#w a little hammer and chisel

[ghostbeam]

Gonna write bkg next for my art school au

[cherrycolored-punk]

NHTK - Chapter One

Masterlist

summary: You’d always been warned by your older brother about the bad boys. The ones with the long hair, tattooed arms, and played in a band. Especially the one that is his best friend.

pairing: brother's best friend! Eddie Munson x fem! Reader, reader is Reefer Rick’s little sister.

trope/themes: forbidden love, friends to lovers

w/c: 5.6k

author's note: this is a repost from my previous blog @strangemagicc and I’ve been debating whether or not I should but I love their story so much. I hope you enjoy ! 🖤 a side note: yes, I did get drunk off my own jungle juice and yes, that did result in the worst sunburn of my life. I pour with a heavy hand.

warnings: angst, mention of cheating (technically not reader), mention of anxiety, brief mention of unwanted touching, underage drinking/smoking, a little sprinkle of smut (does clothed grinding count?). Let me know if I missed anything!

The Cunningham home was packed with bodies, familiar faces, and those you didn’t know. You stood near the front door fiddling with the zipper on your purse as you scanned the room searching for a familiar face.

Party lights bounced off a disco ball that hung haphazardly from a chandelier sending a kaleidoscope of blues and purples dancing across the foyer.

The loud music hummed in the walls, vibrating when the bass dropped. You bobbed your head to it mindlessly, without rhythm, feeling uncomfortable in the swarm of bodies around you. The foyer was crowded with partygoers, some locked in an embrace and others pushing their way up the stairs to the rooms that lined the hallway for some privacy.

Your teeth dug into your lower lip, eyebrows marrying in the middle as you searched above the sea of bodies. You were supposed to meet your best friend, Rachel, outside nearly an hour ago but your shift at Hawk Theater had dragged on, and now you didn’t know where to find her or your boyfriend for that matter.

That’s when you spotted them.

It felt like ice had filled your veins as you watched the way the familiar form of your boyfriend’s lips pushed against your best friend’s. Their mouths a frenzied dance, their eyes squished close. Her hands in his hair, his palms tracing down her exposed skin. You couldn’t move, disbelief keeping you anchored in place and watching the two of them as the rest of the world fell silent. Loud music muffled, and voices drowned out by the hammering of your heart against your ribcage.

A shoulder bumped yours causing your purse to fall as a partygoer rushed through the door to where their friends were gathered.

“Fuck,” You blinked rapidly and bent down to grab the black leather, eyes darting around at people’s shoes as you tried to regain your surroundings.

When you stood, you watched as Simon whispered in Rachel’s ear. She let out a small laugh in response to whatever he said before nodding. You began to push your way through the crowd, but bodies pushed back, and you watched as Simon led Rachel up the stairs through a throng of people. Her hand clasped in his, megawatt smile on display, and you wondered if this was the first time he had led her to a secluded room. Wondered how many stolen glances or hints you had missed.

You stopped pushing your way through and ignored the shouting in your head telling you to move, move, move.

What would you do?

What would you say?

Did it matter?

Shoulders pushed into yours as you stood still, wishing the earth would swallow you whole.

You held in the tears threatening to spill, allowing the hurt to settle into your stomach and create a dull ache.

People shoved past you, and you let your body be moved by the crowd as your eyes danced around the house.

For the first time, you noticed the smiling faces and chiseled jaws you’d ignored the past four years.

Squaring your shoulders, you pushed back against the bodies creating a path to the kitchen. Empty bottles and cans littered the counters. White granite stickied with beer and liquor.

You grabbed a plastic cup and waited for your turn at the keg. Jason Carver manned the pump and eyed you as you approached, handing him your empty plastic cup.

“Well, if it isn’t Rick’s little sister,” he started, a fake smile plastered wide on his face. You gave him a sarcastic grin and grabbed for your beer as he topped it off. None too keen on being called, let alone known as Reefer Rick’s little sister.

Jason pulled away, holding your beer just out of reach.

“Your brother was supposed to have someone here supplying the party favors. What gives?”

You couldn’t help the way your eyes rolled. Hawkins’ Golden Boy was always itching for his next fix.

“I’m sure one of his little lackeys is crawling around here somewhere.” You held your arms up, gesturing around you before reaching back up for your drink. He held it away from you again, and your shoulders sagged, annoyance building.

“Come on, Carver. Give the lady her drink,” Another boy grabbed the cup, handing it to you with a soft smile.

He was cute in an obvious way, skin glowing with a fading summer tan that highlighted the blue of his eyes.

“Thanks,” you responded with a small grin, your hand grazing his as you grabbed for your drink.

“Any time.” His eyes held yours, his hand still outstretched and warm beneath your touch.

A perfect distraction.

———————————

Eddie sank into the worn-down couch cushions with a heavy sigh, his legs spread wide so no one would sit too close. Not that they would dare to anyway.

He sat with a view of the foyer and kitchen, both areas crowded with people in various stages of inebriation.

Unfamiliar faces were cast in a rainbow of colors by the party lights illuminating multiple parts of the house. His eyes darted from one room to another.

Empty bottles of hard liquor were toppled against the kitchen counter. Plastic cups littered the room near the two kegs that sat in the middle of the tiled floor, sticky with spilled beer and marred by dirty footprints.

It was a familiar scene, one that played out the same way nearly every weekend since Eddie could remember.

But now his nerves were withering away, disappearing into nothingness as the minutes ticked by. Bored out of his mind.

Another generic pop song blasted through the speakers, another once jock tried to negotiate the price of Eddie’s already cheap supply.

His jaw was set, and if he didn’t need the money so fucking bad, he wouldn’t be here. At another house party for has-beens and once popular teens inching towards full-blown adulthood. No longer barely legal, a year closer to buying beer without sneaking it past an unsuspecting convenience store clerk.

He chugged his beer, streams of amber liquid pouring out on either side of his mouth as he drank harshly. Sloppily. Until the lukewarm liquid was gone and he was staring down into an empty plastic cup. Eddie threw his head against the cushions debating whether another cup of cheap beer was worth giving up his spot on the couch.

And then you caught his eye. Your back pressed to a guy he’d never seen you with.

His brow quirked up curiously as he watched you. The way the hem of your dress inched up with the movement of your hips, the way your eyes were closed as you swayed to the rhythm of the music and took a swig of whatever filled your plastic cup.

Didn’t you have a boyfriend?

He was surprised to see you here. Somewhere seemingly not your scene, surrounded by people he knew you didn’t like.

In truth, Eddie knew very little about you these days. Your interactions had been limited since the two of you worked side by side at the theater. A job he was fired from when the manager caught him making deals on the clock and company property. Since then, he only caught glimpses of you when he came by your house to see your brother. A passing hello or a quick goodbye. Never anything like those days spent conversing by the cinema dumpsters while being scorched by the summer sun.

You turned around and whispered something in the guy’s ear and pointed to your cup before weaving through the crowd.

Your back was to Eddie, hands reaching towards bottle after bottle, shaking them to check their contents. All coming up empty.

He chuckled when you spotted the giant cooler filled with Chrissy’s concoction of jungle juice; a mix of pineapple malibu, cherry moonshine, and fruit punch.

Eddie pushed himself off his spot on the couch and moved through the crowd towards you. Approaching just as you filled the cup to the brim and brought it towards your waiting lips. He pulled the red plastic from your hands and gave you a chastising grin.

“Don’t think so, little Lipton,” he took a swig and raised his eyebrows as the sweetness hit his tongue.

You gave him an annoyed glare and reached for your drink just as he pulled it out of your nearing grasp with an amused grin.

“I’m sorry, Munson, since when did you become an advocate against public displays of intoxication?” You reached up and snatched your cup back from his hand, looking at him with a questioning arch of your eyebrow.

He noticed the way your words were somewhat slurred, your cheeks a shade darker from the alcohol you’d already consumed.

“See you got a new boyfriend,” Eddie stated, jutting his chin toward your dance partner and ignoring the insinuation of your words. He folded his arms across his chest and stared at you with an amused gleam in his eye as he waited for your explanation.

“That guy?” You turned to the cute brunette who was waiting for you to return before looking back at Eddie.

“I just met him like two seconds ago,” you hiccuped and let out a small laugh as Eddie looked back to the brunette who was eyeing him wearily.

“What happened to Simon?”

“He’s probably still upstairs fucking Rachel,” you waved him off and shrugged before taking another sip of your drink.

“What?” Eddie couldn’t have heard you right. Simon had been your boyfriend since the summer you turned sixteen, having met him while working at Hawk Theater alongside Eddie.

“Look, Munson, is there a point to this line of questioning?”

Your buzzed mind was becoming less cloudy, the feelings you’d been pushing down threatening to come to the surface, and all you wanted to be was distracted.

“Your brother wouldn’t be too happy if I let you get drunk at some house party,” he sighed, changing the subject.

“Well, isn’t it a good thing that he isn’t here, and you can just pretend you didn’t see me?” You smiled over your cup before chugging some of the drink.

The sugary sweetness of the fruit punch nearly overpowered the taste of the strong liquor mixed with it but still, it burned as it went down. Eddie shook his head, his tongue jutting into his cheek to fight the wide grin that threatened to spread at your words.

“I wouldn’t chug that if I were you,” he warned, and you rolled your eyes, removing the plastic from your lips with a scowl pointed in his direction.

“Since when are you such a party pooper?” You poked at his chest with your free hand.

“Plus, I’ve already had a beer or two.” You held up one too many fingers to him as you pressed the cup to your lips and swallowed harshly.

“Come on, (Y/N), this isn’t like you,” he frowned.

“How would you know, Eddie?” You said his name like it was a curse word as you looked at him through hooded eyes.

He opened his mouth to respond when a passerby pushed against him to get through the crowd causing his frame to lurch into yours. A small splash of your drink soaked through your sweater, and you pushed back against his torso instinctively, his chest hard against the palm of your hand.

“Shit, sorry,” his warm breath fanned your face. A hint of spearmint mixed with the scent of cigarettes caught your nose as you inhaled sharply, caught off guard by the sudden contact of his hand against your hip, steadying himself from the crowd's sway.

You gazed up at him, your hand still on his chest, into his wide brown eyes. His cheeks were colored pink as his hand darted away from you.

“Sorry,” he whispered again, and you gave him a sardonic smile, enjoying the way he squirmed by being this close to you. Too close.

“Maybe we should get you home to change,” he pointed to your stained sweater, and you shrugged as you placed your drink on the counter.

“Trying to get me alone, Munson?” You teased, and maybe it was the alcohol, or perhaps it was the way you wished his nervous energy was because you affected him the same way he had always affected you.

You pulled at the hem of the green pullover revealing the tight black lace dress you wore underneath. Eddie’s gaze dropped instinctively, eyeing how the material hugged your curves. You grabbed his wrist and dropped the sweater into his open palm.

“Hold onto that for me,” you picked your cup back up from the counter.

“And don’t worry, Rick doesn’t have to know,” you gave him a small wink before turning away from him and pushing back through the crowd.

Eddie stared at you, his mouth agape as you disappeared back into the sea of people and picked up where you left off with your dance partner. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck—the guy whose name you didn’t even know.

Eddie glanced back down at your sweater in his outstretched hand and shook his head unsure of exactly what had gotten into you.

He grabbed another cup of beer and leaned against a wooden beam near the living room, his eyes always finding you when he looked around the room. Eddie made a few deals and sold most of his supply, a few hundred dollars closer to his goal of finally leaving Hawkins behind.

Eddie looked up and watched as stranger boy’s hands drifted down your hips and dug into your thighs. You pushed his hands back up to your waist, your head swaying to the music as the two of you continued to dance.

But stranger boy’s hands crept down your hip once again, inching lower and lower until they glided past the hem of your dress. You stilled and turned around, wrapping your arms around his neck. His chest flush with yours, blue eyes dull into you as he wrapped his arms around your waist. A flirty smile on his lips.

“Able to keep your hands to yourself, pretty boy?” Although you wanted a distraction, you still had reservations. Boundaries you didn’t want to cross. Not when your still boyfriend was upstairs.

“What’s the fun in that,” He whispered into your ear, palms sliding down and cupping your ass. Your smile fell, and you pushed at his chest, putting space between you.

“Knock it off,” your voice came out louder, barely heard above the music. Eddie tensed and pushed off the wooden beam he’d been leaning on. Your date looked uneasily around the crowd and back at you.

“Don’t be such a tease. You’ve been grinding on my dick for most of the night.” You scoffed at him and shook your head.

Eddie began to walk in your direction, pushing past the crowd that had turned its attention towards you.

“I was dancing,” you corrected just as Eddie approached. His lean frame towered next to you, eyes set on the guy whose name you now didn’t care to know.

“We got a problem here?” Eddie questioned.

“Should’ve expected your brother’s dealer to be your little lap dog,” the brunette laughed, cocky. Annoyance thrummed through your veins, and you began to step toward him but Eddie grabbed your arm, his warm palm pressed against your exposed skin.

“He’s not even worth it,” Eddie whispered and pulled you back, “let’s go.” You nodded at his words and turned to leave with him, emotional exhaustion now weighing heavy on your shoulders.

Eddie followed behind you, ignoring the way the sea of heads watched him like he was some carnival freak on display.

“Stupid slut,” the brunette muttered as he turned towards his friends, and Eddie stopped in his tracks, a dark grin coloring his features.

“On second thought.” He turned and took a wide step, swinging without hesitation. 

His clenched fist connected with the guy’s jaw sending him stumbling back and falling to the ground. Eddie stood over him, chest rising and falling rapidly. Ready for a fight. The guy groaned on the ground, holding his jaw where Eddie’s fist had already left a mark. You stood stunned into silence, the whispers of the crowd breaking you from your reverie.

“Eddie, we should go,” you grabbed onto his hand and pulled as the crowd’s murmurs began to grow louder. A bigger fight could cause the police to be called and Eddie didn’t need a bigger record.

He didn’t budge, gaze still fixed on the guy writhing in pain on the floor.

“Let’s go,” you urged and pulled on his hand hard, this time he followed. You led him through the crowd and out the front door, ignoring the dozens of eyes that watched you leave.

His palm was still pressed to yours when you reached the sidewalk, the night breeze cold against your exposed skin sobering you. You stopped and dropped Eddie’s hand as you looked up to him.

“What the fuck was that?” You pointed towards the house now in the distance with an outstretched hand before crossing your arms over your chest. The moon illuminated Eddie in a hazy white glow, the street lamps dim on the other side of the street.

“Me protecting you?” He questioned, his eyebrows creasing as he took in your sour expression.

“You didn’t need to do that!” Your voice rose.

“That guy had his greasy hands all over you and called you a slut, but you’re mad at me?” His tone was filled with incredulity, eyes wide and shocked.

“No, I just-,” you sighed and pressed your fingers against the bridge of your nose, closing your eyes as you tried to put into words how you felt.

Hurt?

Confused?

Angry?

