyx is petting his cat why do orangatangs look like that

first watch is thorne and sieron! have they even, like, talked thorne unhabby ): thorne's worried we were tresspassing when checking out the statue, meanwhile im thinking about that one time when sieron got bit by a groundhog

(oh my god this is from late 2018)

leomund's tiny hut, aka the anti-sea bear circle we are getting SO much mileage out of the tiny hut. SILJE HUMS A SONG WITH KALI cute........... FINALLY I HAVE ROLLED ABOVE A 14 wait no i rolled a 16 twice. anyway we are not dead

nearly at camp vengenace! boy howdy i hope camp vengeance didnt get burned down. AH FUCK TAURE IS UNCONSCIOUS SO WE CANT CAST FOR DETECT POISON kaepora nearly made us all shit ourselves but its okay he just saw some bison and thought it was cool Michael Is Consulting Several Tables

WHY DOES JORB'S CAMERA ZOOM LIKE THAT why am i hungry. i have so many questions

HEY, TALL GUY [smacks sieron]

camp vengeance looks better! like, nobody's Obviously Sick anymore, the medical tents arent overfilled, we did it! we saved the dayyyyyy time to report to ryder! taure's getting dropped off at the medical tent

man remember when charlie didnt wear pants

oh man, with taure unconscious charlie is now taking point with social interaction. wild. jk im making jorb do it bc im tired HAHA NAT 20 PERSUASION BC OF ME HELPIN SIERON man ryder is such a cock. he was totally ready to keep throwing troops at heaven's brazier to die until we managed to persuade him out of it. jorb: did we tell ryder about the vision? michael: you kinda just took a look at him and went STINKY BOY!

okay yeah anything that dies on arvus will just pop back up as undead. man, arvus sucks.

ryder: alright, dismissed. charlie: seeya, soldier boy! :D hahahahaha im gonna eat his knees.

SILJE NEEDS ENRICHMENT IN HIS ENCLOSURE

charlie: ive decided he sucks. silje: we've already arrived to that, you're late!

LMAO WE WALKED IN ON INGRID AND HER CRUSH they fuckin. nice. you go, you funky lesbian

jorb: we've got the tiny hut, we could go anywhere leo: we could go to SPACE! nyx: we could not go to space. leo: WITH A TINY HUT STAIRCASE, WE CAN,

we are 320 miles away from the spaceship that exists on arvus. nice.

michael: justin sees you-- roll a strength saving throw. leo: i cant wait to die! [rolls a 3] I AM CRUSHED BY MY DOG michael: he rolled a nat20.

BOSS ENCOUNTER: CHARLIE'S DOG (the small circle next to him is one of the medical tents.)

THORNE IS PACT OF THE GUN solar: PARRY THIS, YOU FUCKING CASUAL

sieron, to ingrid: seems like youve been doing well charlie: i punch sieron. sieron: sieron: the camp, of course.

man we have no idea if the heart of arvus is actually related to the prophecy or not. theres a Lot of stuff lining up, but not enough, and its hard to say how much of it couldve been literal?

solar & michael: [discussing exposition] me: [cracking up bc penn sent me a funny dsmp joke]

prophecies are weird.

charlie is just s she is just sitting here SILJE PLAYED CARDS REALLY GOOD AT ME nyx rolled a nat20 and took all my money

oh cool we can talk to yrel telepathically! time to hoist yrel. THIS IS SO SCUFFED thorne mentioned yrel and now we're trying to explain to ingrid that we have a magic talking snake charlie: I WANT TO GO HOME. thorne: we cant go, we have a GOD-KING to kill! "i think theyre insane, theyre talking to a snake" "ingrid, druids exist" "oh. im gonna go back to getting railed by my 7 foot tall girlfriend"

[unicyclehippo]

As a prompt, Jester being jealous that Beau confides in her mom and not her? But how is Beau gonna talk to her crush about her crush?

loosely following on from the beau escorting marion home fic

//

She returns to the Chateau as the very first hints of dawn begin to bleach the dark from the sky. Beau is cold and shivers in the cold morning air, the light fabric of her suit doing fuck all against the brisk sea wind. The ankles of her pants are rolled halfway up her shins and her feet are bare and slightly damp, as are the cuffs of her pants; partial footprints follow her on the stone of the street, smudged with the same golden sand that clings between her toes and the tops of her feet. She tries to brush it off before she steps inside - rubs one foot onto the other, then switches - but that doesn’t seem to do anything so she gives it up for lost and heads inside, climbing the stairs to the room she has been sharing with Jester and Yasha. Collapses onto her bed, not bothering to pull down the sheets. 

‘Beau?’

‘Fuck. Huh? What? Hey - Jester,’

‘Hey,’ her friend hisses back. In the early morning light that pours in from the window, Beau can see her - sitting up in her bed, blanket clutched to her chest.There is a lot of skin on display, Jester’s nightdress fallen to one side, the shoulder falling down her arm, and she hitches it up and it’s weird, right, because Jester had been in a beautiful dress that had shown off more shoulder than that but it’s so wild and different to see her like that, twirling around a party like a firebug, shining and buzzing with energy and happy, and seeing her here, like this, sleepy and dishevelled, hair no longer in perfectly coifed waves but loose around her shoulders and - 

‘Hey,’ Beau says again, completely out of her own control. It comes out gossamer thin, a word that could be lost by nothing more than an inch too much distance between them; it is the kind of word that hides nothing behind it, and Beau feels entirely split open behind it, like that fragile nothing of a word, that breathed word, is her only defence against Jester seeing everything inside of her. 

Jester’s worried expression breaks for a second. ‘Hey,’ she repeats. ‘You were out all night, are you okay? Mama said you dropped her home and then you went out again?’

‘Oh.’

‘So?’

‘Yeah.’

Jester waits, brows raised. When Beau doesn’t elaborate, Jester wriggles free of her blankets and crosses the room - careful not to rouse Yasha - to slide onto the bed beside Beau. The warmth of her skin after a night of toasting within her blankets is almost infernally hot and Beau is torn between rolling closer and warming up, and tearing herself away. The choice is taken from her when Jester gasps, grabs at her hands, holds them between both of her own and slides close. 

‘Beau,’ she hisses, worried again. ‘What have you been doing? You’re freezing.’

‘I just - went on a walk. Y’know. Nerves fuckin’ frayed from whatever Caduceus did to me. It was -’

‘Yah, he told me after he thinks he might’ve overdone it a smidge.’

‘Just a smidge,’ Beau agrees. ‘I think I’m dumber now. I think I lost some, some of my - um - smarts.’ It has nothing at all to do with the fact that Jester is pressed against her. Jester giggles. ‘Wild, dude. Anyway, yeah, I went on a walk.’

‘But you’re back now.’

There’s a weight to the words that seems out of place until Beau remembers. The hag, the conversation afterwards. 

‘I’m - it was just a walk, Jes.’

She looks up from their joined hands - when had she started staring like that? - and into dark eyes that watch her intently. As Beau returns her gaze, a tiny crease forms between Jester’s brow. She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth - Beau looks there now, forgive her but she has only so much willpower - and when Jester releases it, Beau is too entranced by the faint sheen to her lip where her tongue had glanced across it to comprehend the words Jester mutters until it is too late. She feels something take effect, pulls her hands out from Jester’s and shuffles back in the bed until her back and shoulders hit brickwork; Jester rises up onto her knees, sits back on her heels, and the expression on her face is all too familiar. Victory, clear as day, and the smallest seed of guilt.

‘What was that?’ Beau demands. ‘What did you do?’

‘Um. It was - okay, well, don’t get mad,’

‘I’m already mad,’ 

‘Well don’t be!’ Jester’s voice lifts in pitch, going slightly shrill. ‘It’s just a truth spell or whatever!’

‘A truth spell? Jester - what the hell?’

‘You keep not answering my questions and running away and maybe I’m worried that you’re going to leave or whatever,’ Jester says all in a rush, fingers twisting nervously together, twisting the rings on her fingers. ‘And you’ll talk to Fjord and Yasha and my mama but not me? C’mon man,’ she says, almost a whine. ‘I - I miss you.’ She looks down. Then coyly up again, glancing at Beau from under long lashes still faintly glittering with whatever she’d done to them for the party. Sparkling eyes. ‘Do you miss me?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Beau says before she can stop herself. She wishes the spell felt bad, like having the truth twisted out of her, but it doesn’t. If anything, it tastes like honey. ‘Fuck.’

‘Okay, see, you don’t have to be so angry about this, it’s just a little spell between friends, Beau,’

‘We need to have a serious talk about casting shit on us,’

‘I do not have that spell but I think it would be fun.’

‘I - yes. Yeah, it would. Not on me but, like, on someone else.’

‘For sure, for sure. And see! I know now not to cast that on you because I know you wouldn’t like it because I know you’re telling the truth.’ Jester says it like it’s some kind of victory for Beau. It doesn’t feel like a victory. ‘Um. Are you mad at me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh.’

‘Only a little,’ Beau adds, and she had meant it just to be nice but it must be true as well because the spell allows it. 

‘Oh,’ Jester says again, relieved. ‘Good.’

‘You’re gonna keep asking questions, aren’t you?’

‘It only lasts for ten minutes, Beau, don’t be a baby. What’s your favourite colour?’

Green. Green. Green. ‘Blue.’

Jester tilts her head to the side. Flicks her a curious glance, still from under her lashes. This time, it doesn’t seem manufactured but Beau has been wrong before. ‘Not green?’

‘I like green. People can like multiple colours,’ Beau bites back. Both true statements, technically. 

‘Ye-es,’ Jester agrees. ‘But your favourite colour is blue?’

‘I - ‘ Beau shrugs. If she doesn’t open her mouth, she doesn’t have to answer. That’s how this works. That’s how it works when there are multiple people to distract Jester, but when it is just her it seems not to be the great defence Beau had hoped it would be because Jester doesn’t care all that much about her favourite colour and moves instead into other questions. 

‘Do you prefer sunset or sunrise? Where did you walk this evening? Did you like your suit? Caduceus and I worked really hard to find something you would like.  How many push-ups do you do in the morning?’ On and on, any question that comes to mind, until, ‘What did you talk to my mama about on the way home?’

Jester pauses now for Beau to answer. She doesn’t have Caleb’s mental clock but even she knows that it hasn’t been nearly ten minutes yet. Three, maybe four at most. And Jester is watching and waiting and the longer Beau takes to answer the more suspicious everything gets and,

‘You,’ Beau says. The sweet taste of honey and flower, like honeysuckle, bursts on her tongue as a reward. Fuck but she hates that fucking fey dude so much right now. ‘We talked about you. And adventuring. And being a good liar. And - uh - I don’t remember. I think I said something about how cool it was she came to the party?’

‘That’s it?’

‘I think so? Why? What did she say?’

Jester shakes her head. Her curls brush over the tops of her shoulders. ‘She wouldn’t tell me anything, she can be so mysterious sometimes, it’s so annoying. I mean, I love her or whatever,’ she rolls her eyes, a faint smile on her lips, ‘but she doesn’t have to keep that a secret from me, right? Unless it was like something really interesting.’ Jester’s smile sticks firmly in place as her intent stare sticks Beau firmly in place. ‘Or sad. Did you tell her something sad, Beau?’

Beau presses her lips together. 

Jester swallows. ‘What can you tell my mama that you won’t tell me, Beau?’ She scoots a little closer. Her hand comes out to touch Beau’s - stops a full foot away when Beau pulls it quickly out of reach. ‘Beau?’

‘It’s - ‘ Nothing, she tries to say, and she doesn’t need the spell to tell her that’s a fucking lie. ‘Jester, I really don’t want to talk about this. Please.’

Jester seems to waver on the cusp of dropping the spell or doubling down on her questions. ‘Okay,’ she says. Her tail flexes behind her, almost tying around itself as it folds back, twists and twines. ‘Okay. How about this - how about this, Beau, I get one more question and if you really don’t want to answer it, you don’t have to and then I’ll drop the spell, I promise. Okay?’ Her eyes are glittering like the light off her shoulders, her tattoo, with how much hope shines within them.

Beau is helpless. Beau is hopeless.

‘Fine. Sure. Why not?’

‘Yes!’ Jester hisses. She sits back again on her heels. ‘Um. Okay. One more. A good one.’

Beau sighs. Rubs a hand over her face. 

‘Okay, okay, I’ve got it! I’ve got it.’ She smiles nervously over at Beau. ‘Okay,’ she says again, ‘so, my mama did say something when I asked her about you.’ A drop of ice-cold fear drips into the pit of Beau’s stomach at those words. ‘She said that, um, whatever you had talked about - you...’

‘Ran away,’ Beau finishes for her, voice rough.

Jester nods. ‘I don’t - I don’t need to know what you told her. I don’t mind if you don’t want to tell me, I get it,’ she insists, and it is rapidly becoming clear to Beau that Jester does want to know and she does mind. ‘But my question is - and this is my last one, I promise -’

‘Okay.’

