#when all I had in my mind was blackened walls and the smell of burnt plastic | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

foli-vora · 3 years

Text

all i need

A/N: lmao a brief depressive episode gave way to a relentless hunger to fuck a cowboy so... enjoy. ❤️

Pairing: Jack Daniels/Agent Whiskey x f!reader

Word count: almost 2.2k

Warnings: THIS IS 18+ ONLY! swearing, oral (f receiving), fingering, praise kink, body worship, unprotected p in v (wrap before you tap), clit slaps, choking, a good ol’ creampie and a tiny miniscule slice of cum eating (if I’ve forgotten anything, please let me know!)

“No, no, no! Shit! Fucking shit, fuck –”

The casserole dish clatters to the counter and you try to wave the sting of a burn from your hands, frowning at the now blackened potatoes, smoke curling towards the ceiling and hanging heavy in your nose. No saving those. The potatoes join the rest of the burnt food crowding the counter and you feel the burn of tears build behind your lids.

It was your and Jack’s anniversary – your third to be exact, your first as an engaged couple. You had spent hours going through Pinterest, browsing some fancy recipes and saving anything you think Jack would like, deciding to make him a big fancy home cooked meal for him to come home to as an anniversary surprise. Suffice to say, it was not going well.

Well, there was still time – maybe you could order something in before he got home. You both were at your apartment in Manhattan as Jack had been working at the New York Statesmen offices, so you had plenty of options to pick from. You sigh when you hear the front door open, a set of keys being thrown in the bowl by the door and heavy footsteps leading through the apartment.

“Sweetheart? Where are y–” Jack stops dead when he enters the kitchen, a magnificent bouquet of red roses in one hand, dark eyes quickly taking in the cluttered counters of horrifically burnt food and then landing on you, hands braced on your hips and tears building in your eyes as you glared at the burnt dishes. “What’s all this?”

“It was meant to be a surprise,” you mutter, shoulders falling in defeat, “for our anniversary… but I ruined it.”

“Hey now,” he moves forward instantly, arms looping around your waist and free hand falling to the back of your head as he cradles you to him. “It looks… uh… it looks like you’ve put a lot of work into everything.”

You scoff, pulling back and smiling softly as he presents you with the flowers. The sweet perfume hits your senses, ridding your nose of the smoke smell and you sigh, kissing his cheek softly. “They’re stunning, Jack. Thank you.”

“Happy anniversary, sweetheart.” He murmurs against your forehead, nose scrunching slightly as smoke permeates his nose. “Let’s just –” he momentarily leaves you to open the kitchen windows before taking the roses from you and sitting them on the counter in the one small bit of space not taken up by burnt food, and then leads you into the less-smoky dining area.

“I’m sorry I screwed dinner up.” You’re sullen as you speak, disappointed in yourself and what you thought were decent cooking skills.

“Don’t be silly. My future wife,” he coos, large hands cradling your face softly as he presses his lips from one cheek to the other, curved nose brushing against yours softly, “always thinking of me – spoiling me. You’re incredible, baby.”

“But I –”

“No. You are incredible. You spent your day working away in here, all for me. Now, did it end up how you wanted? No – but does that take away from the time and effort you spent doing so? No. You’re always looking after me, sweetheart… and now, it’s my turn.”

Your hands fly to his shoulders with a cry of surprise as he bends slightly, grabbing you just below your ass and sitting you on the edge of the dining table. He hands pull at his jacket as he drops to his knees, throwing it aside and not caring when it drops to a crumpled heap a few steps away.

You blink down at him, “What are you doing?”

“Having myself a top-quality anniversary meal, courtesy of my lovely fiancé.” He answers with a grin curling at his lips, warm hands rubbing along the smooth skin above your ankles. “Lay back for me, baby, let me see you.”

Your eyes don’t leave his as you slowly recline, resting on your elbows on the cool timber surface, his hands brushing up your legs and along your thighs and slowly pushing up the cute floral sundress you had bought for the occasion. Red lace greets him once the dress moves under his persistence, and his fingers trace the edges of the delicate fabric in admiration.

“You dress up all pretty for me, sweetheart?”

“Mhm.”

Lips repetitively press against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, slowly working their way up to your clothed core, and you squirm on the table, hips bucking slightly in anticipation. Searing heat engulfs your clit through the fabric, and the breath leaves your lungs as Jack moves his lips, biting gently at your clit and dragging the lace back with his teeth before letting it snap back into place. Dark eyes flick up to meet yours and then he’s smirking, fingers hooking into the waistband and jerking his head up to signal you to raise your hips and removing your underwear.

You watch him through hooded eyes, his large warm hands running back up your legs, and then he pushing at your thighs, spreading your legs and groaning lowly when his eyes land on your pussy.

“Prettiest fuckin’ thing.”

And then he moves, mouth greedily engulfing your clit and running his tongue over the sensitive nerve, fingers digging into your thighs as you moan quietly, hand flying to wind in his hair. He groans into your flesh, eyes closing and brows furrowing in concentration as he focuses all of his attention doing that fucking magical thing with his tongue that makes your eyes roll back into your head. You whine when he moves away from your clit, tongue diving into your pussy to taste the arousal gathering there, nose and moustache bumping against your clit as he eagerly buries his face against your folds.

“Fuck Jack,” your hands tug at his curls, hips shifting slightly against his mouth and head dropping back as he hums appreciatively against you, the sweet tang of you like honey on his tongue.

He breaks away with a quiet pant, diving right back to latch onto your clit, lips wrapping around it while his tongue rapidly rubs back and forth. Your thighs jump in his palms, and he winds his arms under your legs, sitting them softly on his shoulders and palms flattening against your hips, keeping you steady and anchored to his relentless mouth. Fire ignites in your stomach, toes curling in the high heels digging into his back. He doesn’t seem to notice, and if he does, he doesn’t seem to mind as he moves his head from side to side. You whine up to the ceiling, fist tightening around the tufts of soft hair wound between your fingers, pulling him impossibly closer to you, a low drawn out moan falling from your lips when he lets you buck against his mouth.

“Take what you want, baby.” He murmurs, dark hungry eyes finding yours.

The death grip on your legs eases up, and you start to move against his tongue with little grinds of your hips, keeping his head where you want it with the hand buried in his hair, heart fluttering wildly in your chest as he watches you closely from between your legs, watching the slight crease between your brows deepen, your mouth falling open in a silent cry. You bask in the heat quickly spreading over your body, muscles winding tighter and tighter with every delicious roll against his mouth. Your pussy clenches around nothing, desperate for something, anything, to fill it and help you over the edge.

“J-Jack – fuck… fingers –”

Two fingers immediately swirl around the entrance to your pussy, sliding in with zero resistance and curling deeply within you, moving in time with your hips and hitting that heavenly spot within you that has you seeing stars. Fucking Jesus, so good… so, so good –

He feels you on the edge, hears your breathing start to hitch and groans, eyes slipping closed as you work yourself faster and harder against his mouth, free hand unconsciously falling to rub at his clothed cock, rock hard and throbbing from the second he buried his tongue in your pussy.

“Yes, oh my g– Jack… fuck –” your chest heaves, the heat in your belly coming to an all time high and then you’re suspended in space for a brief second in time, floating and weightless, until you come crashing down, electric flooding your body and back arching against the table, coming with a loud cry. He feels your pussy clench down around his fingers, a flood of wetness catching his chin, and he can’t help the low groan he lets out against you. Your body jolts, spasming wildly as he greedily locks his lips around your clit and sucks until you’re pulling at his hair and begging for relief.

He pulls away, mouth and chin shining with your slick, and you watch through hazy eyes as he brings his soaked fingers to his mouth and sucks, eyes closing in bliss at the taste of your cum before opening and locking heatedly with yours. He stands, fingers tugging at the tie around his neck and ripping open the top buttons of his shirt, before he’s stepping closer, dragging the weeping head of his cock along through your folds and slapping it sharply against your clit. You cry out at the sting of overstimulation, cry turning into a moan when he does it again, and again, before he lines up with your entrance and buries himself in your pussy with one solid thrust.

“Fuck baby, you always take me so well.” He groans, head rolling on his shoulders as your walls flutter around him.

“Please –”

He stays still, eyes opening and gazing down at you, breathless and spaced out below him. “Please what? What do you want?”

“Move. Please, Jack – please… please fuck me –”

Fingers grip your chin, your pussy clenching in response, and he turns your head towards him.

“Look at my pretty girl,” he coos deeply, “asking so nicely. You want me to fuck you, baby?”

You nod pathetically, hands grabbing at whatever they could find, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and tugging him down towards you. He melts over you, wet lips meeting yours in a slow kiss, your mouth falling open the second his tongue probes softly at your lips. You moan at the taste of him, mixed with the tangy taste of your cum still hanging on his tongue. The fingers gripping your chin move, wrapping around the delicate skin of your throat and squeezing softly, his raspy chuckle filling your ears when he feels your pussy flutter around him again.

“You want it?”

“Please –” you choke out as he pulls halfway out before pushing back in languidly, eyes fixed to your face and the small twitch of your muscles as he lazily thrusts, slowly dragging his cock against your walls. “Jack,” you whine, frowning at the slow pace.

“I hear you, baby.”

And then he’s moving. Really moving.

His thrusts become faster, harder, hitting somewhere deep inside you that has your clawing at the table. You’re talking, incoherent words falling from your lips in a relentless wave as he pounds into you, the grip around your throat tightening as he curses quietly.

“God, you were made for me, darlin’. Your pussy’s so fuckin’ perfect, Christ –” his hips stutter and he mashes his teeth together, fighting the itch of release and quickening his thrusts, free hand moving to press down on your lower stomach to pin you in place. “Come on, baby. Give me one more, I know you can do it –” His thumb moves slightly lower, brushing over your clit in soft circles and setting fire to your nerves all over again. “Can you do that for me, baby? Can you give me one more?”

Whining softly, you nod hurriedly, brows furrowing as the coil winds tighter and tighter in your stomach. In a blinding flash, another wave of heat rushes over you and his hips stutter as you cum hard around him, hand moving from your throat to the tabletop next to your head to brace himself.

“Good girl, baby, you’re so good for me, so fuckin’ good, Jesus fuck –”

You feel the flood of heat as he comes, his cock shoved so deep you arch off the table with a whimper as he brushes your tender cervix. He collapses on top of you, the weight of his body comforting as you lift your heavy arms to wrap around him. You both lay boneless, panting and sweat running along your bodies. Jack lifts his head once he catches his breath, pressing a tender kiss to your lips which you try to return as sweetly as possible while being completely fucked out of your senses, and then he stands and gently drags his soft cock from your wrecked pussy. He watches his cum leak out of you, fingers swiping through the mess before bringing them to his mouth and sucking the cum from his skin with a low hum.

He grins, “Dinner was amazing – thank you, sweetheart.”

Tags: @anu-simps @seasonschange-butpeopledont @withasideofmeg @you-got-me-starry-eyed

#agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey x you #Jack Daniels x reader #Jack Daniels x you #kingsman: tgc #kingsman fic #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal

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littlemisspascal · 3 years

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Death and an Angel part 7

Helmetless + Death!Din and Cupid F!Reader

Summary: Maybe you should have tried harder, or held onto him tighter. Maybe then you wouldn't be feeling this gaping hole in your chest where your heart used to beat.

Rating: T

Word Count: 2,297

Warnings: Description of a dead body, major character death (but technically you already know it happened, just not how it did...so...), heartbreak, major angst, a bit of fluff at the end, a couple familiar faces may or may not show up

Author Note: Seriously, you all are the best readers I could ever hope to have. The response to Part 6 was unbelievable and I can’t thank everyone enough for the support, especially when I continue to be evil and end the segments with such horrible cliffhangers.

Links to Part 1 and Part 6 and Part 8

Cross-posted on AO3.

Photo Inspiration:

Maker, your head hurts.

It throbs angrily as if a mudhorn has impaled your brain on its horn. In fact, your whole body feels like one giant bruise. Grimacing, you take a deep breath, only to enter a coughing fit when you inhale a lungful of smoke.

Cracking an eye open, panic seizes you when all you see is smoke. Ash gray and thick, it obscures your immediate surroundings from view. You can’t even tell if it’s night or day.

What the kriff is going on?

Swallowing against the dryness of your throat, you slowly sit up and feel pieces of grit and rubble dig into the tender flesh of your palms. A quick look shows no blood, soulmate mark unaffected, and you sigh a quiet breath of relief. But then worry starts to sink in when you realize you can’t remember where you are or what knocked you unconscious. Before you can spiral into a panic attack, the ground beneath you starts to tremble, causing the tiny fragments of gravel to wildly bounce around.

A shrill metallic screech pierces your ears followed immediately by a massive burst of vibrant orange flames erupting in the distance. You yelp, hastily pushing yourself onto your feet and start to run in the opposite direction, ignoring the howl of protest from your aching body.

You can’t even see two steps in front of you, effectively ruining your attempt at a quick escape as you clumsily skirt around piles of debris that appear out of the smoke and threaten to block your way. Every breath is a wheeze, lungs making it painfully clear they cannot draw in enough oxygen from the smoky atmosphere to support your chosen pace. But the mere thought of dying here in this nightmarish inferno is enough to urge you to keep moving, keep putting one foot in front of the other, even as it simultaneously creates a tight, anxious knot in your stomach.

Another explosion detonates behind you. The ground quakes and groans, cracks appearing at an alarming rate as if the planet itself is being torn apart by the chaos. Your foot catches on one of the rifts, eliciting a cry of shock to tear itself out of your throat when you’re unable to reclaim your balance and plummet forward.

Except it’s not the ground that rises up to meet you.

No.

It’s a body.

A dead body, to be precise. Burnt to a blackened crisp, as if the person had been dropped directly into a sun. Their skeletal features are frozen in an expression of torture, mouth gaping wide in a silent scream. The stench of their seared flesh overwhelms your nostrils and ingrains itself in your brain, ensuring you’ll never forget the horrific smell for the rest of your lifetime.

Whimpering, you scramble backwards, curling your legs tight against your heaving chest. You look around, bile rising in your throat when you glimpse through the sea of smoke more charred corpses surrounding you. It’s as if you’ve stumbled upon a mass grave, and again the thought crosses your mind: what the kriff is going on?

You stand up, not wanting to linger another second in their presence, and continue moving forward, each footstep slow and careful as you maneuver around the bodies. The smoke is marginally thinner the further away you move from the fiery blasts, just enough for you to make out the faint outlines of collapsed buildings on either side of you, homes of families destroyed for reasons you don’t understand. Gut instinct keeps insisting that everything you’re seeing is wrong, that none of this destruction and carnage should have ever happened.

Again, you attempt to string together your memories, forcing your brain to comply despite the pounding ache it produces in your temples. Honestly, you wouldn’t be surprised if you had a concussion.

Details slowly start coming to mind, little and meaningless by themselves, but when put together form a grander picture. You came here to visit your best friend. ‘Here’ being a Mid-Rim planet with a ridiculously long and multisyllabic name you couldn’t pronounce then, and your poor head certainly can’t identify now. The transport flight had been long and you’d arrived later than anticipated, verging on late afternoon when you’d stepped off the craft.

On your way to your friend’s house, the sun had abruptly gone dark. Everyone had stopped to look to the sky, yourself included. A light cruiser, kite-shaped and unmistakable, hovered directly overhead. Its presence was ominous, evoking the crowd of civilian spectators to murmur amongst themselves.

Then its weapons unleashed a storm of hellfire.

Oh, Maker. How could you have ever forgotten the screams?

You’re pulled out of your dismal thoughts by the appearance of a dark shape ahead of you, its outline standing out as noticeably different than the surrounding rubble. Gradually, your brain starts to distinguish human features: a head, broad shoulders and limbs.

It also occurs to you that they’re coming straight at you.

Before you can decide whether to flee or fight or do anything remotely conducive to increasing your odds of survival, the human-shaped blur barrels straight into you, hitting you with such force you instinctively grip onto their coat, just above their wrists, to keep from falling backwards. The feather-light grazing of the edge of your palm against their skin elicits a buzz of shocking warmth, as if you’ve touched a live wire instead of flesh.

It’s you, the thought pops into your head unprompted, like a fact you’ve always known since you were born. The feeling is breathtaking and electric, a lightning bolt striking the center of your heart. Every cell in your body is radiating exuberance and cheering: it’s you, it’s you, it’s you! The one I’ve been waiting for!

You’re pushed sideways, a small cry of surprise escaping your lips.

“Get out of my way.” It’s a masculine voice, sharp with impatience yet it wraps itself around your heart all the same. He doesn’t spare you a second glance as he continues heading in the direction you’ve been coming from.

“Wait,” you protest, because it’s not supposed to be like this. You’ve started shaking, from adrenaline or the shock of his dismissal, you’re not sure.

The man pauses, keeping his back facing you. His dark clothes are conspicuously clean, and you can’t help comparing them to your own which are sooty and torn in places. For the second time, your gut instinct is telling you something is wrong, but this time you ignore it in favor of listening to the screaming of your heart urging you to never let this man out of your sight.

“We’re soulmates,” you say, desperate for him to stay.

His fingers curl into fists, the only forewarning you have before he snaps your heart in half as he mutters, “You could never be my soulmate.”

And then you’re watching as he disappears into the smoke, not once looking back to gauge the aftermath of his rejection. You had always been a hopeless romantic, dreaming that you and your soulmate would meet and live a long, happy life together until Death came to reap your souls. In less than thirty seconds, your soulmate had just cruelly crushed those dreams without either of you exchanging names or seeing each other’s faces.

Maybe you should have tried harder, or held onto him tighter. Maybe then you wouldn't be feeling this gaping hole in your chest where your heart used to beat.

Acting on impulse, you start running after him. If you can just have a second chance to make a better impression, maybe you can change his mind. Maybe you can convince him to accept you as his soulmate, agree to take your hand and never let go. And maybe, just maybe, he’ll fall in love with you, deeply and profoundly, just like every soulmate pairing you’ve heard about.

With a head full of maybes, you don’t even hear the bomb drop.

It hits the ground with a resounding thud, and then your world is an explosion of red and orange heat, consuming you whole without leaving behind any evidence you’d ever existed at all. Your vision shifts and blurs, memories of your lifetime flashing by too quickly to recognize each one, but through it all you hear a voice, his voice, echoing those dreadful words over and over again.