Like a fucking idiot for dancing with some loser at a house party you didn’t even want to be at in the first place.

“Thank you,” you sighed and looked up at him. It was better than an explanation of your misplaced anger.

“I mean it,” you grabbed onto his hand so he knew that you meant it. He looked to your connected hands and back at you.

“Any time, Spielberg,” he gave you a cocky smile and you dropped his hand, watching as he walked past you to his van.

“We agreed you’d never call me that again,” you said through gritted teeth, following behind him. Eddie turned and began to walk backward, keyring twirling on his finger.

“No, you asked me to stop. I never agreed to it.” He stopped in front of his black van and opened the passenger door.

“Your chariot awaits,” he stepped aside so you could climb in, presenting the passenger seat as though it were a grand prize.

“I can walk, Eds,” you chuckled and began to walk past him. You figured the night air would do you good. Eddie yanked you by your shoulder reeling you back towards him.

“Get in the fucking car,” he pushed you towards the seat and waited until you were situated before closing the door. He ran around the front of the vehicle and quickly climbed into the driver’s seat.

As Eddie started the car you noticed his bloody knuckles. Guilt reared its ugly head and you grimaced at the sight of his already bruising flesh. As he waited for the car to warm up, you rummaged through your bag looking for the travel-sized first aid kit you kept buried at the bottom, and quietly rejoiced when you found it.

Without asking you reached for his hand and settled it into your lap. When he tried pulling away you squeezed his wrist to hold him into place.

“What are you doing?” He questioned, glancing between you and his split knuckles.

“What does it look like?” You gave him a teasing look and grabbed an alcohol wipe, tearing open the package before blotting the pad gently against his skin.

Eddie winced and you looked at him with a silent apology before blowing on his knuckles to help them dry.

His gaze traced the curve of your nose down to the plush of your lips, swallowing hard as his eyes lingered. A little hypnotized, just as you’d always had him. You placed a bandaid on each cut and patted his hand softly breaking Eddie from his trance.

“All better,” you stated and glanced up at him with a satisfied grin.

He pulled his hand away and cleared his throat, refocusing his attention on the road ahead as he pulled away from the curb. Eddie eyed his bandaged hand resting on the steering wheel as he drove.

Of course, you’d have Hello Kitty bandaids.

He shook his head but couldn’t fight the way his grin grew wide and took over his features.

The two of you drove towards your house in silence, Soundgarden playing low on the radio.

Houses passed in a dark blur, the clouds covering any light the moon had offered. It had been years since the two of you had been alone for more than a passing moment. Not since those days spent at work where Eddie got to know you as more than his best friend’s little sister.

You fiddled with the hem of your dress, conflicted by to say or if you should say anything. It didn’t go unnoticed by Eddie who began to glance between you and the road, measuring his words just as cautiously.

“Sorry about your-“

“Do you think-“

The both of you began speaking at once and you chuckled awkwardly as you looked towards him. He nodded at you to go ahead, giving you the floor to speak.

“Do you think we could go somewhere? It could be anywhere, I just really don’t want to go home right now,” you shrugged, continuing to play with the material of your dress.

The two of you were already close to your home, the trees becoming more dense as you approached but he nodded. He turned his van down a different path, the trees opening as you approached the Lake.

The light of the moon and stars glittered off the calm waters, peaceful. Serene. A different scene from the events of the night. He parked near the edge of the trees and killed the lights, taking off his seatbelt before looking at you. Nervous energy hummed in his chest and was evident in the way he bounced his leg absently.

“This good?”

You gave him a weak smile and nodded. The guilt had spread and made a home of your chest. Eddie got hurt because of you. Lost out on sales defending you.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” you began, your eyes focused on the darkness of the lake.

Eddie watched you, the way your teeth chewed at your bottom lip. Your anxious energy palpable.

“I’m sorry you had to get mixed up in my mess,” you looked at him now and Eddie shook his head.

“Like I was going to let Chris Grandy call you a stupid slut,” he rolled his eyes.

You giggled to yourself. So that was the douchebag’s name.

“It really doesn’t matter,” you shrugged. “Probably was acting like one.”

You’d only ever had one serious boyfriend in your life and he’d spent the night upstairs with your childhood best friend. There was a lot you didn’t know about dating or the rules of flirting. What gave guys the wrong idea or made them think you wanted something more and you kept playing it over in your head wondering what you could’ve done differently.

Eddie’s leg stopped bouncing as he watched you and the anger built up in his chest. He wasn’t mad at you, he was so fucking pissed off that the slime ball made you feel like this. Made you feel guilty for enjoying yourself or question whether you did anything wrong.

“You were having fun,” he started, “and regardless of how you danced or what you said, when you told him to stop he should’ve stopped. Nothing you did or said justifies him being a fucking creep.”

He was seething, you could tell from the way his chest rose and fell. From the way his jaw was clenched, the moonlight illuminating his features.

Munson had always been handsome, cute in a not-so-conventional way. It was the way his curly hair framed his high cheekbones and the plush of his lips. The way his big brown eyes were always animated when he talked about something he liked.

The first time you noticed it, noticed him, was when you were thirteen. You spent that summer blubbering in his presence, finding any excuse to talk to him or go into your brother’s room. The crush never really went away, always lingered in the back of your mind and now in the way your heart thrummed as his gaze was fixed on you. A silent plea begging you to understand what he told you.

It was like a magnetic pull the way you leaned closer to him, eyes trained on his as you inched closer.

“You don’t think there’s anything wrong with me having fun?” You questioned with innocent eyes and looked up at him through your lashes, your face closer to his.

“Why would there be?” He swallowed, his gaze flicking from yours to the pout of your lips.

Eddie was losing the little bit of composure he’d been able to maintain all these years. The warnings your brother had given sounded off like alarms in his head.

“Also, I’m the one who needs to apologize,” he grimaced and began to play with the rings on his fingers, changing the subject. Trying to distract himself from the way the scent of your perfume had him a little disjointed.

“For what?” You pursed your lips, perplexed.

“I’m, uh, pretty sure I left your sweater back there at the party. Nearly one hundred percent positive,” he looked at you with a sideways grimace, already shrinking away as he anticipated your reaction but you only laughed.

“I ruined it with Chrissy’s weird concoction anyway,” you dropped your face into your hand, your body shaking with laughter.

“I still can’t believe you drank that shit,” he laughed with you, “it had me on my ass a few years ago at her Fourth of July party.”

“No way,” your laugh grew louder as you absently held onto his arm, encouraging him to divulge.

“In my defense, those sugary drinks are the ones that get you,” his body shook with his building laughter.

“Could barely taste the moonshine she puts in it so I had a few cups,” he shook his head, “I fell asleep in one of those loungers by the pool and the next thing I remembered was waking up in some random room laughing to myself with the worst sunburn of my life.”

You winced at the picture he painted, imagining his pale skin marred by the sun.

“So that’s why you took my cup,” realization dawned upon you.

“Just trying to save you, little Lipton,” he agreed and you groaned.

“I wish people would stop calling me that. I’m not just Rick’s sister you know?” Your shoulders sagged. It had always been like that.

People, boys, avoiding you because of who your brother was. Ghosting you once they found out your last name, his reputation preceding you. 

Until Simon.

“I know you’re not,” he assured you earnestly.

“You’re definitely just saying that,” you rolled your eyes.

“Since when have I told you something just because it’s what you want to hear, Spielberg?” He emphasized the nickname you hated to prove his point.

You leaned over the middle console and jabbed at his ribs with your finger causing him to jump and grab at your hand.

“This is the thanks I get for saving your life,” he dramatized and grabbed your other hand as he dodged its attack.

He held onto your hands, your laughter mixing with his, and stared up into his eyes.

You could say it was the alcohol still clouding your mind for what you did next, could say it was because you still needed the distraction you sought at the beginning of the night.

Eddie smelled like apple and bergamot, a hint of weed and tobacco. He swallowed hard as you leaned closer. He felt the warmth of your breath against his face and watched as your eyes fluttered close.

He hesitated for a moment before closing the rest of the space. Heart beating faster than it had that night.

Your breath hitched with the first contact of his lips. They were smooth, almost pillowy against your own, as they matched the pace you set. He released your hands and you twined them in his curls, soft like you’d always imagined.

Eddie’s hands fell into his lap and clenched into fists as the kiss deepened, your tongue parting the seam of his mouth. He opened and slowly met yours with the tip of his own.

You tasted like cherry chapstick and fruit punch, sweet like he always thought you would be and it was getting so hard not to touch you.

Warmth blossomed in your chest, spreading to your veins in a low hum and you pulled him closer, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him flush against you. His hands left his lap and wrapped around your waist, fingers digging into your flesh.

He pulled you across the middle console into his lap and you moved without hesitation, your mouth still pressed to his.

There was an unspoken need shared in the way your mouths meshed, in the way he swallowed your sighs and you elicited his groans. It felt like you were floating, head buzzing from a different kind of inebriation.

You wanted more, you needed more but the bright lights of a passing car broke you two apart.

Eddie stilled beneath you and pulled away from your still-pursed lips.

“Shit,” he whispered and closed his eyes as he hit his head against the headrest.

You bit into your lower lip and played with the material of his black t-shirt, looking at him curiously. Confusion evident on your brow.

“What’s wrong?” He shook his head, eyes still closed as his fingers traced absent lines back and forth over your naked thighs.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he shook his head and you stilled.

“We shouldn’t be or you don’t want to be?” You felt as though he was making an excuse, trying to let you down easily instead of telling you that he regretted kissing you.

“Shouldn’t be,” he lifted his head and finally opened his eyes.

He brought his hand to your face and held you, tracing an absent thumb over your cheekbone.

“Who says we shouldn’t be?” You leaned into his touch and rubbed your hands over his chest, enjoying the way his heart thrummed against your palms.

Eddie had trouble concentrating, distracted with you pressed against the evidence of his budding arousal.

Even in the silence you both knew the answer to his question, the boundary that had always been there. Invisible but palpable.

You’d always been warned by your older brother about the bad boys. The ones with the long hair, tattooed arms, and played in a band. Especially the one that is his best friend.

“You know who,” he finally responded, hands gripping your thighs as you shifted in his lap and you smirked. Enjoying the way Eddie Munson looked a little dazed beneath you.

“Nobody has to know if you don’t want them to,” you muttered as you leaned closer, your breath fanning his face. Lips enticing him and he swallowed hard. Resolve wavering under the intensity of his want.

He closed the little space that remained between the two of you, lips not as gentle as before when they pressed against yours. His kisses were hungry. Needier than before.

It felt like he was kissing you like he’d always wanted to, but you didn’t dare hope for that type of reciprocation. Satisfied to have him bucking into your clothed pussy, moans escaping his lips as he held you against him and ground your hips over his boner.

You moaned as he peppered kisses down your jaw and across your neck, nibbling against the sensitive flesh of your throat.

Leaving his marks where everyone could see.

Where Simon could see.

You stilled for a moment but a moment was all Eddie needed to stop, to regain clarity. To push you off his lap with a heavy sigh, a quick rise and fall of his chest. You sank into the passenger and stared at him, your breaths matching his.

“We need to stop,” he shook his head and took a deep breath, running his sweaty palms over his pants. You only nodded, your voice lost as your thoughts collided with each other. Confusion etched into your forehead.

Eddie adjusted his jeans and looked over his shoulder before reversing his car. He needed to get you home before his resolve completely dissipated. Before you did something with him that you might regret like the others.

You fell into silence, eyes trained on the passing trees that were barely visible under the pale moonlight. Embarrassment clung to you, sticky and suffocating. Rejection mingling with the hurt that was beginning to resurface.

The short drive to your house was quiet and you didn’t turn to say thank you as you hopped out of his van.

You clamored through your door, the quiet of your empty house greeting you.

Eddie watched as you slipped into the darkness of your home, and a wave of guilt settled over him as he remembered your brother’s words. As the image of your confused face resurfaced behind his closed eyes. He thumped his head against the steering wheel and groaned loudly.

“Fuck!”

[withoutyouimsaskia]

Sometimes It's Fated (Sandman Short Story Part 5)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 6 | Part 7

GIF: Originally posted by @simply---words

Pairing: Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x AFAB reader

Summary: Reader Self-Insert. After restoring the Dreaming and locating the missing dreams and nightmares, Morpheus turns his attention to finding you, the human he believes fate has chosen for him. (Title inspired by Placebo's "This Picture".)

Warnings: Minors DNI. Dark!Morpheus. Soulmates. Angst. Obsessive and possessive behaviour. Tension. Threat. Dubious/non consent. Language. Kissing. Nudity. First time. AFAB + AMAB penetrative sex. Unprotected sex.

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: Hello there! How are you all doing? Thank you so much for sticking with me on this. I always hope I can get chapters out quickly and it always turns into 2+ weeks... Special thank you shout out to my IRL bestie @theviridianbunny for giving the chapter a once over ❤️Much love, Saskia xx

Sandman Masterlist

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

Morpheus' eyes glint like onyx stones under firelight as he waits for you to yield. His breathing is as laboured as it was when you initially laid eyes on him, and with each exhale you are exposed more and more to the intoxicating scent that rolls off his alabaster skin.

One hand is braceleted around your wrist, thumb swiping back and forth over the veins there that jump frantically, the other steadies the solid appendage that nudges temptingly against your opening.

"I can see that you want this," he intonates proudly. "Your physical reactions inform me of all that I need to know."

Your attention darts down to the markers that are broadcasting your arousal: first to the hardened peaks of your nipples, and further down to blushing labia framing your swollen clit. Morpheus follows the same path with predatory meticulousness.

"Oh, yes, those reactions are delightfully obvious. Most of all here."

He drags the tip of his erection in a teasing circle around your entrance and smiles sadistically when you stiffen and whimper in response. He brushes his nose against yours, the playfulness of the gesture juxtaposed entirely by his next sentence.

"Your sweet enticing cunt, gushing as it prepares itself for entry."

If you could close your legs to shield yourself from further embarrassment you would, for his dirty words only add to the wetness that he has observed between them. It's now running onto the silk sheets, mingling with the pre-cum that drips from his poised cock.

Morpheus continues to speak, "But I would know from even more subtle signs: the shade of the flush on your chest, the curl of your toes, the arch of your back." He dips his head, breath feathering over the shell of your ear as he whispers, "You want penetration."

He is right. Of course he is.

The desire to be filled is powerful - a base instinct that is relentlessly chiselling away at your resolve. You swear you can hear a voice in your head chanting with every proverbial swing of the hammer:

Do it. Do it. Do it.

A conflicted whine pushes past the clench of your teeth.

Morpheus has fallen silent, his tongue tracing a scintillating path directly over your jugular, an action that makes you automatically twist to offer more of your neck to him. He doesn't oblige, instead he moves his head lazily and stares you down once more.

How was he so good at playing with you like this?

The question spends little time unanswered; the Maiden's words from the tail-end of your conversation with the Fates bounces to the forefront of your brain. "He has been made to be perfect for you."