‘My question is...are you done? Running away? Was it - just this? Just tonight? You went on a walk and now you’re back?’ Jester rambles the question, the seven part question all with the same intent behind them, and looks to Beau with wide eyes. Not hope, like Beau had thought. Fear? ‘Are you going to stay? With us? With me?’

Yes, she tries to say. She wants to. She had thought in the moment it would be easy to say yes. No, she tries to say next, because Jester had asked this question of her, the last question of her spell as promised, and Beau is trying to be better about being honest. And maybe, if she tells that truth, maybe it won’t hurt so much when she does leave, they can start the separation process now instead of it hurting so fucking much when it does, inevitably, happen. But she can’t say that either. 

‘Fuck,’ Beau mutters. Scrubs a hand over her face. It’s rough, with callouses and with sand, and the sensation is grounding. She breathes out a sigh. ‘I don’t know,’ she admits. The spell lets her say it.

Jester’s expression drops, eyelids fluttering as she absorbs the shock of the honest answer. ‘Oh.’

She lifts a hand to dispel her magic. Beau grabs at her wrist, holds it a moment, pausing it. 

‘I’m trying to do better. To be better,’ she tells Jester truthfully. ‘I’m trying really hard.’

‘I know.’

‘I don’t want to leave. Is that - is that enough for you?’

Jester’s vaguely stoic expression softens. The sadness comes through powerfully, the sadness she had masked neatly at hearing Beau’s answer, but tumbling at the end of it is a kind of a hope. A sweet, sad kind of look like Beau has said something unexpected. 

She hadn’t thought it was unexpected. She’s said it before. 

‘That’s enough,’ Jester agrees. ‘For now. I’ll just have to work on some way to get you to stay.’ She frees her wrist from Beau, squeezes her hand quickly, fondly, and with a flick of her wrist the spell is scattered. Then, Jester lays down with her head on Beau’s pillow and makes herself comfortable.

Beau blinks. ‘That’s...my pillow.’

‘You need to learn to share.’

‘I share,’

‘You don’t do it nicely. I’m an only child, you know, and I share better than you do.’

‘No, you don’t. And just because I have a kid brother it doesn’t mean that I wasn’t an only child for the vast majority of my life.’ Beau adjusts herself, lays stiff as a board beside Jester on the bed. There’s enough space for the two of them to not touch but Jester wriggles close again and drags the blanket up and over the both of them. ‘Sorry. If I made you worry.’

Jester hums. Throws an arm over Beau’s waist and cuddles close. ‘You did,’ she tells her. Yawns.

‘Oh.’

‘It’s not an if, is what I’m saying.’

‘Right, right.’

‘I worry, Beau.’ Then, very quietly, so quietly Beau thinks she imagines it at first, she says, ‘Love you.’

All the tension leaves Beau’s body. She feels like she’s melting into the pillow, the weight of the day that has pressed so powerfully down upon her letting up and she is no longer human, no longer held into an integral form by anything, and just melts. She’s warm with Jester wrapped around her, and the blanket, and the bed is wonderfully soft. And she has zero mental capacity to lie, or deflect, or even think about defending herself. 

‘Oh Jes,’ she says, turns her head so she can look into the face of her friend. ‘I love you too.’

[sunflowersunshinevol6]

Garden of Eden

Vampire!Harry x POC!OC

A/N: something I've worked on for a while. This will be a multi chapter fic. I really hope you guys enjoy the first chapter. I might just post the rest on Wattpad. Here's my link to that. Let me know your thoughts. Lots of love

-Shay

Warnings: racism, death, depression, alcoholism

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I've got promises to keep, and miles to go, before I sleep."

-Robert Frost

New Orleans, Louisiana 1894

  "We can't keep meeting here," Charlotte whispered, back pressed to the large oak tree. Harry smiled down at her, brushing his fingers over her lips lightly and relishing in the way she leaned into his touch.

"It's the only place we can be darling," he whispered, lips brushing against her cheek. She leaned her head against his shoulder, pulling him closer to her by the lapels of his jacket.

"I mean it Harry." She pushes on his shoulders, looking into his eyes sadly. "This is the last time we meet like this." He takes a step back, creating space between them, an uneasy feeling building in his belly.

"You want to break this off? But I love you." He goes to hold her but she steps out of reach.

"Harry you're married....This can never go anywhere good. And if I end up pregnant." She shudders, tears welling in her eyes. "Harry I love you too. I do. Truly. But you know what will happen to me-"

"Nothing's going to happen-"

"How can you say that?" She snaps, eyes wild. "I work in your home. I work for your wife. Do you not think she'll find out you come to the servants quarters?" Harry feels the blood drain from his face. He knows she's right.

He takes in the beautiful girl he's fallen in love with. Her black curls pulled back into a bun, but her hair is too curly, some hair spills out over her forehead and by her ears, down the back of her neck. Her brown eyes shining with tears and her brown skin glowing in the sunset. He knew she was in danger everytime they met. And she still risked it all for him.

She can see his distress, softening she goes to him, letting him wrap his arms around her tightly, he buries his face in her shoulder as she wraps her own arms around him, not wanting to ever let go.

"You're all I've ever wanted Charlotte. You know this don't you?" She kisses the side of his face lightly before pulling away.

"I know."

    Pretending to love Antoinette was easier than Harry had ever thought possible. The marriage, if you could call it that, had been arranged by her father and his mother back in England. It had been the right thing to do, to save his mother and sister from destitution. But to be in the same house with the one he truly loved and to not have her haunted him. They brushed by each other without a word, nothing spoken between them. It was like they were strangers and Harry felt empty.

"Harold? Are you listening?" Harry looked up across the dining table to his wife. She was beautiful. Fair skin, tosy cheeks, blonde hair, blue eyes. But he could never find it in himself to love her. Not the way he loved Charlotte.

"I'm sorry dear," he clears his throat, sitting straighter. "Do tell me again?" Her eyes narrow slightly before she continues. "Charlotte. She's pregnant." Harry feels his heart drop to the pit of his stomach, but he catches his jaw before it drops.

"Oh?" He cuts into his steak, seemingly uninterested. "I didn't know she was married."

"She's not. The child is a bastard." Harry couldn't help but flinch at those words. He knew it was his child. It would never be a bastard. Not to him.

"How did this come about?" He asked disinterestedly.

"She fainted making dinner. One of the other servants checked her over. She's about four months along. A bit of a belly on her. I noticed but thought she was just being greedy." Harry swallowed hard. He had noticed too but had thought nothing of it.

Antoinette stood, walking down the table and around to him. She sits on the edge of the table looking down at him. And it's in that moment that he knows, that she knows.

"Antoinette-" Harry starts.

"How could you." Her voice is full of accusation. "It all made sense when I put two and two together. The nights you slip from bed, why you wouldn't touch me." Harry reached out, but she slapped his hands away. She stands, taking a few steps back.

"Antoinette think about what-"

"I saw you!" She shouted. Harry felt the wind being knocked out of him as she spoke again in a whisper. "I saw you." She folds her arms across her chest.

"When?"

"Two weeks ago, coming back from the woods." The night they ended everything. Harry's speechless, he feels his cheeks turning red. He doesn't know what to say. She sighs. "I know this isn't the perfect marriage. But it is a marriage Harry. You're my husband. I can't have a colored child runnin' round here with your looks....so I did what I had to do." Horror begins to twist in Harry's stomach when her words seep in.

"Antoinette what have you done."

"You're going to make things right. You're going to give me a baby-" Harry bolts from the house, running down to the servants quarters. Already he can see commotion.

"Hey! Easy there!" He slams into Antoinette's brother Jack. Jack grips Harry tightly as they watch Charlotte be dragged from inside the house.

"Let me go!" Harry snarls, Jack only tightens his grip.

"Shoulda been fuckin' my sister. Not this wench!" Something hard hits the back of Harry's head. Everything fades to black as the ground rushes up to greet him.

It's dark when he comes too. Harry groans, grabbing the back of his head as he sits up. He doesn't realize where he is for a moment, but then, as memories come rushing forward he stands, turning to look at the servants quarters.

The scream he let's out is barely human.

Antoinette is in the living room when Harry finally comes in. His shoulder's slack in defeat. Antoinette walks up to him, reaching out to touch his cheek.

"It's for the best." Harry says nothing.

    The days become a blur for Harry. He drinks his weight in whiskey and sleeps in the guest room. Antoinette harps, complaining to him about her needs but he doesn't care.

He wishes he was six foot under, buried with Charlotte and his baby.

He wishes for death the second he wakes, anger and hatred the only things he can feel, the numbness over takes him in a way love once did.

He's stumbling down the street. It's late, the bar closed and he wasn't ready to go home. He hoped someone would mug him maybe, or just straight up kill him. He was ready for it. At any time.

A hand reached out of the darkness, yanking him into an alley. He grunts as he's thrown into the brick wall, his head becoming warm and sticky.

"I can smell death on you. You long for it." The voice snarled. A hand snaked up around Harry's neck, pressing hard. "But revenge....what if I could make you strong enough for that?" Harry's drunken eyes widened, the man's words were hazy. But revenge. Revenge would be sweet.

"How?" He gasped. The stranger pulled his hand away. When Harry looked up he could see the eyes, red and glowing.

"I'll show you..."

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

    "No one knows what happened to Harold Styles. He went out for a night of drinking and never was seen again. It's speculated he was murdered, having been the wealthiest man in town...a few days later the entire plantation was in flames. His wife, Antoinette, and her brothers died in the fire. Servants called the grounds cursed and no one has rebuilt on the land since."

Charlotte Auste looked up at the portrait the plaque had sat under. It was a portrait of the man, Harry Styles. She couldn't help the sense of familiarity she felt. His green eyes boring into hers from the painting, almost like he was calling to her.

Charlotte always found solace in museums and art galleries. Especially being so far from home. College had taken her all over the world, but it was nice to come back to Louisiana. To come back home and start the rest of her life.

This portrait had always been a favorite of hers. She would come here often in high school and just sit, staring at the portrait, feeling something sad and familiar wash over her. And in a strange way, she knew he would have understood how she felt.

"Hey!" Charlotte's best friend Libby, slung her arm over the girl's shoulder. She looked up at the portrait with Charlotte. "Mm mm. He is quite dreamy isn't he?" Charlotte rolled her eyes, tucking her curls behind her ear, only to have them spring forward again.

"I'm sure over a hundred years later he would still look fabulous." she said sarcastically. They laughed, walking from the art gallery arm in arm.

[artificialqueens]

wild flower, chapter one (shalaska) 1/10 - freyja

A/N: Hi! This is my first time posting here, so please be gentle! All I know is that no one was going to write my shalaska cowboy AU for me. Also if anyone is interested in betaing… please. Let me know.

🌼

“Wild women are an unexplainable spark of life. They ooze freedom and seek awareness, they belong to nobody but themselves, yet give a piece of who they are to everyone they meet. If you have met one, hold on to her, she’ll allow you into her chaos, but she’ll also show you her magic.”

🌼

Alaska has always been fascinated with bandits.

Bandits, criminals, gangs - anyone with a bounty on their head. Not that the bounty or even the criminality of it all attracted her - no, it was the freedom.

Alaska has also always been wealthy.

These two constants do not go well together.

As a child, the contrast was easier to navigate, as her only duties were her lessons, and the rest of her time was spent however she wanted to spend it. Her wildness was enacted through imaginary horses and people to shoot, drawing from the tales of her father’s friends from the West. She had grass stains on her skirts constantly, and although her mother berated her for her unladylike play, it could be chalked up to just that: play.

As she got older, the contrast was too much. She was in polite society, she needed to find a husband, and she was the lady of the household. She had to give up one, wealth or freedom, and only one made sense to let go of. It wasn’t a hard choice, anyway - she’d stopped believing in running wild on the frontier somewhere around her mother’s death.

Which is why, when her father tells her she’ll be visiting her uncle in Colorado for the summer, the thrill she might have gotten as a child is absent in the place of a sickening dread that sits in her stomach like a dead weight.

“He’s invited you,” he’d said to a stunned Alaska over breakfast one morning. “And I thought you could use the fresh air - God knows this city is starting to smell now that it’s thawing.”

Alaska had pressed her lips together, frowning at him. “I don’t–”

“I told him you would love to go,” her father had interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “This is a great way to find someone wealthy to marry, since the options here clearly aren’t up to your standards.”

The snide comment hadn’t gone past her, and she’d lapsed back into silence, unable to argue and tell him that her ‘standards’ won’t ever be met, so tough luck. That wasn’t an option, especially considering her father’s newspaper wasn’t selling as much now that the war was over.

This visit is her last chance to find a husband wealthy enough to make it worth it, and she knows that she needs to return to her father with a ring on her finger.

Now, she sits on the train to Coady, heart heavy with her resolution. She looks out the window to take her mind off of the sick feeling in her stomach, clenching her fist in the folds of her skirt. It’s easy to get lost in the pale browns and greens of the plains, easy to feel comfort in the mountains that look blue in the distance. It’s easier to think that maybe she’ll find a man she really loves if he comes from a place that looks like this.