You could never be my soulmate. Never. Never. Never.

~~~

You wake up with a jolt, throat raw as if you really had been inhaling smoke. You’re drenched in sweat and you push away the heavy blanket covering you before realizing it is definitely not your blanket nor are you currently in your own bed. Looking around, panic begins to prickle along your nerve endings when you fail to recognize anything familiar about your location.

You’re in someone’s home, that much is obvious from the furnishings. The ceiling overhead is made of overlapping metal and is slightly rounded, reminding you of a cave or burrow. There is a lantern hanging on a nearby hook, but the light it emanates is dim compared to the sunshine pouring in from the four small, square-shaped windows cut into the wall behind you above the bed. The view through the windows is slightly blurry, but you can make out the blue sky and what you think is a corral of some kind.

Rubbing a hand over your face to wipe away the lingering exhaustion, you’re surprised when your hand encounters something rough covering the side of your forehead. A bandage. Strange, you must have hit your head somewhere—

The past comes back in flashes: Din confessing his feelings, touching his hand, the spark of warmth, falling unconscious on the floor.

Where is Din?

“You are awake.”

The voice is expressionless and mechanical in tone, stating the obvious. Even so, you jump, not having noticed the droid sitting in the far corner of the room during your initial survey. Its red sensors and dark colored plating would make it look menacing if not for the tray it clutches in its hands, balancing cups and a pitcher.

“I am IG-11,” the droid says as it approaches.

“IG?” you echo hoarsely, sitting up with alarm. “As in one of those assassin droids?”

“I have been reprogrammed as a nurse.” It considers you for a moment, internal mechanisms whirring, and then the tray is held out closer for you to reach. “Tea?”

Hesitantly, you pour yourself some and hold the cup with both hands as you take a sip. The tea is warm as it slides down your throat, flavorful and far more exotic than the kind you’ve tasted back home in Umbriel.

“Where am I?” you ask after you’ve swallowed two more gulps.

“Arvala-7.”

You blink, barely familiar with the name which only intensifies your worry about Din’s absence.

“Okay, but like, where exactly on Arvala-7?” you press, gesturing around the room. “How did I even get here?”

“Your current location is a moisture farm owned and operated by Kuiil,” IG-11 says, moving away to set the tray on a nearby table, though its head remains facing your direction. “Death brought you here unconscious with an injury to your central processing unit.”

“My central…” you trail off, squinting. “Was that supposed to be a joke?”

“Yes. It was meant to put you at ease.”

“Right.” You nod to yourself, reaching a decision. Downing the last of your drink, you swing your legs over the side of the bed and make a move to stand. “This has been great, but I’ve really got to go find Death so—”

A wave of dizziness washes over you, forcing you to sit back down. Kriff, you think, closing your eyes until you’re certain you won’t be seeing double anymore.

“You won’t find Death here.” A new voice, crackling with age, informs you. His words are ominous, but his tone isn’t one of malice or ill-intent.

Turning, you see an Ugnaught approaching from the entrance of the house. He stops beside IG-11, green eyes peering at you from beneath bushy white eyebrows, but you don’t feel threatened by his nearness.

“I am Kuiil. Death entrusted me with looking after you until his return from Nevarro,” he says, sitting down upon a stool with his arms braced upon his knees. “You must continue to rest until you are well. I have spoken.”

You press a hand to your chest, feeling a pang of hurt at Din’s decision. “He left?”

“Death is bound by creed to the universe to reap the dead. Nothing, not even his soulmate, can be put before it.”

You choke on your spit. “Soulmate? We’re not—”

“Even if he had not told me,” Kuiil interrupts, unwilling to hear your dissuading opinion when he is certain of his own. “I would have known it from how he stubbornly stayed at your side and by how loathsome he was to leave you behind. In all my years, I have not seen him behave in such a twitterpated manner.”

“He…” Your voice wavers, torn between hopefulness and disbelief. “He really told you we’re soulmates?”

Kuiil, reaching towards the table for the pitcher of tea, pauses and slowly turns back to look at you. “You were unaware of your matched connection with Death? Did you two not touch hands as most fated pairs often do?”

Any reply you might have said falters when you look down at your hands in your lap. More specifically, your left hand. The one Din had grasped. The one that in your past life had brushed against your soulmate minutes before you died.

Right there in the middle of your palm, innocently gleaming like it’s always been there and therefore isn’t at all responsible for the rapid increase of your heartbeat, is a soulmate marking.

Tag List: @leilei-draws, @theocatkov, @becauseican2, @vintagesaph, @stardust-and-starlight, @kay2304, @odelia-d32, @adrieunor, @remmyswritings, @gallowsjoker, @rhiannon-russo, @randomness501, @eleine-t1d, @nicotinebirds, @sylphene, @softly-sad, @maytheglitter, @melobee, @rogertaylorsfalsettogivesmehives, @eleinemk, @captain-jebi, @aerynwrites, @promiscuoussatan, @stilllivindue2spite, @coaaster

#my fic #death and an angel #din x you #din djarin x you #din x reader #Din Djarin #mandalorian x reader #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal character fanfiction #soulmate au #my writing

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kinglazrus · 3 years

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Dead Man Walking

Phic Phight | AO3 | FFN

Submitted by @syrren: Instead of making him half-dead, the portal accident makes Danny unable to die. This....changes things.

(or: how canon changes if the accident leaves Danny with deadpool-style regeneration abilities to make for a horrifyingly self-sacrificing vigilante, or with some kind of reset ability every time he dies to equally horrifying implications)

Summary: The accident changes Danny in ways he never thought possible. Sam and Tucker watch him fall from the portal dead and burnt beyond recognition, but he doesn't stay dead for long. He never stays dead. Of all the things Danny expected to happen when he walked into that portal, getting unlimited regeneration wasn't one of them, but now that he has it, he's going to put it to good use. Deadpool AU.

Word count: 3606

The first time Danny dies, his friends bear witness. They will never forget the ominous whirr of the portal as it turned on, the warning crackle of electricity, the final throat-tearing scream of their best friend. There are other things, too, that burned into their minds that day. How his body hit the floor of the lab with a thud, burnt beyond recognition, burnt so bad there wasn't any blood. How it smelled, to their horror, not so different from charred barbecue.

They like to pretend that part never happened. It's easy when all they need to do is call his phone and hear his voice, unaffected by the savage electrical heat that brought him to ruin that day. When he doesn't stay dead, it's not hard to pretend he never died at all. It took minutes for his body to fix itself, blackened skin overtaken by fresh pink muscle, which then sprouted new skin, perfectly unblemished.

Even the scar he got when he was fell off his bike at six years old disappeared.

"I liked that scar," Danny says, pouting when he finally notices its absence three days later.

"I don't think that's the right thing to get hung up," Sam says.

"But it looked like a spaceship!"

"I always thought it looked like an upside-down nine," Tucker muses.

"Or six," Sam says.

"Upside down nine is more fun."

They proceed like this for three weeks, mentioning the accident only in the lightest of terms, joking about their new, shared trauma. They are content to move on with their lives, forget it happened, go on as normal high schoolers. Until Danny dies again.

—

"What do you mean you don't want to hunt ghosts?" Jack exclaims. He gapes down at the trio, wholeheartedly baffled by this confession.

"I'll stick with tech, thanks," Tucker says, holding up his phone.

"Ghosts just aren't cool anymore," Sam says.

"Can I go back upstairs now?" Danny asks. At his question, Sam and Tucker fall silent. None of them make eye contact, and neither do they look toward the portal innocently humming only a few feet away. Danny is very aware that this is his first time in the lab since the accident. The same thought runs through Sam and Tucker's minds.

Jack doesn't notice the sudden change in mood. "Nonsense, Danno! You love ghosts. Why, I remember when you were just a tyke, you wanted to be a ghost when you grew up." He clenches his fist. "It was unacceptable. But that's okay! You can hunt them instead!"

He turns his back on Danny and his friends, eagerly going over the array of tools laid out on the counter. Ghost detectors, ecto-guns, protective shield, and an empty space where a thermos should be. "I forgot the best part! Wait right here, kids." Jack charges upstairs, leaving the kids alone.

Danny glances at the portal, unable to suppress a shiver. "You think he'd notice if I snuck away?"

"Nuh-uh, if you go, we go, too," Tucker says.

No one gets to go. Two sets of slimy green tentacles poke through the portal, probing the empty air. Their soft bodies soon follow, revealing a pair of ghostly octopuses.

"Holy shit ghosts are real." That is all Tucker has time to say before the ghosts attack. They launch themselves forward, shrieking in excitement. One goes for Sam and the other charges Tucker. They try to jump out of the way, but the ghosts are faster. The ectopuses tentacles wrap around them, pinning their arms down.

"Danny!" Sam shouts.

In retrospect, a smarter person would have gone for the ecto-gun lying on the table, freshly loaded and ready for a demonstration. Or, they might have shouted for his father, a ghost hunter who has trained his entire life for this scenario. But Danny acts faster than he thinks. He dives toward Tucker, the closest of the two, and digs his fingers into the ghost's tentacles. It screams as Danny's nails dig into its flesh.

The ghost's body goes translucent. Tucker slips out of its grasp, dropping to the floor in a heap, but Danny's hold stays firm. The ectopus panics, thrashing and tugging, its flailing limbs cutting through Tucker over and over without harming him. No matter what the ectopus does, it can't shake Danny loose, and his nails are starting to cut.

"Dude, you're doing it!" Tucker says, too soon.

As it flails, one of the ectopus' tentacles smacks Danny in the face, making his head snap back. At that moment, he and the ghost have the same realization. If he can touch it, it can hurt him back. The ectopus gives another shriek and its remaining seven tentacles surge forward. They wrap around Danny's arms, his chest, curling so tight his bones ache. The last one closes around Danny's throat.

His throat, weak like the ghost's flesh, crumples in an instant. His air disappears. No sound leaves his mouth, not even a wheeze, and his eyes bulge as panic sets in.

"Danny!" Sam and Tucker scream. Sam struggles against her captor kicking and gnashing her teeth, but her boots can't reach its body. Tucker grabs Danny, tries to pull him away, to bat off the ghost’s grip, but it is no use. The ghost is too strong, and Tucker can't touch it in this state.

Danny loses focus of them, then. His brain goes fuzzy, everything blurring around him while his face grows hot. All he can feel is the burn, the ache, the need to breathe, breathe, breathe damn it! The haze of the ghost looming over him fills his vision, slowly overtaken by red, then black spots.

As everything goes dark, Danny's last thought is this:

I guess I'm dead after all.

—

He hears the sobbing first. It starts off quiet and distant, but quickly grows louder, great hiccupping coughs scattered between heart-wrenching cries.

"Mr. Fenton!" someone screams. It happens fast, after that. Thundering steps, a deep cry of shock and pain that cuts him to his core. A piercing whine followed by two quick blasts.

The ectopuses' retreating shriek cuts through Danny loud and clear. His eyes snap open and air rushes into his lungs, a hoarse, wheezing breath that he holds for a moment. Then he takes another, and another, and he's breathing again, and he's not anymore.

Sam and Tucker, kneeling at his side, cry out as one. They throw themselves on him, blubbering messes the both of them. Danny's father, facing the portal, turns disbelieving eyes on him.

Danny's gaze drops to his father's hand and the ecto-gun clutched in it. "Oh, right." The word scrapes against his throat. He swallows, twice, until speaking doesn't hurt and says, "I forgot we had the gun.

"Danny!" Jack dashes toward them, dropping to his knees beside Danny. Sam and Tucker scramble back, giving him room. "Are you alright? What happened? You looked..."

Dead.

Because he was. Again.

"I'm fine," Danny assures him. "Lost consciousness, that's all.

"Danny, your face was blu—" Tucker yelps when Sam punches him in the shoulder, cutting him off mid-sentence. He rubs the spot, shooting her an offended look, but Sam's eyes are only on Danny.

Danny nods, just enough that she can see, a silent thanks.

"I think you kids should go upstairs now." Jack's voice trembles. He raises his hand, about to run it through his hair, but stops when he sees the gun he's still holding. "I'll take care of things down here. Call your parents and all that."

For the first time, Danny notices the green splotches littering the floor and the wall. Probably from the ectopuses.

Sam loops an arm around Danny's shoulders, hoisting him up. He stumbles when he gets to his feet, bracing himself against her as the room spins. It settles after a few seconds, but he still feels a bit lightheaded. A side effect of choking, maybe?

Tucker helps from Danny's other side. They go up to Danny's room in silence, their steps thumping up the stairs. Only once they're safely behind his closed door, and Danny is lying on the bed, does Sam speak.

"You died again," she says.

Danny touches his throat. "Yeah." Pressing gently, he feels is no lingering pain. Just like before, he healed without a trace. "Can I just not die now?"

"More like you can't stay dead," Tucker says.

"Tucker!" Sam hisses.

"What? It's true! Sorry that I'm not handling seeing my friend die twice very well!"

"Be quiet!"

Danny cuts in before they can devolve into shouting. "Let's just leave it at two, okay?"

Sam and Tucker share a glance over Danny's prone form and nod. The weight of that action is lost on Danny, whose only thought is that he wants to sleep for a very long time.

—

The knives don't kill him. They hurt like hell, but they don't kill him. He sees them flying toward him and leaps out of the way. Something strikes him in the gut, a solid punch that blows the air from his lungs and knocks him back into the walls. He thinks one of the frozen steaks got him, but when he looks down, he sees the handle of a kitchen knife sticking out of his stomach.

He stares at it, stunned, not feeling anything at first. Then, his body jolts, like a shock of electricity is running through him, and his nerves scream, heat building, until every little twitch sends a jolt of pain so deep coursing through him that he can hardly breathe.

"Danny, look out!" Tucker, or Sam, he can't tell which, so lost in his pain, cry out a warning. Danny doesn't move in time and two more knives bury themselves in his body, another in his stomach, and the other through his chest. The Lunch Lady cackles with glee as Danny gurgles. The last knife got his lung, and he can feel it slowly filling.

The pound of Sam's boots on the tiles reaches his ears. She shouts something, but he doesn't hear it. Trembling, Danny grips the handle of the knife in his lungs. In first-aid, they tell you to leave whatever object stabbing you in. It keeps the wound plugged, stops you from bleeding out. But Danny's instincts cry out against everything he was ever taught.

Take them out! Take them out!

He braces himself, then yanks. It hurts so much worse coming out, now that he's aware of the pain, the sharp edge searing as it rips the wound wider. He drops the knife and goes for the next one. All three fall to the floor beside him with a clatter, their blades shiny and red. Danny can't breathe, can barely think through the pain. He presses a hand against his chest, feeling the wound beneath his shirt.

It stitches itself together beneath his fingers. The searing pain retreats, replaced by a dull ache. By the time Sam reaches him and rips his shirt open to see his wound, his chest is healed.

"Technically, I didn't die," Danny croaks.

Sam sobs, covering her mouth with her hand. There's relief in her eyes, beneath the horror, and she makes a noise that might be a laugh, choked and garbled as it is.

Danny dives back into the fight with renewed vigour. Twenty minutes and one Fenton Thermos later, the ghost is gone, but not before half the student body saw some bloody idiot fighting it bare-handed.

"Did you see who it was?" Dash whispers to his friends.

Danny, clean of blood and wearing his gym t-shirt, slumps against the wall nearby, listening. Someone called the police when meat started flying through the hallways, and they apparently called Danny's parents. Ghosts are real and everyone knows it now, but Danny doesn't care about that at the moment.

"No, man. I wasn't close enough," Kwan answers Dash.

"Whoever that was, he totally just saved us all," Paulina says. She clasps her hands together and leans against Star. "He's such a hero."

Hero. The word resonates with Danny. He can't explain it, but it pulls at him. A hero. The school is in chaos, the yard covered in raw meat, the hallways hacked and slashed, but everyone is safe and unharmed thanks to Danny.

"More like a dumbass," Sam mutters from Danny's left.

"Semantics," Tucker says.

Between them, Danny only grins.

—

Jack paces in front of the portal, a tub of fudge cradled in the crook of his arm. Every few steps, he grabs a square and pops it in his mouth, chewing furiously. Between bites, he mutters.

"I'm telling you, Mads. He must have been some kind of ghost," he says.

"I don't know, Jack." Maddie, staring at the computer screen, tilts her head. They managed to grab a few stills from the school's security footage of the figure who fought off the ghost, but they didn't come out right. The surroundings are a little grainy, but no more than a standard security camera, so they know there's nothing wrong with the film itself. The ghost, who called herself the Lunch Lady if Maddie remembers correctly, is little more than a green haze in the image. They expected this. Ghosts don't interact with most technology well, not unless it is designed to interact with them.

But the smaller figure is distorted, a twisted shadow obscuring their form. Not ghostly, but not human either.

She clicks to the next image, getting the same results.

"Are you saying it's a human?" Jack asks without breaking stride.

"It's humanoid, but I don't think it's human, either. Yet it bled, so it's not a ghost. And look at this." She closes the files, revealing a folder full of pictures, all of them taken over the past couple of weeks as ghost sightings increased. "They show up at most fights and leave lots of bodily fluids behind." Jiggling the mouse, she circles a series of four images with the courser, all pictures of significant blood splatters. "But the samples..."

As one, she and Jack turn to the sample tray sitting on the far counter. Where the blood is deep red in the pictures, the samples they took have slowly turned to a dark, murky brown, like thick mud. The oldest sample from the first sighting is black.

Jack grabs a handful of fudge and shoves it in his mouth. "Not to mention," he speaks around the chewy squares, "what does it do with the ghosts?"

The lab door squeaks as it opens. Maddie and Jack fall silent, gazes turning toward the stairs. A pair of red sneakers appears on the top step, creeping down, until the wearer slowly reveals themself. Their son, Danny, with what looks like a thermos clutched in his hand.

"Sweetie, are you only just getting home?" Maddie asks.

Danny yelps in surprise. He jerks the thermos behind his back and swivels to face his parents, freezing on the step. "Oh, hey. I didn't think you guys would be here..."

Maddie narrows her eyes. "What did you do, young man? You were supposed to be home from school an hour ago."

"Nothing! I just got held up." Danny tugs the collar of his jacket.

That's odd. Maddie doesn't remember him leaving with a jacket this morning. The sleeves drape over his hands, down to his knuckles, and he has the collar turned up to cover his neck. It must be cold outside, even though September is only just ending. "What held you up?"

"Uh, that's kind of why I thought you guys wouldn't be here? There was another ghost fight. It got pretty bad." He shifts, pressing his arm against his side. Is his jacket darker there, against his ribs?

"Another ghost?" Jack exclaims. He slaps the fudge down on the closest surface, rattling the test tube samples. "Mads, we gotta go! There might still be some evidence!"

Maddie's eyes widen. "Oh, shoot. You're right! We need fresh samples." They race to grab their equipment, snatching up sample gathering packs from their desks, and charge up the stairs.