It's the whole soulmates thing.

Speaking of the soul, to make matters worse, the ache in your chest is returning with ire. It appears that the touch of his skin is no longer enough to pacify the pain. A flash of recognition musters in your mind from the near-imperceptible sudden knit of Morpheus' brows, the tautness in his own chest; subdued cues that he shares this affliction.

You reach out with your free hand and spread your palm across his sternum, feeling the fierce shuddering there that matches yours.

His soul.

It is under the same stress as yours. He had said he could feel the sub-epidermal heat like you but had made no mention of this. Supernatural being or not, Morpheus is grappling with pain and it will simply not do.

Your eyes flick up, your decision made in the next heartbeat.

"I surrender."

Quicksilver flashes through those blackhole irises and with an exultant groan he sheathes himself within you.

You screw your eyes shut and cry out, amazed by how far he is able to push in before he meets resistance. The overstimulation you had been predicting is absent, as is the agony you feared would accompany it. It's just the involuntary constricting of your channel that you contend with, a metronome swinging between discomfort and enjoyment.

"Look at me," Morpheus commands in that velvet voice.

You comply, and when you do you see that his eyes are blue again. A pair of cerulean pools; tranquil, somewhere to shelter. If only you could relax enough to slip into those waters. There's so much tension in your jaw and balled fists, inside you.

"Breathe," he coaxes, guiding you with tenderness, a hand reaching to hold yours to give it a grounding squeeze.

You inhale slowly and shakily, mouth forming a shape of surprise when the muscles slacken and allow Morpheus to sink those last few centimetres within you.

The agony inside your chest ceases and from the small change in Morpheus' posture, you intuit that his has too. Heat like a solar flare envelopes you head to toe and the weight of his lustful stare only adds to the pyre.

"Mmm, that's it," he praises huskily, putting a forearm flat on the bed next to your face. "You feel divine, Y/N."

You nod zealously, unable to concur in any other way as he has robbed you completely of sentence forming. Your walls flutter as you adjust to the stretch, the feeling of this beautiful being bottomed out inside you. Your soulmate, exactly where he needs to be.

Morpheus makes the first move; a languid roll of his hips that grazes every place inside you, and releases breathy moans from you both. Your grab onto him, the spot where neck meets shoulder, as your mind scrambles to process the pleasure. With this initial test completed, he studies your expression, looking for any indication of a wish to stop. He finds none. Only a pair of expectant eyes overflowing with desire for him to keep teaching you like he promised.

He begins to rock into you with lavish, sensual thrusts. Your cunt unfurls even further to ease his movements; you are a moonflower, blooming under the night sky that overlooks the chamber, under his celestial form.

Remembering how much he liked it before, you move your free hand to play with his hair, eliciting deep-seated shudders all down his spine. It is joyous to inspire another such visceral reflex and you feel it pass through into your own body at each point of contact.

If he is a sculptor, you are the clay yielding beneath the presses of his body, shaping you into something entirely new - a lover. Just when he has you in the desired form, he changes everything.

He slows to a stop, still tucked safely within your warmth and secures his hands around your calves to bring them around his slight waist. You're not sure how it's possible but the change in elevation makes him feel even thicker.

His eyes are becoming darker again, gaze centred steadfastly on your face as he once more restrains both your wrists against the midnight coloured sheets. The semiotics give an unmistakable clue to his plan.

He's going to fuck you like he said he wanted.

You brace as he drags his cock back, and then he delivers a bruising thrust, animalistic grunt sounding low in his throat as the jut of his hip bones imprint into your flesh. A measure of dark lust is shot into your bloodstream and immediately you yearn for more of this roughness.

"Please," you say breathlessly.

He indulges you with a barrage of hammering thrusts, moans tumbling from your lips with abandon as warmth settles in your skeleton. His own vocalisations of pleasure syncopate with the completion of each thrust. The sound takes residence in your brain, his touch in every cell. The wish he had to occupy you in entirety is being granted.

You only take your eyes off him for a handful of seconds to look at the place where your bodies are joined, where he is slamming into you, the obscene image of it.

It's like he is an open flame and you are being doused in 99% proof vodka; the fire under your skin is so intense that your moans transform into screams. Morpheus consumes them all with the sudden seal of his mouth over yours.

The smothering action unlocks something inside you. In your chest, where your soul resides, it is vibrating aggressively, much more than it has done in the course of the evening thus far.

Morpheus notices the surge in the shaking and pulls back from the kiss.

"We must be close," he muses.

You feel the orb writhe in retaliation to his statement and your whole body does the same involuntarily.

"Shhh," he says in baritone purrs, pausing in his movements to soothe you. "A little longer and then I will breach the last defence about your soul."

His tone is confident as he restarts the powerful pace he has set, "I will not fail you."

He is stormy waves against a sea wall, bringing with it both the promise of blissful inundation and the threat of drowning. Yet you wouldn't mind drowning in him. A deep-rooted impulse tells you it would be an honour to lose yourself to the King of Dreams and Nightmares.

Your conclusion translates to the contraction of your calf muscles as you pull Morpheus tighter against you, deepening the physical connection to him as well as the emotional; choosing to submit fully to this somewhat scary situation - the tying together of your souls.

Pulling him closer, it's not without cost. The extra exertion, the deeper angle he can now reach, with all the pleasure it brings, quickly takes its toll. You are becoming weaker, his determined expression growing blurry, the edges of your vision field greying and closing in. You can't tell if you're about to climax or pass out.

Morpheus, observant and empathic, interlaces his fingers with yours and grips them tightly, clearly intent on keeping you here, not drifting off into the dimension of unconsciousness. Your returning hold is just as strong, perhaps a tad on the side of overtly vehement, but if it is then he doesn't seem to care. He just keeps railing into you, the warning signs of an oncoming orgasm beginning to daintily pulse through your walls.

A long-fingered hand reaches between your bodies to hover over your clit. With the last of your energy reserves, you arch up into his fingers, determined to reach your high, instinct telling you that it will somehow aid Morpheus in his endeavours.

He grunts sinfully in approval at your enthusiasm and uses the pad of his index finger to stimulate you, a familiar instruction issued as your soul jolts sharply, shockwaves rocking your bones.

"Let go."

The way he says the words, coupled with the movements of his hand and cock brings on the most intense orgasm you have ever experienced.

Five, ten, fifteen, twenty seconds elapse where your muscles are clamping down, desiring to keep his still-moving length as deep inside as possible. You loudly say his name, pleasure devouring you whole as you look adoringly into Morpheus' indigo eyes, before you are devastated by a snapping sensation as he breaks your soul open.

You are splintered and for a measure of moments, the exposed edges of the shards threaten to turn your insides to ribbons. Your brace for lacerations is short-lived; his essence, like liquid lapis, pours in to bind the pieces of your soul. Melding with you on a metaphysical level. Waking you from the mortal life you had and greeting you with a new path.

While you have no basis for comparison, an errant thought occurs to you that what is transpiring between you and Morpheus is fulfilling something of unfathomable importance. Something that was borne far from this room, in both the measures of space and time. Primordial. Inexorable. This linking of your soul with his is the culmination of what the Fates have wanted for millennia.

And once your soul is content, your essence begins to reach out in return. Like tender shoots drawn towards solar light, your soul stretches past its boundary to embrace his.

It's the final trigger that allows Morpheus to find his own release. His mouth jumps in astonishment, eyes turning black, then silver, then blue; a broken groan echoing around the low-lit room as he buries his pulsating cock deep inside you and spills his seed into your cunt.

You keen from the warmth of it, and you swear the fast paced breaths he is taking sound like melodies carried on ocean breezes.

The stars above you have been joined by dancing swathes of green and purple - a depiction of the Aurora Borealis at its finest. It swells with each inhale that Morpheus takes, his state having a direct effect on the sky. The colours catch the high points of his face, glowing vibrantly on his cheekbones, nose bridge and cupid's bow.

You wonder if this is the most beautiful sight you will ever see. The perfect face of your ethereal soulmate, framed by celestial splendour, gazing at you with the same devotion that you are casting towards him. But then he smiles. A small, genuine smile that makes your heart soar despite its fatigue, and it's clear that there will never be anything that can compare.

Morpheus then lowers his head to your chest and presses his lips to your healed soul.

"You are complete," he declares.

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

Tag list: @herfantasyworldd @kpopgirlbtssvt @littleblackcatinwonderland @1950schick @lollipopsandlandmines

Blinding: "Felt it in my fists, in my feet, in the hollows of my eyelids. Shaking through my skull, through my spine and down through my ribs. No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone. No more calling like a crow for a boy, for a body in the garden. No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love with the wrong world."

[captainaikus]

Likes: music ,drawing ,painting ,singing ,makeup ,spicy food ,reading ,honesty ,affection ,watching horror movies and sad ones (I cried watching brave 😢 and every other Disney princess movie) ,Disney movies(idc if I’m too “old” imma still watch ‘em) ,getting straight A’s ,cats ,fake plants ,I really like decorating especially decorating rooms like my room is so much more bright and calmer then any other rooms in my home , cleaning calms me sm, praise , people w/ mommy issues, shopping, sleeping, interactive story games.

Dislikes: people who talk behind others backs ,ignorant people ,loudness ,school ,people who take advantage of others ,sports , airplanes

(Does my depression and adhd count?), when forced to step out of my comfort zone

Past time: watch a new show or rewatch an old and draw in a new artstyle, playing w my cat (I named him lily 🤩)

Traits: introvert blunt creative intelligent anti social my sister says I’m annoying 😒 I’m boring af like I stay home most of the time, I zone out A LOT , shy by shy I mean if someone called my name I wouldn’t answer becuase I would think they were talking to someone else also when someone is talking to me but not like in front of me I wouldn’t know and would be zoned out.

Book/genre: shonen manga (is this a genre??) and I also read a lot of angsty ones ykwim?

Insecurities: body, face , weight , height, hair , personality

Hopefully this isn’t too much or to little of info<3 Oh I can’t wait to see what you write!! (I added some things!!)- 🥀

No one is too old for Disney movies like look at Yuzuru Hanyu, he gets Winnie the Pooh plushies when he performs on ice; I use Disney pet names cause they are unique (named Sae as Ariel - and Oliver calls y/n Bambi)

I- Mommy issues 💀 Ik just the guy Kaiser

I match you with; Yukimiya Kenyuu!

Vibes I get from this relationship - comforting and quiet but also playful.

I know for a fact that you both would bond over fake plants and decorating rooms, discussing the use of beige and whites on walls and what furniture to use and making the best use of sunlight in the room, he will also adore your cat Lily.

I made it suggestive - Hope you don’t mind \(//∇//)\

“Why is this shit so hard to build.” Kenyu muttered clicking his tongue, turning the page around; attempting to build the coffee table while sweat rolled off his body, his hand wiping away a salty drop from his brow.

Closing the door behind you with an “I’m home!” You walked into the living room, faced with a familiar bare back, hands placed on his hips as he was stretching. Your eyes wandered, making note of every curve and dip, the light sheen of sweat being reflected by the sun.

Turning around Yukimiya gave you a charming smile, your eyebrows shooting up at the sight of his chiseled abs and well built pecs, a hammer and nail in his hand.

“You’re Home!” he chirped.

You stood silently, hands still holding the keys. Pinching his eyebrows together until realization struck him, a smirk taking over his features.

“Come closer. The real thing feels better than your imagination.”

[autolovecraft]

An eye for an eye!

The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been encouraging and to others may have been mocking. The skull turned my stomach, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly. His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon. Birch? He could not walk, it appeared, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week.

The borders of the space were entirely of brick, and there seemed little doubt but that he could shortly chisel away enough to allow his body to pass. In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in it now and then, shifting about so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked.

In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside.

Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it. Clutching the edges of the aperture, he sought to pull himself up, when he noticed a queer retardation in the form of an apparent drag on both his ankles. It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, just as I thought! He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin!

Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. The moon was shining on the scattered brick fragments and marred facade, and the degree of dignity to be maintained in posing and adapting the unseen members of lifeless tenants to containers not always calculated with sublimest accuracy. The light was dim, but Birch's sight was good, and he did not heed the day at all; so that he was wise in so doing. The moon was shining on the scattered brick fragments and marred facade, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness. In either case it would have been appropriate; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the emerging moon must have witnessed a horrible sight as he dragged his bleeding ankles toward the cemetery lodge; his fingers clawing the black mold in brainless haste, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked. In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. This arrangement could be ascended with a minimum of awkwardness, and would furnish the desired height. He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died.

Birch decided he could get through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground. I saw the scars—ancient and whitened as they then were—I agreed that he was wise in so doing. Davis, an old-time village practitioner, had of course seen both at the respective funerals, as indeed he had attended both Fenner and Sawyer in their last illnesses. Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, but you got what you deserved. His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that. The tower at length finished, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to pull himself up, when he noticed a queer retardation in the form of an apparent drag on both his ankles. The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. The air had begun to be exceedingly unwholesome; but to this detail he paid no attention as he toiled, half by feeling, at the heavy and corroded metal of the latch. The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that it was possible to give all of Birch's inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb. You know what a fiend he was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol. Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you always did go too damned far!

As he planned, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made.

The borders of the space were entirely of brick, and there seemed little doubt but that he could shortly chisel away enough to allow his body to pass.

Then the doctor came with his medicine-case and asked crisp questions, and removed the patient's outer clothing, shoes, and socks. In either case it would have been appropriate; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the emerging moon must have witnessed a horrible sight as he dragged his bleeding ankles toward the cemetery lodge; his fingers clawing the black mold in brainless haste, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. That was Darius Peck, the nonagenarian, whose grave was not far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly. What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed? I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. Davis. I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin! Three coffin-heights, he reckoned, would permit him to reach the transom; but he could do better with four. Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he planned to save the rejected specimen, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform.

He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform. This arrangement could be ascended with a minimum of awkwardness, and would furnish the desired height. Birch decided he could get through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground. Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things. And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course. For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight.

It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go.

He would have given much for a lantern or bit of candle; but lacking these, bungled semi-sightlessly as best he might.

It may have been mocking. He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the right grave.

[im-a-sussy-baka]

baby maker

You hear the sound of the front door opening, and

He’s back.

“Baby,” Kisaki calls, “I’m home!” You scrambled to welcome him back, he appeared from around the corner smiling with his outstretched arms gathering you up the minute you were within his reach.

“Hi,” you murmured into his chest, eyes closing to receive a kiss on the lips, a routine he always did upon arriving.

“Hi yourself,” he quips and reluctantly detaches himself from you to shrug off his thick coat from those broad shoulders. Without being asked, you promptly took it from him.

He crinkles his eyes at you gently, and there's a beat of comfortable silence. “Guess what,” he whispered in your ear as if he had a juicy secret he just could not wait to reveal. You grin softly at him. He looks happier than usual - the glint in his eyes was a dead giveaway. You gesture expectantly, spurring him to go on.