She nearly laughs at herself. Unlikely.

🌸

Alaska has been in Colorado a week, and there has been no mention of a ball, or even of a dinner. She hasn’t seen another person besides her uncle and his servants - and even then, it’s mostly been his servants. If it isn’t mealtime, her uncle is locked in his office, going over papers and sending out letters at least twice a day.

Alaska has picked up enough of the servants’ whispered gossip to understand that his plantation has been slowly going under in the eight years it’s been since the war, and her uncle has now been reduced to scraping the bottom of the barrel for his income. She isn’t sympathetic - it’s deserved.

Things, however, are getting a little boring.

She sighs, turning over in bed and staring at the stars through the large window in her room, the wind blowing the linen curtains in a hypnotizing manner. Three months of nothing, and she won’t even get a husband out of it.

No husband. She allows herself a moment to pretend like it was a possibility, something like longing trapping itself in her throat.

She’s just closing her eyes to sleep when the sound of a horse galloping towards the house makes them shoot open, a man shouting her uncle’s name as the horse’s hoofbeats slow to a stop.

“Thunder!” the man bellows. He begins pounding on the door, each knock seemingly louder than the last. “Philip Thunder, get your ass out here!”

Alaska slips out of bed, heart pounding, and kneels beside the window. She’s at a decent enough angle that she can see the man clearly, his horse standing a few feet behind him. It’s hard to see in the darkness, but it’s clear he isn’t a gentleman, with a dusty gallon hat on his head that shields his face and a dirty jacket to match. There’s a long rifle hooked onto his horse, and her eyes widen at the sight.

The door swings open, and her uncle emerges with a lantern, looking hunted. “Be quiet!” he snaps in a hushed whisper, and Alaska has to strain to hear him. “You’re going to wake the whole household.”

“They know,” the man says simply, ignoring her uncle. He has a thick accent, and it’s jarring next to her uncle’s harsh New York vowels. Her uncle’s arm sags at the news, lowering the lantern so that their faces are barely lit. Alaska hisses in frustration, narrowing her eyes to try and read their expressions.

“Needles?” her uncle says, voice even quieter. Alaska risks poking her head out the window a little bit in order to hear better, holding her breath in fear of being caught.

“No, the fuckin’ Pope,” the man sneers. “Who the fuck else?”

Her uncle’s response is drowned out by the locusts buzzing in the trees. There’s a long period of silence, and Alaska can hear her heart beating in her ears, adrenaline running through her veins in response to listening to a conversation she shouldn’t. What the hell was going on?

“So?” the man prompts, stepping closer to her uncle. “What do you suggest we do?”

There’s a pause as her uncle visibly takes a breath. “Come here tomorrow at supper,” he says, voice a little stronger now. “Bring Solomon. We can make a plan then.”

“Didn’t you hear me? Needles is onto us, which means–”

“I know!” Her uncle snaps, posture stiffening. “Trust me, I’m well aware. I can’t make a plan right now. Give me a day, and we’ll discuss the rest tomorrow. I promise we’ll get out of this.”

“If we don’t,” the man says, voice low, “Needles isn’t the one you need to watch out for.” And with that, he steps back, walking back to his horse. “Expect us at six,” he says as he swings up on his horse, and with that, he gallops away, leaving a trail of dust in his wake. Her uncle stands there for a long time, staring in the direction he went even after he’s no longer visible. All Alaska can hear is the locusts’ chirping.

Her uncle, finally, turns to go inside, and she ducks under the window sill as the lantern light swings over the side of the house. She listens as he opens the door, muttering something incomprehensible, and shuts it behind him. The stairs creak as he returns to his room, and she doesn’t let herself relax until she hears his door close quietly.

She sags against the wall, brushing the hair sticking to her face away and plucking at her nightgown, battling the humidity and her own sweat. She looks at the bed, but she doesn’t think she’s going to be able to sleep, not with the heat and certainly not after what just happened.

It was a gang. It couldn’t be anything else - it wasn’t any sort of legal business, judging by the other man’s appearance. Her uncle was dealing with bandits and criminals, probably to help him out of whatever debt he’s put himself into in order to keep this place afloat.

A fission of excitement runs through her even through the fear and apprehension, and she can’t help but think that at least something is happening. Even if it’s putting everyone in the house’s lives at risk.

You can’t trust a bandit. They’re lawless, and the law exists for a reason: to keep people sane. Who knows what these men will do to her uncle if this Needles ends up finding them?

Who knows what Needles is going to do to them if he ends up finding them?

The thrill is fading away now, giving way to real fear. This is real. Bandits are real, but they’re not like what Alaska dreamed them up to be as a child. They kill people, innocent or not, and they steal whatever they want. They live like animals and call it freedom.

They’re all these things, and they’re coming to dine with them at her uncle’s like they’re family friends.

Alaska is definitely not getting any sleep tonight.

🌼

Dinner is awkward.

It’s spent in silence, the dirty, roughed up men clearly unsure of how to behave at a proper dining table and her uncle silent with embarrassment over it. There are four of them, all with scruffy beards and pistols on their belts, with the clear leader sitting to her uncle’s right.

One of the men coughs, and Alaska jumps at the sudden noise.

“Jesus,” she mutters to herself, ignoring her uncle’s sharp look and instead setting down her fork. She looks at Philip, plastering as pleasant and unassuming a smile she can muster over her face. “May I be excused?”

The leader of the group, Cassidy, slumps in relief. “Thank God,” he says loudly, and she recognizes his voice as the man her uncle had spoken to last night. “We can get some business done.”

Her uncle gives him a disbelieving look, and Alaska tries to look like she doesn’t have a clue as to what he’s talking about. Cassidy raises his hands in silent apology, and her uncle sighs, rubbing his eyes. He looks stressed out of his mind.

“You can go, Alaska,” he says, having lost any sense of decorum with Cassidy’s language.

Alaska nods at him, and then she’s out of the dining room in a second.

She slips out the door with a quiet notice to one of the servants, intent on walking her anxieties out around the grounds and hoping that she’ll tire herself out to the point of becoming calm. With half a mind to ride a little before the sun sets, she decides to head towards the stables, well away from anything happening inside the house.

Expecting to be alone once she reaches the stables, Alaska nearly screams as she runs into a woman leaning against one of the stalls, petting Poundcake’s nose.

“Jesus!” Alaska yelps, and the woman snaps to attention, hand at her hip in the blink of an eye. She lets her hand hover there, eyes wary as she stares at Alaska.

“I’m so sorry,” Alaska says, raising her hands up in apology. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The woman frowns at her, seemingly confused. Her hand drifts away from her hip, and Alaska’s eyes follow it, briefly distracted by the tight pants she’s wearing. It’s scandalous, and Alaska is beginning to understand why.

“I really didn’t mean to interrupt,” Alaska says into the tense silence, forcing herself to tear her eyes away from the woman’s hips and to her face.

“Interrupt?” The woman asks, still frowning. She’s relaxing, however, and Alaska feels strangely gratified by it.

“Your stable work,” Alaska says. “You’re the stablehand, right?”

The woman’s eyebrows twitch up before her lips twist up into a smirk. The expression suits her. “Right. Well, I’m not bothered.” She gives Alaska a clear once over, her smirk only growing. “Not at all.”

Alaska feels a flush crawl up her neck, her dress suddenly feeling a little warm. “Great,” she says, awkward. “I came - I just needed to get out of the house.”

“Let me guess: a man?”

Alaska snorts, even as the reminder makes something unpleasant churn in her stomach. “More like several.” The woman just smiles, revealing a small gap between her teeth. It’s strangely endearing. Alaska quickly shoves the thought away, afraid of it leading to more dangerous ones, and instead takes the opportunity to examine the woman’s strange outfit.

She looks more like a cattle rustler than a stablehand, with her wide brimmed hat and dark overcoat, but Alaska supposes things are different out west. Her hair is down, reaching the middle of her shoulder blades and blowing attractively in the wind. It’s so dark that, when paired with her dark hat, her face appears almost ghostly.

She’s beautiful, with her high cheekbones and plump lips, but there’s something about her that puts Alaska on edge.

“What?” the woman says, tilting her head. “Is there something on my face?”

“You’re beautiful,” Alaska blurts out, and then her heart stops. “I mean no, wait, no, I mean–”

“What’s your name?” the woman cuts in, and Alaska grabs onto the question like a lifeline.

“Alaska,” she says in relief.

“Pleasure,” the woman says, smirking again. There’s a brief pause before she lets out a huff of laughter. “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”

Alaska laughs. “Knowing the stablehands isn’t exactly my priority,” she says, allowing her own smirk to come through. “But now it seems like it should have been.”

The woman smiles slowly, her expression softening. Alaska feels something flutter in her stomach at the thought that she may have caused the shift. “You sure know how to flatter a girl,” the woman says. There’s a moment in which she just looks at Alaska, eyes darting across her face. “Sharon Needles.”

Alaska’s heart stops, smirk falling off of her face in an instant. “Needles?” she repeats faintly, even though Sharon had been perfectly clear. “You’re Needles? I thought–”

“I was a man?” Sharon says archly, annoyance flickering across her face. “You’re not the first.”

“Your poster,” Alaska says slowly, feeling incredibly stupid. The stablehand? Really? “It was hanging at the train station.”

Sharon sighs, eyes rolling up to the sky. “Stupid,” she mutters, seemingly to herself, and then, louder: “I’ll never rob an artist again. Those bastards have no fucking money and an eye for detail.”

“I don’t know, that chin is pretty memorable,” Alaska says before she can think about it, and there’s a second of frozen shock before Sharon starts to laugh.

“I like you,” Sharon says approvingly. “You’ve got balls.”

Alaska really, really shouldn’t be flattered. “Thanks,” she drawls, and she takes a step back. Her sense of danger is heightening, despite Sharon’s calm and her surprising humor. With the stories Alaska had heard, she had pictured bandits to be no-nonsense men with hearts of steel, cold blooded killers and thieves that were too good to be caught. Sharon doesn’t seem to be fitting any of those descriptors.

She should really run, warn her uncle while she still has some time. But some sick part of her is intrigued, attracted to this woman, and she can’t bring herself to shout like she should.

“Why are you here?” she asks again, even though she already knows the answer.

“We have some business with Mr. Solomon ____” Sharon says, and it’s like a curtain’s been drawn over her face. The twinkle in her eyes has turned into something like a spark of anger. “He’s been plotting something, and I intend to nip it in the fucking bud.” She shifts a little, her coat moving to reveal a leather holster at her hip. It feels like the air gets twenty degrees colder.

Alaska feels like she can barely breathe. She takes a step back.

The ‘Solomon isn’t here’ gets caught in her throat, another part of the sentence catching her attention. “‘We’?”

A slow smirk spreads across Sharon’s face. “Oops,” she says. “I’ve always had a hard time keeping secrets.” And quick as a rattlesnake, she draws her pistol and fires it once into the air. Alaska flinches violently at the sound of it, breath coming in strange stutters as adrenaline rushes through her. A responding gunshot sounds somewhere in the distance, along with growing shouts.

Alaska runs.

She flies up the hill, Sharon’s laugh chasing her like some sort of nightmare, whoops and hollers echoing off of the valley walls from all directions. She’s halfway to the house when a horse suddenly shoots past her, and she trips over her skirt in shock, falling to her hands and knees with a painful jolt. She looks up to see Sharon riding it, heading somewhere to the left of the house.

It’s stupid to feel betrayed. She’d talked to Sharon for less than ten minutes, and Sharon hadn’t even tried to hide who she was. Hell, Alaska had given her the only lie she told.

It’s stupid, and Alaska shoves the feeling aside. There are more important things to be worrying about.

She scrambles to her feet and keeps running, ignoring the temptation to flee the other way.

She bursts into the house, turning and slamming the door shut behind her, locking it. She turns to see her uncle, Cassidy, and the other men all emerging from the office, guns drawn and looking hunted.

“Alaska?” her uncle says, frowning. “Did you see something out there?”

“No,” she lies, because she can’t tell him that she was too fucking entranced by Sharon Needles to do anything. “But I heard something.”

“We all fucking heard something,” one of the men snaps, referring to the sound of pounding hooves, and distant shouts surrounding the house.

“Jesus Christ,” Cassidy says, pointing his gun alternately between the windows and the door. He sounds accusatory, like he blames her uncle for what’s going down, and Alaska finds herself half agreeing.

She shouldn’t be here. They shouldn’t - her uncle shouldn’t have invited her here when he was at risk. It was - it was wrong. Anger boils up within her, and it feels better than fear, so she grabs onto it. “What were you guys even doing?” she cries.

Her uncle looks at her, wide eyed. He looks guilty, but Alaska is far past forgiveness, not when gunshots can be heard just outside the house. “I’m sorry, Alaska,” he says, brow furrowed. “I didn’t think it would get this out of hand.”