Danny presses himself against the wall, offering them a nervous smile as they go. "Stay safe!" he calls. The front door slams as Maddie and Jack make their exit, leaving the house in silence. Still, Danny doesn't relax until he hears the rev of the Fenton RV and the familiar squeal of its tires against the pavement. His shoulders slump and he breathes a sigh of relief.

"That was close." Taking his hand out from behind his back, he looks down at the Fenton Thermos. "Now let's get you taken care of."

As he empties the thermos back into the Ghost Zone, his gaze wanders to the computer screen, still open to the photo evidence. Danny reads the title of the folder. "Challenger?" He snorts. "That's lame." As he skims the photos, a couple jump out at him. In most, he can barely make out the shape of his own body—something he tries not to think about—but in one or two, he can recognize the colours of his clothes beneath the distorting shadow.

Danny slaps the cap back onto the empty thermos before moving closer to the computer, frowning at the screen. "That might be a problem."

—

Danny stands in front of his friends, fists resting on his hips, and shows off his new look. "Well? What do you think?"

Tucker looks him up and down, body shaking as he suppresses his laughter. "Is that a paper superhero mask? Did you spray paint your hair white?"

Danny's hands rise to his head. "It's a spray-on dye! I thought it was cool!"

"Ten bucks says it's super crispy."

"Don't be mean," Sam admonishes Tucker. "I think he looks pretty good. For a discount Jack Frost."

Tucker snaps his fingers. "Emo Jack Frost! The real one would never wear this much black."

"We are no longer friends," Danny says, turning away from them.

"Come on, don’t be a spoilsport."

"Nope, too late. I'm already dead to you."

Sam and Tucker share a confused glance. "Don't you mean we're dead to—" Before Sam can finish the sentence, Danny turns and throws himself out his bedroom window. "Danny!" They scramble after him, falling against the sill as they lean outside, peering down to the alley below.

Danny lies face-first on the pavement.

"Are you dead?" Tucker asks.

Danny raises his arm and gives them a thumbs up.

—

Valerie holds back a startled shout when the metal suit crashes onto the sidewalk next to her. She is not scared, but anyone would be surprised if two tons of metal suddenly fell from the sky. A scream, rapidly increasing in volume, drawings her gaze upwards just in time for a black-clad figure to plummet inches from her nose and land with a sharp crack on top of the suit.

This time Valerie cries out because holy shit, is he dead? Her panic sputters out when she peeks at the possible corpse and gets a good look at exactly who, or what, came falling after. A human figure dressed in all black with poorly coloured hair. It looks crispy as hell.

Valerie sneers. What kind of cheap dye did they use?

She recognizes the Challenger on sight. By now, more than half of Amity Park can, although Valerie can't account for the sudden style change. Maybe they realized how lame their regular t-shirt and jeans are and decided to switch things up. This isn't much better, though. Black hoodie, black pants, black boots, no style.

No one knows their name, but the moniker the Fentons gave them seems to have stuck. Valerie thinks it's a little on the nose, though.

Something wriggles in the corner of her eye and she looks to the Challenger's fist. It clutches a bright green blob, with stubby limbs and a wide mouth.

"Let go of me!" The blob beats its penny-sized fists against the Challenger's thumb. "You are my prey!"

The Challenger groans. "Can you shut up for a second? I think my neck broke." They squeeze the blob until it squeaks.

"Hey. Watch where you're throwing this stuff around." Valerie kicks the arm of the metal suit. "You nearly crushed me!"

The Challenger jolts. Their head whips up, accompanied by a loud crack, and they lurch to their feet. A mask covers their eyes—cheap like the hair dye, probably from a costume stored—but judging by the way their eyebrows shoot up, they look at Valerie with wide eyes.

"Uh, hey, Va—citizen." Their voice drops a solid octave. "Sorry about that! I'll watch out next time." They are about to say something else when a loud squeal interrupts up, the signature sound of the Fentons' approach. The Challenger pales. "Sorry, gotta go!"

They dash into the nearest alley before Valerie can get another word in, leaving her with the empty metal husk and the sound of the Fentons from two streets away. She gapes after them, unsure what to make of the brief exchange.

"Actually, wait a second." The Challenger pops back around the corner, leaping over the ghost's suit to reach Valerie. They grab her shoulders in a cold grip. "Are people really using that dumb name for me?"

At a loss for words, Valerie nods.

"Ugh." The Challenger groans and lets her go in favour of rubbing a hand down their face. "Stop that. It's so boring. Just call me... Phantom. Okay? See ya!" They spin away, too fast, and trip over the metal suit.

Wow, Valerie thinks as Phantom scrambles around the corner once more. We have the lamest superhero ever.

#phic phight #phic phight 2021 #phanfic #phicc #dp fanfiction #danny phantom #danny fenton #deadpool au #danny phantom fanfiction #humour #tumblroneshot

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bang-fantansies · 3 years

Text

Sasaeng BTS Profiles: Yoongi Edition

Warning: Heavy mentions/implications of suicide, mentions/implications of overdosing on medication, insomnia, unhealthy behaviour, obsessive behaviour, poor mental health, self-denefse killing, homelessness, nightmares, mention/implications of side-character being drunk, death, blood, gore, destruction of evidence, crime, profanity.

I did my best to include any triggering topics mentioned in this post, but if you see any more potentially sensitive topics I may have missed, please let me know!

This does not represent Bangtan as people or a business, nor does it represent anyone/anything associated with them. This is purely fictional and was made for entertainment purposes only; not to slander anyone or any company.

Mental Stability: 3/10

2:50 AM.

As was the same battle every night, Yoongi lay in bed, the whole world sleeping apart from him. He couldn’t help it, of course - believe me, he would if he could - and this was what made the thoughts in his head run wild.

Each thought had a voice, all unique to their varying degrees of uselessness, yet the message they chanted was identical.

“Sleep! Sleep!” they cried. They’d grown louder over the years as Yoongi’s insomnia worsened, and in spite of their efforts to help their master, they did the complete opposite.

That dream - red and monstrous - drowned out any measure of volume the voices could hope to muster.

The sound of a man gargling with his own blood made Yoongi feel as if he was suffocating, and more often than not he’d jolt up in bed, forced to replay the events of his early adult years.

Before finding his current residence, Yoongi had been forced onto the streets by unjust circumstances, leading to a great deal of situations he’d rather keep buried beneath the layers of his memory.

One such situation involved another homeless man - drunk, Yoongi had assumed - competing with Yoongi for a bottle of liquor he had scored.

Yoongi’s only use for such a thing was to sell it off and use the money to find a cheap room and a meal. But his opponent had refused to accept such nonsense.

“Such fine wine shouldn’t go to waste!” Yoongi could still hear him say, voice ringing in his ears.

“And it won’t if you just let me pass, you stupid old prick.”

In short, the drunkard had taken Yoongi’s tone very personally and caused his own demise by making a haphazard attempt on the younger’s life, resulting in having the bottle of wine he oh-so desired slammed into the side of his head, shattering and giving Yoongi a sharp enough tool to puncture his throat with.

Yoongi fled the scene not long after, keeping the remains of the bottle to hand until he could destroy the evidence later on.

Nowadays, while he was far from sleeping rough, he hardly slept at all for fear of his actions whispering cruel and dark remarks into his ear.

As it would for most, this took its toll on Yoongi’s health; physical, emotional, and mental.

The pressure had proven to be too much for him to handle, and on this night, he had decided he’d had enough.

On his computer desk stood a bottle, a proud shade of orange with its contents revealed in a cluster of black ink, made to resemble actual handwriting, written across a label stuck to its front - the only semblance of privacy Yoongi was allowed. Its white cap was ajar, and though no scent came from within, Yoongi could practically smell the prescription enticing him to a snack.

And under normal circumstances, he would have declined as he had many a time before.

But these were no longer normal circumstances.

Yoongi rose from beneath the bed sheets, any semblance of humanity he’s once held having burnt out alongside his will to continue.

He knew what it meant to live - to love the act of being human - but he was no longer human. He most similarly resembled a shell; cold, hollow, and filled with the shadows of his own mind.

And so he had made his decision. Despite his lethargy shackling him to the bed, he made a reach for the bottle, popping off the cap and peering inside.

A glass of water sat on his bedside table, bubbles sticking to the water-covered walls as a result of disuse.

Yoongi counted the pills, assuming that the amount he was left with would be enough.

At this point, he figured that if he was to find no rest in life, he would surely find it in whatever lay beyond his broken, mortal body.

In these last moments, Yoongi granted himself his last comfort.

He brought his laptop beside him and searched his favourite artist on YouTube.

He only had a few artists in his arsenal that he could dispense at family dinners or reunions he’d been invited to.

he never was an adept conversationalist: even at friends’ parties where a guest he didn’t know would be obligated to talk to him on account of appeasing the birthday girl or boy.

For a second, Yoongi faltered.

His mind backtracked to the joy he’d felt with his friends, and in turn the joy he had granted them.

Was he really going through with this...?

A stab of doubt was all it would take to make Yoongi withdraw from his initial intentions, and he cut the tie with said doubt immediately, pushing his friends to the back of his mind.

He was exhausted - tired of helping and appealing to others; now it was time to take care of himself.

From the tiny speaker in his laptop came the sound of solace: his favourite track from his idol.

He lay back, pill bottle and water placed on his bedside table as he basked in his last melody.

Through the duration of the song, Yoongi’s unease had worn away - eroded by the tides of his own resolution.

The song eventually clambered to a fading finish. Yoongi knew what came next.

He sat up and tipped the contents of the bottle onto the table, a hill of oddly-coloured tablets forming.

He threw the bottle somewhere behind him, hearing it land in a hidden corner of the room.

Pale hands scooped the pills up like candy, bringing them to Yoongi’s lips.

And like a saving grace emerging through a storm, a miracle unfolded.

A soft sound played beside him; the sound of angel wings and promises of a better future.

Yoongi didn’t so much as falter as he did pause, lending his ear to the tune.

It played notes from an instrument Yoongi didn’t even think existed - a soft twinkling stalked by a voice he had yet to have heard on his musical voyages through Soundcloud and YouTube.

For a second - just a second - the doubt that had made such a ruckus to enter had now slithered through the back door of Yoongi’s mind.

What was this music?

Reluctant, he lowered his hand to his side, though held tightly on to the pills.

Turning the screen to face him, he came face-to-face with someone other than his idol.

Her eyes looked a soft shade of (e/c) in the no-doubt filtered lighting of the video, though the sincerity she held within them was far from fabricated.

The background was crystalline - faux crystal props - oversized and oversaturated. They were littered around the studio in which the woman sang, and beneath a purple hue she sat on a stool, an air of comfort radiating from her.

As to what she was singing, Yoongi had no idea.

He let the music play for a moment, considering his options.

What harm would it do him to listen to something new? It wasn’t as if he’d be able to after he was gone, anyway.

Lying back down, Yoongi stared at the ceiling, the lack of light or patterns making it easier for him to focus solely on the music.

His fatigue embraced him like a long-lost mother, shrouding him in a warmth unmatched by that of any real person.

The singer’s soft humming filled the desolate room. And if Yoongi wasn’t mistaken, he could feel his eyelids growing heavy.

He forced a bitter smile, doubtful that his mind would actually allow him any such solace as sleep.

To humour his weary self one last time, Yoongi shut his eyes, sighing deeply and sinking into the mattress.

The next time Yoongi opened his eyes, his room was still dark. And as if it had never left to begin with, his bitter smile returned.

I knew it, he thought. Though the victory of beating his already hell-level expectations filled his overflowing spirit with grief, disguised and diluted by the anger that had slipped into the mix so long ago.

Sitting up, Yoongi lent his ear to the room once more.

He could hear the soft hum of the woman’s song no longer, and it was in this second that he realised he didn’t remember actually hearing the song end.

It was on one minute, and off the next.

Suspicious, Yoongi glanced at his half-lidded laptop, faced with a blackened screen as the device had switched itself off.

With a push of the power button, the power returned, and in a blast of light the screen sprung to life.

Through the tips of his fringe, Yoongi checked the time.

11:15 AM.

He recoiled.

That couldn’t be right - surely.

Logging in, he noted how his battery was running low, despite having been fully charged before he lay down.

The screen gave way to the last application he’s been using, and clear as day the same starry-eyed woman with the voice of velvet was on-screen, though the video she was in had long since ended.

Yoongi checked the time again, pulling his fringe back so as not to trick himself a second time.

11:16 stared back at him, steadfast and unwavering in its absolution.

Yoongi’s eyebrows raised in a sense of alarm.

He rose from the bed, tearing his curtains open.

A cityscape greeted him, and the sun waved from its fixture in the sky. It was daytime.

Yoongi stumbled back, carding a hand through his hair.

There was absolutely no way he’d-

...Had he actually managed to get to sleep?

Yoongi checked his phone, watch, and alarm clock; no-one dared deceive him of date nor time.

He was willing (and already considering) to accept the idea that he’d time-traveled; the concept of having a decent night’s sleep was as foreign as a language to him.

Nevertheless, he hadn’t the time to dawdle in such a concept, though he made absolute certain to when he was at work.

His colleagues seemed to notice a change in Yoongi’s behaviour.

Though he was often dazed into bouts of silence by his exhaustion, this quietude was new. Different.

A few co-workers commented on how he looked much livelier. And more alive, he felt.

In spite of this, the constant what-ifs of the morning had followed him - clung to him like a cologne.

What if...what if he was actually dead?

He considered this, deciding against his theory.

If he was dead and this was indeed Heaven, he should be receiving a lot more good fortune for all the shit he had to deal with in his life.

No, this was neither Hesven nor Hell. Or Purgatory.

Yoongi also considered that he was in a coma, but that didn’t add up, either.

He tested to see if he was comatose. Nothing.

He was still trapped in his same-old reality. But at least he could think clearly now.

By the time he got home, his body yearned for the sweet release of music, and he sought the comfort of his favourite artist - as he usually did on days as long as this.

Shoving his bedroom door open, he grumbled at the brightness the room held for a change.

He’d forgotten to shut his curtains before he left.

In the dwindling light of the afternoon sun, he saw the pills scattered across his duvet, the sole remnants of his almost-actions.

He cringed, forcing them to the back of his mind.

He could acknowledge the gravity of his decision later. Right now, his head was filled with the phantom melodies longing for a vessel.

Yoongi has attained the good sense to charge his laptop, and as he switched it on, he was greeted with the same lady who had pulled him to sleep the night before.

Or, Yoongi supposed, who had just happened to be playing on the night he was finally able to sleep without the nightmare scaring him awake.

Such wonderment remained at the back of his mind as he went about his business.

Through his own music, the whisper of the lady’s tune plagued him. So much so that, after a good three hours of composing, Yoongi found himself eyeing the tab he’d left open from before.

Having returned home from work later, his body was weighted with the day’s contrivances and stresses, as well as its successes and joys.

Emotionally, Yoongi had given all he had to offer, which, if he was to admit it to himself, was far more than he usually did.

He considered that it was more than likely it wasn’t just the song that had sent him to sleep.

On the contrary, he believed that a multitude of factors had to have been at play in such a miracle.

He wished to replicate the conditions of the night before: he kept his room dark and a glass of water on his bedside. He packed his pills away and placed them on his bedside, too, taking care not to lose any in case their service was required again.

He set the woman’s song up, lying in bed and playing it.

The creeping horror of the notion of never obtaining such a quality of sleep again was the only odd variable in this equation, and though it quietly consumed Yoongi’s thoughts, the hum of the song muffled it.

The song was no longer than 4 minutes, though the eternity that stretched between Yoongi and his voyage to the fabled land of dreams made it impossible to tell how long it had been.

He was not yet familiar enough with the song to place a time on the segment he was experiencing.

His concerns faded as he simply let himself be.

If it works, it works, he told himself.

The next thing Yoongi remembered was hearing a bird chirping nearby his window.

He cracked an eye open.

Much like the night before, his room remained in a state of quiet disarray, though only noticeable to the trained eye.

His laptop lay near his side, screen dark and lifeless.

Yoongi checked through a crack in the curtains. And sure as anything, the sun had risen once again.

Over the next couple of weeks, Yoongi researched the song, its creator, and whether it was really the secret to staving off his insomnia.

He had discovered that the creator’s name was (Y/N) - a popular artist who had fans far and wide, as well as domestically.

He found more of her particular songs - the ones that she hummed.

He tested both the original and these humming bird songs (as he called them), and to his delight, the humming birds worked.

Yoongi would go to sleep and wake up at reasonable times, rather than the odd dips in and out of consciousness he would try to induce on his own terms.

It was just your music that soothed him so, and from the day he uncovered this, he vowed to be your loyal follower.

Though, with any influential fan can blossom obsession, and as Yoongi became ever more eneamoured with your gossamer vocals, he feared the day that your songs would no longer support his sleep.

Or, God forbid, you stopped singing.

He often fretted over such a premature worry, though he couldn’t deny how it had all but devoured his thoughts.

Months into his expedition into your music, he decided to finally take action to ensure that your voice would never die - never fade with age, accident or abuse.

No, he would preserve it like the fine wine he had failed to so many years ago - to be sipped and savoured for eternities to come.

Sasaeng Masterlist

#yandere bts #bts #yandere bts x reader #bts x reader #Yoongi #min yoongi #suga #yandere yoongi #yandere yoongi x reader

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clayanddust · 2 years

Text

Deicide Market Bubble (Clay Solo)

Location: Scorch Street

Summary: Clay has a talk with one his informants, Lefter, about a sudden influx of blood from a local Fury on the market.

Trigger Warnings: Med Blood, Chronic Illness (Liogat Curse)

“Fury blood,” Clay muttered as he leafed through a book of Hematology whose pages were a disjointed scrapbook of both modern science and the discounted ravings about ‘blood suckers’ and ‘resurrections’ from previous eras. The pictures and diagrams were not for weak stomachs or for imaginations that wondered too long on how such morbid sketches were taken. “You sure it’s the legit? This isn’t like that bullshit in Gjirokastër is it?”