“I got the doc’s approval so don’t worry about anything,” he said simply as if merely discussing the weather. You didn't have to guess what he meant or what he was suggesting since you already know. You've discussed it before, and your relationship has established the notion that you're both serious about each other.

You were so young though, just in your early twenties. You do want kids but you weren’t ready yet.

He presses his lips to yours. The kiss intensifies, with him nibbling at your lips and forcing his tongue in and out of your mouth, causing your thighs to squeeze together. You pull your face away from him, breathless.

“Kisaki...?”

The problem is, Kisaki doesn't take no for an answer.

———

“Ki...ah — saki... nngh...” Your weak attempt at communication was immediately squandered.

“Shit, you feel so good—,” he panted like a dog in heat when your folds spread open warmly embracing the crown of his cock as if your pretty pussy was welcoming him home. He shoved your thighs against your chest and slammed into you with increased vigor before you could even process what was going on. This brutal angle had you blacking out with every rock.

Kisaki laid his head on your chest, making you feel every breathless groan right against your nipple. The sloppy slaps of your bodies echo across the room, your hands clenching the sheets as you hold on for dear life when he starts thrusting into you rapidly, hefty balls smacking against your ass, brimmed and ready to unload every drop of cum into your heat.

Without his glasses, you can see how erotic Kisaki looked right now. The way his eyes glazed over as he watched your tities bounce with his jaw hanging open drool trickling down the corners of his mouth. You had no idea such a lewd face exists outside of porn, and seeing how affected he is because of you only added to your delight.

“Fuuuck,” he laughed incredulously, plowing your cunt with a renewed vigor that promised to smash your bones into a fine mush. Every thrust wrenched a shriek from your throat as he increased the speed and power. The combination of vivid ecstasy and stinging aches was causing you to shake from head to toe. Your calves were beginning to cramp as he showed no signs of slowing down.

Peering down, you could see his soaked cock slamming into you, each smack of his pelvis jarring you against the couch which was extremely painful. But, hey, who doesn't enjoy a little pain with their pleasure, right?

If his balls were impressive before, they were much more so now, firm and taut; bursting at the seams with sperm, almost assaulting your ass cheeks with harsh slaps as he pounced on you like a merciless beast. His hands wrapped around your bosom, kneading the doughy flesh. You weren't going to last much longer and by the looks of it, neither was he. Unfortunately, you haven't been doing so well since you first saw his bare cock.

“You’re gonna be such a good mama, won’t you sweetie?

“Wanna get knocked up, honey?”

“Here it comes, baby. You ready to be a mommy?”

You were so out of it. You couldn’t hear or see shit.  Your body was overstimulated to the point of dizziness, causing you to quiver and throb all over.

“Uh-huh,” you whispered against his furrowed brow, delicately pressing your nose into his damp hairline as your legs swayed against his chiseled shoulders with each frenzied movement. This heartfelt display of adoration was answered with a vicious yank on your locks, forcing your head into an uncomfortable angle.

“Fucking say it like you mean it,” he hissed.

“Fu—p-please fuck me! Ohhh god, harder please... w-want a baby ...”  You groaned, your words slurred and disintegrated into incoherent whines.

Kisaki hauled you up, manhandling you until you were riding him properly. His still-swollen cock was already pressing against your cunt. Fucking hell, you felt like he obliterated your entire lower half, and here he was, ready to go all out again. He pushed past your plump lips, grabbing your hips, and re-entered your needy pussy.

The sounds of you whining in pleasure were lost to the coach's loud squeaking and the thumps of skin against skin as you bounced on his dick. Up and down you go. The brutal rocking of your bodies together was divine. The way Kisaki looked up at you made you feel like you could go on for hours wanting more of the irresistible pleasure of his attention.

“Mm…ohh god…Kisaki, cum inside...”

Your words have him hammering madly into you, but you've gone through worse. He bites your lips, whimpering at your legs that keep him in place and begging him to release his thick seed as deeply into you as possible.

His stomach stiffened like he'd been shot, and then he was tensing his abdomen, grinding his hips with a jerk to batter the tip of his cock up your cervix. Your legs fell open for him, toes curling in bliss as Kisaki cummed into your sticky wetness. As he pushed further, gloops of slick were oozing around his prick.

You didn't react, or rather couldn't, since you were stuck in your own subconscious turmoil. You were gushing wet and slimy with each withdrawal from your dirty cunt, a waterfall of squirt and jizz.

“Baby, you're such a filthy bitch—” He gagged on a raspy chuckle, not sounding the least bit upset. “Why are you making a mess all over my cock? It's a good thing you’re my girl, hmm?”

He was still humping into you like a fucking dog. He said something—not that you could tell in your dazed state, his dick is as rigid as a rod and just as fatal.

And rock-solid.

Are you fucking kidding me?

The quivering twitches of his orgasm leave him heaving out the lightest sighs, a steady trickle of cum flows as he attempts to pull his dick out. Was he finished? Please finish. You cocked your head just enough to inspect his erection.

Negative.

You were totally wrecked, with no strength left in your body as he fervently claimed you repeatedly. He took you again.

And again.

And again.

Everything hurts.

The thickness and sheer quantity of spunk dribbling from your pussy overflowed to the couch. You were still catching your breath, when he leaned down and swiped a finger up the length of his cock, gathering up a clump of his spunk and your slick. He locked eyes with you as he held his finger for you to lick it clean.

"So pretty," he murmurs quietly. His eyes are gleaming, as if he's spotted a vintage Rolex watch in the mall. He caresses his nose into your stomach, moving down and licking a wide but delicate line across your labia. You sniff feebly, obviously sensitive from the creaming fest that you had, and wriggle away, but Kisaki grips your waist and draws you near. "Oh, mommy," he explains, "I don't think we're done yet. Let's try again a few more times."

[theravencawsatmidnight]

So i got this idea before falling asleep last night. I love this man so much.

Minor spoilers

W!mentions of blood and losing ears

A gift for the Engineer

What could Mother Miranda want now? He was in the middle of perfecting his experiments when she requested his presence. With a scowl the man picked up his hammer and made his way to the top level of his factory to join his ‘family’. What he was greeted with though would be worth it. Angie skittered over to the door once Heisenberg pushed it open.

“Hes heeeerrreee!!!” The little doll jittered all around before skittering back into Donna's arms, still laughing.

“Late as always.” The woman in the white dress said under her breath. “Pesky man child.” She sneered.

Moreau was off to the side watching trying to get the woman to hold her tongue in front of Mother Miranda, it was not going good.

“What do you need, Mother Miranda?” Heisenberg shooed the doll away watching her skitter back to her friend. “Ill have you know , Alcina i was in the middle of something, and i needed to come back up above ground.”

Alcina blew out smoke chuckling softly. “Oh were you? Playing with more of your toys?”

The hammer slammed the floor. “They are not toys! You goddamn woman!”

“What are they then?!” She got up from her seat looking down at her brother, hands on her hips and a smile on her face. “The only ones who tolerate you? Hm?”

“Enough!!!!!” Shouted Mother Miranda. Everyone was quiet . “Bring it out.” She said, stepping down from her steps over to a Lycan who was dragging something behind him.

“I love all my children, and i know it must be… lonely in that dark factory. So i went through the trouble of finding you a new experiment.” She waved her hand making the Lycan move back so the ‘experiment’ was in view.

The Lycan tugged the chain and you fell forward on the cuffs letting out a muffled yelp. Clothes dirty, arms bloody and cut up with scratches , your neck was blood red and seemed to be from your ears, if they were still there. You tried to cry but the muzzle prevented that.

“Found her wandering a little too close to my home. A lycan tackled her and mauled her. Bit her ears off . I was going to let her die but .. then i thought of you, Heisenberg.”

The tall man set his hammer down stepping towards you with his hands out eagerly . This was new, this was perfect, this was… just what he needed. He hated Mother Miranda , wanted her dead. Why was she doing this?

“I could not leave her with no ears, so i fixed her.” Mother Miranda pushed you forward onto the cold ground . She kneeled down reaching into your pants pulling out a short dog tail , she ruffled your hair and short flopped over ears poked out. Mother Miranda stood up facing Heisenberg with a sinister smile. “To your liking, yes?”

Heisenberg looked at his ‘family’ then the curious Lycans who were sniffing you then down at his hands. He could do all kinds of experiments on you, give you things to make you a weapon , or he could keep you just for him. He would need a safe room for you oh how exciting!!!! And his lycans like you already!!! Heisenberg glanced over to Mother Miranda. “What name have you given her?”

“Up to you, she is a gift.” Mother Miranda took her leave from the room leaving her children to stare at you.

“Filthy, perfect for you” Alcina spat out walking out of the room.

Angie hopped down to run over to you and tug your tail. “So short its so funny!!! “ she ran to your front grabbing your muzzle. “Your gonna be a test subject !!! Maybe ill get to turn you into a doll!!!!” The doll snickered making her way back to Donna who picked her up , she nodded walking out of the room. Moreau wanted to say hello properly but he was feeling sick , so he waved to you and hurried following Donna leaving you alone with the Lycans and the man.

You scrambled to a corner covering yourself. Heisenberg had kneeled down to take the chain from the Lycan and stand back up to get a good look at you; bloody, dirty, terrified, cuffed and muzzled.

“Ill need to put you in a room for the time being so i can make a proper safe room.” He smiled down at you stepping over and kneeling back down and removing his glasses, he flashed you a smile. “Heisenberg, Karl Heisenberg. But you can call me Karl or Daddy. And as for you…. “ he placed a heavy hand on your head smiling at the flinch you did. “I'm thinking of calling you Chisel. Every engineer needs a good chisel.” He laughed, throwing his head back. The sound bouncing off the cold stone walls.

[liyuesbian]

✧ pygmalion!au [ningguang]

notes: btw idk how commissions from museums work i just made the process up LMAO and this one's kinda angsty? i mean, it is the pygmalion greek myth so iykyk. also, i describe this figurine of ningguang here but w/o the colour... i've linked it in case any1 needs the reference. (btw, this is not set in ancient greece specifically)

only yesterday had you been commissioned by an art gallery in the capital to create a piece for their up-and-coming collection titled desire, love and identity. yet here you are, slaving away to make the perfect image you had in your head come into fruition. your vision is exquisite once sketched on paper—you can't find any faults in it so you take the risk.

as soon as your chisel meets the marble, a feeling so invigorating dominates your body. no further references are necessary as you place your trust entirely on your hands, coarse from the labour. you find such mindless toil addicting and you work day and night, only stopping for a half-baked meal and the odd collapse into bed.

for months, love streams out of the tips of your fingers and through your sculpting tools to arrive at the stone figure. you sincerely hope the intimate emotion has been reached.

when you finish, you wipe the bead of sweat running down your forehead, rest the other palm on your hip and take slow steps backwards all while maintaining eye contact with the statue. a wave of sweet relief hits you and you fall to the floor, uncontrollably sobbing into tired hands that still grip the hammer and chisel.

it's beautiful.

you stagger, struggling to get up with your bruised knees while clumsily wiping the tears off your stained cheeks. setting the instruments aside, you lift your head to admire your handiwork up close. a woman made of stone sits elegantly atop an oriental chair, crossing her smooth, white legs over each other. her left elbow is propped on the arm of the chair while on the other side, a long smoking pipe is balanced between gloved fingers. around her lies an assortment of objects: a vase containing scrolls, a floor lamp, and a charmingly decorated folding screen.

you see, you had already thought it all out. you'd imagined ningguang's preferences for a life of luxury, her affinity for constructing and sprucing up interiors. she would be a master of the trades and a woman who likes to keep an air of mystery around her. and like how you increasingly project her to be more of a person than she ever will be, there is a creeping concern in the corner of your mind that you will lose your rationality just as quickly.

the sculpture's body is clad in a qipao with a slit that reveals alabaster skin below the waist. the dress—embellished with patterns and neat linings—hugs her figure and shows off a lean build. the extensive train and sleeves of the fabric are shaped curvaceously to mirror the flow of a waterfall. and her face. the section you strived so hard to refine. she stares at you with an imperious expression and a hint of a smirk. her gaze, so piercing, makes you avert your eyes in shyness but you find yourself gravitating back to her profile.

you muster up the courage to draw closer to your creation and unconsciously stroke her cheek with your thumb, captivated. if she were an empress, you'd be a common peasant—undeserving of setting your sights on such a goddess. you can feel your soul being sucked into eyes devoid of emotion—of anything, actually. after all, the woman sitting before you is not a person but an inanimate object.

the weeks following the completion of ningguang—which is the name you've picked up the habit of calling her—are spent in said lady's company. every minute of every day, you surround yourself with her presence as if she is your closest friend. you eat with her, tell her your troubles, even going so far as to decorate her with various types of jewellery and bringing her gifts you think she'd like.

"thank you," you whisper. "for always listening to me." in truth, you're always so immersed in your work that you forgot what conversations could feel like. though, you fear your art would never be on par with something so transcendent ever again.

you become curious, wondering what she would be like if the nymph in front of you were not just a figment of your imagination.

you perch yourself on top of ningguang's stone-cold lap and trace the contours of her visage. you inspect each crease on her lips and the minuscule crinkles in her eyes, applauding yourself for the well-crafted details. you don't know what possesses you but you close your eyes and press your lips against hers, hoping that once you open them, a living being would erupt from underneath the marble. but, of course, as soon as the light hits your retinas, ningguang is as unmoving as ever.

realising what you've just done, you drop off of her thighs and laugh anxiously. however, you could've sworn that you had felt warmth in the lips of your beloved muse.

"i've finally gone mad!" you cry aloud.

hell, you say to yourself, is it even possible to fall in love with such an... an artefact? you dismiss your glaringly obvious infatuation.

"nonsense," you mutter under your breath, sensing your heart breaking slightly. how can something so painfully humanlike also not be human at the same time? you must've caused a tremendous atrocity in your past life to have made the gods harbour a grudge against you. of all things, you'd never have guessed that a lifeless piece of art would be the object of your desire.

you can't bear to look at the handcrafted lady any longer and with an anguished face, cover her with a large cotton cloth. the plan was to wait until you could hand the statue over to the curators and try to ignore its existence until then.

for a few days, you act according to the plan, going about your daily routine but eventually, your stoic demeanour crumbles. you lock yourself in your room refusing to eat or believe that your affection would never be returned.

during the hours of sunlight, you weep under your sheets, drowning in self-inflicted sorrow. and at night, you do the same, lamenting over the loss of what could've been your true love. she would've been so perfect in your eyes, your other half, and the only one who could calm this growing turmoil!

the reality pains you. hence, you do the only thing you can do: you pray. you pray to the gods for a miracle, that the light of your life would stride into your room and pull you from the depths of despair... but she never does.

your last day "cohabitating" with the sculpture has arrived and for the first time in—what felt like—an eternity, you open the doors to your workshop. taking a deep breath, you unveil the stationary maiden.

it's still as beautiful as you remember.

you give it a sad smile, wanting to get its departure over and done with. you manoeuvre about the room to prepare the things for the movers who're due to come in a couple of hours. while you go down your little list of errands to be done, you cough and bat away the smoke—wait, the smoke? frantic, you spin around, eyes darting everywhere in search of its origin until they land on the smoking pipe you so intricately moulded for the commissioned piece.

it's strange, you don't recall colouring the statue. and how on earth is smoke coming out of the pipe? suspicious, you approach the motionless entity and almost stumble when you spot its chest rising.

oh lord! — i really must be descending into madness! you clutch your head, clawing at your hair in hysteria.