“You had wanted criminals over for dinner,” Alaska snaps. “How can you - how - ?” She’s tripping over her words, just like she always does when she’s upset, and it’s only making her angrier.

Her uncle grimaces, but before he can respond a sudden pounding on the door has everyone falling into a tense silence. The hoofbeats have stopped - it’s completely silent. They all point their guns at the door.

“Open up, motherfuckers!” a voice shouts.

Someone shoots the lock off, and the door slowly swings open. They all wait with baited breath. Cassidy steps forward, lining his gun up. Alaska takes several steps back, nearly going into the office, breathing so hard she feels like she’s going to be sick.

There are two beats of silence.

Her uncle frowns, gun lowering a little in his confusion. “Wh–”

Two deafening shots echo from the windows on either side of them, shattering the glass, and two of the five men drop dead. Alaska can’t help the scream she lets out, flinching wildly.

“Fuck!” Cassidy shouts, making an aborted attempt to go towards one of the bodies before remembering that he still needs to be on his guard. “Jesus shit!”

The door is kicked open suddenly, making Alaska jump. The woman that stands in the doorway is tall, with sharp features and an amused smirk. Alaska recognizes her from the other poster that had been beside Sharon’s, the unusual name catching her attention more than Sharon’s.

Detox.

“Where’s Solomon?” Detox says, pointing right back at Cassidy.

He doesn’t answer, and she takes another step forward. “I said–”

“He’s not here.” Sharon steps out from behind Detox, gun drawn and smug smirk still firmly in place. “He’s smarter than that.”

“Surprising,” Detox says, and Sharon snorts. She hasn’t bothered to raise her gun, and Alaska wants to scream at her uncle or the other man to do something.

“He wouldn’t be the annoyance that he is if he wasn’t.” Sharon says before pointing her gun at Alaska’s uncle almost lazily, like it had been an afterthought. It makes Alaska’s blood boil, both at Sharon’s arrogance and her uncle for feeding into it by being an idiot.

Sharon glances at the right window and jerks her head.

A shot rings out, and Cassidy’s last man drops nearly instantaneously with a cry of pain, and Alaska jumps again, unable to keep herself from squeaking, a little. It’s a harsh reminder of the steel trap that Sharon has them in, and Alaska hates that she needed her memory jogged.

Two women slide into the house through the windows, one hispanic and a little heavier, and the other white and stick thin, face covered in freckles. They both wear their hair in two braids, honey blonde and brown respectively, and they both look like they’re having the time of their lives.

“Alright,” Sharon says, using her gun to talk like an extension of her hand. Her blasé tone is disconcerting, and Alaska shrinks further into the office. “You’ve got two choices: tell us where Solomon is, or,” she holds up her gun and shrugs.

Both Cassidy and Alaska’s uncle remain silent, Cassidy staring Sharon in the face and her uncle twisting around to look at Alaska.

She wills him to turn back around, to stop drawing attention to her already mediocre hiding spot, but he starts to mouth something instead, nodding his head towards the office. After two times, she understands: burn it.

“What are you doing?” the woman with brown braids asks, voice harsher that Alaska would have guessed.

Sharon looks at her for the first time since she’s entered the house. Alaska feels frozen under her stare.

“Alaska!” her uncle snaps, and it works: she snaps out of it, adrenaline flooding her body and moving as quickly as she possibly can.

She steps back into the office and slams the door shut behind her, locking it with shaking hands. Terrifying shouts and bangs immediately start as soon as the lock slides into place, but they’re muffled, and Alaska knows she has limited time to do what her uncle needs before they find a way in.

She turns to the desk, eyes moving from place to place without direction before finally landing on the map lying across the desk, ink marks scattered all over it. She rushes to the desk to pick it up, and after a moment of examining it, she knows that what her uncle needs her to do is destroy it.

It’s a map detailing the location of a camp, presumably Solomon’s, and possible escape routes and alternate locations. If Sharon got her hands on this, the camp would be completely fucked. She would win whatever rivalry is going on between the two gangs with ease, and Solomon and her uncle would have no chance.

Alaska reaches for the lantern to burn the map in, but she hesitates. Would it be terrible if they got the map? It would end the rivalry, and it isn’t like her uncle isn’t already in as much danger as he could be in. He isn’t living in this camp, and Alaska couldn’t give a fuck about Solomon or Cassidy.

But does she want Sharon to win?

She stares at it, doing her best to memorize the map and the twisting ink paths. Keeping the map whole isn’t an option, but she thinks - she needs to have some leverage, here. If something should happen to her, who she wants to win regardless, she needs to have something that makes her useful.

She isn’t nearly as familiar with it as she’d like to be when a thud suddenly rattles the door to the office, making her jump nearly ten feet in the air. The door thuds again, the hinges rattling, and Alaska starts folding the map so that it can fit into the lantern, shoving it into the flame just as the door flies open and strong hands grab her from behind.

Alaska screams, kicking and trying to hit her assailant with her elbows.

“Jesus Christ,” someone hisses, and Alaska thinks she recognizes the voice as Detox’s. She flings her elbow back again, newly desperate, only to have it caught by one of Detox’s hands. Detox grabs her other arm as well, and Alaska’s arms are soon twisted around her back in such a way that she can’t move them no matter how hard she tries.

It’s utterly terrifying, and Alaska can’t help but let out a little sob as Detox forces her out of the office and into the parlor, where the brunette woman with the twin braids has Cassidy on his knees. Her uncle is nowhere to be seen.

“Where is–” she starts, voice growing into a shout, but Sharon cuts her off, her own tone surprisingly heated.

“Bastard got away,” she says, scowling. “I’m not sure how, considering how many of us there are, but he’s fucking gone.”

“Thank God,” Alaska says, relieved. She ignores the feeling of being abandoned. One of them had to get away, had to be able to get the law. It just happened to be him. “Thank fucking God.”

Sharon’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s no way a lady should speak,” she says, and the blonde woman snickers. Alaska glares at her.

“I’m not exactly going to give you the respect of polite society,” she snarls. “Now let me go!” She jerks fruitlessly at Detox’s grip, and Sharon laughs, coming closer. Alaska wants to hurt her, wants to make her feel as scared and angry as she is right now.

“We can’t let you go,” Sharon says, fake pouting. “Sorry. But your uncle had you do something in that office, and with him gone, you’re our only shot at finding out just what it was.”

Alaska falls silent, unable to think of a comeback that won’t put her at risk in one way or another. She needs to know something to prove herself too valuable to kill. But because she knows something, she’s going to be taken away. She’s stuck between a rock and a hard place, and Sharon is both Charbydis and Scylla.

Alaska settles for glaring at Sharon, who only grins back. Alaska does not think about how the gap in her teeth still makes her stomach flutter.

Sharon turns away, smile fading in favor of a more serious look. She looks at the brunette woman. “Morgan, shoot Cassidy. We need to leave.”

“What?” Cassidy splutters, eyes wide. Alaska is surprised to see him reduced to such a mess. “I don’t–”

“Shut up,” Sharon sneers, walking over to and kicking him in the stomach. He curls in on himself, wheezing, and Alaska winces in sympathy. “We don’t need to hear your side of the story. I’ve already heard three different girls’, and frankly, I’m exhausted.”

Morgan suddenly pistol whips Cassidy across the face, and he drops like a brick, groaning. She spits on him.

“Make it quick, Morgan,” Sharon says sharply. “The law’s already crawling up my ass as it is, and Thunder’s gonna return with the entire fucking Union.”

“No problem,” Morgan says, and she shoots him twice.

They’re not kind shots - one in the knee and the other in his stomach. The scream he lets out raises the hair on Alaska’s arms, and she feels a terror like she’s never known before. She thinks briefly about jerking away and running, but she feels rooted to the spot, staring down at Cassidy’s writhing body. Not like she’d actually escape Detox, anyway.

Another shot makes her jump, and Cassidy falls limp. “I said make it quick,” Sharon says, tucking her gun back into her belt. Alaska hadn’t even seen her move.

“I missed,” Morgan shrugs, but she doesn’t sound apologetic about it.

“Sure,” Sharon says doubtfully, but there’s a strange affection in her tone that undermines any reprimand. Her gaze suddenly lands on Alaska, and she’s back to smirking. “Excuse her,” she says. “She hasn’t been out in a while.”

“Rude,” Morgan snorts. She tucks her two pistols into their holsters, spinning them as she does.

“We need to go,” Detox says. Alaska tries not to cringe away from the voice close to her ear. She wants to retain at least some dignity.

“You’re right,” Sharon says. “Sorry. Got distracted.” She winks at Alaska, and Alaska’s stomach squirms with hatred and an unwilling attraction. She blames her childhood fanaticism.

They exit the house quickly, swinging up onto their horses, Morgan and the other woman speeding away immediately. Detox and Alaska still remain on foot, Alaska’s arms beginning to go numb with how far they’re strained behind her.

“Detox,” Sharon calls from on top of an enormous black Friesian. “She can go with me.”

“What? Why?” Alaska asks harshly as Detox leads her over.

“A little bonding never hurt anyone,” Sharon answers, smirking. Detox swings Alaska up behind her with an alarming ease, and Alaska balances herself, nearly falling off immediately.

Sharon looks at the house and then at Detox, and as Alaska is debating the pros and cons of sliding off the horse and running, she says something that makes Alaska’s blood run cold.

“Burn it.”

“No,” Alaska breathes. But something in her can’t wait to see it in flames.

Sharon eggs her horse into a gallop just as the flames catch onto one of the windowsills, and Alaska stares at the house until she can’t anymore, the orange of the flames burned into the backs of her eyelids.

Loss and relief shouldn’t be felt so soon after one another.

[kennyisscrewy]

Playing Hard to Want II Webgott

Thank you to @speirtons aka Lily for organizing this #bobtogether fic writing event, and kicking a healthy dose of inspiration into me! You’re seriously a GIFT to this community 

W/C: 5076

Prompt: There was only one bed

   David was already not looking forward to seeing Joe again once he was finally let out of the hospital. Every day that he spent lying on that bed felt like a new nail added to his coffin, yet another tiny spike in Liebgott’s hatred of him. And truthfully Joe had hated David before he’d even done anything wrong, so now that he had… He shuddered at the thought. The street sign boasting Haganeu blared in his peripheral like a neon warning sign. Bitterly, he mulled over the unfairness that his one motivator as he was healing up (returning back to the 101st) was now something of a cold dread in his stomach. His friendship with Joe, too, had been shot in the dirt before he’d even gotten the chance to try.

  The icy ball continued to roll around in David’s stomach as he called out to George Luz, so very relieved to see a friendly face that wasn’t frowning and somber and pitying, only to have the usually animated man respond tiredly. And it just got worse, and worse, and worse. He couldn’t seem to stop his big, fat mouth from opening; asking where’s Hoobler? How’s about Toye or Wild Bill? Where’d that cheeky little Julien kid get off to now? Nobody said a word, and it spoke miles. Finally Foley and Martin ground out something about how thin 2nd platoon had become, and David was shooed away like a buzzing gnat.

  He swore under his breath as he walked up to the next Jeep and was instantly pinned in place by mean, dark eyes. The second Joe recognized him as more than just “anonymous annoyance”, he was rolling those glittering eyes, and David resented him for looking so pretty while doing it. It felt surreal to finally take in those near-black eyes that shone in the foggy french sunlight like pebbles in person once more, rather than just using his best memory to muse over them in his hospital bed.

   David has had a long time to mull over those eyes that narrowed into repulsed little slits as some unfamiliar face finally yanked David up into the remaining empty space. Four months, according to that red sneering mouth, which was news to him. In the first month, he’d kept count, anxious to get back to his platoon and his friends (and Lieb, of course). But around the second time that the nurses had none-too gently told him that if he left, the infection would kill him before he got another chance to play hero, David had become disheartened enough that he just let the days and weeks roll by sluggishly. Joe’s pissy remark: “Must’ve like that hospital.” almost made him collapse into hysterical laughter.

  That hospital room was never ending purgatory; solitary confinement. He lay there in his soaked through clothes and waited to die a meaningless, empty death. Dozens of times he’d pictured his father's reaction upon receiving the letter. Dull, bloodshot eyes would scan over the words: “died of his wounds”, and “taken off the frontline due to his own lack of awareness” and his father would chuckle meanly. Mutter how he’d been right to tell David he’d never make it out there, and “oh I hate to speak ill of the dead and say I told ya so!” The peeling off-white wallpaper and fleshy toned curtains plagued his nightmares still; Normandy felt like a tropical getaway in comparison. He opened his mouth to tell Joe that, and see that shit eating smirk slide off his pale face with satisfaction, but looking at him gave David pause.

  Beneath those pretty, glinting eyes were heavy bags so purple they could’ve been mistaken for bruises at first glance. His O.D.s and face were dirty-which was nothing new- but seeing Joe’s hair a stringy, careless mess sent something of a shock through David. Kind of like Perconte’s dental fixation, David has always been able to spot Liebgott from a mile away simply because it was clear that, even as his bloody bandages soaked through, the man took a few moments each day to make sure his thick, dark hair was still soft and touchable looking.