Lefter Shkreli looked up from where he was tearing into blood bags in a corner of the charred room. Clay supposed his informant’s strong jaw and soft yet defined features would have been Hallmark channel heartthrob material once. Those soft soulful grey eyes had certainly lured quite a few ladies into his incense filled penthouse in Saranda. But in the midst of feeding Lefter was more like a red-eyed barracuda, hands trembling with both the fervor of thirst and the disquiet of his own tortured mind. “No this ….this is”

Lefter’s glowing eyes drifting towards the golden sliver of setting sun through the window. Scorch Street stretched below the burnt out building that the two convened in. Heat mirages rippled across the street even in the dead of winter. Snowballs thrown by local children burned in little bonfires along its edge. “There’s a big deal being made about an influx of Fury blood on the black market,” Clay reminded gently.

Lefter was a Liogat, a word in his native Albanian that referred to a particular strain of Higher Vampire. Uniquely, a Liogat’s bloodlust wasn’t violent. Lefter was an vampire who could hang around mortals without having to hold back the murderous compulsions his kindred had to constantly restrain. Seemed the best of both worlds right? Lefter was a real life good guy Twilight vampire.

Excerpt, that’s never how the paranormal works. Magic can't give without taking. The bite of Liogat was gentle but cursed. Each bite ravaged the victim’s mind with a psychic taint. Lefters’ sire had fed from him extensively before making him immortal, condemning him to an eternity of mental torment. Lefter couldn’t feed from anyone, even the willing, without cursing them with madness and psychological suffering. So now it was a waiting game of seeing how long Lefter could last on blood bags before that desperate yearning for the living became too much.

Always fun times in Albanian Twilight

“It’s real,” Lefter insisted after a swallow. “…and fuck you,” he protested belatedly with a bloody grin, perhaps not even aware that he’d been lost in lost racing thoughts for a good few minutes of awkward silence. “Gjirokastër was an accident, how long are you going to stay butthurt about that.”

“My asscheeks clench everytime I hear a Cifetlia,” Clay insisted dryly. “So why is this such a big deal.”

“Ever seen one of the Furies Hale?”

Clay shook his head. “They’re extremely rare, some texts from Greek Hunters claim they’re made not born, but still alive so it’s not my business.” He shrugged, turning to a page with Romanesque sketches of the vengeful Dirae but little to say scientifically about what was in their veins. “Hellenistic writings call the blood of gods and immortals ‘ichor’. Supposedly that divine blood smells and tastes like the ambrosia the gods eat but it’s deadly to humans. But who knows if this Homeric bullshit applies to a real Fury.”

Lefter’s unsteady laughter rippled through the ruined rafters as he tossed a dry blood pack beside him on the blackened floor.

“What Left?”

“Just curious Hale,” Lefter posited from where he sat on the floor, back against the scorched wall. His glowing eyes were wounds of luminous scarlet against the last amber sparks of sunset. “When you read all those old poems about heroes, gods, beasts, love, and tragedy do you just see more things you’ll have to kill,” the Liogat asked before whipping his bloody lips on the back of an arm. “Are those verses, rhymes, and prose nothing more than clues for blood types and taxonomy?”

The iron stare Clay sent across the room affirmed all the vampire’s suspicions before he repeated: “So super rare blood is on the market, I’m guessing there'll be a bidding war ? The Clans will send representatives? Elders will want it for their experiments or collections? Or I dunno, buncha of trust fund fledgelings how’ll want to huff it for their next Pharm Party?”

Lefter scratched his chin with a rueful chuckle, knowing the last one was a jab at him. Clay always overdid it with the smack talk when performing kindness he couldn’t rationally justify. That brusque boyish insecurity was one of those traits that’d stayed after Clay drowned his heart in the mists. There was a bittersweetness to how annoying it was, like an old voice recording of a friend who’d passed away.

“It’s the blood of an …living…immortal,” Lefter emphasized. “Not the putrefied vials of undeath you’ve put under you microscope Clay. This is the real deal, true everlasting life with a breathing body and a pulse. What wouldn’t a Vampire pay to possess that?”

Clay considered the matter for a period of silence as the room was snuffed into night, Lefter’s glowing eyes shining in darkness like red candles. “I’m gonna see if that blood can be destroyed before its hits the market and clans start rending their reps.”

“But not before you study it yourself,” Lefter theorized coyly. “For the good of humanity of course.”

Clay didn’t bother denying it as he tossed the last blood bag from a traveler cooler toward his informant, who snatched it from the air. Lefter’s knowing laughter soon faded to tearing and frantic swallowing in the darkness.

#scorch street #liogat #fury #lefter #wicked rest writing #solo #clay #med blood tw #chronic illness

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gasolineghuleh · 3 years

Text

ODC Chapter 1

I never put chapter one separately on Tumblr, oops.

Below the cut is the first chapter of my currently on going long fic, featuring my OC. The entirety is available on ao3.

The wind whipped and whirled through my hair, billowing my skirts around my feet as I clung desperately to my umbrella, hoping against hope that the rain lashing down around me hadn’t soiled the books under my arm. I clutched my small bundle tighter and leaned into the wind, struggling up the sleet slicked hill under my feet. The cobblestones were soaked, and traction is hard to come by, especially on these older roads. One of the street lamps softly illuminating the road blinked twice before extinguishing, plunging me into a darkness that’s only permeated by the occasional flashes of lightning and the moon, shrouded in clouds.

A soft whimper left me as I attempted to tuck my hair back behind my ear, the wind having torn it loose of my already loose ponytail. I’ve seen it storm before, but never this badly… and never with this oppressive feeling behind it. Certainly, my small convent had weathered its fair amount of storms, and I didn’t feel any worry for the stone walls. The air felt thick and heavy, as though I was breathing through a soaked rag. It was suffocating and almost panic inducing. I stopped for a moment, looking down the street from whence I came. A small tickle in the back of my mind told me that something was off. Something was wrong.

The bookstore I had just left had turned its sign off, leaving that area of the street in darkness save for one single light, an uncomfortable shade of scarlet just outside of a café. I’ve never eaten there personally, but I’ve certainly heard the rumours of… unusual clientele. Images of hooded and masked figures flashed through my mind and I cringed into myself, clutching my books tighter. Almost on instinct my gaze turned to the cliff that loomed above the town as a flash of lightning illuminated the outline of a large ruined castle, stark against the blackened and angry sky. With a yelp, I scurried down the alleyway nearest to me in an attempt to dodge the worst of the rain. I may be straying from the Church of Our Lady, but I believed in consequences at heart.

Spotting an awning in the alleyway, I took a moment to duck underneath it to take a respite from the rain. I was finally able to relax somewhat now that the rain was no longer pelting me, and I took some deep breaths, leaning against the brick wall that I had found myself beside. With a furtive glance to the side, I took the time to unwrap my newly gotten books from their linen wrappings and smiled to myself when I noticed that they’ve managed to remain dry. The smell of the leather greeted me warmly as I ran my fingers over it, feeling the bumps and ridges on the cover. Whorls of shadow coursed their way up the front of the book before dipping around to the inside, causing the cover to be lifted slightly off of the first page.

I sighed deeply and placed my hand on the cover, the warm leather thrumming with barely contained life under my fingers. The moment passed, and I rewrapped my parcel and stepped back into the rain as my umbrella shielded me once more. Steeling my resolve, I made my way back up the street as the cobblestones slipped and slid under my thick soled heeled boots. My convent wasn’t too far away now, but it’s up a steep hill and I knew I would need all of my strength to climb it, especially in the now-approaching-hurricane type rains.

The wind tugged and pulled at my umbrella but I pressed on, my long skirt whipping back and forth under the gale onslaught. The sidewalk was empty save for myself, and I startled slightly when a large, white limousine car passed me by. It passed slowly, and I got the feeling along the back of my neck that something wasn’t quite right. Regardless, I could see the large gate of the convent looming in the distance and I ducked my head down, powering through the last of the steep hill.

I swung open the large, barred door to the convent and cursed inwardly. Ahead of me was one of my fellow Sisters, bounding towards me with her habit flying behind her as she practically skipped. She was beaming a smile right at me, and I felt compelled to smile back, even uneager as I was to see her. Sister Marta has always been a rightful ray of sunshine throughout the convent, and it’s hard not to return one of her sunny smiles, no matter how drenched to the bone I was.

“Sister Marta, hello,” I said, putting on some false cheeriness. Happy as she was, she was never particularly bright in the area of intellect or societal clues, something I had grown quite willing to manipulate recently.

“Sister Lunaria! Where have you been on this awful night? It’s raining fit for Revelation!” She smiled at her own joke and I groaned inwardly to myself, closing my eyes for a brief moment before responding.

“I had some errands to run. Mother Superior gave me the day, once I finished with my translations. Some pocket change later, and I’ve got a nice new book. I thought it sounded nice, on a night like tonight.” I looked out the window just as a flash of lightning sparked across the sky in a low, concerning arc. A brief thought of the trees in the orange grove being struck crossed my mind before I saw the face in the window and I gasped, all thought of the trees gone.

“Sister?” Marta moved to me and took my umbrella gently, leaning it against the stone wall to the side of me with a tenderness I’d come to expect from her. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost!”

“Must um.. Must just be a chill, from the rain. I think I should retire, Marta.” I went to move towards the dormitory but stopped when she put her hand up, ticking one finger from side to side.

“Not quite yet! I need to see what book you got! Maybe I’ll want to borrow it when you’re done, silly.” A small spark of fear shot through me at the thought of her touching my new book-- my precious book that I spent six months of my earnings on, and that made my finger tips warm when I brushed against it, even through gloves. Even simply seeing it in that book store was enough for me to become beholden to it.

“Of course,” I said, gritting my teeth into a widened smile. Carefully I managed to unwrap the books, sliding the larger one forward so that it covered My book completely, showing her the cover. “It’s Anne of The Green Gables. I remember the matron at the orphanage reading it to me.” I managed, with some difficulty, to contort my face into something resembling nostalgic loss as I caressed the cover of it, keeping a tight grip on the other book underneath.

“Oh, Lunaria, that’s wonderful! What a grand idea!” Marta clapped her hands together in joy, gifting me with yet another beaming and sunny smile. “You should get that habit and wimple off, you’re probably bone cold!” It’s only now that she frets, shooing me towards the dorms. I supposed she’s on hallway duty tonight.

“Yes. Good night, Marta.” I started to leave before remembering to toss behind my shoulder a final farewell, “Go with God, Sister.”

Her own voice is muffled as she turns to leave, but I was sure that she gave the same farewell. She’s as to-the-letter as Novitiates can get within the Clergy. Finally alone I moved quickly to your private dorm, a gift now that I’m finally among the senior Sister’s in the convent. The door shut quietly behind me and once more, I ached desperately for a lock. Hedging my bets on solitude I moved towards my window, opening it and placing my hand below the pane. When I felt no water on my hand, I sat down in front of it and carefully unwrapped my parcel.

The book tumbled out of the linen wrapping and I grabbed it greedily, holding it to my chest like a lost child for a moment before settling it on my crossed legs. I brushed a hand over the cover again, snatching my hand back when it practically burnt me. Determination reignited, I brought both hands to my wimple and snatched it off of my head, my long lilac and white streaked hair falling around my face as you leaned back over the book.

This time when I touched it the cover was cooler. I opened the book delicately, running a finger down the first page as the black text seemed to leap out at me. In delicate, malicious lettering it spelled:

Malleus Lexicana

A chill ran up the base of my spine to tickle at my neck as I brushed my finger over the words. They were slightly raised, as if inked over and over again. When I turned the page, a single name was inscribed there in jagged, neat handwriting. Emeritus. I frowned to myself, recalling my past lessons in Latin. Was I correct in assuming that the owner of this book was a deceased Pope? My hand twitched with the urge to cross myself and I quelled it easily. The desire to step away from my faith has gotten only stronger since I first brushed against the book all those months ago, and even my nightly prayers have gone unsaid for weeks now. Taking a deep breath, I spoke the words aloud.

“Malleus lexicana,” I breathed. The words felt both foreign and natural on my tongue as they rolled past my lips and my breath caught in your chest as the book seemed to warm again in my grasp. I turned the page once more and stopped at a beautiful illustration of a cross. Fingers fumbling for my own crucifix at your neck, I studied the detailed drawing before realizing that it's shaped incorrectly.

A new child… Birthed into sin.

“My Lord?!” I gasped, dropping the book as I rose up onto my knees, gripping my crucifix tightly in the palm of my hand. A cold finger trailed up my spine once more, twirling some of the hair at the nape of my neck and leaving me shivering in fear and frigidity.

Of sorts… But not your Lord, little Sister.

“Who are you? Where are you?” I asked, whirling around onto one foot and knee to look behind me into the darkest depths of my small room. It was empty, although the pitch blackness seemed to writhe and curl inward on itself-- it felt sentient and ominous, watching me. Another deep breath to steel myself once more and I picked up the book again, settling back down in front of the window as a small gust of air moved my hair from my pale face. I squinted slightly, the vision in my white eye better for text than my other.

Turning the page revealed more words, again in some bastardization of Latin. It wasn’t the high form of Latin that I’d been taught, although some of the words are recognisable to me at first glance. It seemed to be a prayer of some sort, I thought to myself as my finger glided down the thick page. It ended on the word “nemA” and my felt my heart catch in my chest before beating rapidly. The sacrilegious undertones of the text were quickly becoming apparent and I found myself excited by the prospect.

Come to me, Sister. Renounce this coven.

“It’s not a coven, it’s a convent,” I mumbled out loud, no longer questioning the odd dialogue that I had going with the disembodied voice. Perhaps it was the book speaking to me, and perhaps it was my God questioning the strength of my waning faith. I deserved to have it questioned, did I not? So many nights spent in quiet contemplation of my life and the years I have left to live… likely stuck in the same black habit and small convent that I served already, at nineteen years.

Are they not the same thing, when serving a Lord that one cannot see, nor touch, nor feel? Do you feel His presence inside of you, Sister?

I paused, my finger still on the ending of the prayer as I contemplated the voice’s words to me. Thinking back over the past months, I realized as my heart dropped into my stomach that I hadn’t felt the presence of anything that I would consider myself particularly beholden to. Every waking moment had been spent doing my chores for a meager amount of money so that I could purchase the book. My book.

Ahh, there we are Sister. Come to me.

“I don’t even know where you are!” I closed the book, setting it gently to the side before standing and looking out the window as if to see where the voice is coming from. The darkness yielded no answers to me, and I felt childish for seeking them there. The storm beat down harsher than ever and the genuine fear of a flood breezed past my thoughts. A flash of lightning arced across the skies once more, lighting up the vineyard bright as day. A small part of me hoped to see someone or something in the distance, but the light revealed nothing out of the ordinary.

I am not out there, Sister. Your naivety is showing. I cannot wait to urge it out of you.

“Well if you’re not out there, then where are you?” I whirled around to face my room again, the shadows in the farthest reaches of the room seemingly darker. Impenetrable. Answerless, cold, and quiet. I would find no answers there, either.

I can see what you see not, Sister. Your vision milky, then eyes rot…

I squinted slightly as I looked deeper into the shadows, leaning towards them in an attempt to pierce the darkness. Something was moving in the darkness, wriggling and pulsating as I stared at it. At a sudden movement towards me, I took a half step back in shock, gasping as I collided with my wall. Tendrils of shadow writhed at the corners of my vision and I gripped onto the side of my bed as a wave of dizziness overtook me.

Now you can see what cannot be… Shadows move where the light should be. Out of darkness, and out of mind.

“What are you doing to me?” I whispered, my voice tearing with fear as my eyes refused to leave the spot that the shadows danced. A gust of wind through my open window disturbed the smoky shadow and it scattered quickly, only to reform in the basic shape of a man. I briefly recognized it at the silhouette of the hunched man who worked in the book store.

Pressing myself farther against the wall, my hand flew on instinct to the crucifix around my neck. My heart beat pounded in my ears as the sharp corner of the cross pressed painfully into my palm. The shadow figure staggered closer to me, one arm raised slightly as it approached. It was all I could do to remain silent in my fear as it made its way shambling towards me. Its jaw dropped open as it spoke in old Latin, and it took me a moment to realize that the thing’s mouth wasn’t moving as it spoke.

Its hand came to my forehead, and I felt the touch of old and weathered skin against mine as it pressed gently against me. More Latin fell from its desiccated lips as I watched in horror. My body felt unbearably cold, and then blisteringly hot. I broke into a feverish sweat as the thing finished speaking, pressing harder on my head before pulling back altogether.

I felt my vision beginning to swim as my eyes rolled back into my head from dizziness and managed to get my back against my bed as I fell. I blinked twice, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

“Sister?” I awoke to a pounding on my door, and my head pounding with it. Struggling to sit upright, I looked over at my clock on the wall. 9 am, and I was due for chores. I called something unintelligible out to the person in the hallway as I swung my legs over the side of my bed and attempted to stand. Almost instantly a wave of nausea and dizziness overtook me and I shot out a hand to brace myself on the wall. Bile rose in my throat and I swallowed hard before calling to the person again.

“Enter, please. I need assistance.” My stomach roiled as I sat, closing my eyes to attempt to ebb the waves of nausea coursing through me. I heard the door creak as it opened, and cracked open one eye to see Sister Marta entering. Of course. “Sister Marta, good morning.”

“You don’t look well, Sister…” Marta came to stand before me as she rested the back of her hand gently against my forehead. As much as I hated to admit it to myself, her hand was cool against my skin and the gesture was welcomed. She brushed back a strand of my hair as she cupped my face, lifting my head slightly to look at me. “I’ll tell the Mother Superior that you’re ill. Perhaps you should lie down.” Almost as an afterthought she added, “I’m sorry to see you without your headdress, Sister, but your hair is beautiful. As striking as your eyes.” I cracked open my left eye and regarded her lightly before drifting it closed again.

“Thank you. Would you help me lie down before you leave?” I’d never felt this weak before, and I was becoming concerned for my own health. Sister Marta put her hand gently around my upper arm and lifted my woolen blankets with the other as she assisted me under them. My heart warmed for a moment as I felt her tuck me in and adjust my pillow.