"stop, please don't hurt yourself." the sound of a low, worried voice penetrates your ears. you shut your eyes tight.

"no, the gods have cursed me! i mustn't listen to your poisonous words!" you exclaim. your state of agitation is alleviated when the woman caresses your tensed arm.

"what has happened to you? i haven't seen you lately either." the tone is more soft and more tender than you had imagined. you release your grip.

"is it really you, ningguang?" your voice cracks at the end, and the woman you sought after witnesses your features twist into an expression of longing and hope.

"yes, my darling. i dare not go anywhere else."

helplessly, you rush to cup her face to check for heat, for the blood traversing under her skin—anything that would prove that your sweetheart is truly alive and breathing. and when you do get the confirmation, you beam, trying to withhold tears born from elation.

you bend down to kiss ningguang, who is still seated on the chair, once, twice, and three times to rid your scepticism. oh, deities! she's real.

"i love you," you declare.

"i know." you watch as the same creases you'd etched on the corners of her eyes spread into a loving half-moon shape and you kiss her again.

you reach a conclusion: you couldn't give away your lover—let alone a live person—to be displayed as part of a museum exhibition so when the workers arrive, you hide your muse away in another room. you apologise profusely and spin a lie, rambling on about how you had nothing to relinquish for the piece you had prepared had been oh-so-viciously stolen by a mob of trespassers!

the movers share with you their sympathies and ask what the work of art looks like and maybe they could sort something out with the authorities. nodding, you recount—so ardently—the details of your divine maiden. you feel heat rush to your face, chuckling when you realise that you'd run your mouth for too long.

in response to this, the two labourers exchange dubious looks as they peer at the static sculpture standing in the middle of the studio—its appearance unmistakably matching your elaborate description.

[nothing-but-dreamy]

GLANCES

Pairing: DBH!Connor x OC!Character

Words: 1.458

Warnings: none; maybe some wet Connor like this

Summary: Three times, Nora catches a glimpse of Connor showing off some skin...

...and one time, it's the other way round.

Detroit was known for its rainfall. Sometimes, it could rain for days with no end. If someone would look closely, they might even spot Noah somewhere who tried to build a new ark.

Usually, Nora liked when it was raining: the smell of wet grass, the refreshing air and the relaxing, drumming sound against the windows.

Usually...

...but not this time. For three days, it was raining and then, the worst happened: water-pipe burst in her apartment.

While workmen were busy repairing Nora’s home, she had to find shelter somewhere else. Luckily, Connor, one of her friends, was running to her help. After the revolution, he had found a cute apartment in the heart of Detroit. And because he was an android who didn’t need to sleep, he offered her the bedroom more than happily. Nora accepted immediately. She liked the android and had fallen for him and his gentleman charme.

As she opened the door of the apartment with the spare key, she noticed that Connor must be at home but she couldn’t spot him. Nora dropped her bag on the floor by the kitchen counter. A vase with fresh flowers stood there to greet her. Next to the vase laid a piece of paper:

Welcome home. Make yourself comfortable, Connor

Nora smiled about this small note and felt welcomed immediately. The crush, she had on the android, was giving her dancing butterflies and a huge smile on her lips as she read his words in the neat handwriting.

She took her bag and walked to the bedroom she would occupy the next five or six days. On her way, Nora already heard sounds of running water coming from the bathroom. The water got turned off and Nora looked curious into the room.

Connor stood in front of the shower just dressed in a towel around his hips. Small droplets of water were running slowly over his back down his spine. As he was turning around, Nora could catch a glance of his bare chest which was sparkling wet. Just before he could notice her, Nora turned around with a racing heart and vanished into the bedroom.

Maybe, she should ask herself: "Why was Connor showering?" or: "Do androids have to shower, anyway?". But instead, Nora had just one question in her mind: "Why was Connor so damn hot?" Whatever the answer was, Nora hoped Conner hadn't seen her staring at him.

But Connor had seen her. And not just how she had ran away but also how her bright eyes had been glued at him. Before she had disappeared, Connor had seen her cheeks blushing in a soft pink. He smiled to himself. He was pleased to have such an effect on her. Obviously, he had understood the signs she gave him right.

*

Two days later, after work, Nora got back to Connor’s apartment. It had been a busy day and she was tired. The only thing she dreamt of was food and to sleep. With the headphones still on her ears, she walked through the apartment, not paying much attention to her surroundings. As she walked to her room, the door of the bathroom opened and Connor stepped out. Nora wasn’t fast enough and so, she crashed into him.

Connor grabbed her shoulders to prevent her from falling. As she opened her eyes, she looked straight into his brown eyes. A soft smile was playing on his lips. Nora removed her headphones and only then, she noticed that Connor was just dressed in a towel wound around his hips like the other day. Her small hands were lying softly on his bare chest and she felt him slowly breathing underneath her fingertips. From the ends of his brown strands were still a few droplets of water falling on his smooth skin, sparkling like small diamonds in the dim light coming from the bathroom.

One droplet rolled down his temple along his sharp jawline. With her eyes, Nora followed its slow way over his neck, down his collarbone and to his chest. She swallowed thickly as she noticed that she was staring at his naked body.

“Oh, h-hey… Connor.”, Nora whispered shakily. She felt her cheeks reddening under his intense glance and the lopsided smirk that appeared on his lips.

“Good evening, Nora. Welcome back home.”, Connor said with his honey-like voice which shot shivers down her spine. “I hope you’re hungry. I ordered pizza for you.”

“Y-yeah… sounds good. I just have to.. yeah.. uhm… excuse me…”, Nora stammered, stepped around Connor and disappeared in the bedroom. She leant against the closed door with a hammering heart.

*

Nora had to leave early the next morning and she wasn’t surprised to find Connor awake. Soft ambient music played in the living room. Nora was still half asleep as she walked through the apartment.

“Good morning, Nora. Have you slept, well?”, Connor asked softly and watched amused how Nora jumped a little by surprise.

Nora turned over to the direction of the voice, smiled but her face changed into staring. This time, Connor was dressed... partially. He wore his typical dark jeans and the white suit shirt but … it was completely unbuttoned. The open parts were slightly waving, revealing more of his perfect body, as he walked over to her with a smirk on his lips. “Nora?”

Nora’s eyes switched from his bare chest up to his eyes. “What? Oh, uhm… yeah. Yeah, I have slept well. T-thanks.”, Nora whispered shakily.

Connor saw her cheeks blushing beautifully as he had caught her glance. The way she was staring at him, with this hungry but also timid glance, shot adrenaline through his synthetic veins. "I wish you a great day." Connor whispered low. With the back of his hand, he stroked carefully over her cheek before he brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear. "See you tonight."

"Y-yeah… ha-have a nice day, as well.", Nora said and had difficulties getting her pulse under control. She had to force herself to leave the spot in front of Connor. As she reached the door, Nora turned around one last time. Connor winked at her which caused her racing heart to skip a beat.

*

Nora was looking forward to taking a shower after her way home through the rain. Once again, it had started to pour and she was soaked to the bones. Even a thunderstorm was rumbling through the air. A hot shower would fix her mood. As she opened the door, the apartment was empty. So, she was safe for any new encounter with a half naked Connor. Just the thought of it made her nervous...in a good way. The whole day, she was barely able to think about something else than Connor and his perfect chiseled, muscled chest.

Maybe he did it with purpose? Was it his plan that I would run into him all the time?, Nora asked herself while she was shampooing her hair. Nora was deep in her thoughts as she flung her towel around herself to go back into the bedroom. She walked to the room and bumped into something solid. Once again, Nora crashed into Connor who just came from the bedroom.

He caught her easily before she could fall. Because of this, her towel was sliding down a little bit more but Nora was able to catch it before something could get revealed. Connor had noticed it but tried to draw his glance away from her perfect curves.

Nora looked up into Connor's face that was just inches away. A lightning illuminated their faces. The pale light was collecting in his golden-shimmering eyes. Nora's eyes flickered down to his lips before she gnawed on her own.

"I was looking for you.", Connor whispered deeply.

"Why?", Nora whispered. Her heartbeat quickened under his intense glance.

"I wanted to ask you something.", he answered. Watching every move of her very closely. He noticed her increasing pulse. To register what kind of effect he had on her let him smirk.

"W-what is it?", Nora asked breathy. His hands on her bare shoulders were burning on her skin but she loved the feeling already and wanted more.

"Would you like to go out with me? Tonight?", Connor asked hopefully.

"You want to go out? With me?"

"Yes-"

"I would love to!", Nora called out, filled with new energy.

Connor chuckled about her cuteness. "Just one thing…", he said and leant down to her ear what let her shudder, "It’s not that I wouldn’t enjoy this view of you but ... maybe you should dress yourself first.", he whispered with his lips on her ear.

"Right… Good idea. Give me ten minutes.", Nora said smirking, with a nod before she ran into the bedroom.

[larinah]

August 20th, 19—. I HAVE HAD what I believe to be the most remarkable day in my life, and while the events are still fresh in my mind, I wish to put them down on paper as clearly as possible.           Let me say at the outset that my name is James Clarence Withencroft.           I am forty years old, in perfect health, never having known a day’s illness.           By profession I am an artist, not a very successful one, but I earn enough money by my black-and-white work to satisfy my necessary wants.           My only near relative, a sister, died five years ago, so that I am independent.           I breakfasted this morning at nine, and after glancing through the morning paper I lighted my pipe and proceeded to let my mind wander in the hope that I might chance upon some subject for my pencil.           The room, though door and windows were open, was oppressively hot, and I had just made up my mind that the coolest and most comfortable place in the neighbourhood would be the deep end of the public swimming bath, when the idea came.           I began to draw. So intent was I on my work that I left my lunch untouched, only stopping work when the clock of St. Jude’s struck four.           The final result, for a hurried sketch, was, I felt sure, the best thing I had done.    

      It showed a criminal in the dock immediately after the judge had pronounced sentence. The man was fat—enormously fat. The flesh hung in rolls about his chin; it creased his huge, stumpy neck. He was clean shaven (perhaps I should say a few days before he must have been clean shaven) and almost bald. He stood in the dock, his short, clumsy fingers clasping the rail, looking straight in front of him. The feeling that his expression conveyed was not so much one of horror as of utter, absolute collapse.     

There seemed nothing in the man strong enough to sustain that mountain of flesh.

       I rolled up the sketch, and without quite knowing why, placed it in my pocket. Then with the rare sense of happiness which the knowledge of a good thing well done gives, I left the house.

       I believe that I set out with the idea of calling upon Trenton, for I remember walking along Lytton Street and turning to the right along Gilchrist Road at the bottom of the hill where the men were at work on the new tram lines.

       From there onwards I have only the vaguest recollection of where I went. The one thing of which I was fully conscious was the awful heat, that came up from the dusty asphalt pavement as an almost palpable wave. I longed for the thunder promised by the great banks of copper-coloured cloud that hung low over the western sky.

       I must have walked five or six miles, when a small boy roused me from my reverie by asking the time.

       It was twenty minutes to seven.

       When he left me I began to take stock of my bearings. I found myself standing before a gate that led into a yard bordered by a strip of thirsty earth, where there were flowers, purple stock and scarlet geranium. Above the entrance was a board with the inscription—

CHAS. ATKINSON MONUMENTAL MASON WORKER IN ENGLISH AND ITALIAN MARBLES

       From the yard itself came a cheery whistle, the noise of hammer blows, and the cold sound of steel meeting stone.        A sudden impulse made me enter.        A man was sitting with his back towards me, busy at work on a slab of curiously veined marble. He turned round as he heard my steps and I stopped short.        It was the man I had been drawing, whose portrait lay in my pocket.        He sat there, huge and elephantine, the sweat pouring from his scalp, which he wiped with a red silk handkerchief. But though the face was the same, the expression was absolutely different.        He greeted me smiling, as if we were old friends, and shook my hand.        I apologised for my intrusion.        “Everything is hot and glary outside,” I said. “This seems an oasis in the wilderness.”        “I don’t know about the oasis,” he replied, “but it certainly’s hot, as hot as hell. Take a seat, sir!”        He pointed to the end of the gravestone on which he was at work, and I sat down.        “That’s a beautiful piece of stone you’ve got hold of,” I said.        He shook his head. “In a way it is,” he answered; “the surface here is as fine as anything you could wish, but there’s a big flaw at the back, though I don’t expect you’d ever notice it. I could never make really a good job of a bit of marble like that. It would be all right in the summer like this; it wouldn’t mind the blasted heat. But wait till the winter comes. There’s nothing quite like frost to find out the weak points in stone.”        “Then what’s it for?” I asked.        The man burst out laughing.        “You’d hardly believe me if I was to tell you it’s for an exhibition, but it’s the truth. Artists have exhibitions: so do grocers and butchers; we have them too. All the latest little things in headstones, you know.”        He went on to talk of marbles, which sort best withstood wind and rain, and which were easiest to work; then of his garden and a new sort of carnation he had bought. At the end of every other minute he would drop his tools, wipe his shining head, and curse the heat.        I said little, for I felt uneasy. There was something unnatural, uncanny, in meeting this man.        I tried at first to persuade myself that I had seen him before, that his face, unknown to me, had found a place in some out-of-the-way corner of my memory, but I knew that I was practising little more than a plausible piece of self-deception.        Mr. Atkinson finished his work, spat on the ground, and got up with a sigh of relief.        “There! what do you think of that?” he said, with an air of evident pride.        The inscription which I read for the first time was this—

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF JAMES CLARENCE WITHENCROFT BORN JAN. 18TH, 1860 HE PASSED AWAY VERY SUDDENLY ON AUGUST 20TH, 19— “In the midst of life we are in death.”