...Alright, so maybe David was just projecting there.

  Regardless, he looked like HELL. Which felt oh, so wrong. David has always admired how unaffected he’d seemed by the war, both physically and mentally, and his guts twisted as he watched those long, oddly dainty fingers bring a cigarette to his lips. They were shaking . And it’s not like it was exactly cold out.

  Feeling nauseous, his gaze moved unabidden to Heffron. Unkept, ruddy stubble dotted the usually chipper replacement’s thin face, and the shine appeared to have left his bright eyes. Dirty bandaged fingertips poked out of olive gloves that looked like the kid had torn the fingers off of himself. And he was quiet; so fucking quiet.If there was one thing David knew about Philly boys, it was that you could never get them to stop yapping even if krauts were peppering them in an empty field. He was unsettled by not hearing Babe’s squeaking, weird little giggles or Bill’s cartoonish cackling carrying on the wind. Honest to God, it didn’t even feel much like Easy anymore. No Luz attempting what had to be the worst British accent he’d ever heard or Toye bitching about whatever new thing had popped into his head. None of Muck trying out an hour's worth of garish standup while Penkala and Malarkey giggled like prepubescent hyenas. Just empty uniforms and the stench of stale cigarette smoke remained.

  Tracking down Lipton was a welcome distraction, as were the multiple near-death experiences on his way to the abandoned house he was posted up in. Something downright neurotic in him took comfort in the return of the bone rattling violence. Even as he was forced to dive away from a near-direct hit, which sent stabbing hot pains through his thigh, his heart soared with a sick kind of glee at the taste of dirt in his mouth. This solidified that he was really, truly back in the fight; it was as terrifying as it was liberating.

  Lt. Speirs previously from Dog Company and Lipton signed David’s execution by reconfirming that, yes, he was being reassigned to 2nd platoon. And, as a bonus, he’d acquired a squeaky clean West Pointer to babysit! Oh joy. Well, at least by comparison, David no longer felt so much like a replacement. The moment he’d laid eyes on that fancy graduation ring, he was filled with a perverse sense of relief. Oh, the toccoa boys are sure gonna have a field day with you, Lieutenant Jones. David felt like a little kid who’d desperately joined in on hazing the new kid, all in the vain hopes that the other boys might pick on him a little less.

  Any sort of relief David was feeling vanished as he faced down his former friend’s critical gazes, bitterness radiating off them in thick, rolling waves. Wordlessly, he tossed his bag unto an empty upper bunk, and took a deep breath before turning back to the men.

“This seat taken?”

  For some reason, that had Ramirez chuckling and had Chuck swearing and rolling his eyes. Everyone in the little huddle swung their gazes over to Liebgott, who seemingly always had something to say, especially for Webster. He fidgeted anxiously as Joe took his sweet time sucking on his Lucky Strike like a popsicle, blowing a stream of smoke out of pursed, cherry lips so slowly that David dug his nails into his uninjured thigh.

“They’re all fuckin taken, Web. This look like a fuckin presidential fuckin suite to you? I know you’re so used to yer cushy hospital digs what with big canned nurses shaking their tits in your face-“

  He walked away before he’d even heard the end of Joe’s rant, dripping with acidic hatred that made the blood in David’s ears ring. He knew if he stood around any longer that he’d punch Joe right in his handsome, artfully carved goddamned face. And as badly as Joe wanted it, he wasn’t the enemy right now.

Far fucking from it actually.

****

   David could feel drying blood underneath his fingernails as he stumbled back into the dilapidated house, wondering if it were Kraut blood or Jackson’s. His head leant against the side of his/not his bunk with a dull thud that didn’t even register. Mentally, he was still kneeling by Jackson’s side, framing the sides of the boy’s head with his fingers as he pleaded for the kid to calm down. He’d told Jackson it was gonna be okay, that everything would be fine once Doc showed up. But jokes on them; Doc had shown up and Jackson was dead, dead, dead.

  He repeated it aloud when they were quietly asked about the mission’s “success”. The mission’s fucking SUCCESS; god David had to laugh. Two German prisoners captured sure, but it felt like a monumental fucking loss from where he was standing. 20 fucking years old…

“Yeah we heard.”

  Came Joe’s voice, breaking through the haze of blood and shouting and gunpowder. It was surprisingly gentle, softer than he could ever recall hearing him speak before. And for some reason that is what nearly made David crumple. Not watching a kid begging to live, not listening to McClung tearfully screaming and pointing a shaking sidearm at the German’s heads, just Joe Fucking Liebgott not treating him like a smear on the treads of his government issued boots for once. Quietly, David excuses himself, walked casually to the ransacked bathroom, and violently puked up bile until he couldn’t even feel the muscles in his throat.

   A few hours of shaking and vomiting later, and he shuffled in the pitch black room towards the bunk beds. Blindly, he made sure to step as lightly as possible (which was quite a feat for the heavy-footed man), and reached out with searching fingers for his bed. The moment fingertips made contact with scratchy, piling sheets, David hauled his weary body on to the mattress, only to be met by the sensation of something sharp digging into his side. For one crazed moment, he thought he’d stabbed himself with a bayonet that wasn’t on his person, and his hand trembled as he flickered his lighter on expecting to see crimson staining through his jacket. Honestly, he’d have preferred the sight of him slowly bleeding out to what he did see bathed in the orangey dim light.

  Half moon eyelashes so dark and thick they looked like ink blots curved against moonbeam cheekbones. Thin, dark eyebrows not scrunched down in irritation for once, and a smooth forehead oddly absent of worry lines. And of course, chapped but also sinfully flushed-looking lips, thin but shapely, barely parted and emitting sweet sighs. Liebgott, with his ridiculously bony elbows jabbing into his ribs he was so close, looking like a goddamned Rembrandt. Too stunned to speak (or even breathe), he gently grasped Joe’s elbow (“ Christ, so fragile; felt like it might snap if he wasn’t careful”) with the intention of putting some space between them. Cherubic, slumbering Lieb had other ideas, apparently, because the second David started to apply pressure, skinny little fingers were suddenly clutching his bicep and hauling David closer. Mary, Mother of Jesus , it took everything in him not to scream as the unconscious bane of his existence wrapped himself around David with all four of his sinewy limbs.

  He whipped his head to the side fearfully as sleeping Joe wedged his thigh between David’s with such a kittenish little sigh it made David’s face flush neon. Small mercies, all of the other men were slumbering, albeit restlessly. Upon second glance, actually, David was relieved to see he wasn’t the only one sharing a bunk. Heffron lay curled up small and sad on Chuck’s big, barrel chest, but there was something distinctly platonic about the pair somehow. Unlike the little wriggling motions that Joe was using to systematically ensure David’s early grave.

  He double, then triple checked that the slighter man was actually asleep and not fucking with David’s head in the most goddamned insane fashion imaginable as bony, calloused fingers knot themselves into his dog tags with a white-knuckled grip. This had to be a joke, or a hallucination. Maybe he’d been hit by some wayward shrapnel and he was actually bleeding out on the bank like that kraut.

  David couldn’t have imagined this even in his four-month stockpile of wet dreams, which Joe had increasingly intruded upon (read: starred in). In those, it was never this based in reality. Usually it was just snapshots: a long, arcing throat with rather specific scarring; the sharpest and deepest Cupid’s bow lips he’d ever seen wrapping themselves around an insult (amongst other things). Dark, bottomless eyes half lidded and digging all the way to David’s core. A scratchy, hissing drawl: “And whattaya gonna do about it, Web?”

  Actually feeling the faint press of those lips through the fabric of his t-shirt and those gorgeous, dark waves tickling the side of his throat made his head spin in a feverish haze. Not to mention the thin, surprisingly-muscular thigh that was occasionally flexing right up against David’s crotch. For the first time, he was thankful for the sharp stinging of his still-tender wound, as he was sure it was the only thing keeping his body from betraying him. Though, again, the downright coquettish way Liebgott was sighing in his ear was trying awful hard to overcome that hurdle. Blue eyes stared their own makeshift skylights into the slatted roof above their heads as David tried to freeze every muscle in his body completely. After the disaster of a patrol, he’d been pretty certain he wouldn’t be sleeping that night. But this little unconscious stunt of Joe’s had absolutely guaranteed that.

  David woke up the next morning half expecting rust coating the back of his throat as Joe shoved his bayonet down it, or perhaps to the sight of the tendons in those skinny arms flexing as he strung David up from the nearest tree. Instead, David woke up shivering in an empty bed feeling oddly lonely. For 24 years, he had woken up in a bed by himself, but this is the first time it had felt wrong.

  Carefully, he shifted himself into a sitting position and tried to shake the feeling of phantom knuckles brushing against his chest, and warm, moist air wetting his throat from lips that were no longer there. Christ, what was happening to him? Still feeling half asleep, he turned his head and was pinned in place by a bewildering sight:

"C'est bon, mon garçon, ça va. C'était un accident ... juste un accident."

  Had he not had such a distinctive, thick accent, David would’ve found it hard to believe that was Doc pressed so close to Heffron. Sleep-hazy eyes watched, transfixed, as cracked, pale lips pressed sweet french notions into the crown of Babe’s trembling, red-brown hair. Babe’s gangly, long-limbed body was curled up impressively small, with what appeared like all of his weight pressing down on Gene’s chest. The medic, for all of his scrawny stature, hardly seemed to mind having his back flattened to the mattress by his fellow paratrooper. Dark blue eyes shone with so much love, it rattled David to his core. Did the two of them not know David was still in here with them? Weren’t they terrified of being court marshalled, or worse? His skin tingled, feeling starved for the ghost of Liebgott’s skin on his, as his gaze tracked Roe’s fingers carding through Babe’s thin locks. The two men were so tightly pressed together from chest to toes that they melded into one being. And just when David felt like his reality couldn’t resemble more of a fever dream, something impossible happened.

“Regarde-moi, ange.” Doc rumbled in a low, sleep-scratchy voice before slowly moving one palm up to cup Babe’s chin. And then, as though it were nothing, suddenly they were kissing. And the way the duo kissed, searching and deep….that didn’t look like the first time they’d done that before. His cheeks flushed when a soft, sweet little moan slid out of those pressing lips-he wasn’t sure which. Okay, so now David was almost positive Doc hadn’t spotted his sleeping form across from Babe’s bunk. He decided to take pity on the guys; this was obviously a very private moment that David had no business seeing. Shifting his weight and clearing his throat, he sat up very gingerly so as not to startle the men too badly. In spite of his best efforts, he felt like a real bastard as he watched all the muscles in Babe’s back stiffen, the redhead ducking his face fearfully into the side of Gene’s neck. “For a grown man, Heffron was weirdly adorable.” David thought to himself absently, unable to connect the small, fragile boy with the sharpshooting killer on the battlefield.

  Gene slowly turned to regard David with a calm, unaffected aire that confused and frightened the groggy young man. The stony faced medic shushed Babe’s faint fretting while those strong, capable hands rubbed paths through fluffy, auburn hair and down the other man’s back. Those dark-washed denim eyes continued to pierce David’s gaze all the while, as though threatening David to open his big, stupid mouth. Of course, David intended to do no such thing (his nighttime activities from last night really gave him no grounds to) and he tried his best to silently convey that in his face. His mother had always told him “his face said everything for him”, so hopefully he’d be able to recall that skillset. Something must’ve clicked, because he watched the icy stare thaw and soften ever so slightly. And then, then: the smug bastard had the gall to wink at him. Well, that certainly went to show David just how threatening Doc Roe found him!

  Once he’d scrambled out of the house with still-wrinkled ODs and a truly wild look in his blue eyes, David had been kind of counting on Joe not being anywhere near him. In his mind’s eye, he imagined the slighter man brooding in some distant alleyway all by his lonesome, smoking like a coal train with that patented scowl on his face. ‘ Probably brainstorming how best to kill me slowly and painfully…’ He thought stormily, feeling his stomach twisting yet again. He wasn’t sure why the thought bothered him so much; it’s not like that would be out-of-character or even unlikely that Joe had not been doing that from the minute they’d met. But somehow...after what they’d shared last night… the thought stung something fierce. This was what was swirling through David’s head as he clomped through Haganeu, startled out of his thoughts by bumping roughly into Martin.

“Webster, you gotta be pullin’ my leg. After that shit you pulled the other day?” The shorter man looked-okay, well, he always looked pissed, but this was a special brand of vinegar that made him itch to immediately cry uncle.

“Aw, Christ, sir. I’m terribly sorry, honestly, sir. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going…”

“Clearly,” Johnny scoffed, but to David’s surprise, his tone softened as he mumbled, “Well, I’m guessing you probably didn’t get much sleep last night. I...I didn’t sleep a wink.”

  He blinked dumbly at Martin’s abrupt change of heart. Sympathetic words from virtually anybody (but especially Srg. Martin) were so unfamiliar to him that they almost didn’t register to him. Tears threatened to prickle ludicrously at what might’ve been the only show of kindness David had yet to receive since he’d been cleared to go back, and he shook them off so he could offer Martin a respectful nod.