“Would you like me to bring you some broth in a while?” she asked, moving towards my window and drawing the curtains. I heard her pause, and I tensed in apprehension. Had she seen the book? “No wonder you’re feeling ill, Sister Lunaria! You let your window open all night.” She tutted to herself and slid the glass pane shut, locking it into place and securing the curtains tightly so that the morning sun was dimmed.

“Oh, how silly of me. Of course. I must just have some type of flu,” I said, pulling the covers over my head as I hunkered down into my pillow. In truth, my head was pounding fit to burst and I felt dangerously close to vomiting. I heard Sister Marta make her way back to my door and pull it open.

“I’ll let the rest know that you’re unwell today, and tell them to give you some space while you recover. Would you like the broth for lunch?” she queried. I snaked an arm out from under my comforter and gave her a thumbs up, which seemed to satisfy her. A moment later and the door clicked shut once more, leaving me in silence.

I fell into an uneasy seep, tinged with dreams of reaching darkness and a single white eye to match my own.

When I awoke, my room was lit by the afternoon sun and the curtains had been drawn back from my window. A mug rested on my nightstand with a covering on top, and I placed my hand hesitantly against the ceramic. Still warm. Sister Marta must have kept to her word and brought me some broth for lunch. I struggled to sit up in my bed and drew the mug close to myself, inhaling the steam before taking a sip.

The broth was welcome as I sat and rested, taking deep and steadying breaths. The nausea had abated almost entirely, though I was still dizzy. I drained the mug and placed it back onto my nightstamp, wiping the back of my mouth on my bicep as I stood and moved towards the window. I swore quietly to myself when I kicked something heavy, and looked down to see the book.

“Shit,” I mumbled as I picked it up. Sister Marta must have seen it, as it was laying in plain sight. Almost instantly the warm from the book invaded my senses again and I felt myself growing stronger, throwing off the cold that seemed to have gripped me when I woke up. My crucifix hung heavy and cold against my chest, and I eyed it for a moment before looking at the book once more. “Tell me how to reach you,” I said, hoping that the book would respond… That I wasn’t insane.

Your mind will guide the way. Come to me, Sister.

“If I come to you… I won’t be a Sister anymore, will I?” It was a stupid question, but the answer surprised me.

Si, of a different sort. Come. Come.

The voice grew impossible to resist, and before I knew it, I found myself at the small closet in my bedroom. I pulled open the door and found a small bag I had stashed away in the back, and hastily folded my habits into it. I tossed in the rest of my underwear and tights, as well as an extra pair of shoes as well. Finally, I took the book into my hands and stared deeply into the cover for a moment, making the final decision in my mind.

“I’m coming. What do I call you?” The embarrassment of speaking to an inanimate object flares inside of me again as I shake my head and move towards my window, unlocking it and hurling it open. As I stick one leg out the window, the answer comes.

You call me Papa.

“Alright, Papa…” I start, grunting with effort as I duck through the small window and make the short drop to the ground below. The heels of my shoes dig into the softened Earth and I reel slightly, leaning back heavily against the wall of my convent for balance as I yank them free. “Looks like I’m coming.” Without stopping to think or renege on my decision I started off, my feet instinctively moving towards the cliff that bordered my town. The castle loomed high above me, and I swallowed hard as I steeled myself.

The path that led to the base of the cliff was easy enough to find and navigate. The sign posts throughout the town that had bore the name of the castle had all been scoured or burned away, which left me with a convenient trail to follow as I made my way towards it. At the base of the path that wound up the steep, rocky cliff, I found myself stopped by a wrought iron gate. It had the same odd cross design that I had found in the book carved into the metal, as chains held the gate shut. It stretched the expanse of the road and I huffed a sigh.

Let me get that for you, sorella.

I stepped back with a shocked gasp as the chains fell to the old and weathered cobblestones, the gate swinging open towards me on silent hinges. Though the iron was mottled with rust, it made no sounds as it opened, yawning open like a mouth waiting for me to enter. I took another deep breath and moved forward, hardly jumping when it clanged shut behind me, and chains wound back around it like live snakes.

The thick woods welcomed me into the all consuming darkness with a silence that settled on my ears like a blanket. It was dark and still, but I felt no fear. In the distance, a wolf howled alone and I felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle at the sound. Besides the wolf, however, there were no sounds within the thicket of trees. The path itself lay clear of any forest debris that I had expected to find after the storm last night, and seemed to be very well maintained.

Before long, I was panting as the slope of the path grew steeper. My legs burned and ached, and my feet protested any movement inside of my heeled shoes. I stopped to consider the drawbacks of removing them for a moment, before deciding that it was a necessity. I unhooked the buckle on either shoe before stepping out of them and carrying them in one hand, continuing up the path slightly slower, as I attempted to dodge the still standing puddles of water in my stocking-clad feet.

Finally, after what felt like hours I arrived at the base of the castle. As I expected from the view down below, it was in ruins. A large bell sat embedded into the cobbles in front of the entrance, a large crack running along the surface of it. It was golden, and embossed with the same sigil I had seen down below on the gates. Weeds grew between the stones unchecked, and pieces of stone lay scattered around the ground in front of me. I bent down and picked one up, weighing it in my hand before tossing it aside.

“Ah, you’ve arrived.” I started, looking up towards the entryway. A tall and poised woman was standing there, leaning slightly against the bell and regarding me with piercing blue eyes. She was dressed in a similar fashion to me, I noted with some surprise. A smart black dress hugged her frame, which she accessorized with a black blazer and a large silver necklace… that same sigil again. On her feet, nearly the same shoes that I had removed not long ago.

“Who are you?” I asked, picking my way carefully across the debris towards her. She held out a hand towards me with a smile, and I took it without thinking. Her hand was warm as she clasped mine, patting the top of my hand fondly with her other. Her smile reached her eyes easily, and I felt instantly calm.

“You may call me the Sister Imperator. I’m glad to see you’ve made it home safely.” My heart squeezed at her words. Home. I’d never had a proper one, being raised as an orphan, and the thought of having a true home was enough to bring tears prickling to my eyes.

“The book said… Papa was the one who called to me. Am I to meet with him?”

“Soon, child. Let’s get you inside and warmed up. We’ll get some food into that belly and a nice warm drink, I think. Then we can go through all of the introductions and explanations that I’m sure you want.” Her eyes left mine and traveled down my body to rest on my crucifix. “You are of the faith? Catholic?”

My own eyes dropped to the necklace hanging between my breasts as my hand came up to grip it. A million thoughts whorled through my mind before it landed on one that I was sure of: this place already felt more like home than anywhere else I’d ever been. I squeezed the cross tightly in my fist before tugging it, snapping the chain from around my neck. The silver chain dangled from my palm for a moment before I tossed it to the ground.

“No longer.”

#lorraine writes #fics #ghost #ghost bc #the band ghost #papa emeritus

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attollogame · 3 years

Text

I decided to do a wrap up of The Idol to allow a perspective into why Sysba might be so guarded, so please enjoy!!!

Warnings for blood, violence, and death.

The temple is burning, and they are dancing through a field of corpses. Red stains their fingertips like Alta, and it drips onto the soil to sew itself within the earth. They walk, slow and leisurely like a predator, right up until the moment they smell smoke.

Their head snaps back from the foreign soldier with their lips smeared with gore that dribbles down their neck and they grimace, bearing their teeth to the blotted out sun. Their eyes are blacker than the night and they know that the sight of them alone, poised above the broken bodies of their fellow man, would drive any sane soldier to misery.

The look of terror that washes across their face may remedy that, though.

It takes all of a moment for them to bolt away from the body towards the pillar of smoke that plumes its way into the sky. They leap and they dance and they weave their way between man and animal alike, avoiding swords and hands. The public square is filled with people scrambling to get away from the blaze; Sysba’s throat burns as they inhale the ashes, the dying remedies of a world they once owned.

The people around them are not what is on their mind, though; it is the person who is absent that is.

Sysba has not taken a human form during the day in years, preferring to meet Malchus through dreams, or to watch him afar in the form of a simple songbird. The only time Sysba ever took on a human form was at night, when they crept into Malchus’ room and sought the comfort that only he could ever provide.

A woman gripping a child slams into Sysba’s shoulder, knocking them off guard, and a snarl rips from their lips. When the woman looks back and catches a glimpse of their face—as pale as a corpse and smeared with more gore than the ground they stand upon—she freezes in place and stares at them, trembling.

Sysba gazes at her for a moment, taking in her dark hair and wide brown eyes, before twisting around and continuing their pursuit. For the first time in 400 years since they came to this earth, fear thrums through their veins, pushing them to go faster than they ever have before. The world passes by them in a blur; burning houses, overturned carts, the Temple of Apollo stripped down to its core. Whereas once they would have drunk in the spoils of war, now it does nothing but sickens them.

When they reach the temple, it only gets worse.

---

Malchus had retired as a temple cleaner, but that does not mean he had retired from the temple itself. Despite what had happened, he had continued to go to the temple to recount stories to the children of the devotees and workers. Sysba could recall many nights where they murmured in his ear that he should cease his association with them. Malchus would turn, dark eyes unfocused in the shadows, and would extend a hand to brush it along Sysba’s cheek. His lips would curl into a smile—such a fond look to give them, a monster—and he would whisper, “only for a bit longer”.

He had aspirations to leave one day, to go to a place where Sysba would be able to tell him all of the stars in the sky until his dying breath. Sysba had, for the first time in their life, felt hope that such a paradise could become true.

As they stare up at the burning temple, they feel foolish for believing in such frivolous things.

The foreign soldiers, a fleet of 900, had secured themselves in the temple and ignited a flame that ate ravenously through the dying foundations. For many years, there had been promises to rebuild the temple from the decaying grounds it stood upon, but these were constantly shunted aside for greater ambitions. It seems now that the delay is acting as their downfall.

This is not their problem, though. They lunge forth, running up the steps two for two despite the yells from the soldiers below. Sysba almost hopes that one of them will throw a sword or a spear at their fleeing form, just so they have an excuse to tear the entire fleet apart with their bare hands once they are finished. No one does, though. They simply fall into silence as they watch Sysba vanish into the flames.

---

There is nothing left by the time they get through. The scent of burnt flesh fills their nostrils; it resembles the fragrance of pig fat burning on a pan, and it sizzles like it as well. This, combined with the sulfurous odor of burning hair, causes Sysba’s lips to curl as they shield their eyes from the brilliant flames. They move nimbly over the bodies, now blackened and shriveled in fetus-like positions, all while rushing through possible locations in their mind. Malchus could be in his former bedroom, or the High Priest’s room, or,

…

Sysba pauses, their hand dropping from their face as they come to a stop in the center of the hall. The crackle of burning wood fills their ears as embers dance through the air. They go out quickly when they touch their skin, leaving nothing but a soot mark on pale flesh. Sysba watches them only for a moment before veering right and darting towards the one place they know Malchus is—

The Worship Chamber.

----

The scent of incense and the warmth of the patron god’s presence is gone when Sysba finally kicks open the doors. The marble floors are cracking and charred by the fire, and the ceiling has a plume of smoke hanging around it, like a great smog cloud prepared to descend upon them. They look at it only briefly before their gaze goes towards the entrance.

Once, many years ago, they had guided Malchus down those very steps. His hand had gripped theirs and he had followed them like a loyal lamb, right into a slaughter. Although, rather than slaughter, the lamb had tamed the wolf to be his instead. The memories of his face—so full of trust and warmth as he had walked with them into the abyss—spurs Sysba to move further, and they enter into the cavern with determination in their blood.

The steps are easy; the sound of water rushing down the walls reassures them that the flames have not reached this part yet. The waters of the temple are alleged to have healing abilities, something Sysba knows to be true, and they hope—yet again—that Malchus has found a way to put them to use. Softly, they cup their hands around their mouth and call out into the darkness.

“Malchus, Malchus!” The name bounces off the ceiling as they move, dark eyes scanning from wall to floor, “My heart, please speak to me—please tell me that you are well!”

They do not keep the desperation from leaking into their last words. A myriad of new emotions are stirring in their mind right now; they felt no fear when they faced their creator or when they stood trial before the other gods. They felt no fear when they came to earth, or when they met humans on the same level for the first time.

But now, fear stirs in their gut like a volatile potion, creeping its way up their throat and onto their tongue and leaking out with each soft cry of “Malchus!” that spills into the night. They move further, and further until the halls expand into a chamber and they look up to see stars. Hundreds of small lights flickering on the ceiling above them; the last bits of their power that they had before their exile was completed.

So distracted by the stars are they, that they almost miss the form lying beneath them.

It takes all of a moment, when their gaze slides to that prone figure, for them to realize what it is, and by the time they do, they are already falling to their knees beside it.

“Malchus!” The name spills from their tongue as a cry as their hands come to rest on his shoulders, his chest, soon sliding their way up to cup his face. That beautiful face, which had graced many of their nights with its smile, now rested slack in their palms.

Malchus’ eyes are fixated on the stars above. Sysba knows, even before they realize it, that their unfocused gaze is not due to his blindness this time.

There are no burns on his body, nothing damages his skin, but when Sysba presses their lips against his in a desperate attempt to breathe life back into his still body, they taste smoke. It fills his entire mouth and seems to extend further, as though he inhaled great plumes of it before making his final descent. The cause of his death is clear; Sysba, however, refuses to accept it.

They do the one thing they know they can—they bite down on their thumb, drawing a line of their own black blood,—

And then they pray.

They dig deep into their body, deep into their being, drawing out every ounce of their remaining power that they can. They curl it into a ball so tight that one can hold it in a fist, and they offer it to those that are watching them in nothing but sheer desperation. The Old Ones never abandoned them when they were cast to earth; they continue to exist around them, present just out of sight and touch, and they know that their desperate, silent pleas are being heard.

Yet, nothing happens.

Their blood continues to slide down their wrist, mixing with that of men, and Malchus continues to stare unfocused at the stars above. An unfamiliar sensation trickles its way down Sysba’s cheeks, and when they reach up to brush it away, their hand comes back with black liquid on their palm.

The desperate sob that rips from their lips only punctuates what it is.

The Old One’s told them when they were exiled, that they would take it all away; their power, their form, the stars, the moon, the very things that made them. Never once did it cross Sysba’s mind that the Old One’s would be cruel enough to take away their heart, as well.

And yet, as they double over, as pleas spilled from their lips like gold and they grip Malchus’ shirt and they scream all of their raw pain and sorrow into the night against a backdrop of burning paradise,

It is entirely believable.

#char:sysba #char:malchus #let's play the 'what historical event did amy base THIS one on' game sksks #other #non-attollo content

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thawte-wills · 3 years

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Memories of Faith (After the Siege of Sandpoint)

"...Sister Faith?"

The blackened debris surrounded her like jagged spires growing from the ground. The still fresh, acrid smell of burning scorched her heart; though all the embers had long petered out.

Faith Dy'S—Ravenswood stared out at the structure that had raised her, as much as she did it. Her first true creation at the side of her fellow sisters and brothers of the faith. And, the ones who led her to follow in Desna's footsteps, Father Tobyn, and now, Father Zantus. One died in a fire when it was a chapel, and the other died in a fire set by a red dragon on the newly constructed cathedral.

It seemed like a cruel gift of fate that not only did Zantus fall in the same fashion the previous high priest did; but Faith was 'blessed' with a vision of his death. Though the Sandpoint Cathedral lay in ruins; she still saw it all so clearly, as if the fire was closing in again.

Then again, she could also remember walking into the chapel it was before its first fire; but it looked so big to her at that age, even if it truly wasn't. Her eyes peered down to see the burnt remains of the murals that hung around the prayer garden, and a tinge of hope sparked for her that maybe, just maybe, there was a small image of any of the gods worshipped there that had survived. Her covered feet ambled through the charred, jagged wood with ease; a sign of her growing skill, yet the farthest thing from her mind was how powerful she had grown.

"...Sister.... Faith?"

The seven stones still stood strong in the middle of the ruins, unbeaten by fire for a second time; the only thing standing for a second time. It was almost enough to stop her heart from feeling dour. Almost. Choking back a sob, she laid against one of the stones, its ash rubbing off on her 'adventuring vestments' she'd made for herself. Whatever. She'd clean it later.

Blinking back tears that were winning the fight and burning against her eyes, she searched for the hope she was looking for: a star off of Desna's mural, a single background decoration of a gold piece of Abadar's, a piece of a ray of light from Sarenrae's brilliance, the beauty of even the smallest illustrated part of Shelyn, a hint of the waves or storms of Gozreh, or even the smallest part of an antler or arrow of Erastil; something to help her hold onto hope.

But nothing but the scorched stones and discolored pine and eucalyptus seemed to be recognizable through the multitude of ash. "Father Tobyn... Father Zantus... Desna... What should I do?" Her own words were the final nail in the coffin, as her soft sobs were finally rung out of her.

"....."

For a moment, the wind picked up, rushing the ashes past her and out of Sandpoint on a breeze; and with a soft hiccup she was able to clear her eyes for a moment. And on the singular stone surrounded by the seven others she saw her old carving of a star, back when she was first learning of Desna.