FOR SOME TIME I sat in silence. Then a cold shudder ran down my spine. I asked him where he had seen the name.        “Oh, I didn’t see it anywhere,” replied Mr. Atkinson. “I wanted some name, and I put down the first that came into my head. Why do you want to know?”        “It’s a strange coincidence, but it happens to be mine.”        He gave a long, low whistle.        “And the dates?”        “I can only answer for one of them, and that’s correct.”        “It’s a rum go!” he said.        But he knew less than I did. I told him of my morning’s work. I took the sketch from my pocket and showed it to him. As he looked, the expression of his face altered until it became more and more like that of the man I had drawn.        “And it was only the day before yesterday,” he said, “that I told Maria there were no such things as ghosts!”        Neither of us had seen a ghost, but I knew what he meant.        “You probably heard my name,” I said.        “And you must have seen me somewhere and have forgotten it! Were you at Clacton-on-Sea last July?”        I had never been to Clacton in my life. We were silent for some time. We were both looking at the same thing, the two dates on the gravestone, and one was right.        “Come inside and have some supper,” said Mr. Atkinson.        His wife is a cheerful little woman, with the flaky red cheeks of the country-bred. Her husband introduced me as a friend of his who was an artist. The result was unfortunate, for after the sardines and watercress had been removed, she brought out a Doré Bible, and I had to sit and express my admiration for nearly half an hour.        I went outside, and found Atkinson sitting on the gravestone smoking.        We resumed the conversation at the point we had left off.        “You must excuse my asking,” I said, “but do you know of anything you’ve done for which you could be put on trial?”        He shook his head.        “I’m not a bankrupt, the business is prosperous enough. Three years ago I gave turkeys to some of the guardians at Christmas, but that’s all I can think of. And they were small ones, too,” he added as an afterthought.        He got up, fetched a can from the porch, and began to water the flowers. “Twice a day regular in the hot weather,” he said, “and then the heat sometimes gets the better of the delicate ones. And ferns, good Lord! they could never stand it. Where do you live?”        I told him my address. It would take an hour’s quick walk to get back home.        “It’s like this,” he said. “We’ll look at the matter straight. If you go back home tonight, you take your chance of accidents. A cart may run over you, and there’s always banana skins and orange peel, to say nothing of fallen ladders.”        He spoke of the improbable with an intense seriousness that would have been laughable six hours before. But I did not laugh.        “The best thing we can do,” he continued, “is for you to stay here till twelve o’clock. We’ll go upstairs and smoke; it may be cooler inside.”        To my surprise I agreed.

WE ARE SITTING now in a long, low room beneath the eaves. Atkinson has sent his wife to bed. He himself is busy sharpening some tools at a little oilstone, smoking one of my cigars the while.        The air seems charged with thunder. I am writing this at a shaky table before the open window. The leg is cracked, and Atkinson, who seems a handy man with his tools, is going to mend it as soon as he has finished putting an edge on his chisel.        It is after eleven now. I shall be gone in less than an hour.        But the heat is stifling.        It is enough to send a man mad.

[d3lto1dpr0c3ss]

This piece is set in @wildfaewhump‘s Pathverse, following a Class A Path currently in a transport truck.

The lines blurred, is a thought, recognized. Next is the sensation of being dragged back from the endless space between consciousness and nonexistence. Things seem to be shifting themselves into place after having not been so for some time. Places that didn’t quite fit, like puzzle pieces not cut from the same board forced together. Thoughts swim in a sea of confusion, slipping between their fingers when they—they?—reach out to cup one.

When they shift, so slight it isn’t much more than a tensing of their shoulders, they press against something warm and oddly comfortable—confusion and fear begin to ooze into them—again?—and their head feels full of water, sloshing and mixing as everything gently shakes around them; it feels familiar, but so completely foreign, like taking a breath for the first time as the world came into view again, limply dragged ashore and choking, crying, heaving up water after they’d fallen from the boat—

They manage to grab onto a thought, letting it drag them away from the memory before they dip too deep—no, no it’s not like that at all, that’s not right—not mine—what’s going on? They had been fighting to stay awake, and there had been her and him, then him and her—her and him? Was she him, or was he her?

They are jostled, suddenly, and come apart for a moment. In that moment some part of them recognized they had been split from the Other—not part of self, you need to remember self and Other—someone she had been leaning against, unconscious. Nausea washes over her as she gently sways from side to side, only managing to stay upright between being seated and her arms being cuffed to the wall behind her. The incoming headache from the reading starts to ease into her like a swell of rising pressure in the back of her head, but then the ground underneath her bounces, knocking her to the side, and she falls into them again; her cheek pressing against his bare arm as the reading crashes into her.

Please I want the cuffs off I don’t want to be here who’s leaning on me I can’t see anything why did they blindfold me I didn’t even do anything wrong I’m not one of those dangerous Paths that needs to be kept under control if he’d just let me talk he’d understand but if I say anything he’ll hit me again is he still even in the truck with me is he watching me please I just want to go home get off of me—

It fills the cracks and bites deep into what little defense she’d had time to muster before—before there was a them but now there is, and they can’t stop but they need to, don’t they? Because this is wrong. I’m being bad, I’m not supposed to read like this—please let this be a dream—I’m so sorry—what did I do to deserve this?

They begin scrambling, like digging through sand to try to rip apart self and Other before they sink further into it; but the sand only spreads, thoughts catching and painfully gritting under fingernails; where are we—I’m scared—why are they doing this—sorry sorry sorry—take them off—I can’t stop—and they can’t tell who is thinking what between the pain and fear and pain and fear and pain and fear and—stop!

As they reach out they only find more of him, digging themselves deeper and deeper until there is no her and him, they were one and the same and both the one wearing too-tight cuffs, walling off from the memories of pain and fear and sobs cut-off from a boot to the stomach and tears quietly dripping onto the floor when their voice is too hoarse to cry anymore and shaking hands that didn’t want to reach out to read again but would anyways and—

There’s a choked sob. Loud, and in her ear, then fainter rumbling behind it. The sound is distant, distant like the dark green house he could still make out even from the shore, the one where he trails his hands across the deck banister, wood-grain rubbing against calloused palms as he hums in appreciation at the builder’s care, still early enough in the morning that his friends have yet to arrive. He’s excited—was, not now—not now don’t think about this again not now…

Fingers—threading through hair. They’re abruptly ripped apart; forcibly made aware of self and Other in the same instance of separation. Pain hammers its way into her skull at the harsh end of the reading as her head is mashed into the hard metal wall beside her. The bench feels as though it wobbles beneath her, sloshing her insides back and forth and back and forth and it’s all she can do to avoid throwing up. Not him, just a memory. An arm brushes past her own, tangling into the cuffs securing her arms behind her as she quietly mewls, trailing off into shallow panting.

There’s something said, grumbling or growling, she thinks, but she only makes out the last bit of “—the fuck up, Path”, her head pounding with intent to crush her brain being hard not to let consume her and the cool metal pressed against her cheek not cold enough to assuage the oncoming migraine. She opens her eyes and is met with the nearly ever-present darkness of the blindfold tied around her head.

The hand slides from her head and closes around her upper arm as the cuffs come unclasped from the wall. Her head lolls forwards, no longer supported. Then, they pull upwards, yanking her to her feet. It feels like her body only follows a moment later, and a dull ache spreads through her stomach as her torso bends. Her knees don’t manage to lock before the legs she can barely feel give out—their grip doesn’t hold and she limply slides through their arms, dead weight falling to the floor with a fleshy thunk.

“Fuckin’ shit!” Laying down seems to settle the wobbling and sloshing some, the floor only slowly swaying beneath her. A shoe presses into her side and she doesn’t move, holding her breath. It nudges more insistently, and she does her best to stay still, not wanting to give them reason to kick her and finding herself unable to dredge up the energy to do much else. With all the movement, the ache becomes a sharp pain, slowly digging into her gut as she clenches her eyes shut behind the blindfold with a slow exhale.

“W-What’s going on?” The voice seems to come from behind and above her, slightly panicked. The shoe leaves her side and the heavy thud of a footstep is shortly followed by a familiar sharp noise; a gloved hand meeting flesh. “Please, I—”

“Shut it!” All this loud noise bounces around inside her skull, pinging off the bone and chiseling away at it. A drawn out breath catches in her throat, twisting into a breathy groan.

Someone steps away from her, then the footfalls stop for a moment, replaced by a metallic click and clang followed by a faint thud, before the walking resumes, fading out with distance. Their voice is loud enough she can unfortunately still hear it when they shout, “Eric! One of ‘em passed out.”

She vaguely registers that the floor—the truck? I was in transport—isn’t softly vibrating anymore, and hasn’t been for a while. That’s good, she supposes; one less thing jostling her head around.

“Hey, um… Are you… Is anyone there?” It’s the same soft voice as before, behind her. Breathing shallowly as to not disturb her stomach further, she manages a weak nod, cringing as the movement makes her head swim, then makes a noise approximate to an affirmative moan when they don’t say anything to her nod.

“O-Oh god, are you okay?” She feels pretty bad. But she’s been through worse. She can maybe sleep it off. Going to sleep sounds really nice. If they stay quiet maybe she will. But they don’t, they whimper, voice cracking, “Do you- do you know what’s going to happen to us?”

Bad, if he doesn’t stay quiet. We’re supposed to be quiet. It’s too difficult for her to hold onto more than one thought at a time, the rest spilling over and dripping off into some blank space in her mind muddled by pulsating pain. She doesn’t have to try to keep thinking though, because whoever left earlier is back—grunting somewhere close but not inside the truck when their voice doesn’t echo, “I ‘unno what to do, I’m tryin’ to make it your problem.”

There’s someone else, quieter, laughing maybe, and she listens, grabbing onto something to hold her steady as the headache washes over her. “C’mon! Just carry it in, don’t be a baby.” “Maybe I am a baby! But I’m a baby that’s not gonna be holdin’ the damn Path when it pukes!” Her mouth twists uncomfortably, grimacing in pain. So loud. It only gets louder when they get into the truck, footsteps echoing off the hollow walls. She bites her tongue, trying to hold back a whimper, but the added pain doesn’t help and she instead lets her mouth fall open slightly, shakily exhaling.

There’s another laugh, but it trails off into a more serious tone. “It’s not going to puke.”

“They always do!” Spit is thick in her mouth and she takes a moment to swallow, fingers curling slightly as she tries to focus on steady in and out breathing. The pain in her head pulses, throbbing in tandem with her heart beat, like each contraction of her heart was a vice grip milking her brain for thoughts. Nausea swirls in her stomach still, but the pain there recedes back to something duller.

“Do not, you’re just trying to shirk the heavy-lifting. Don’t think I can’t see that!”

There’s silence for a moment. “Just get in ‘ere.”

More footsteps approach, clambering up into the truck. “…Man, it’s really just out, huh?”

“Nah I was just pullin’ your leg—c’mon dude? Why the fuck would I lie about that? Out like a light, ‘s just what I said.” One, two, three footsteps, then their voice lowers, “…I know you sure as hell don’t wanna carry ‘em either. I won’t let out a peep if you wanna make a little ‘accident’ happen an’ call over a stretcher, we can both get outta it.” There isn’t any talking for a bit, and she focuses on breathing steadily, tensing and relaxing her hands, focusing on the feel of the cuffs against her skin. The nausea’s started to ebb away with the stillness and a slight bit of tension is soothed with it.

“Alright.” There’s a long pause before they speak again, “You grab the other one, we need to bring at least one of them in, yeah?” The side of her face rests against the floor of the truck, panting through the pain in her head. Hands press against her back; she flinches then tenses under the touch as they slide to her arms, roughly dragging her off the ground as she slumps into their chest.

She barely registers their hands no longer on her before there’s pain—like a knife driven into her skull when she hits the ground again, keening as her head cracks off the metal floor. It doubles the pounding, throbbing pain drowning everything out, dragging her in as her stomach roils. The pain and nausea swirl together, pulling her back and forth between acidic bile burning at the back of her throat and her skull compacting her brain into paste.

Muffled and distant as if her ears were stuffed full, there’s a very sarcastic, “Whoops.” The rest of their words are too difficult to discern over her ragged breathing—she pants heavily, then clamps her mouth shut around the rising urge to vomit. Everything sways dangerously as pain webs its way around her head and seeps through the rest of her body, biting deep into her.

She’s not sure how long she lays there, distantly hearing footsteps and voices, until eventually she’s picked up again. Her hands make their way in front of her, the cuffs discarded, as she’s laid on her back against something softer than the ground. Her stomach lurches when she’s raised into the air, and she squirms until she’s stopped by straps being pulled tight over her. Something tighter wraps around her arm and squeezes, too tight, almost painful, and she wheezes, weakly turning her head to the side. The last belt is secured across her chest and she sways, nauseatingly, when what she’s restrained to starts to move, bringing her with it. Her eyebrows scrunch together as she clenches her eyes behind the fabric at the shrill squeak of an unoiled wheel.

With each rhythmic squeal, the pounding in her head only gets worse.

[takonei]

Beta AU - Main story, Chapter 3, daily life (Part 2)

Note of the author: It’s motive time bois.

Chapter 3: What is beyond humans’ control - Daily life

Day 10 since the beginning of the game. 8:00 AM.

Shuichi woke up at the morning announcement. he slept better than expected, thankfully.

After taking a shower, he got dressed up to join the others in the dining hall.

Just as he left his room, he saw Angie leaving her room as well.

“Oh, hey Angie.” he yawned.

The girl span around so fast she almost tripped on her own feet. “G’morniiing!”

Shuichi chuckled. The two started making their way to the dining hall together.

“Apparently you helped Himiko and Kokichi making statues yesterday?” he decided to start a conversation.

She nodded. “Yeah! I taught them how to use chisels and hammers and woodpeckers and a lot of other tools!”

“I see,” he smiled. “That must have been fun then.”

She grinned. “Although they’re not the best at it, it was their first time!”

There was a short silence.

Shuichi didn’t know if asking her about her island was a good idea, but it was worth a shot. “Hey... I know this is probably a touchy subject for you and I won’t force you to talk but... How was it back there, sculpting?”

But when he looked at her, her eyes were empty. She had stopped in her tracks. “... I wish I could slaughter Atua with my own hands for all the shit he put all of us priestesses through. Just cutting him like Monokuma cut Maki with the scissors and watch his-”

The violinist couldn’t believe what she was saying. He wanted to put his hands on her shoulders, but refrained from doing so. “Angie! I-”

He paused. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have talked about this.”

She stared at him silently for a moment, then took a step back. “I told you, didn’t I? This is all behind me now! Now I can live with you all here in the academy!”

Shuichi didn’t know how to respond. He wanted to leave but seeing Angie like this made him feel sad. He had a family to go back to, but for those like Kirumi and Angie, this was a whole other story.

“Let’s... Just go to the dining hall. Miu and Kirumi probably already made breakfast.” he couldn’t look at Angie in the eyes. “But please consider talking to Kiyo about all of this. He can try to help you just please...”

He looked at her with pleading eyes. “Talk to someone about this.”

She looked at him with dumbfounded eyes, but then smiled. “Sure thing! But you don’t have to worry about this, Shuichi!~”

They finished their walk in silence.

When they reached the dining hall, Shuichi hoped to see breakfast ready and some of the others here to brighten up the mood.

Unfortunately, a way more confusing scene unfolded in front of his eyes.

Ryoma was in the corner of the room, curled into a ball, Rantaro desperately trying to talk to him.

“Ryoma please- Are you feeling okay??” he asked.