“I mean, if I said yes, that’d mean I was disobeying Major Winter’s direct orders.” He smiled cheekily, also feeling a bit of a rush addressing Dick by his new title. Inside, he wriggled and preened like a puppy when Martin replied with a faint grin of his own. With a faux-exasperated huff, Johnny reached up and rustled David’s mop of wavy, bed-messy hair before moving past him with a shake of his head.

  The brief interaction made David feel a bit lighter, no longer feeling so weighed down by what he knew was coming: a complete and utter shitstorm. Just then, a nasally, california drawl spiked his eardrums; as if his thoughts had summoned the bastard!

“No, no, see, Bobby COULD get with any chick ‘e wanted to, but he’s a lil bitch!”

Oh goodie; Joe appeared to be in yet another scintillating conversation. David couldn’t quite make out Chuck’s reply, but he most definitely heard Joe’s:

“You daydrinkin’ or somethin’, Chuckie?! Iceman’s like, the most badass one! Cyclops is just posturing! He’s a goddamned nerd!”

  Okay, so maybe David was struck slightly that Liebgott even knew what the word ‘posturing’ meant. And that surprise must’ve registered in his face as he did his best to inch past the cluster of 2nd platoon boys, because Ramirez suddenly called out:

“Somethin’ wrong, Webster?” with a mean, little smirk that had Grant rolling his eyes. David had always appreciated how little Srg. Grant tolerated the rest of his platoon’s relentless pestering of David. Not enough to speak up on his behalf, of course. After all, David was pretty sure that Joe was his best friend aside from maybe Talbert.

Liebgott’s eyes slowly swung over to acknowledge his presence, and David flinched in preparation for the barrage of insults he was sure were heading his way. Both parties had stopped walking, everyone apart from David and Joe shifting in slight discomfort as the staredown continued.

“You look like shit, Harvard.” Joe offered finally before bodily knocking his shoulder with David’s. And this one was purposeful.

  The group marched on, gravel crunching beneath their feet in the silence while David stood frozen in the same spot. W-what? That was it? Joe wasn’t even going to-to acknowledge what they’d done?? No, fuck that, what JOE had done to HIM! It wasn’t exactly like David had crawled into Joe’s bunk and-and….

Oh.

 Well, it was kind of like that. But, still! He’d been more than willing to leave and sleep on the frigid basement flooring, but then Joe had started rubbing and sighing and had latched onto David’s arm! Yeah...held him captive...with his slumber-sweet breath and surprisingly petal-soft skin. Jesus Christ, what was he kidding himself? Truth was, they were both at fault here, but only one of them had done so consciously. Did Liebgott think he was some sort of perverted creep now? God, he really wished that Joe had at least made some mention as to his feelings on the situation. Perhaps if he could manage to get the stubborn guy alone.

  David saw his chances and took it after Dick had informed them that they wouldn’t have to do a second patrol that night, snagging Joe by that sharp, little elbow on his way out the door. He ignored the look of unfiltered disgust on Joe’s face for the time being, swallowing his nerve before he had a fucking heart attack.

“Joe, can we talk? Please?

  He pleaded softly, ignoring how Babe was openly staring at them both as he brushed past them. The tips of his ears and high planes of his cheeks flushed at the sudden reminder that Babe knew . What made it worse was Joe’s gaze tracking the color as it spread across David’s face; he seemed unaware that he was even doing it.

“Why should I listen to anything you have to say, Web?” The question came out choked up, and obviously not as vicious as intended.

  Rather than replying, he simply tugged on Joe’s arm and ushered him away from where Nixon and Winters were still idly watching the interaction. The pair shuffled into a nearby alleyway, and David bit his lip, struggling not to comment on how easily he was able to move Joe around. That undoubtedly would set him off, and cause Joe to storm off before they’d even had a chance to talk.

   Instead, he let go of Joe’s arm hastily, and shifted so that his weight was pressing along the brick wall opposite him. Something on Joe’s face shuttered for a half-second, but his expression smoothed over into what he probably thought looked like apathy. Again, David fought off a smile; Joe’s face was always like an open book, and the older man never seemed to not be smouldering over some little thing. Maybe he was going insane, but David had always found it weirdly cute. If he wanted to really ensure his death, he might’ve even gone ahead and referred to it as a pout. That’s what it was really; Liebgott was never not pouting .

“The fuck ‘r you smilin’ for?”

  Oops, guess he’d failed. He wiped the grin off bodily with his palm and tried affecting an air of seriousness. Clearing his throat, his sky blue eyes rolled heavenwards as he searched for the right phrasing:

“I wanted to...apologize, for my actions the other night. It was inappropriate of me-”

Joe prickled instantly: “Jesus- don’t you talk to me like I’m some skirt, Webster! I-you, it’s not like you took my innocence or-”

   He seemed to register the words he was saying and his mouth shut with an audible clack. And David watched in fascination as Joe Liebgott blushed like an embarrassed little boy, shuffling his feet and looking away from him. He’d always thought a healthy flush looked particularly fetching on pale skin, the rosy color bloomed oh so beautifully, in his opinion at least. He continued to watch in baffled silence as Joe began to babble to fill the quiet:

“Not that- I’m not- and you, you didn’t… we didn’t- Look, nothing happened! Okay?”

  His ears got much redder than the rest of his face, and David let himself think it freely now. Cute . It was fucking endearing, the way Joe continued to huff and puff, brown eyes fluttering around the dirty alley. He felt a surge of warmth in his chest, feeling perhaps a little gluttonous as he soaked in the way dark brown locks shone in the dimming sunlight. With Joe refusing to acknowledge David’s existence, he was free to admire the man to his heart's content, appreciative that he was here  in the flesh.

    A sharp, defined collarbone peeked out of Joe’s jacket where the hem had gone askew, and long, pretty fingers toyed with his dog tags subconsciously. His memory recalled how those fingers felt: not rough, like he’d expect of a man so used to heavy artillery, but soft as silk. David recognized, obviously, that Joe was plenty manly. He acted with far too much aggression and seemed to compulsively throw his weight around (not that he had much to speak of). But physically, there seemed to be a disconnect. Joseph Liebgott had been sculpted into a thin, delicate form that clashed harshly with his mean attitude and meaner words. Call a spade a spade, but Joe was pretty . Handsome, sure, but pretty was more accurate. Pretty evoked images of sculptures and artwork to David; something finely crafted and meant to be….

To be appreciated.

“Do you have any memory…? Of anything you did last night?” Anger quickly bled into concern across Liebgott’s delicate features, much to David’s confusion:

“Do? Shit, David, I...I didn’t do somethin’ stupid, did I? ‘S that what’s got you all upset?”

  Wait, what? Now Joe thought he’d-ugh- taken David’s innocence?!? Any fondness he had for the shorter faded into irritation. God, he could be thick sometimes! He fought the urge to shake Joe, less inclined to fall through with this now that he knew how easily he could push Joe around. Hypothetically, of course. Although…

“Wha- I’m not upset, Joe!”

“The fuck you’re not!”

“But, really, I’m not-”

“You’re shoutin’ in my face, Webster! Clearly, something’s got yer panties in a bunch!”

He could feel his face heating up as his anger built, ticking upwards the more they shouted at one another:

“My p- You know what? Fine, yes, I am upset! Because you refuse to talk to me about what happened!”

“NOTHIN’-”

“WE SHARED A FUCKING BED, JOE!”

  Joe surged forward anxiously and covered David’s mouth with his palm, and oh, touching was so much worse. In his haste, Joe’s body was pressing into his own from chest to thigh, and David tasted the acrid nicotine tang and salt of his fingers. As Joe hissed in a tense, barely-audible voice, their noses nearly brushed.

“Are you trying to get us both shot?? Shut the fuck up with that shit!”

He waited patiently until Joe finally removed his hand before saying: “So, you do acknowledge that something happened.”

  He practically felt Joe holding himself back from smacking him, but David didn’t back down. Once more leaning his head back against the bricks, he stuck out his chin pointedly and kept his lips pressed together. Quick, clever eyes took in the picture of defiance he made, and something shifted in Joe. They landed on his lips heavily, blatantly, and David felt the backs of his knees starting to sweat. A sly, wide smirk stretched across Joe’s full mouth that made David feel small somehow, but he couldn’t tell if he hated that as much as he ought to. They were already so close, but Joe shifted his weight so that both sides were pressing him back into the rough, dirty wall rather than just the one. He could only follow along helplessly as he watched Joe’s hand come up to cage him in on the sides of his head, and what the holy hell was going on??

“So, what if we did? Hm, David? Would that upset you, if I did remember?”

He scoffed but it sounded weak even to his own ears, “Yeah right, Lieb. You were asleep.”

Joe hummed, pressing impossibly closer, until he could feel just the barest scrape of chapped lips up against his own, near-black eyes boring holes into David that shone with a delicious mischievousness that had him shivering:

“Guess you’ll never know!” He said brightly, pulling away like he hadn’t pasted himself to David’s whole body with ease, and with a wink, he was gone.    

[eldritchsurveys]

862.

1. have you ever gotten soap in your mouth for cursing? do you think that’s right to do to kids who curse?: >> I did get soap in my mouth, but not for cursing; for “talking back” or being “fresh”, mostly. I was (understandably...) too afraid to do anything as brash as curse. I don’t think it’s an appropriate disciplinary measure at all, unless your mission is to confuse and frighten your child into obedience... which, apparently, is a lot of parents’ ultimate goal, it seems.

2. what age do you think is appropriate for kids to start watching horror movies with lots of gore?: >> I really don’t have a solid opinion about this. I tend to skew a little unorthodox on this front, which is probably best left unexplored (fortunately, this is all hypothetical and I’ll never have to address this situation in real life).

3. do you know what the word “polyamorous” means? and did you ever hear that song by breaking benjamin?: >> I know what it means, and I do remember the Breaking Benjamin song.

4. how many bug bites do you currently have?: >> Zero.

5. what’s one word you always have trouble spelling and can’t remember the correct spelling of?: >> I don’t think there’s any word like that. Spelling and phonics is one of my few strong suits.

6. what’s one band that really sucks live?: >> I don’t know, I haven’t seen any that I thought sucked performance-wise (I have seen a few whose music I just didn’t care for, like some opening acts, but that has nothing to do with the quality of their performance).

7. do you go to warped tour? why or why not?: >> I have never been to Warped Tour. I just never got an opportunity to go, or I was never interested, or whatever.

8. do you have any wind chimes outside your house? how many?: >> No. Some neighbours have them, I think.

9. do you know someone who actually had someone give them a bouquet of real roses and one fake one, and tell them they’ll love them until the last one dies?: >> I’ve never even heard of that.

10. which do you like better, firefox or internet explorer?: >> Firefox.

11. who is the most attractive person on your street?: >> ---

12. do you have a flat stomach? would you ever wear a belly shirt to show it off?: >> I no longer have a flat stomach, and you wouldn’t catch me dead in a crop top.

13. which do you prefer on yourself, long or short hair?: >> I like how I look with long hair, but I prefer the low maintenance of short hair. So, I buzz my head, and I wear wigs when I feel like it. Best of both worlds.

14. what about on your preferred sex? long or short?: >> ---

15. with eyebrow piercings, do you prefer the ring or the curved barbell?: >> I have no opinion.

16. have you ever pierced something yourself? why and what was it?: >> Yeah, I pierced my ears a few times. I did it because I wanted to? And also because I couldn’t afford to have them professionally done. I also did it when I was 16 because my father wouldn’t let me get a cartilage piercing, so I pierced my own ear at work one day. (My father eventually noticed because I put the most ridiculously obvious jewelry in it... hold on, I’m going to find a photo of what I’m talking about because like... what did I expect to happen)

looked something like that. I straight up deserved to get caught.

17. would you date someone who was five years older than you?: >> I don’t date, but that wouldn’t be a dealbreaker if I did.

18. i heard of a girl whose boyfriend cheated on her with a 13yearold (he’s 18) and got her pregnant, so she left him. what would you have done if you were in her situation?: >> I... just can’t imagine being in this situation, sorry.

19. how old was the youngest person you ever found attractive? and how old were you?: >> Oh, I don’t know. Probably not much younger than myself; my tastes always skewed older (oftentimes much older).

20. isn’t it annoying when you’re trying to start conversation with someone and all they say is “yup” or “really now” or something like that?: >> Not necessarily, unless they’re usually much more exuberant and participatory than that. Then I’d wonder if something was wrong (and if it was my fault).

21. if you have aim, do you have any linked screen names? how many?: >> ---

22. which of your favorite bands released a new album last?: >> I’m not sure.

23. are you waiting for any bands to release new albums? which ones?: >> No.

24. what’s your favorite store for buying cds and such at?: >> Back in the day when that was my primary mode of listening to music, my favourite music stores were Virgin Megastore and Tower Records. Ah, nostalgia.