The small, roughly carved star was a foolish whim she'd taken upon herself when she first learned of the Desnan clergy's penchant for leaving 'Found Marks' in difficult to reach places. Once it had caught the attention of Father Tobyn what she was doing, she feared she'd be admonished when she simply wanted to leave her own mark somewhere. Thankfully, Father Zantus (Brother, at the time) had intercepted the older priest, and had somehow convinced him that this was the true meaning of the middle stone. A place for those who worshipped to leave their own mark, no matter who they worshipped; the start of the Shrine Wall writings in the Sandpoint Cathedral.

This star had somehow caught ash in its rough ruts, and almost out of instinct, Faith looked out in the direction it pointed. Past the damaged town and homes, even from the other side of the town, she could still see it.

A large flaming meteor surrounded by massive white fangs glowing with the power of some unknown creature's magic, plastered to the side of The Old Light. But she knew the symbol wasn't what it was pointing toward; it was pointing toward Zephyr. Her draconic protector. Her magical colleague. Her close friend. And maybe... maybe more. Even though dull and misshapen, like the Stair of Stars it seemed to point directly to her own North Star. "Thank you. I hope.... I hope I can make you all proud."

Faith stood, feeling a bit stronger emotionally and more set in her faith while wiping away some tears. As she brushed off the ash on her clothing, she finally heard the voices calling for her.

"Sister Faith! Are you alright in there?"

Taken aback by the voices, she'd almost forgotten she was one acolyte of a remaining five; her being the youngest, and yet the most devoted. As hastily as she could, she cautiously made her way through the remnants of the cathedral back to the front, her eyes set on returning to her draconic mage in his time of need and unbridled fury. Once her feet found purchase on the unburnt grass slightly outside of the remains she saw the four in front of her, all of them focused strongly on her. At first, their patient but quizzical stares only drew questions from her; but quickly she realized they were looking to her the same way she had with Father Tobyn, and Father Zantus. Like a leader, or a-"High-Priestess, what should we do?"

The sudden title surprised Faith, and she was sure the look was obvious on her face, even after doing her best to try to hide it afterward.

"Please Torthiel, right now, its too soon to say that much." The old fear of never being able to travel and explore like a real child of Desna loomed over her emotions once more, but she wasn't the same girl she had been when she first volunteered herself to the adventurers that would help her to become one of the Stormbringers.

"We will rebuild again. We were all here to set the structure of the Cathedral, and we will be here for it again; like it has always been here for us. Look, the seven stones still stand strong, both a testament to Desna's power, as well as Abadar, Sarenrae, Shelyn, Gozreh, and Erastil. Father Tobyn and Zantus have guided us the best they could. Now it is time for us to walk the path.

"Torthiel, Lasslin, Sargiel, Naerbera. For now, we will help the town; and in time, the town will help us. We were all there when the blueprints of the Cathedral were drawn up, and we will remake it in its previous glory. Help those you can. Heal those in need. And when you are done, rest. There has been much pain here, but Desna will bless us all with peaceful dreams for our hard work." With that, she lightly hugged each of her fellow siblings of the cloth, simply glad they were able to see another day.

"But Faith..." Lasslin whimpered softly, "Are you to leave again? And if so, who will lead us?"

"Desna has her plans for me, sister. Save for these last few months, I have only spent my time on Golarion within these walls. I don't plan to leave immediately; but for right now, I cannot be the High Priestess just yet. I promise you all, I will return after Desna has shown me what she needs to. But until that day, I will never be too far away. You all have your own paths with your gods you must follow. And just like this church and its gods, you will lead together, as my Deacons of the Faith." A smirk played on Faith's lips as she continued,

"But you better believe I'm not leaving the foundation of the construction to you fools." The five acolytes held together then in a group hug, all smiles and tears at their melancholy situation, yet hopeful for the future.

After they had all released their hold, they dispersed around town to help the citizens still reeling from the attack.

And Faith? She had her dragon to console.

#god she's grown so much #my strong holy girl #pathfinder #cleric #Desna #abadar #shelyn #sarenrae #gozreh #erastil #sandpoint #Sandpoint Cathedral #my writing #Rise of the Runelords #RotRl

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yandere-daydreams · 4 years

Text

Another Yandere!Dabi/Reader piece for the very lovely @goretillery, as a spiritual continuation of this commission. For the sake of clarification, assume this takes place after the manga’s current arc is over, when Dabi is left with a few more issues than friends. For the drama alone, really.

Word Count: 1.7k

TW: Minor Spoilers, Mention of Injury, Implied Death, Imprisonment, and Wing Clipping.

It was all you could do to stay still.

The pain hadn’t faded, not in the slightest. Your fight with Dabi had been hours ago, days ago, maybe. You couldn’t be sure of time down here, splayed across a bare mattress in the basement of one of the League’s hideouts. True to his word, he’d found somewhere so deep and so desolate, even the air carried a lonely chill, your cell absent of window or clocks or much of anything, spare a few of your captor’s personal items, mundane and sentimental and meaningless to you. Entertainment wasn’t a problem, though, not right now. Two broken ribs ached in your chest, a dislocated ankle limiting your movement to short, stumbling steps. Minor scratches and bruises made it so you never had to search for a new source of petty irritation, but you could hardly summon the energy to care about any of that.

Your wings were all you could focus on.

Or, what was left of your wings, rather.

Dabi hadn’t been careful. He was angry, he was furious, and he wasn’t thinking. You could only be glad they hadn’t been completely incinerated, really, considering just how hot everything had felt in the moment. The roots of each were charred and blackened, stripes of burnt down and insulating-feathers drawn across the once perfect pair. He’d pulled out handfuls at a time, leaving sporadic, bare patches littered across your appendages, scarred over flesh currently struggling to heal itself. If your arches hadn’t been broken in the struggle, it would’ve been a miracle, considering the fractures that seemed to run through every other microscopic bone. You could hardly roll over without bringing yourself to tears, let alone moving your wings in any meaningful way. You’d tried to fold them, when Dabi first left you alone, tuck them into your back in order to wallow in your self-pity a little more comfortably. You thought it couldn’t be too bad. That even if they were hurt, the numbness should've set in, by then.

You’d started crying as soon as you made the first crease. You hadn’t really stopped, yet.

If Dabi felt any sort of sympathy, he didn’t make a show of it. You heard the solitary door close in the distance, but any greetings or footsteps were lost on you, your pulse still beating deafeningly in your ears. He clicked his tongue as he saw you were still curled into the same ball he’d left you in, and space your body could’ve taken up occupied instead by your outstretched wings, laid sloppily across any surface they could think to cover. He tapped your shoulder as he passed, watching as you recoiled and winced, before moving on seemingly unaffected, dropping whatever he was holding onto a splintering, decaying table, one that looked like it may collapse under more than a handful of pounds.

“Still pouting?” You didn’t answer, curling further into yourself, and he sighed, shaking his head. If you didn’t know better, you’d say that was his interpretation of an empathetic response. “Must really hurt, then.”

There was a rustling of plastic, the scratch of rough fabric against leathery skin. The room smelled like a bonfire, after a few seconds. How’d you ever get used to the burning smell? Did he even notice it, anymore? You felt the mattress dip under his weight, Dabi seating himself behind you, reaching over the small space and hooking his arms under yours, dragging your crumpled body onto his lap. You hissed as he did so, every bone under your skin rejecting even the smallest movement, but Dabi didn’t seem to take notice, only positioning you to sit facing him, left to lean against his chest and hide your face in his shoulder. He supported himself on the bare wall, in return, leaving your dependency mercifully unspoken.

“It doesn’t really stop. The pain, I mean,” He admitted, running an idle finger down the length of your spine. You reacted before you could think, operating off instinct and letting your wings tense at your sides, straightening despite the sharp, jagged needles that seemed to embed themselves in your skin. You didn’t dare let them drop, fearing the inevitable outcome, and he seemed satisfied with that, draping an arm over the crock of your neck and tracing meaningless shapes into whatever his hand landed on. “Everything heals over, or… scars, I guess. You learn not to whine about it, but it won’t go away. Not if it’s bad enough.” He paused, sighing. “It doesn’t hurt as much, though. You’ll start looking forward to it, eventually. Anticipating it.”

“I don’t want to enjoy it,” You mumbled, your voice muffled by a soot-stained shirt. “I want it to stop.”

He chuckled, softly, his fingers closing around one of the smooth, glossy feathers that covered the exterior of your wings. He gave it an experimental tug, and you whimpered, but Dabi acted before you could spit out protest. One harsh, steady pull was all it took to drag the feather out by its stem, the sting etching itself into your flesh, seeping downward with each passing second. He brought it to your side, letting you peek at it out of the corner of your eye. Bent and broken. You weren’t sure what you’d been expecting. “Then you’ll have to tear it out,” He explained, finding his next target. A newer one - a blood feather. It barely put up a fight, when he plucked it. “The faster you get rid of whatever hurts, the faster everything else’ll get better.”

You groaned as his attention shifted, moving towards your left wing. With his free hand, he jabbed at the peak of your arch, and you screamed as the appendaged drew back, leaving the points of each within arm’s length. You grit your teeth, your eyes already beginning to tear up. “Someone should’ve flayed you, in that case,” You grunted, fighting to keep your voice even. “I’d be happy to do it now, if you’re up for it.”

“Aw, baby, you know how riled up I get when you talk like that.” Nails scraped against the base of a primary feather, sending a shudder up the length of your spine. You noticed you were trembling, then, shaking like a leaf in the wind, but steeling yourself wasn’t an option. Instead, you grit your teeth and told yourself Dabi hadn’t noticed, yet. “I used to do this kind of thing for a friend of mine. One of those real laid-back guys, the type to take worse care of himself than you do.” He paused, stopping to think. “You’ve heard of Hawks, yeah?”

“You know I have,” You said, your irritation making itself apparent. “Everyone has.”

He didn’t seem to care for your tone. Dabi chose that moment to reveal what he’d been hiding, and suddenly, you weren’t sure how you hadn’t noticed it before. The shape in his pocket, long and pointed, a handle just the right to fit the shape of Dabi’s hand at the end. It didn’t take you long to identify the tool, already preparing to ask him why he’d brought a pair of scissors, but something was off. They were longer than an average pair, sharper. More similar to garden shears than anything. “He was a stand-up guy, wasn’t he? A hero, an idol…” He trailed off, slipping his fingers into the grip tentatively. As if he wasn’t sure what he was going to do with them, yet. “I’m sure you looked up to him. Similar quirks and all.”

You did. You’d been convinced you were going to be just like him, when he was still a rising-star. Quirks like yours were so rare, and considering how fragile wings tended to be, only a handful of Flying Heroes had ever made it into the spotlight, even with the secondary abilities they tended to have. But, Hawks was gone, now, and you wouldn’t be surprised if you followed a similar fate, sooner or later. You shinked into yourself at the thought. “He was amazing.”

“He was,” Dabi confirmed, his touch ghosting over your waist. Remembering the minor weapon, you attempted to straighten your back, to move and get away from him, but your muscles were already growing sore at the thought alone, every cell in your body rebelling violently. Dabi only chuckled, taking hold of the thin root of your left wing, where the appendage attached itself to your back. You didn’t doubt that he could shatter the delicate bone with his bare hands, if he tried.

“And I’m sure you wanted to be just like him.”

You nodded. You couldn’t think of anything else to do. “I didn’t--”

“You’re nothing like him.” There was a new fire in his voice, passionate and firm, but he dragged you into him regardless, holding you tight as he made a grab for your wingtips. “He was a liar, and a spy and a bastard. The only person he ever cared about was himself and his little Hero Commission.” The words were spat with enough disdain to startle you, your struggle taking a turn towards a full-blown frenzy. Dabi only bared his teeth, his silent threat doing more than enough to pacify you. “You’re nothing like him. You’re not gonna fly away the moment something better comes along.”

The shears were raised, the clippers, and you stopped trying to hold yourself back, sobs racking through your chest and choking you, your terror as obvious as it was ugly. Luckily, that seemed to reach Dabi’s cold, shriveled heart, but all it earned you was a fleeting kiss to the top of your head and a soft hum, neither doing much to comfort you.

“Let’s call it a ‘safety measure’, alright?” You felt him choose his target, the closest feather to your wingtip, sharp edges soon entrapping it on either side. One of many that’d soon be cut short. “Just a little something to ease my mind. It can't hurt worse than what I tried last time.”

He was lying. You knew he was lying. All he ever did was lie.

But, all you could do was hold still and make sure the damage wouldn’t be permanent as the blades snapped together, a severed feather falling silently to the floor.

You wondered why you’d ever bothered trying to leave the ground in the first place.

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writingbakery · 4 years

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“burnt sugar”

my first fic for the valentines day server collab with my babies ✨ enjoy ! [want another date? click here for the full masterlist 💓 ]

[pairing; hanta sero x gn! reader]

[warnings; fluff, kitchen fires, one (1) useless taperoll, soft moments]

━━━━━━♡ ♡━━━━━━

three am is meant for sleeping.

nothing but soft dreams, warm blankets, curled up in your boyfriends arms as you rest from a long day - sleep and comfort should be the only things in your head, especially when you’ve got the next day off.

three am is not meant for the burning singe of smoke & your alarm blaring. it yanks you from your sleep anyway.

stumbling out of your empty bed and into the smoky hallway, your mind raced with a half million thoughts, all with a common theme; where the fuck was hanta? your boyfriend wasn’t in bed with you, and the shrill shriek of your fire alarm had you on edge - was a villain in your house? had they gotten to him already? what the fuck was going on?!

the wraiths of smoke lead you to the kitchen and the culprit : sero hanta, in boxers and your “kiss the chef” apron looking guilty as all hell. there’s a tray of blackened little dots in the sink, the source of all the fuss, and you immediately smack your hands over your face. typical.

“hanta, what the - unscrew the alarm, for fucks sake, the whole blocks awake now. what the absolute fuck is going on?” your voice is clearly agitated, glaring at your gangly idiot of a boyfriend as he finally yanks the batteries out of the incessant alarm. once it’s quiet, you try again, attempting to calm yourself.

“it’s three in the goddamn morning, so you better have a perfect explanation for this sero hanta or so help me god-“

“im sorry.” the guilt in his voice is enough to get you to stop, a sigh escaping you as you watch him fidget. “i missed our last two dates cause of work, and we’re supposed to spend tomorrow - well, today - celebrating valentines day, and i wanted to make sure you had everything you could ever want, and i wanted to make it special and give you homemade chocolates, but i can’t cook for shit & bakugou wouldnt answer my calls, and-“ you cut him off with a kiss, stepping forward enough to place your hands on his chest.

your poor sweet overworked boyfriend had simply wanted to surprise you, you couldn’t fault him for that. it’s thoughtful, and disastrously hanta, and all you can do is laugh softly.

“you’re such an idiot, you know that? you could’ve stuck a tape bow on top of your head and i would’ve been satisfied - we’ve got the whole weekend off, just you and me. you think that’s not enough for me? i knew what i was signing up for when we got together, hanta. you’re a hero, and i love you for it. any time is quality, better than any present cause i’ve got you.” you end your little speech with another gentle kiss, hanta’s smile growing wider to match your own.

“i guess nows a good time to tell you i also tried to make a cake..... and brownies.”

“oh hanta.”

“and cupcakes.”

“hanta sero!”

the smell of burnt sugar would stick to your kitchen walls for weeks, but hey. you’ve got all the time in the world to forget about it, not that you would - burnt sugar might just become one of your favorite smells, a reminder of valentines day promises and a whole lotta love.

#bnha sero #sero hanta x reader #sero x y/n #sero x you #sero x reader #bnha x y/n #bnha x you #bnha x reader #bnha fluff #boku no hero fluff #evywrites #valentines day fic

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pumpkinpatchkid · 4 years

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Got Your Back - 001

Pairing: Atsushi x F!Reader Soulmates

Rating: 18+ (eventually)

Warnings: Reckless behaviour, toxic thoughts, parental abuse, clothes being destroyed (no nudity), cursing, PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF ANYTHING ELSE NEEDS TO BE PUT IN THE WARNINGS <3

Soul mates. The one person that always had your back, literally and figuratively. When you’re born, there’s a permanent mark on your back that represents the person you’re destined to spend the rest of your life with. If one was a gifted, like yourself, there was an almost one hundred percent possibility you were paired up with another. Those who didn’t possess supernatural abilities had the thing that their soulmate treasured the most on their back. From birth, the large white tiger was prominent against your skin, and it grew with you, your whole life. At 18, it had covered the entirety of your back, yet the person it represented still hadn’t entered your life.

When? When will I meet them? You sighed as you examined the large feline in the mirror. Another morning, another search for a job to keep you going. It had been 3 weeks since you’d run from your parents and ended up in Yokohama. 3 weeks was all it took for the money you had run with to dwindle as you paid for a rundown little shack to keep yourself alive.

You tore yourself away from your reflection and began to rummage through your small duffel bag of clothes, hoping you still had some job-searching appropriate attire. At the bottom of the bag, you pulled out a neatly folded white shirt and your nicest black jeans, throwing them on after picking your freshly washed “lucky underwear set” from the line.

You ran your fingers through your hair, and pulled on your battered boots, making do before grabbing your key and half charged phone off the side, leaving the shack quietly and locking the door behind you.

You made your way down the trail that led into Yokohama’s smaller side of town and started your search for job openings in every window you passed. You weren’t entirely sure how much time had passed on your search, but your hopes began to fade.

Looks like another loss.

As you gazed into the buildings, you found yourself losing touch with reality, which you were brought back to as you walked straight into somebody.

“I’m so sorry” You instinctively said, looking at the floor as if ready for your punishment. The person you ran into began to laugh. You looked up to find a tall, beautiful brunette, with bandages poking out from under his shirt. He offered you a hand.

“No, I’m the one to apologize, pretty thing. Name’s Dazai Osamu.” You nodded and took his hand, where he began examining yours.

“Y/N L/N.” You watched this Dazai man carefully, as he investigated your palm, knuckles, fingers and wrist. He hummed and dropped your hand, seemingly satisfied.

“Is... everything okay, Dazai-san?” You asked, raising an eyebrow. He nodded, and a charming, yet mischievous grin spread across his face.

“So, L/N-chan. I’ll help you with whatever you’re looking for, and then you have to strangle me.” He beamed, as if proud of the proposal he just gave you. Your jaw slacked and you looked at him as if he’d grown 3 heads.