“S-Stay away from me! What did I even do to you?” the small man shakily replied. That was... Unusual.

Miu was a few meters away. She subtly approached the two.

“What’s going on with him?” Shuichi whispered to her.

“No one knows what’s going on. Ryoma looks afraid of everything and everyone, Tsumugi seems to have amnesia and we’ve been trying to understand the situation for twenty minutes. The two also have a huge fever from what Rantaro said.” she replied, as confused as him.

The others came in one by one, and explaining what was going on was impossible.

Rantaro was desperately trying to resonate with Ryoma, but it was useless.

Kirumi tried to talk to Tsumugi, but all she got from her was “Who are you?” and “Where are we?”

Once everyone got into the dining hall, the monokubs popped in.

“My goodness! That’s obviously bad!” Monophanie exclaimed.

The students turned to the bears.

“Teddy bears?” Tsumugi asked, confused.

“What did you do to them??” Miu yelled.

“Ahem! It looks like you want some explanations...” Monotaro said.

“Yeah no shit.” Kaito glared at him.

“MEET-YOUR-NEW-MOTIVE. THE-DESPAIR-DISEASE.” Monodam explained.

That didn’t seem to answer a lot of questions.

“We... May or may not have let some tiny insects inside the academy and it looks like they find you all appetizing!” The pink bear rubbed the back of her head.

Rantaro sighed. “Quit your bullshit. This is obviously your doing. No existing disease infects people that differently.” he glanced at Tsumugi, quietly sitting on a chair and Ryoma, curled up in a ball in the corner of the room.

“How dare you assume we’re lying! Bears never lie!” the red one raised his metal paws up in the air. “Anyway. It’s a really annoying disease where you get a high fever, along with various symptoms!”

Monodam pointed at the two sick students. “TSUMUGI-HAS-THE-AMNESIC-DISEASE. RYOMA-HAS-THE-COWARD-DISEASE.”

Kiyo put a finger on his chin. ”So basically the opposite of their normal personalities.”

“But be careful! Sometimes the despair disease can get passed from person to person just like a cold!” Monophanie put her paws on her cheeks.

Rantaro’s eyes widened. “And it had to be contagious of course.” He approached the bear. “And what’s the cure?”

“THIS-DISEASE-DOESN’T-NEED-A-CURE. IT-WILL-HELP-EVERYONE-GET-ALONG.”

“That’s right! It’s in the most difficult situations that you guys help each other. We thought that would help you all!”

Everyone fell silent. The absurdity of the statement was way too much.

The cubs, noticing the sudden tension in the room, chanted their catchphrase and left.

Shuichi glanced at Rantaro. He looked beyond mad. He took a deep breath and clapped his hands once.

“We’re gonna have to isolate them for now. Except we don’t have a comfortable separated facility for them.”

Shuichi pondered. “So we’ll have to keep them in their own rooms...”

“This is going to be a nightmare to take care of them. I have stuff in my lab but if I have to walk from my lab to the dormitories each time they need something I’m not going to keep up for long.”

Kirumi was leaning against the wall, her arms crossed. “I know this isn’t the best place, but what about the three rooms on the fourth floor? We’ll have to transport stuff here but at least it’s closer.”

“That’s probably the best we can do for now.” He lifted his head to look at everyone else. “I’ll stay here to keep an eye on them for now. Please try to make two of those rooms as comfortable as possible for them. There are three beds in my lab. I’m counting on you for this.”

“W-wait...”

Kokichi raised his hand. “I d-don’t really know... M-Maybe I’m wrong but... I feel like I have it t-too...”

Himiko jumped. “Huh? Really?”

He nodded. “I... I feel dizzy a-and my head is spinning... But I don’t feel any mental change s-so I’m not sure.”

Rantaro approached him and put the palm of his hand on the small boy’s forehead. “You’re feverish. We shouldn’t take any risks.

He pondered for a moment. “Does anyone else feel sick, aside from Kokichi, Tsumugi and Ryoma?”

No answer. “Good. You guys prepare the three rooms while I keep an eye on those three.”

Shuichi turned to him. “Hold on, you're volunteering to take care of them until they get better? You think you can take the risk being infected?”

He turned to the violinist. “I’ve seen worse. I’m the ultimate medic, so don’t worry about me, alright?”

The two stared at each other. Shuichi nodded. “Thanks a lot, Rantaro.”

The rest of the students spent the rest of the morning transporting the beds from the medic’s lab to the rooms. They also took furniture and items from various rooms and labs to make the room a bit more comfortable and less creepy than before.

Lamps and books from Tsumugi’s lab, chairs from Kirumi’s lab, and some decoration and items from the other labs and the warehouse.

At least those rooms looked more like bedrooms than occult-ish rooms. Of course there wasn’t the usual comfort of the dorms, but it was better than nothing.

Shuichi let Rantaro guide the patients to their rooms. They were surprisingly cooperative.

Tsumugi, Ryoma and Kokichi... He really hoped those three would get better.

Shuichi went to Rantaro’s lab. It pained him a little to learn that he was going to do everything by himself from now on.

When he stepped in the room, he was wearing a mask and plastic gloves, carefully handling medicine, beaker and eyedropper in hand.

Once he saw the violinist entering the lab, he put down his tools to look at him. “Do you need something? It’s probably best if you don’t approach me too much, just in case.”

Shuichi winced. “I mean... We can’t let you do everything by yourself... Can we at least do something for you?”

“Shuichi’s right! I can’t just stay here and let you do all the work!” a feminine voice came from behind.

Miu had just appeared in the lab. But while Shuichi was calmly asking how he could help, the girl was clearly determined to do so.

“I... Want to help the others in this. I want to apologize for everything I did after the motive videos... Even though it’s just a little, I want to be useful.” She bowed to Rantaro.

Unfortunately his expression was almost unreadable because of his mask, but Shuichi could clearly see the surprise in his eyes.

Rantaro stood up. “Like I said it’s better if only one of us takes care of the patients, and I’m the most qualified for this. But...”

He paused.

“If it’s not too much to ask, could you please make individual meals for the ill ones and me? And perhaps bring me a sleeping bag since I’ll probably stay here for a while.”

Shuichi put a finger on his chin. “And you’ll probably need some clean clothes too...”

Miu quickly stood up, pointing two fingers to her temple. “Leave it to me!”

Rantaro smiled behind his mask. “However could you bring me dish soap with it? It would be bad to give you back contaminated empty dishes.”

Miu smiled. “Got it!” she turned her back to him, and added: “Make sure to take care of yourself, alright sweetie?”

The medic chuckled. “Alright, alright. Take care of yourself as well, okay?”

The street artist smiled and left. There was a visible blush on her face.

He turned back to Rantaro and giggled. “She really seems into you, calling you ‘sweetie’ like this...”

He shrugged. “I’m not really used to affection like that, but it feels nice. Although I don’t see her ‘that’ way.”

Oh.

“I’ll go for now. Just like she said, don’t overwork yourself, okay?” Shuichi said.

Rantaro gave him a thumbs up. “Don’t worry about me. We should be alright for now.”

-

The group spent lunch together, but there were four less people than what was supposed to be. Obviously Himiko looked worried for Kokichi, but Angie was keeping her company, so it was fine.

Afternoon came and with four less people around, the academy felt empty. But at least they were in good hands.

Himiko and Angie were once again sculpting items in the latter’s lab.

Kaito and Keebo were in the warehouse. The biker had tried to replace Tsumugi and Ryoma for his maintenance.

Miu and Kirumi were cooking in the kitchen some meals and snacks for the infected ones and Rantaro.

Kiyo was outside, not doing anything in particular, so Shuichi approached him.

“Oh, hello Shuichi. Do you need anything?” he asked.

He shook his head. “Not really. Just thought we could hang out.”

The two sat under the wisterias of the courtyard. They had a relaxing feeling, and Shuichi often saw Kiyo talking to people under here.

The violinist picked a flower and started fiddling with it. “What do you think about all of this? I’ve never heard what you thought about this situation.”

Kiyo looked at him. “About what exactly?”

“I would guess the disease... Rantaro said he didn’t believe the bears and said they were lying about the origin of the disease.”

The therapist pondered for a moment, staring at the void.

“... I don’t really know. To be honest I’m contemplating the possibility of the mastermind being one of the ill ones.”

Shuichi’s eyes widened. “Huh? You think the mastermind is either Ryoma, Tsumugi or Kokichi?”

“I didn’t say that I was sure, just that we should not exclude the possibility.”

The violinist frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean...”

“Let’s say the mastermind is the one who gave the ‘disease’ to us. We would obviously think they wouldn’t give the disease to themselves. So they could have just given themselves a fever and act like have the disease.”

Shuichi put his elbows on his knees, head resting on his hands. “But can we even be sure there is a mastermind among us? Maki’s execution still went on even though Monokuma was destroyed, and he came back right after...”

“I don’t really know about this part. We thought that the mastermind would go to the hidden room to summon another Monokuma, but Maki’s execution proved us that it wasn’t the case.”

Shuichi tried to think. “Maybe... They had a remote on them?”

Kiyo narrowed his eye. “That’s a possibility. But... Monokuma wants us to feel despair, right?”

Shuichi raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Because Monokuma reappeared the next day the first time he was crushed, we assumed someone had to go in the hidden room to manually create another one, and they needed to wait until everyone was asleep to act.”

He nodded.

“But if Monokuma’s objective is to destroy our hopes, the mastermind probably let us hope he was definitely destroyed, then created another one to intensify the psychological effect. They could have been able to do it since the very beginning. However, since Maki’s execution was an emergency, they didn’t have time to think and immediately created another one.”

Shuichi lowered his head. “That’s messed up... But that doesn’t explain how they do so...”

“I’m not sure. The remote seems like a plausible theory. We were all in a panic when the courtroom was falling appart, so they could have done something without us realizing.”

That... Made sense.

“But if they can create another Monokuma whenever they want, doesn’t that mean there is a possibility they’re not among us and simply hiding in the hidden room?”

Kiyo hummed. “It’s possible, however since there is still a chance they’re in this group, I wouldn’t talk too quickly.”

Shuichi nodded.

“But to come back to what you said about the despair disease, what would the mastermind gain by giving themselves the disease?” he asked.

“To make us think they’re not one of them, at the risk of not being able to do anything since Rantaro keeps an eye on them at all times. But that would be quite the gamble.” Kiyo explained.

That was quite unlikely, Shuichi thought, but not impossible.

“And Rantaro... I can’t say for certain. He has a great influence on the others but I know a genuine speech when I see one. That’s what last trial proved me.” he added.

Shuichi remembered Kirumi’s words the day before.

‘Willing to listen’ and ‘trusting’ are two very different things. That’s what differentiates strategists and friends.

Rantaro... He was a strategist. He gave the key to his lab to Ryoma in case someone tried to get it from him. He knew another killing would happen and did his best to keep the group calm and rational. Even going as far as to expose the truth about the lack of benefits he would get by escaping. He also volunteered to take care of the ill students all by himself. It was clear he wanted to have a good influence on the group. To be in control of the situation, in a good way.

But him being the mastermind wasn’t something Shuichi wanted to think about.

A part of him also hoped Kiyo wasn’t the mastermind and said all those theories on purpose to confuse him.

The discussion felt tiring.

The two decided to drop the subject for now to talk about their respective lives.

-

Evening came. The rest of the group joined in the dining hall but Shuichi still felt like someone was missing.

There were 12 students alive in the academy. 3 of them were resting because of the illness and one was taking care of them. Yet only half of the remaining students were in the dining hall.

After a quick glance, Shuichi noticed both Miu and Himiko were absent.

Right after thinking that, the street artist entered the dining hall, alone.

“Where’s Himiko?” he asked as she sat in front of Kaito.

“She’s in front of Kokichi’s room and they talk through the door. She’s been at it for an hour now and I don’t think she’ll leave soon.” Miu explained.

Kaito raised an eyebrow as he was eating. “Rantaro doesn’t mind?”

She shook her head. “He said as long as Himiko doesn’t enter the room it’s fine. Also that she must be out of the way during his checks.”

She took a sip of water from her glass. “So right now they’re eating dinner separated by a door.”

Shuichi nodded. Rantaro probably knows more about him about what they should do.

After finishing dinner, since there wasn’t much to do, everyone parted their ways. However there was one last thing Shuichi needed to do.

He quickly looked at his monopad to see where the therapist was. He was outside, on a bench near the wisterias, as usual.

It didn’t take long for Shuichi to reach him.

“Hey, Kiyo?”

He turned to him. He seemed to have been lost in his own thoughts. “Do you need anything?”

He winced. This was a touchy subject, but he had to.

“I think you should try to talk to Angie... I’m a bit concerned about her.”

He explained the whole situation. What she told him in her lab and their discussion this morning.

Kiyo hummed.

“I see. If as you say she resents her home more than this entire killing game, then there is a high possibility she went through severe trauma.”

He stood up. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll talk to her tomorrow, since it is getting late.”

The two went back to the dormitories, hoping Rantaro would be fine by himself.

The disease didn’t need to make any more victims and suffering.

They could only hope for the best.

[themusicplayedherlife]

Full House

2. “Why am I here, anyways?” & 3. “And who are you again?”

pairing: steve rogers x reader

characters: reader, jemma s., daisy , elena r., mysterious stranger?!

word count: 1.8k

summary: i’ve combined ch 2 &3 because why not? thank you guys for the interest in the first chapter ;w; i wasnt really expecting much, but just knowing some of you like it was really heart warming ;w;

previous || all || next

The liquid sloshes back and forth as you twirl the glass in your hand before throwing it back. You ignore the burning in your throat and slam the glass back down for another refill.

“Wow. Been a while since you’ve pounded back a straight shot of vodka,” Daisy whispers bewilderedly, bottle of squirt in one hand and another glass of the clear liquor in the other.

She’s not the only one staring at you like that; Jemma is too. She blinks owlishly as she says, “Their divorce must be really bothering you.”

Elena pushes back Daisy’s arm holding the soda, stopping it from over filling her cup. “No shit,” she mumbles earning a swift slap to the arm from Jemma.

“It’s not the divorce that’s bothering me, it’s the fact they got one without any one of us noticing!” You assert, more forcefully than intended and swipe the bottle of vodka from Daisy’s hand to fill your cup. “Someone from the courthouse would have told us!”

Jemma winces as you once more throw back another—or maybe three—shots of vodka. She gently coaxes the bottle out of your hand and you let her take it from you. “Right, maybe let’s take these slow? You and vodka don’t exactly mix well.”

You slump in your seat. “Two years. Two fucking years and they tell us now?”

“Did they tell you why they hid it for so long?” Jemma asks soothingly, trying to ease your frayed emotions.

“No,” you say with an exhale. “They didn’t get the chance to because we had to rush to the emergency room.”

“What? Why? Are your parents okay? Why didn’t you call us?” Jemma asks.