25. what’s the point in buying dvds like “girls gone wild” and other porn if you can get tons more online for free?: >> Well, people generally do watch more porn online nowadays, I think. But the benefit of having a DVD is that... you never have to worry about the video being taken down, and you always have it available (so, even if you don’t have internet connection, etc). It’s the same argument for having paper books or movies/shows on DVD, really.

26. if you had to have one drug (illegal ones, like marijuana and cocaine and all of them) right now, what would it be?: >> Well, marijuana is technically legal here (although I think new recreational dispensary openings in this city have been kinda interrupted by the whole pandemic business, so it’s still a bit hard to access for now). The only drugs I’m even interested in anymore (besides maybe a little low-THC weed, just to see) are psychedelics, and I don’t just want to take them casually, I want a tripsitter or a therapist present. So it’s more complicated than just “getting the drug”.

27. would you ever get a sleeve or a half sleeve on your arm (we’re talking about tattoos)?: >> I would love that. I have had the idea to have a tree-rings tattoo down my left arm like the astronaut character in The Fountain for years.

28. do you have a wireless mouse and/or keyboard?: >> No, my keyboard and mouse are both wired, which is logical. Wouldn’t it suck if I was in the middle of a boss fight in FFXIV and the battery in my keyboard or mouse just fuckin died? Yikes.

29. do you think your biological parents love each other?: >> They did not love each other, from my perspective. I don’t even know if my father is capable of loving anyone, the way he fucking acts.

30. do you have callouses on your feet?: >> No.

31. did you see the commercial for that “foot grater” on tv that basically shaves the callouses off of your feet? isn’t that nasty to think about?: >> That is nasty to think about, and I don’t think it’s even necessary. Anything to make a buck, I guess.

31. what’s your favorite color combination (ex. pink and purple)?: >> I don’t know, I like a lot of colour combinations.

32. ever been to watchmovies.net? what do you think of the quality of the movies there?: >> Yeah. I don’t like sites like that because I can never get good subtitles and also they’re always buffering and shit. I can’t put up with that anymore, I paid my dues back in my literally-broke days.

33. what’s one movie you’re dying to see but haven’t had the chance to see yet?: >> Everything on my watchlists across the four streaming services I patronise. I just don’t always have movie-watching energy (or time), so it’s slow going to get through all my watchlists.

34. would you rather live alone in a huge mansion or alone in a small studio apartment?: >> Alone in a small studio apartment. Unless the huge mansion had a staff, because I really can’t fucking imagine keeping a mansion clean and maintained otherwise. But... huge mansions often come with a lot of acreage... and no neighbours... that’d be nice.

35. if you came across child porn on your computer, what would you do?: >> How the fuck would that even happen? Let’s not get silly here.

36. what’s the last computer game you played?: >> Final Fantasy XIV.

37. what’s the name of the street you live on?: >> Eh, let’s not.

38. would you ever dye your entire head blonde?: >> No.

39. what’s the randomest thing you ever heard of someone collecting?: >> I don’t know, most things people collect seem random to me.

40. how often do you use “<3” or “:]”?: >> Rarely.

41. isn’t it annoying how people walk around thinking hollister logo tshirts and ripped jeans are preppy, even though those things would never be allowed in a prepatory school because of the dress code?: >> *stares blankly in “I don’t care”*

42. how do you feel about abortion?: >> I am pro-choice.

43. what’s one thing your grandmother does that you can’t stand?: >> ---

44. did you ever notice how it’s more tragic if a younger person dies than an older person, even if they both died of the same cause?: >> It does seem that way to people, but I don’t see it that way myself. Of course I’d rather die when I’m old than, like, right now, but hey. It be like that.

45. when’s the last time you snuck around, and where did you go?: >> I don’t have to sneak around.

46. how often do you wash your hair?: >> Once a week, provided I remember.

47. do you think the price for a movie ticket is too high these days?: >> Not here, it isn’t. In NYC, it was fucking astronomical.

48. have you ever been to a drive-in movie theater?: >> No. I’d like to one day, that seems fun. But only if I have a convertible, lol.

49. what’s your favorite musical?: >> Phantom of the Opera.

50. what do you think of dr. seuss?: >> I’ve never read him (that I can remember) and I don’t care.

[hearteyes-for-killmonger]

3. Spicy Little Thing

Erik had tugged off the blue plastic glove so he could feel. The fingertips of his right hand strolled down the smooth winding curves of her twists which started with a deep natural off black near the root and faded into a warm and inviting chestnut. This hair was meant to play in and the way it coiled.. It was teasing him.

"You're not shy, but your hair is," he chuckled watching it curve and curl around and away from his finger. He could do this all day.

"Maybe it doesn't like you," she muttered. The thought hadn't crossed his mind.

Now he was irritated that she'd made him think of something like that. He was tempted to grab her hair in his fist and pull it out in a hard tug. It would take a few pulls. He could picture in his mind putting his entire weight into pulling just for bits of her scalp to come with it. That wasn't at all what he wanted.

Blinking, he was able to transport himself back into the happy place he was in before she'd ruined it with her unnecessary comment. He felt his entire body relax and he exhaled and closed his eyes, moving his head side to side to stretch his neck.

His fingers continued gently through her hair.

From chestnut, the smooth twists faded yet again to a sandy summer blonde. It wasn't Becky blonde, which he appreciated. It was a natural, soft blonde that remained in the brown family.

"Usually, styles like this.. have extensions.. but I can't find an indication that you're wearing any." His fingers couldn't find a knot, but it was too pretty to unravel just to see if he'd have a hand full of unattached hair.

"I like this," he murmured, lost in the softness of her twists. The texture was smooth, the strands held a slight dull sheen, and it was curly yet kinky. It was perfect.

He put his nose to it and it smelled like sweet blueberries. His eyelids fluttered shut as he inhaled deeply, breathing out in ecstasy. He wanted to eat her hair, but he knew that would be completely impractical.

"Mm.. That's fuckin good. What you use on this," he asked, both hands in her hair squeezing and slightly pulling. "Smell good as shit.."

He waited for her response getting nothing. He hated to let go of her soft and squishy twists just to get a response. So he didn't. He pulled harder.

"I didn't catch that. What products did you use on this?"

She sighed, "Curls Control Jelly."

"And that's what makes it smell like blueberry?"

Again she sighed, this time moving her head. "Well on the fuckin label it say Blueberry Bliss so I'd assume that would make it smell like blueberries.. but I'm no rocket scientist."

"You kinda zesty," he chuckled finding her humor intriguing. "I like my women a little feisty."

"Oh I definitely ain't your woman. You done fucked that up." Her head shook lightly as she spoke. It was the only real way she could express her attitude since everything else was tied. He walked around to her right side to face her head on. He wanted the full impact of what she was saying. She had attitude written clearly on her sweet features.

"Spicy little thing.. Yeah, I like that," he grinned watching her top lip curl in a mild snarl. "That's sexy. Keep it up."

Her eyes rolled as she looked away, out the thick plexiglass window ahead.

He was mildly disappointed. All that just to check out. He liked her fire.

"You done already? No 'fuck you'? I thought I'd at least get a 'go to hell'."

She turned back suddenly looking him square in the eye before shooting a large wad of spit in his face. It landed clean on his nasal bridge and he blinked in surprise. She was quick.

He stood to snatch a Kleenex from the decorative blue box that sat on the countertop near the computer. She was watching him with a smug expression and he had a feeling she'd try it again.

"You proud of yourself for that, I can tell." A few wipes with the Kleenex and Erik had to discard it for a different one.

"You brought that on yourself," she smirked.

"Hm." From his silver cart, he picked up a green condiment along with the gadget he'd brought into the room, turning it over in his palm. "That reminds me.. I brought you a little somethin-somethin." 

He whistled, hiding both objects behind his back as he came up from behind to move back to his position on her right side.

"You excited? Of course you are." Holding out his left hand, he presented the plastic device first watching her green eyes go wide.

"Hell nah," she yelled shaking her head, but she didn't have a choice. He kissed his teeth in annoyance, fiddling with the cheek retractor in his palm.

"You being hella ungrateful shorty. Chill the fuck out... Seems like you already know what this is though, good for you."

"Nah nah nah, nigga I don't know what you th-"

"You ain't see the best part. I got this wasabi," he smirked revealing the green paste and a q-tip on his right hand. She looked like her breath had been stolen. "That's the face I wanted. Take your breath away don't it?"

Swiping the wasabi onto the cheek and lip part of the retractor, he positioned it at her mouth which was now tightly shut and denying entry. Her eyes held worry and she turned her head.

"Open up, Ivy. You don't wanna see me angry. I get rough when I'm angry."

She whined, but he waited patiently and her lips slowly parted.

"Good girl."

Guiding the retractor into her mouth, he inserted it behind one cheek and then the other. Instantly her mouth was stretched open, her cheeks were pushed back, and her lips stretched away from the two rows of white teeth which stood front and center. Her whining increased, accompanied by tears. It was the intense spiciness of the wasabi burning the membranes in her mouth and the strong scent making her eyes water, a fitting and entertaining punishment. He watched, content in her suffering. 

"That's what happens to little smart asses who like to spit. I can do this all day."

The drool was thick and watery, dripping down her chin. He looked to the box of Kleenex and back to her pleading green eyes, raising his brows in question.

"Tissues? ..You wanted the Kleenex?" He pointed looking back and forth between her and the blue box sitting on the counter.

"Help yourself, it's for patients! Hm? You change your mind? Ohhhh!... That's right, you can't move! Damn," he snapped crossing his arms and shaking his head. "That's a shame. You droolin and shit. Not a good look."

He gave it another few seconds before he leaned in close to her face. She was sweating just a little bit.

"I don't hear you talking anymore."

Her hopeless whimper was response enough. He grabbed the suction to suck up some of the lake that had accumulated in her wide open mouth. He didn't need her to choke.

"Since we're here.. I may as well go ahead and take care of those cavities. Let me just grab a few cotton balls."

"HHHHHHN!!" She shook her head quickly, her eyes wild, but again, she had no choice in the matter.

"Yess, let's fill those nasty holes of yours."

"Hhh?!"

He suctioned out more of her neverending production of drool before pulling his drill. She flinched when he turned it on and he gribbed her chin, holding it still.

"Don't move if you wanna keep all these big pearly whites. My hand is steady, but it can slip." The low buzz of the drill was like music to his ears.

He drilled the decay away, glancing up every now and then to see tears slipping from her eyes.

"Almost done. You're doing great."

The drill turned off and she exhaled, her chest sinking.

"Applying the adhesive... and now the air. Your teeth may feel a little sensitive, but bare with the pain."

Using the air syringe, he blew the air to dry the teeth watching her cringe, her eyes squinted.

"More adhesive. This is protocol."

He took the small curing light and shined it on the tooth to harden the adhesive. It gave a satisfying beep. He repeated the process with the other tooth.

"Now for the magic," he smiled retrieving his syringe and placing it on the prepped teeth. "Injecting the composite filling. It's more expensive but it's more natural. Wouldn't wanna fuck up these big pretty teeth with a silver patch."

He packed down the fillings and smoothed them before curing them with the light once more. The next thing to do was polish. The affected teeth looked good as new. He was impressed with his own work. He removed the cheek retractor allowing her to spit out the cotton ball,  stretching and closing her mouth at will.

"How's your bite? Is it comfortable or do I need to shave it down?"

She swallowed and took a breath while he waited for her response. This time she answered flat out.

"No, it's fine."

"Just fine?" Maybe he had to go back in afterall.

"No, it's great! It's great, see," she bit down a few good times and it was good enough to convince him. He knew he'd done it perfectly. He was a great dentist.

She sighed and his eyes automatically went to her torso which was tied. She was top-heavy and every time she breathed like that, her titties would move along with her chest. They were stashed away, hidden by her shirt however. His eyes trailed to her legs.

---

Ivy wondered what the hell Dr. Stevens could possibly be looking at. She'd left work and headed straight to her appointment so she was wearing a white cardigan, a white sleeveless shirt, capris, and the sandals that she'd driven in because her four-inch heels were fatiguing her arches and she'd walked in them all the way to her car.

"Crimson on black skin is something I'll never get over," he muttered swiping his fingers over her ankle before walking them up her leg to her knee, which was covered. She wanted to yank it away, an uncomfortable feeling chilling her entire body.

She was still trying to process the fact that he'd actually filled both of her cavities. She didn't want her mind to drift too far to the dark possibilities of what he could be planning because she didn't want to manifest it. She hoped that after he did whatever weird thing he planned to do, he'd let her go. She'd leave and never look back.

He left her side again to go to that God forsaken cart out of her view and when he returned, he sat on his stool. He had a glass bottle of Voss water and was just.. drinking it. She started to say something smart, but recalled the punishment.

"You thirsty?" He held out the glass bottle, this time putting it closer to her mouth and tilting it gently giving her a sip. She spit it out immediately causing him to cough, doubled over in laughter.