“S-Strangle you??” You sputtered out. Dazai nodded with a newfound enthusiasm and threw his hands into the air.

“To death!” He sang. Your face paled as you watched him. Then you began to laugh.

This man has well and truly lost his mind. You shrugged, re-composing yourself and hummed.

“I suppose I could humour you, Dazai-san. Say you could find me a job? If you can help me do that then we’ll figure out where to go from there.” You laughed as Dazai punched the air victoriously, eyes brimming with tears.

What a weirdo... You rolled your eyes when he turned his back to you and raised your eyebrow once again as he started to walk off into the now expanding crowd.

“I hear there’s lots of jobs going on the other side of here. Why don’t I accompany you?” He grinned, gesturing for you to follow his lead. You smiled at the eccentric man ahead of you and began to take your stride next to him. The walk was pleasant and filled with chatter. Dazai had guessed that you hadn’t been in Yokahoma long. He’d said you’d looked a little lost and claimed that’s why he “flew in to help like your knight in shining armour”. You couldn’t help but find yourself laughing at the man, his company was light-hearted, and his little quips undeniably made you smile. In all, he was quite sweet.

And not bad on the eye either... Maybe my soulmate got mixed up? He doesn’t look like someone to possess a tiger to me.

You were about to reply with something Dazai had said, before stopping in your tracks. You inhaled and the smell of smoke was thick in your nostrils. You spun to the direction the smell was strongest to see nasty black plumes of smoke dominating the otherwise blue sky. Without thinking you bolted to the scene of the fire, guided by your sense of smell, and the black towers above you.

When you reached the scene an apartment complex was ablaze, from the second story to maybe the fifth. Flames licked the outside world from where windows used to be, and a heavy congregation of people crowded the area. You pushed through them, eyes scanning for the victims. Ambulances and fire fighters were already at the scene, tending to the people pulled from the building.

Your heart began to lift, until you saw a woman on her knees, sobbing and crying out as she was being restrained in the arms of a fire fighter.

“My children! They’re in there!! Please, please! Get them out of there! My babies!” She was screaming at the man holding her back. You couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying to her as you’d already jumped, using the frames of the shattered windows to pull yourself to the third floor.

You burst in through the opening and were blanketed in darkness.

“Hot Blood, Eye of the Winged Serpent...” You muttered under your breath. A sudden flash stunned your world momentarily before reds and oranges, flecked with golds cleared your vision.

Much better.

With no sign of life in the room you entered, you began barging through the rooms of the floor, searching for the victims before moving onto the next, flames licking at your skin and scorching your clothes; it was a warmth you welcomed. As you rose your foot to kick down the next, your ears perked up as you could hear crying and begging come from across the hall. You spun and smiled, satisfied, as the door broke from its hinges giving you perfect access to the flame encased room. There, your eyes locked on to two white hot bodies, small and quivering in the middle of the room.

“Hey! Hey, it’s alright, I’m here to help.” You spoke above the crackling of the fire, approaching the two children with caution. A little boy, blackened from the smoke, eyes streaming, and clothes burned from his body, was cowering next to a little girl, laid under a large piece of furniture. She was sobbing for help.

“Please get my sister out! Help us please!” The little boy cried, coughing harshly. He used his body to protect the smaller girl beside him as a large flame lashed out at the three of you. You jumped between the children and the fire, shielding them both.

“It’s alright. We’ll get your sister out, Kiddo. And you two. You’ll both be alright, okay? Now try and calm your breathing. We can’t have you taking in any more smoke, can we?” You smiled softly at him.

As you turned to the little girl, you noticed some of her hair had been burned off, and the furniture had pinned her legs. You grabbed the corner of the large... bookshelf? it looked like, but you weren’t stopping to take a better look. You hoisted the object from off her, and the little boy dragged her into him. She let out a sob and clung to her brother. You scanned her over quickly, to find two broken legs.

Shit. This isn’t going to be easy.

“Alright buddy, I’m going to carry your sister, so I need you to hop on my back, alright? I’m gonna get you out of here.” You crouched in front of the pair, cradling the little girl in your arms, as her brother clambered onto your back.

“Ready? Hold tight.” You spoke to the pair, before taking off down the hall, staying low, and made your way back to the room you’d burst into. You clambered out of the hole in the wall and stood on the small ledge attached to the outside of the building, tightening your grip on the little one in your arms. You pulled the little boy by his arm to your front and held him close.

“We’re gonna jump, okay? Whatever you do, do not let go of me.” The pair nodded, heeding your instructions, before you let go. You heard the crowd below you scream, and your back hit the concrete below you, forcing yourself into a roll as your arms shielded the youngsters against your chest.

As you stopped rolling, you lay flat on your back, only meters away from the sobbing mother. She screamed when she saw her children and ran to them. She scooped them up, and thanked you through choked cries, cradling her babies. You nodded before hoisting your body from the floor. You made a quick exit, slipping through the large audience and made your way onto the next street, slumping against the wall. You looked down at your charred clothes, large patches of material missing and burnt to a crisp.

Least my underwear’s intact. Knew this set was lucky.

You chuckled to yourself and pushed yourself from the wall and stretched. As you were about to make an exit, calling it quits for one day, a familiar figure blocked your path. Dazai was stood there.

He must’ve followed me. Crap.

Two figures shifted to stand beside Dazai. One was a tell young man, with glasses and long blonde hair in a ponytail. He was adorned in a suit and in his left hand was a notebook. He stood silently and pushed his glasses up his nose with his free hand. The other was an older man. His long silver hair covered his shoulders, and you couldn’t take your eyes away from his kind, grey ones. Dazai was beaming. The older gentleman stepped forwards and was the only one to speak to you.

“I think you should come with us.”

#bsd #bungo stray dogs #soulmate atsushi #atsushi x reader #atsushi x y/n #atsushi x you #slow burn #soulmate au #bsd fic #bungo stray dogs fic #atsushi nakajima #fem!reader #pumpkinpatchfics

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stanbillyhargrove · 3 years

Text

Ghosts chp 30

T/W: blood, gore, death

A/N: finally. It’s finished. I’m sorry this took so long, my mental health was not good. Thank you to everyone who’s enjoyed this story, it means a lot 💜

Billy’s POV

“She’s not waking up!”

Steve pressed harder on Katrina’s chest, forcing her heart to keep beating and yelled back at me, “I know!”

He forced her head back to blow into her mouth, pausing for a moment before resuming CPR. There was an audible crack when one of Katrina’s ribs broke under Steve’s hands.

“Oh god” Riley gasped as she clapped her hands over her mouth.

I looked over at the girls. Riley, with her frightened eyes and glistening cheeks. Brook, with her fingers digging into Riley’s arm as she tried to look anywhere but at Katrina’s body on the ground. Audrey, who couldn’t look away even as her sisters clung to her. Tris, who was holding Audrey’s hand with a white knuckle grip.

“Bring her back!” I hissed.

“I’m trying!” Steve snapped, “just back the fuck up!” He scrubbed a hand down his face and huffed before continuing, “just…take the girls and go to the road, flag down the ambulance.”

–

Katrina’s POV

I came to with a gasp, still in Neil’s world. Fire had started to spread outside the fireplace, slowly moving to consume this world. Neil stood in front of me, a knife in his hand as he clutched his head. His head snapped up to look at me when I moved.

“Katrina,” he breathed, falling to his knees to gather me in his arms, “I thought you were gone…I thought I was too late but I stopped myself. I can be in control, Katrina, I can. We can be happy, you just need to wake up…please.”

I wrapped my fingers around the knife in his hand, slowly pulling it into mine.

“Don’t you want to be with me?” He asked, “we can be together, Katrina. I love you.”

“I know,” I murmured, “I know you do, Neil.”

I slid the blade between our chests, tipping the point against his skin. He pulled his face from my shoulder to look at me, eyes watering.

“Don’t,” he murmured, “you don’t have to do this.”

My hands shook and the blade nicked his chest, bringing a drop of blood to the surface. A flash and he was glaring down at me, pressing into the blade.

“Do it…do it…do it!” Neil yelled, grabbing my arms tight.

I flinched, the tip of the knife slipping into his skin. Screamed when the fire exploded out, raining bits of metal and brick around us. Neil pulled me close, shielding me. One of his hands fell behind me, keeping us stable until the rubble stopped falling.

“If I can’t have you, I’ll take you with me,” he growled in my ear.

I choked on a cry when hot metal pierced the skin on my stomach, sizzling past muscle. A sick clattering when he pulled the metal from my flesh and dropped it to the ground.

“Shhh,” he whispered, his hand moving to cradle my face, “I’ve got you.”

Tears rolled down my cheeks, salty water catching on Neil’s tongue.

“It’s okay,” he soothed, “we’ll be together now.”

His blood stained fingers wrapped around my wrist, forcing me to slide the blade of the knife between his ribs. A breath hitched when it pulled free and blood poured down his chest. Fingers gripped at burnt flesh, pressing in until I curled into his shoulder, teeth bared against his skin. Tears flowed hot down my cheeks, dripping to roll down Neil’s shoulder. He tried to talk, to comfort me, but a wet cough sprayed into my neck instead.

I could see the edges of this world he’d created crumbling. Burning to ash and floating away into the darkness. I watched through unfocusing eyes as the pink bathtub slowly disappeared.

“I…love..you,” he choked.

“I know.”

–

Billy’s POV

“You’re gunna wear out the floor, pacing like that.”

“And you’re going to be chewing on bone pretty soon,” I quipped back, turning to look at Audrey.

She lowered her hand from her mouth and returned my glare with a huff. A smile pulled at Tris’s lips as she untangled her fingers from Audrey’s other hand and stood up.

“Come on,” Tris soothed, touching my arm gently, “let’s take a walk..get some coffee.”

I followed her from the waiting room, neither of us talking as we made our way to the cafeteria. Tris ordered the coffees, quietly talking to the older woman behind the counter while I stared at the too white walls around us.

This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have let Katrina put herself in danger in the first place. I didn’t need to talk to my mom.

“It’s not your fault,” Tris murmured, pushing a steaming paper cup into my hand.

I tightened my fingers on the cup, letting the sting of burning skin distract me. She led me towards a lonely table against the back wall of the cafeteria, set the tray of coffees down and pulled out a chair to sit. I slumped into the chair across from her, wrapping both hands around the cup now.

“You a mind reader or something?”

She smiled, pulling the lid off her coffee to stir in sugar, “don’t need to be to know what you’re thinking, you might as well be screaming it to the world.”

I sighed, “it was stupid, letting her do that for me..”

“Did it heal you? Talking to your mom?”

I thought back to that night in the basement, my mom’s voice mixing with Katrina’s. The feeling of old walls breaking down, of relief washing over still raw wounds. Wounds that didn’t hurt so much anymore.

I thought of Katrina hitting the floor, the cruel voice that came from her after that. Her burnt skin after blacking out in the shower, the smell of her blood in the cabin.

“Yes, but-”

Tris’s smooth fingers wrapped around mine, “then it wasn’t stupid. Katrina knew the risks, she wanted to help you. And Olivia.”

“But…if she dies..”

“Don’t give up on her, Billy. She’s strong.”

–

Katrina’s POV

I woke up in a forest, surrounded by black, twisted trees illuminated by roaring flames. The cabin where Neil had taken over poured black smoke as it burned.

“You’re going to die here, with us.”

I spun to see the dark version of myself step out of the trees. Her skin had paled even more, black veins now visible through near transparent skin. Black eyes now burned like embers in the hollows of her face. Her fingers had turned black and I could see trails of ash floating away from her.

A haunting wail sounded through the forest, making my hair stand on end.

“You’re dying,” I murmured.

A smile, “we’re dying, Katrina. You’re coming too.”

“Is he gone?”

She shook her head and pointed to the cabin, a wisp of ash following her movement. I watched as a figure appeared through the blaze. Neil strode forward through the fire, unbothered by the heat and the smoke. But he had changed, back to the twisted man from my nightmares. His beautiful, sharp face was now a bloody agonized snarl. His chest and torso bent and broken at harsh angles. Blackened fingers curled into sharp claws that dug into my skin when he grasped my chin. The sound of metal twisting and screaming rang loud in my head at his touch.

“We could have had everything,” he growled, dark blood pouring from his mouth when he spoke.

“Neil, please,” I pleaded.

“I loved you!” he yelled, sharp fingers moving to twist in my hair and yank my head back.

His other hand dug into the wound on my stomach, fingers reaching and cutting into my body. Tears ran down my face as I screamed and pleaded for him to let me go.

Olivia’s words played in my head, ‘I thought I found my Prince Charming in Neil, but now I understand. Prince Charming and Bluebeard are the same man and you don’t get a happy ending. Not unless you can love both of them.’

I looked up at Neil’s mangled face and cupped it gently with my hand. He looked confused when he met my gaze.

“I…love…you,” I whispered, shivering violently as I tried and failed to keep my eyes open.

His face had returned to normal when I opened my eyes again; I realized he had lowered us to the ground and was crying.

“You what?”

“I…I..love..y-you..”

He smiled softly, tipped his head forward to touch his lips to my forehead and pressed a handle into my hand. His fingers wrapped around mine, keeping the handle tight in my hand and pressed the tip of a blade to his chest.

“Neil…I-I’m..so cold,” I stammered.

“I know,” he soothed, “it’s okay, it’ll be over soon. I love you..”

His grip on my fingers tightened and he pushed the blade into his chest in one fluid motion. He gasped and shuddered, leaning heavy over me. I laid there, under his dying body, as the forest around us went up in flames.

I opened my eyes again when I felt the weight on my chest fading away and saw ash floating off Neil.

“Olivia,” he breathed before disappearing.

A jagged chasm ripped open in my chest when I felt his absence. A final searing pain before I would fade with him.

Slowly, I heard humming getting louder and louder. That same tune that I grew up listening to Olivia hum.

I’ll be with you soon, Olivia. You and Elle.

Cool fingers brushed my forehead, bringing the feeling of warm sun on my face and the sound of rolling waves.

“My girl,” she soothed, gently brushing my hair off my face.

I fought to crack my eyes open to look at her. Olivia’s blonde hair shone like a halo around her and she smiled softly through her tears.

“O..liv,” I struggled.

“Ssh..it’s okay now, Katrina. You did it, you fought so well. I’m so proud of you.”

“C..old..”

Her hand scrambled for mine, squeezing my fingers tight, “I know, my girl, just let me help you, okay? I’ll make it all better.”

She leaned down and pressed a feather soft kiss to my forehead and with a last labored breath, I slipped into darkness.

–

Billy’s POV

A frantic call over the intercom had doctors and nurses running past Tris and I as we made our way back to the waiting room. We glanced at each other and hurried to follow, finding the girls holding hands like scared children while Steve talked hurriedly to a nurse he had pulled aside. I stared at his face, watching it pull tight as Tris handed out the now cooled coffees. He nodded, lips tucked into a thin line and let the other nurse run off. Took a second to breathe before coming back to us.

“Steve, what’s going on?” Riley asked softly.

Steve’s mouth opened and closed and I saw his lip tremble a bit before he exhaled and ran a hand over his face and through his hair.

“Her…her heart stopped.”

The air punched out of my lungs and I felt the room narrow around me.

“No. No, that can’t…There’s gotta be a mistake.”

“Yeah, I fucked up,” Steve snapped, “I shouldn’t have agreed. I’m not a fucking doctor,” his resolve broke and he started shaking, “I broke her ribs…I made everything so much worse..”

Riley left Audrey and Brook in the chairs to go to Steve, wrapping her arms around his neck as he leaned to tuck his face into her shoulder. His hands gripped at her shirt so tight that I could see his tendons strain under his skin.

“You did everything you could, Steve. This isn’t your fault,” Riley soothed.

–

“Come on, Billy. It’s been two days, let’s all go home and shower. We can get some good food and a nap then come back,” Audrey tried.

“You guys go ahead,” I mumbled, “I need to be here.”

Tris’s lips pulled into a frown, “you need to take care of yourself too, Billy.”

“I need to be here,” I repeated, an edge to my voice, “she needs me to be here when she wakes up.”

Steve knelt in front of me, his blue scrubs too vibrant against the white floor, “buddy, we don’t know if or when she’s going to wake up…or if she’ll remember us even. Go home and get cleaned up, I can take care of her.”

“Steve, I can’t. I need to be here for her, I can’t leave.”

He sighed, stood up and squeezed my shoulder, “okay.”

“Can I see her yet?”

He gave me a strained smile, “I’ll see what I can do.”

–

“You’ve got five minutes,” Steve explained as he led me to Katrina’s room, “I’ll be right outside.”

“Thanks, Steve.”

He stopped at the door and looked at me, “just…she wasn’t doing well. Brace yourself.”

I nodded and pushed through the door, stopping dead on the other side. She looked like a corpse lying in the bed, skin pale and dull. Her face looked hollow, all too tight skin and dark shadows.

Monitors beeped all around her, breathing for her and keeping her alive.

I breathed out heavily and stepped up to the side of her bed, taking her limp hand in mine. Careful not to touch any of the IVs, I squeezed her hand gently and knelt to kiss her knuckles.

“Hey Katrina,” I croaked, “I hope you can hear me…It’s probably selfish to ask you to hold on…So, I just want you to know…You don’t have to fight anymore…I know you’re tired and…if you want to stop…” I clenched my jaw tight and sniffed, “if you…it’s okay..you can let go…” I took a second to steady myself before continuing, “I love you, Katrina.”

–

I sagged in the chair, head falling heavy to the side. Steve and the girls had gone home this morning and I was falling asleep waiting for them to return. I let my head fall back, closed my eyes and let myself drift.

“Billy…Billy, wake up.”

I jerked awake to see Riley smiling at me, “you know, you’d sleep better at home.”

I grabbed the coffee in her outstretched hand and mumbled, “can’t leave,” before taking a swig.

She smiled and sat beside me, “hear anything?”

“No, got to see her for a bit earlier though. Her fingers moved.”

Her smile widened, “well that’s good news, right?”

Steve sipped on his coffee across from us, “it happens sometimes, nerves firing.”

“I think it’s a sign,” she mused.

“Maybe,” I murmured.

–

It was the middle of the night when suddenly there were nurses and a couple doctors crowding into Katrina’s room again. Steve, Riley and I sat up, watching the hallway.

“What’s going on?” Riley asked.

Steve shook his head, “I don’t know..”

“Do you think..?” She looked at him with watery eyes.

“There’s no code being called…” he mumbled, standing to stare down the hall.

Riley pulled her phone from her bag to call her sisters and curled into her chair, chewing her nails as we waited to hear something.

–

An hour later Audrey, Brook and Tris rushed into the waiting room with us just after a nurse had come to update us.

We’d get to see her soon.

We waited with baited breath for someone to let us into her room. Waited to see if Katrina was herself or a shell. Waited to see how badly things had gone wrong.

Almost an hour later and we still hadn’t heard anything new. Almost an hour later before we heard a door open and a nurse walked put into the hall. She stood just outside the door, looking into the room and waiting.

Slowly we saw an IV get pushed out of the door.