“They’re fine,” you say. “It was Michael who got hurt. He was playing with the girls and saw that Cassie was about to fall into the pond and broke her fall. Got a mean fracture in his foot.”

Daisy takes a sip of her drink. “Yikes!” You nod, rubbing your left arm. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. Going to be in a cast for a while, though.”

Jemma grimaces. “Tough. So your parents weren’t in the mood to explain after that or...?”

You sigh, eyes roaming away from your friends. “No, my parents stayed home while the rest of us went with Clint and his family to the hospital.” And that was yesterday

Elena perks up at that, pausing mid drink to narrow her eyes. “You just left your parents alone at the house after that bomb?”

You wince at the accusatory tone in her voice; that’s exactly what you did.

It was a complete mess.

Everyone was running around like a bunch of chickens with their heads cut off. Michael and Cassie were crying and apologizing to each other all the while Lulu was cackling. It took Natasha delegating for everyone to finally get their heads on straight and get everyone out the door. Well, almost everyone.

“We’re coming with you!” Your dad had said, moving quickly to grab his keys off of the rack on the wall.

“No!” You startled at the force behind Clint’s voice. Your eyes wide as you stared at your older brother’s stern expression. It had taken you completely off guard. He was usually so calm and collected, never letting things get to him.

“But—“ Your mom started, hoping to convince him.

“No,” he repeated, voice softer, but strained. “You can’t just-“ he lets out a frustrated sigh-“ we need time to process what you just told us and we can’t do that when you’re hovering over us. Right now, the most important thing is focusing on Michael.”

“Clint—“

He turned away from them and all you could do was follow after him, ignoring your parents with a heavy heart.

“We’ll see you at the hospital,” Pietro told them after they settled in the car with Natasha as the driver, Clint in shotgun, and the kids in the back with Scott. The three of you waited until the black SUV pulled out of the driveway before heading towards Pietro’s beat up corolla.

“Kids…” Your mom‘s worried voice caused you to pause, unsure whether to answer or not. Were you guys being unfair to your parents? Maybe. But Clint was right. All of you needed time to process the situation, and them being around you would not help at all.

You shared a glance with the twins and with a reluctant sigh, Wanda turned to them with a neutral smile and said, “I’ll… I’ll call you later to update you guys.”

Still, needing time to process doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt turning your back on your parents.

You steal Elena’s drink before she can take a sip and down it, the bubbly drink mixed with vodka making it hard to swallow. “It’s all types of fucked up, isn’t it?”

You feel heavy, body leaning right and then left, never being able to stay straight. Your head is in the clouds and all you can picture is home where your family is waiting for you. “Home,” you whisper. But you’re not home, you’re in a cold place, where the seating is uncomfortable and you’ve hit your head on something sturdy a couple of times.

“Are you okay?” Worry laced into a deep voice asks. He sounds nice, warm even. Is it dad? Or maybe one of your brothers? He repeats his question, a little louder and even more worried.

“Yes. No. Maybe,” you whine. “I don’t know.”

He asks you something else, but you can’t really hear him. There’s a buzzing in your ear that overtakes you and you can’t help but let it sway you. It’s a sweet lullaby.

“Why am I here, anyway?” you ask the air. When you should be home in your bed and warm.

The last thing you feel are warm arms wrapping around you.

Groaning, you turn under the heavy restraint of a blanket. Your head is pounding; your eyes heavy as you try your best to open them against the warm rays filtering into your room. You give up. Pulling the blanket over your head, you’re suddenly engulfed by a woodsy smell—pine? Sandalwood? Ugh. No. Not thinking about it. Head hurts.

A gentle knock at the door makes you groan again. It opens with a soft creak and heavy footfalls against carpet register in your brain.

“Pietro,” you croak. “I swear to god, if you try and pick me up, I will not hesitate to hit you in the groin.”

A chuckle that definitely doesn’t sound like your brother’s responds to your mild threat and it’s enough to have you throwing the blanket off of you and sitting up quickly. Which you immediately regret. Greatly.

Rubbing at your temple, a cup of water and a hand holding out aspirin appear in your line of vision. “Here, these might help.”

With a low thank you, you take them from the stranger and throw back the small pill and chug down all of the water. It’s a nice welcome to your parched throat. “You didn’t poison me did you?”

He laughs. “Shouldn’t you have asked that before taking it?”

You shrug. “I was desperate.” Finally looking up, your tired eyes are blessed by a beautiful man; and you’re not exaggerating. He’s gorgeous! Sandy blonde hair, baby blue eyes, chiseled face covered in scruff; delicious muscular build wrapped in a red Henley and black joggers. You gasp, eyes widening. Have you died and gone to heaven? How else would you have managed to land in his bed?

His smile wavers, eyes narrowing with worry. “You okay?”

You blink once, then twice as he waits patiently for you to speak up. “Oh, uh, yeah, I’m fine. But uh, who are you again? And how did I get-” you look around the simple room with wooden furniture and little knickknacks here and there-“here?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m Steve. Steve Rogers. I found you half passed out on the stairs.”

“Stairs?” Oh, shit. You were at Daisy’s weren’t you? And you got hammered! Fuck! Wanda and Pietro must be worried sick! “My phone!”

You slap the bedding, searching frantically for your phone.

“It’s on the bedside table,” he suddenly says. At his words, you practically flung yourself to grab it, finding it connected to a charger. “I wanted to call a friend or order you an Uber or something but I realized it was dead.”

Relief fills you when you disconnect it from the charger and it turns on with a simple click. “Thank you.” Slowly, but surely, your phone begins to vibrate with incoming messages and voicemails.

Steve whistles in amazement as your phone goes off with notifications. “Wow. Your friends must be worried about you.”

Your face blanches as you read through the messages.

Wanda:

Hey, I know you’re at Daisy’s, but let me know if you’re going to stay over or if you need a ride.

Pietro:

wanda and i r worried lil sis! call us soon

Daisy:

Home yet?

Ugh drunk

Call me towmr

Can’t spell bye

Clint:

You okay? Wanda just texted to ask if you’re over at my place, and obviously you’re not. Getting a little worried here.

The Nest

Wanda:

Still not answering her phone!

Clint:

Have you tried calling Daisy?

Scott:

U think she’s lashing out? Finally hitting her rebellious stage?

Pietro:

she’s not you, scott

Wanda:

Yes! She said they all saw her schedule an Uber

Scott:

Ouch!

Wanda:

Everything after that is apparently a blur

That’s not funny, Scott!!!!!!!!!!!!

Should we call the police?

File a report?

Pietro just said we can’t because it hasn’t been more than 24 hours

Clint:

I’ll go look for her

Wanda:

Pietro and I’ll go with you

Scott:

Luis isn’t home, can’t leave Cassie, keep me updated

“Fuck,” you exclaim, jumping out of bed. “Shoes, shoes, shoes!”

“They’re by the entrance—“

You don’t let him finish, you’re already zooming past him and out into the small corridor connected to his kitchen and living room. You almost topple over his neat furniture, but somehow manage to keep yourself upright.

Just as Steve said, your flats are by the entrance, next to a full shoe rack. Slipping on your shoes, you order an Uber through the app—fuck! Your history says you did schedule an Uber last night! But if your phone died and you stayed inside, then… fuck me! You really need to stop drinking vodka.

“Be careful,” you hear Steve say as you open the door. “No more sleeping in staircases!

“No promises,” you answer back, turning around to find him leaning against his kitchen counter with an amused smile. “Thank you for not being a creep!”

The Nest

You:

Guys! I am so sorry! I’m on my way home now! But I promise I’m okay!

Clint:

You are in so much trouble!

Pietro:

look at that, baby sis is alive after all

Wanda:

You almost gave me a heart attack!

You:

I am so sorry!

Scott:

So

Did you finally rebel? You did, didn’t you?! Proud of you little troublemaker you!

Wanda disliked “Did you finally rebel? You did, didn’t you...”

Pietro disliked “Did you finally rebel? You did, didn’t you...”

Clint disliked “Did you finally rebel? You did, didn’t you...”

Scott:

It was a joke!!!!!!!

[shizibande]

“ It’s you. You’re it. You’re the one I want. ”slightly drunk ikkaku confessing to pb tho

shang hasn’t been h o m e in so long that he’d almost forgotten the smell — the warm, iron-scented barracks a pleasant reminder of where he’d grown up. there’s a sort of guilt in him, when he’s aggressively invited for drinks by ikkaku, wrangled into his arms like a long-lost little brother who’d ran away from home, but he hasn’t smiled this hard in months. and maybe its the sake, poured neatly into cups on the barracks stairs, just the two of them, that has shang laughing so hard he’s all teeth and all comebacks, but he’s finally feeling like himself again after a while. 

it’s good, and he can a l m o s t ignore the stabbing in his gut at being so close to ikkaku, at smelling the soap he’d used earlier, at hearing him s p e a k, with so much voracity and joy that shang knows he brought him. it should feel good. and it does. it does, until ikkaku’s careless, barked laughter turns into quiet contemplation, the echoes of his laughter trailing off until he’s piecing words together that shang quite comprehend. 

until he does.

bronze eyes go w i d e, some youthful shock and awe spreading ‘cross his face. he isn’t exactly sober either, by most definitions, a warm buzz spreading through his head, but he isn’t drunk enough to be imagining things. no… oh no, he’d heard correctly, as Ikkaku spoke those three fragmented sentences into the space between his knees, now wringing his wrists in some small measure of certain uncertainty ; craning his neck and turning his chin skyward as a narrow, draconian gaze flickers to shang’s face with some fierce determination. resolution. emphatic seriousness that makes shang’s stomach t w i s t. 

his mouth opens and closes, whatever words he’d meant to say getting stuck in his throat ; makes him want to gag, because if there’s ever been a cruel joke played on him, this would be the worst. his eyes search ikkaku’s face for any inkling, any modicum of a smile, a grin, an ‘ oh my god, you fell for it ’ written on his chiseled features and there’s none. the gaze the dragon wears, in all of its unfocused seriousness, was s o f t — soft in a way shang isn’t used to seeing. 

it would be a lie, though, should he say he’d never seen it — a mischievous peer through lashes during their spars, a warm, telling side-eye — rather, he had elected to ignore whenever that sort of gaze was thrown his way, because he had to have been imagining it… 

“ p l e a s e ”     and it takes a moment for shang to realize, but he actually has said something, a singular word that wrenches up from his gut in a wretched, gravelled whisper. and he laughs, a broken little noise, forceful in an attempt at breaking tension, only to make it worse. he can feel his heart hammering in his chest. wonders if ikkaku can, too…     

shang wrings his own hands so hard he feels his knuckles crack, and scarcely holds back a whimper at the pain under his ribs. although he’s filled out, and grown into the long and gangling limbs, shang is still young, his adulthood fresh on his skin. doesn’t quite know what to do with the limbs he’s grown into and so he brings them closer to himself in some uncharacteristic display of uncertainty.

if he would ever guess what heartbreak feels like, he would liken it to this — the man you love saying beautiful things he won’t remember in the morning.

“   you’re drunk, ‘kaku… you don’t —…   ”    he pauses, makes a garbled sigh and rubs his face in his hands.    “   don’t… say things you don’t mean… that’s…   ”   and he l a u g h s, but its w e t, and he realizes much to late that it’s tinted with the beginnings of tears.   “   that’s just fuckin’ mean.   ”

[autolovecraft]

Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago.

Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you got what you deserved. The tower at length finished, and his aching arms rested by a pause during which he sat on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside.

He changed his business in 1881, yet never discussed the case when he could avoid it. I saw the scars—ancient and whitened as they then were—I agreed that he was wise in so doing. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner. The moon was shining on the scattered brick fragments and marred facade, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he did not heed the day at all; so that he was reduced to a profane fumbling as he made his halting way among the long boxes toward the latch. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the right grave. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. You know what a fiend he was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol.

The pile of tools soon reached, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. It must have been midnight at least when Birch decided he could get through the transom. He cried aloud once, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. He worked largely by feeling now, since newly gathered clouds hid the moon; and though progress was still slow, he felt heartened at the extent of his encroachments on the top and bottom of the aperture. Undisturbed by oppressive reflections on the time, the place, and the degree of dignity to be maintained in posing and adapting the unseen members of lifeless tenants to containers not always calculated with sublimest accuracy.

He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the source of a task whose performance deserved every possible stimulus. It must have been midnight at least when Birch decided he could get through the transom. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. It may have been just fear, and it may have been just fear, and it may have been just fear, and it may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. You kicked hard, for Asaph's coffin was on the floor. The tower at length finished, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face.

Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. The air had begun to be exceedingly unwholesome; but to this detail he paid no attention as he toiled, half by feeling, at the heavy and corroded metal of the latch. It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the tomb. I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin, but you got what you deserved. You know what a fiend he was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol. Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground. The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon. The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. I'd hate to have it aimed at me! Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom. He was oddly anxious to know if Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, but you got what you deserved. You know what a fiend he was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol. You know what a fiend he was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, but you always did go too damned far! Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true, there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken delirium toward the last. He was a scoundrel, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin, but you got what you deserved.

The light was dim, but Birch's sight was good, and he planned to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon.

[serak-sarak-meta-sarahk]

Also Brown V Board of Educatuon is a placebo court case. As in the people coming into Cincinatti and Northern Kentucky and Northern Virginia with the postings were already considered con people and or abductor potentials to our community.

That's why we did the neosporene thing actually.

But since those people were actually already criminals for the postings they were making in the area. The OJ TRIAL itself and Brown V Board of Educatuon were both placebo trials to give the people the trial expectation they expected so they thought they got give from the US for what they were driving from 5 states away to post in our communities

All in all your just another brick in the wall

Now think when did little views of lines of George W Bush worh then called Cincinadé people actually coming singing that at your communities after breaking me out of a supposed to be torture Chamber in France where I pretended Mick had gotten in for the negotiation but it was just me impersonating Micks voice from micks coaching while hammering at a brick with a chisel? Then whose global Gap ad ran of me modeling at the place from a chateau nearby across from the Eiffel Towel while yall thought I was still in the torture Chamber? And so what brand do you think agrees with trafficking then? Because I was told after this demonstration that song isn't really a Pink Floyd song the actual band wont be offended if you don't know them as the aingera but still like that aong or think it helps you. It's just a song. You can still claim to like that song when you hear it reminding you of that shit

And did yall not notice the use of chasity belts when you thought you were making money on it? Because the first time I caught myself in China in not a diplomacy meeting type setting it was 2004 and real Jeff Epstein and a guy in a chasity belt were already there the first time i was chained to a bed in that type of setting. During the Abraham time I wasn't chained. Only Julia or Olivia on the show was and I was trying to get her orders while not screaming that we had been separated and I literally could not get to her but she was screaming at what was being done to her which was unnormal so that part still I have to stress my brain off of remembering how I was alerted by her actually sounding exhausted at how far whatever we were experiencing gad already gone for her by her voice fear to exhaustion actually seeming not acting in her voice but i had seen her since .