"That's a shame. You know better than to trust me by now." He shook his head, a delighted grin plastered on his face. It was straight vodka in that glass bottle. He put it back to his lips and took a long swig before putting the lid back on it and returning it to the cart.

"Can't believe you actually took what the fuck I offered you. That tranquilizer must still be working on your brain. I thought you was smart... what if it was poison?"

"You wouldn't have given me poison. That wouldn't entertain you." He seemed more sadistic than that unfortunately.

"Look at you trying to gain IQ points!" He slow-clapped and Ivy rolled her eyes biting her tongue.

"Is that attitude I see? Been waiting on that girl to come back, I like playing with her. Let's get a good look at them eyes of yours."

@honey-poooh @missshae @raysunshine78 @destinio1 @marvelmaree @honeytoffee @thickemadame @heykillmongerluhme @ghostfacekill-monger @killmongersmistress

[forbetterorworsefinalspace]

Soul Case

Rating: Teen and Up

Fandom: Final Space

Part: 7

Link-  🌌

_______________________________________________________

While recovering from her injuries, Sheryl's past comes back in a muddle mess. What really happened and what didn't? The world may never know.

_______________________________________________________

The outbacks of Australia were hot and dusty. The wind blew harshly, pelting Sheryl with dirt specks and sand. The sun over head was broiling and her mouth felt dry. As she walked she passed abandoned vehicles and garbage, almost tripping on an exposed fender.

She licked her lips dryly, trying to shield her eyes from the sun. She didn’t recall how she got here, dad likely dumped her again. Well that was no problem, she just needed to wait for the stars to come out and follow their directions until she could see the Mountain, then trek her way home.

It was just gonna be a while.

As she went Sheryl noted something in the distance, standing on four legs. Cautiously she went closer, finally seeing it for what it was.

A Blue Heeler.

Oh bugger all! She scowled. If there was one thing she hated, it was dogs, and if there was one dog she hated, it was Blue Heelers. Fuckin things!

Almost as if it could hear her thoughts, the dog ran for her, barking and snarling. Sheryl had no time to react as it closed the distance in the blink of an eye, before coming down on her. She yelled as the dog bowled into her, teeth snapping. She kicked, trying to fight back, but she couldn’t get enough power into her hits. Somehow it snapped it jaws onto her head, starting to drag her along the ground.

She screeched, hands scrambling for something to grab onto, when one closed around something sharp. It hurt, but she quickly slashed up at the dog wildly.

It almost seemed to sense the impending attack though, as it let her go and jumped back, growling harshly.

Panting the girl got to her feet, hair a mess and head bleeding. She and the dog had a slight standoff, both snarling at each other and bearing their teeth. It was clear the dog didn’t intent to leave, so Sheryl started to back away. Thankfully it seemed disinterested in following after her now, since she could defend herself.

A few feet away, Sheryl looked down at her hand, finding an old combat knife that she was holding by the blade.

She rectified that and kept going. ……..

It was so bloody hot.

It was sunset and the temperature wasn’t much better. Sheryl stumbled along, wiping sweat and blood from her brow.

Must be 40 degrees out here at least! Odd at this time of day.

As she walked Sheryl stumbled, tried, alone and hungry.

Pull yourself together. Your pathetic.

She tried to stand straighter at the thought.

Sunset turned to twilight, everything blanketed in darkness and the sky a melted orange. The abandoned relics of the past around her were painted in the warm colours. Sheryl stopped by an overturned battle truck, licking her lips dryly. As she leaned against the truck something scuttled over her hand, glancing to it she found a cockroach running around, antennas twitching.

She quickly smash it under her hand and rammed it in her mouth, chewing the crunchy creature apart before swallowing.

Ok, got food, now she just needed water.

Thankfully if there were roaches here then that meant water was close. She went looking, until she located a small muddy puddle with an old tank barrel sticking out of it. She dropped to all fours, drinking out of it like an animal, her hair dipping in around her face and turning brown.

God it was warm, why was it so warm?!

A distal howl sent a chill down Sheryl spine, she sat up to look at her surroundings wildly, before some creatures start to emerge from the wreckage around her.

Dingos.

Sheryl stood, pulling out her knife. She didn’t really stand a chance against these things, not when there were so many! She backed up as more and more Dingos slipped from the darkness. With very little options left Sheryl turned and began to run.

They were right behind her and Sheryl was so focused on getting away, that she didn't really pay attention to where she was going. She was glancing over her shoulder at a sharp set of teeth, when she rushed right over a steep embankment. The world was a tumbling mess of dry dirt, rocks, heat and darkness before she landed in a shallow puddle. Coughing Sheryl got to her hands and knees, shaking when she heard the wild dogs scrambling down the hill towards her.

Where was her knife?! Where was it!?

Her hands splash in the thick, cloudy water for her missing weapon, as it had tumbled out of her hands during the fall. Rocks started skittered down around her as the pack got closer, Sheryl still fruitlessly searching.

BARK! BARK!

Something came from the opposite direction, leaping over Sheryl, much to her shock. She spun around, watching as a new dog started to fight off the Dingos with ease. At first the wild dogs refused to back down, but when it became clear they weren’t going to win, they finally had to retreat.

Yelping and whining the Dingos ran off, tails between their legs.

The dog snorted, shaking his fur out with a snuff before starting to walk back to where he had come from. Sheryl stared after it in disbelief, getting to her hands and knees again when it crossed the puddle to the other side. There the chocolate lab stopped to stare back at her, waiting.

Sheryl shifted, not sure what to do,

Something shimmered below her and Sheryl looked down as her reflection in the mud puddle below her swirled into an ominous shape.

‘Sheryl Goodspeed.’ The figure had deer like horns and a skull face, two burning eyes pierced her soul. Somehow she knew this demons name.

“Oreskis?” She asked in a wheezing, scratchy voice.

‘You need to wake up Sheryl Goodspeed. Your dying.’

Yip! Yip!

Sheryl looked behind her in time to see a tiny Golden puppy bounding up behind her. It jumped on top of her, submerging her face in the mud puddle- -----

“GASP!!” Sheryl’s lungs were full of water and she struggled to find the strength to sit up. She coughed and hacked harshly, shaking away a pair of tiny hands when they tried to help her.

“Mom!” Gary shouted, sounding relieved. “Your awake!”

“A-ar-” Sheryl coughed some more, body wracking heavily. “Are you trying t-to- (COUGH!) Dr-o-own me?!”

She was soaked from her head to toes, her sleep shirt heavy and sticky, even her pants and feet were wet. How much fuckin’ water had that kid poured on her.

“I’m sorry!” Gary said quickly, wringing his hands. “B-but you been sleeping for two days almost and you started talking in your sleep, and your voice was all cracking and you sounded thirsty so I grab a cup and-”

“How long?!” Sheryl looked at him in shock, only to find Gary out of focus, despite being right beside her. In Fact the entire camper was fuzzy…

Wait, confused, vision impaired, soaked even where water wasn’t poured, and the heat from her dreams hadn’t dissipated upon waking. Sheryl swore and forced herself up, despite sleep calling to her like a siren. She yanked her pants down a bit to get access to her injury, pulling off the wrap to find it red and angry.

She grunted. “Well congrats Gary, the wound you gave me is infected…”

“What?!” He looked to her leg quickly. “W-what do we do then?! We can fix this right!?”

“Get my first aid kit from my bag, the big one.” She ordered briskly, pulling on the wound a bit to see it was closing at all. Burned like a mother fucker, but it seemed to be sealing shut.

“This one?!” Gary asked, running back with a large black case.

“Give.”Sheryl took it with a nod. It opened and she pulled out a few different boxes of medical supplies until she came to the bottom. She yanked out something that looked like an air jet gun nozzle, with an empty space at the back and a large needle in front.

She heard Gary whine at the sight of it, but she didn’t look at him. Instead she tried to find the right vile inside the case, she should have multiple of them… She couldn’t read the tiny print, her vision was blurry, and Gary didn’t know what to look for, thankfully though the viles also had brail imprinted into the glass. She ran her fingers over a few before finding the one she wanted.

Rocephin.

She jammed it into the end of the gun, which beeped when the seal to the vile opened properly. She tapped the bubbles out of it, then lined it up to the wound.

Sheryl paused, taking a very, very deep breath, then rammed it into her thigh as hard as she could.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

“Ahhh!” Gary screamed as well at the sight, before he dropped to the floor, almost fainting.

The gun injected the Rocephin into her once it was needle deep. Faster than the blink of an eye. Still made her vision white, especially around the injury. She pulled it back out, wheezing tightly and shuttering.

"FUCK! FUck! fuck! fuck."

Fuckin’ hell.

“T-there!” Sheryl coughed, blowing her hair out of her face. “All done.” She released the vile and tossed it into the case, then ejected the needle to be tossed in the garbage.

Gary clawed his way back to his knees with the help of the bed blankets. “Your better? Just like that?”

“What? No!” Sheryl glared at him and the boy withered. “Nothing works like that, you idiot. It takes time to recover from anything. Your mistakes never just ‘go’ away.”

“Oh…”

“God knows how much this will take me off track.” Sheryl grumbled. “I have shit to do, this is the last bloody- grah!”

“W-when will you be better?”

“I DON’T FUCKIN’ KNOW!” Sheryl snapped at him. She could see Gary’s blurry form flinch at her tone. She in turn pinched the bridge of her nose and tried to calm down. “Ok...Alright… I’ve done all I can for now. I just need more sleep… and to clean myself up.” She pulled at her sweat soaked shirt. “Go run me a bath if you want to be helpful-”

Gary was gone before she finished.

Sheryl harrumphed.

She wiped her face, thinking about her fever dream. It was a made up mess of things and she wasn’t sure what it meant… but Oreskis was in it and she wasn’t drunk this time… Did that mean he really was real?

She hoped so.

This had better be worth the trouble.

[skyfcx]

     it’s late enough to where i can blab and just absolutely ramble about a game that has absolutely nothing to do with the current blog im on without being scrutinized, right? it doesnt matter what you answered because im still gonna do it anyway.

hi my name’s aaron and i love breath of the wild? like dudes i cant explain how much i love this game, and im not even that big a legend of zelda fan. i’ve barely even played majora’s mask and that was on a copy of the 3ds remake that wasnt even mine, i’ve never touched twilight princess, never even glanced at skyward sword, 4 swords whomst’ve. yet i’ve played this game from start to finish at LEAST four times, i might have recently started my fifth time, who knows. i’ve collected all 900 korok seeds and gotten 800+ two other times since getting the seeds you missed is actual torture on the soul, but i’d still do it again and probably will do it again! because this game is that fucking fun to just play! my only extensive time with the zelda franchise has been wind waker, which i love with all my heart by the way, which for many of the reasons carry over into botw. 

and that reason is the sense of adventure i feel with a game like this. in wind waker, i absolutely loved the sailing mechanic, loved it with all my heart. the feeling i get from sailing across the bounding waves with that amazing music pounding against my ears as my destination slowly reveals itself in the distance is... god i dont have a word for it. it’s the same sensation i get as i listen to the rhythmic beat of my horse’s hooves against the ground in botw, riding toward my destination when i could’ve just teleported there, only i decided to ride there because i get to soak in the breathtaking landscapes and fight enemies and grow my weapons collection the further i go. find shrines or interesting places to pin on my map, korok seeds to pick up the next time im passing by, or a detour i’ve taken for the third time that’s made me completely forget where the heck i was going in the first place.

 engaging fights, moving around the dangerous terrain to find a vantage point, looking for a good way to strike. or trying to take down an enemy’s settlement stealthily despite the fact that i know i have the weapons and skills to brute force my way through. a good power contest of keeping track of all the baddies around me and dodging them for flurry rushes is nice, but sometimes you wanna see if you can clear out the entire place without setting any alarms off, and the smile of satisfaction when i do just that and pick up my prices and spoils. it’s utterly fantastic. 

like... just fuckin fuck, dude. i love botw so much, i love that game so much, there’s so much about that game that just brings me back every single time. the overwhelming amount of choices i have to do is staggering each go-around, i’ve gotta stop and think about what i should do next while slowly panning my camera around the environment, listening to the wind moving through the shaded grass, the gentle piano. 

if i’m just returning to my horse and it’s bent down eating grass, i’ll let it finish before heading off. after i’ve got a memory, i’ll stand silent and think about what’s going through link’s head, as he just unlocked another part of himself, all while simultaneously allowing him to do the same. sometimes i’ll stop and give my horse some apples despite the fact that our bond is already at max because they’re probably hungry and i want the best for my companion. i’ll sleep at an inn/horse stable every now and again instead of just eating something because link is probably tired and he needs rest to perform his best. if an environment is hot, but like, not hot enough to have link take any damage? i’ll still move link into some lighter clothes like the climbing gear, or have him take off his hood because it’s still gotta be uncomfortably hot and i don’t want that for him. and the same goes with cold. if it’s chilly, i’ll put a fire sword on his back so he isn’t too cold. this game just... makes me feel, dammit! its world makes me care about the things happening and it’s got my heart going crazy!!