“Oh my god,” Riley whispered.

The nurse reached out to offer a steadying hand to Katrina as she shuffled through the doorway.

“Holy shit,” Audrey gasped.

The girls and Steve gathered in front of me as we watched her make her way down the hall. Her hands gripped the nurse and the IV pole tight, keeping her up on shaky legs. She was battered and bruised, a ring of purple circling her throat. But she was here, awake and alive.

But does she remember?

Katrina made it to the waiting room and was immediately swarmed as everyone else ran forward to hug her. I hung back, watching tears of relief run down cheeks. Felt a wave of warmth brush over my heart and the sting of tears in my eyes.

After a moment, everyone broke away and Katrina looked me, a pained expression on her face. I came forward, stopping just in front of her, waiting to see if she remembered.

“I know,” she murmured, “I look like roadkill.”

“No, you look beautiful. As always.”

“And you’re a charming liar.”

She rested a hand lightly on my chest, slowly trailing up to my neck, a smile playing on her lips as she pulled me close.

“As always.”

@alias-b @charmed-asylum @champagnesugamama

#billy hargrove #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #fanfic #billy hargrove fanfiction #stranger things fic #billy hargrove fic #stranger things fanfiction

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hypnoshatesme · 4 years

Text

Mending

Gerry didn't know what he had expected when Michael invited him inside. Gerry frankly had not expected Michael to want to see him again at all, much less his eager insistence of Gerry coming home with him after he had stumbled over Gerry at the Institute.

Years had passed since Gerry left without a word. Not quite. He had sent Michael a text, cancelling their date because of a job - which hadn’t been a lie - and never turned back. Michael had called him, but Gerry ignored his phone, turning his back to his burnt down flat and leaving the city.

Had Michael not been late for their date, he’d been among the burnt remains.

Michael, who had approached Gerry despite being equally as intimidated by him as he was awed. Michael, who forgot to eat when studying for one of his courses, but never forgot to send Gerry a goodnight message. Michael, who scrunched up his nose in disapproval when adding sugar to Gerry’s tea, but still did it, because he knew Gerry liked it sweet. Michael, who had brought flowers the second time he came to Gerry’s apartment because he felt like they made it look more like a home. Michael, who, after seeing that Gerry didn’t threw them away even after they wilted joked Gerry should consider fake ones.

Michael, who had been caught up in his group project and sent Gerry a message saying he would be late to the date, but bring the food, so they wouldn’t have to wait any longer for it. Michael, who deserved the world and had narrowly escaped death, because Gerry had little else to offer but danger and fear.

The knowledge hit him like a punch to the gut, the constant anxiety about his life catching up with him and taking the only thing Gerry truly cared about becoming overwhelming. He had been foolish to take the risk in the first place, downright stupid to have continuously let himself indulge in Michael’s company. The worry had been building up every time he got hurt during a job, every time he ended up running for his life from the stuff of nightmares. Gerry thought that, eventually, one of them would find Michael.

And standing in front of his bunt-down apartment, watching the blackened walls and ashes of what had been his, Gerry found himself unable to excuse his foolishness anymore. Gerry destroyed his old phone when Michael called again, getting a new one and holding back from punching in the number he had memorised by now. He willed himself to forget and not look back. He tried his hardest to forget about Michael in the years that followed. Tried to fight the urge to check up on Michael, to try and find him again.

Until he did because Michael had somehow found his own way into Gerry’s fucked up life. Gerry's heart had stopped for a moment when he had seen the tall blond in the archive. It was the last place Gerry had wanted to see him but, god, had he wanted to see him. Forgetting had never really worked and it all came back the moment their eyes met.

And now Michael was kissing him, desperately, hands clutched in the front of Gerry’s shirt, Gerry’s back against the inside of Michael’s apartment door. Gerry’s mind was sent spiralling. Michael had had moments when he had enjoyed kissing, even of some light making out, but now he was pressing Gerry against the door, tongue urgently trying to part Gerry’s lips, hands moving up Gerry’s shirt. They were shaking. Gerry gently put his hands on Michaels shoulders and pushed him away, looking up at him.

"Why...not, not good?", Michael asked, his voice dangerously close to panic.

Gerry furrowed his brows, "Michael, you're shaking. What...what are you doing?"

Michael broke down, tears welling up in his eyes, "Gerry please don’t...don’t go. I'm better now. Don’t leave. I can...I can be better tha-than last time! It's...I'm not...not quite there yet but...but-but...I…", he was sobbing now, face buried in his hands, nails biting into skin and Gerry simply stood there, trying to understand what was going on. Trying to make sense of those words.

"Michael you- Michael, I didn't leave because of you-”, he tried.

Michael interrupted, "I'll work harder on myself, Gerry.” He forced himself to look at Gerry, bringing his hands down, clutching his arms instead, Michael’s eyes were desperate as they looked into Gerry’s, imploring, "I'll try harder just please...please, don't leave. I'll be what you want me to be, Gerry, just...you just need to...to tell me I...I'll try my best. Please don't go. I...I know I was wrong but I'm...better now! I..I work...I'm...I can-"

Gerry’s blood ran cold as the words settled and he started to understand. Michael had always worried about being wrong, about specifically being wrong for Gerry. He always found new reasons that might be the case, but there was one that always came back. Michael had always been worried his asexuality would be a problem for Gerry eventually, even if Gerry kept assuring him it was fine.

Michael had gotten better at believing him with time. Well, he had been getting there at least, before Gerry fucked off. Naturally, Michael found the explanation for being abandoned in his deepest anxiety. Gerry wanted to kick himself for not having considered that.

Gerry of course had known he was hurting Michael by not coming back, he had. He kept telling himself that it was for Michael's good, for his safety. Kept telling himself Michael would find somebody else, somebody better, and be fine. Michael was clearly far away from fine. Gerry felt a suffocating, nauseating feeling settle in his throat.

"Michael, all I ever wanted you to be was yourself I-”, Gerry’s own voice was barely recognisable to himself, shock and panic and regret, “Oh shit, Michael, shit. I'm so fucking sorry I…", Gerry stepped closer, wanting to pull Michael into a hug, but stepped back again.

Michael looked confused and stressed, nails biting into the skin of his arms, "No! No, no, no, you were right I should have never expected you to stick around with me...broken like that, I...I shouldn't have...I...you deserved better. I..I'm better now! I can...y..you can…"

Gerry shook his head. "Don't. I...Michael, I left so you wouldn’t be dragged into this paranormal mess, okay? They...they found me. I...I knew they would find you, too, one day and I just...I couldn’t bear the thought and....", Gerry sniffed, furiously brushing the tears away that had started running down his face, “It...it had nothing to do with you, Michael. E-Except that I wanted you to be safe.”

Michael froze, stunned by the tears as much as the words. His panic turned into an urge to comfort Gerry, and he pulled him into his arms, thoughts still whirring, trying to make sense of what Gerry had said. It had never occured to Michael that there might be any outside reason to explain Gerry’s disapperance. Well, not quite right. He had worried something might have happened to Gerry. He knew Gerry did something dangerous, had struggled to not push the topic when Gerry had told him it was better if Michael didn’t know too much.

But eventually, Michael had had to accept that that was just an excuse he was coming up with to avoid facing what the actual problem had been. Himself. Gerry sent him a message, after all, that was basically a goodbye. No, he certainly had left. Gotten fed up, realised Michael wasn’t worth it. Found somebody who wasn’t broken .

Gerry froze at the unexpected hug, at having his face pressed against Michael’s chest, breathing him him - some corner of Gerry’s mind was relieved at the realisation that he still used the same detergent, still smelled the same - at the long arms wrapped around Gerry, thinner than they used to be, but still the same, still feeling, unmistakably, like home . He started sobbing, now, fists clenching in the back of Michael’s sweater.

Michael let him, still feeling overwhelmed by the whole situation. He gently rubbed Gerry’s back, holding him tightly. It calmed himself, made it easier to process everything that had happened today, from running into Gerry in the Institute at night, to insisting on him coming home with Michael, afraid he would lose him again if he dared to even blink, to...this. The panic had set in the moment Michael recognised the man going through a box of statements and Michael hadn’t had a clear thought since. So now he tried, at least.

His voice was calm when he spoke up again, only a slight waver still audible, "Wouldn't that have been my decision to make? Whether i wanted to take the risk of being hurt by monsters?", he said it softly because Gerry was still shaking, and Michael didn’t want to upset him further.

Gerry froze again. Michael was right of course. Gerry wondered if regret could choke you as he lost his fight against the sobs climbing up his throat again.

Michael’s eyes went big and he pulled Gerry tighter, "Oh, I'm sorry that...that was mean I...I'm sorry, I didn't-"

Gerry shook his head, "No. No you're right. I...I'm so sorry, Michael. I...I-"

"Shhh, it's...it’s okay Gerry. I...I’m just glad you’re here.", he mumbled, buying his face in Gerry’s hair, breathing in the familiar scent Michael had so desperately tried not to forget. It was still so much better than what he remembered, so much more than a scent because it was Gerry, and Michael didn’t feel so hollow for the first time in years.

It felt right . And Michael never wanted to let go again. But that wasn’t something he could force to happen and Michael blushed a little, embarrassed about the complete breakdown he’d had, the things he’d said.

He swallowed, “I...I’m sorry I broke down like this I...if you...if you don’t want to, don’t feel pressured into staying, okay? I was...I just was so...overwhelmed. You don’t-I...it’s fine if you don’t want to stay, really.”

It sounded very unconvincing, even to himself, and Michael wished he could go back in time and stop himself from saying all those things before, from begging. He didn’t want Gerry to stick around because he felt guilty , because Michael was obviously a mess without him. Well, more of a mess than with him.

“Michael…”, Gerry breathed out, “Michael, you shouldn’t...you shouldn’t want me back. After all-”

“That’s also my decision to make, Gerry.”, Michael interrupted gently, running his hand through Gerry’s hair, “And I...I can’t remember a day passing without me wishing you were back.”, he added, cheeks flushing, “Sorry, that was cheesy.”, he mumbled into Gerry’s hair.

Gerry huffed out a laugh, pressing his forehead against Michael’s chest, “I missed you so fucking much.”

Michael felt like his heart was mending itself back together, an aching he had gotten used to after it being present for years soothed, “I...I missed you, too, Gerry,” he managed to mumble through the overwhelming feeling.

Gerry finally unclenched his hands, returning the hug properly and burying his face in Michael’s chest, sighing deeply. Michael smiled widely, nuzzling Gerry’s hair.

#gerrymichael #this is the angst i was talking about #anxiety specifically asexuality-related one #but also general #just a grand time rly #this turned out really messy and i'm sorry

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raspberry-arev · 5 years

Text

And there was only one bed! (Snowbaz fic)

I know this is a very overdone trope, but I also happen to be a complete sucker for it. Hopefully someone will share my sentiment. (Also, this is my first fanfic. And first story written in English. Sorry if it’s not as good as I thought, haha)

Summary: Simon and Baz still share a room at Watford. Simon’s nightmares are getting unbearable… and one night, his magic sets fire to his bed. What will happen next will shock you!!1!

Word count: 7.5k

Tags: angst, sharing beds, cuddling, fluff, Baz being a tortured soul

Baz

It all started with fire.

I would assume about two hours had passed since my return from the catacombs. I had been exhausted enough to fall face-first into my pillow, not even bothering to change out of my clothes before I fell asleep. It had been a long day… and by trying to avoid Simon Snow, I had made it even longer.

He was already snoring lightly with his mouth open when I came back. He looked stupid. And he was still asleep as the smell of smoke woke me up.

I guess I heard him whine in his sleep, too, but I didn’t pay attention anymore. It was an unwritten rule between us that we pretended we didn’t notice the other having night terrors; one of the few remaining lines even I haven’t crossed. Which speaks volumes. I’m proficient at being an asshole.

Yet, this time, I could tell something was different.

Worse.

He was tossing in his sheets, head twitching from side to side, stifled moans getting stuck somewhere in his throat. His hair was damp with sweat. And it looked as if… as if his edges were getting blurry and shaky. As if he was dissolving into pure energy.

Then it hit me, right before I breathed in again, tasting the smoke on my tongue.

Simon Snow was catching fire.

I would rather be in this room with a bomb than Snow as he is losing control of his magic. Especially considering that I was made to be burned alive.

“Snow,” I hissed sharply, swinging my legs over the edge of my bed.

His breathing was getting more and more ragged, chest rising and falling at an incredible speed.

“Snow,” I spoke up. Didn’t really feel like shaking him. That would probably make matters worse. “For Morgana’s sake, Snow, it’s just a dream. Snap out of it!”

Smoke was rising from underneath his body. His body barely looked like a body anymore – just a buzzing, shaky mess, power and heat solidified. A thought formed in my mind, of running out of the room as fast as possible and leaving him behind. He was so not my responsibility…

But of course, I didn’t. I like to flirt with death at any given opportunity. Instead of escaping, I just so managed to grab my wand and shouted: “Simon, wake up!”

I must have instinctively put some magic into that order.

Simon’s eyes flew open and he gasped for breath –

As the bed burst into flames with him in it. Like a fucking funeral pyre.

I screamed in terror before all spells used to put out fires in all languages I know came pouring from my lips. To my own shock, Snow rolled out of the burning bed to my feet, not a single scratch on him. He started slapping his pajama bottoms that have, unlike him, caught on fire in some places, and I just yelled something along the lines of “Alaister fucking Crowley fucking help me”. A Snow-made fire was not easy to tame. And at any moment, I could step too close and I would light up…

But eventually, I found myself standing in a dark, quiet room, the blackened remains of a bed frame right in front of me. And Simon Snow beside me. Still shaking, still breathing too fast… and in his hand that bloody sword. What was he going to do? Stab the fire to death?!

“Do you think you’ll ever manage to stop being a useless excuse for a magician,” I growled at him, “and take out your wand before that primitive pointy stick?”

“I just – I – what happened?”

“You fucking went supernova, o Chosen One, that’s what happened!” Now that we were both safe, I had to resist the urge to punch him square in the face. “As if it’s not enough that I have to breathe the same air as you, now I should worry that I’ll burn to death in my sleep?!”

“Well, sorry,” he snapped. “It’s not like I had any control over what happened!”

“Oh, don’t worry. I would never think you are capable of having anything under control.”

“Why are you always such… such a complete prick?”

“It’s what I do best. Kind of like you with putting people in danger just by being alive.”

His eyes were like an open book for me to read in. I clearly saw the flash of hurt that my words have caused. Hit a sore spot, have I?

My job of making him feel miserable was done. I turned my back and remarked: “If you have no other plans to roast me alive, I’d like to go back to sleep.”

Snow stayed silent. Only a huff of air made it clear to me that he was frustrated. I didn’t even manage to properly lie down before he spoke again.

“Is there any spell to repair the bed?”

“After you have turned it to ashes?” I laughed at him. “No.”

“I bet you wouldn’t tell me even if you knew, huh.”

“Ah, maybe you’re not so daft after all.”

I made myself comfortable in the sheets, very aware of Snow’s look that bore into my back. He did look very shaken up just then. But I forcibly silenced that small part of me that was concerned for his wellbeing – there would be no asking whether he is alright. I’ve made it worse for him, haven’t I? So why would I care to ask questions I already know the answer to?

Just as I closed my eyes, I heard him speak again.

“Where the fuck am I supposed to sleep then?”

Although he was swearing… It almost sounded like a plea.

I gritted my teeth and spat out: “In the bathtub for all I care.”

A second later, the bathroom door loudly slammed shut.

I hated myself.

I hated myself for doing this, I hated myself for feeling guilty for doing this, I hated myself for how desperately I wanted to save him just moments ago.

I gave in for just a small moment and imagined Simon Snow crawling into my bed, into my arms. So warm and irresistibly alive.

And then I imagined us both burn.

Just as it should be.

***

From what I’ve heard, the Watford administration was very different while Mother was still in charge of the school. In a way that there was actual work getting done. She imposed order and structure and put thought into choosing competent staff members. Of course, it was no news to me that everything has been falling apart since the Mage rose to power… But now I had just another fucking bone to pick with him.

As I came back to our shared room the next evening, I expected to see a new bed waiting for Snow and all signs of the fire magicked away. But what was waiting for me there was the same mess that was there the night before. Half-burned wall, blackened floorboards and the stench of smoke still in the air, despite all windows being open. The only difference was that someone had got rid off the discarded bedframe. But that might’ve been Snow himself.

I would have thought the Mage would rush to make his favourite boy soldier comfortable again.

Maybe he didn’t care much after all.

Snow’s barely noticed that I had made my entrée. He was sitting at the table, legs folded strangely underneath himself. The torn, tattered pages in front of him appeared to be his homework, but he clearly wasn’t paying attention to that either. He kept staring out the window.

I didn’t even have to look at his face; the air was already heavy around him, the stillness of an unbearably hot summer day you can’t wait to be over. This is what his magic did when he was moping.

I took a stride to my bed. Slowly, I let the blazer fall off my shoulders. Then I hung it neatly over the unoccupied chair and sat down on my bed, breathing out just loudly enough so it would send a clear message to Snow: I have a bed to relax in. You don’t.

He was at the very edge of my vision now… but I could his shoulders hunch a little. Pretty sure he was gritting his teeth at me.

I could have just looked at him – I had reasons to be convinced that with a horrible posture like that, his back muscles would be visible through the shirt, that was always quite a sight. But I decided not to be completely pathetic… today. There was a time and place for everything.

Plus, Mother was probably rolling in her grave as it was.

Perhaps I could go check one of these nights? Her undead son hunting rodents in her tomb had not woken her up from her eternal sleep. But maybe, if I sat down and told her about the boy I have a crush on, she would rise just to personally drag me into the pits of hell.

I felt my brows furrow at the thought.

Time to pass on some of my misery. Was planning on it, anyway.

“Are you going to clean up after yourself?” I asked in the coldest tone possible. “Or should I hire a maid?”

Hearing my voice so suddenly made him jump. He tried to cover it, but playing cool was decidedly not one of the three things in life that Simon Snow was good at.

(Those were, not necessarily in this order: swinging a sword, taking orders from the Mage and being way too bloody attractive for anybody’s good.)

(Oh, and eating like a pig. So four.)

He turned half-way and said: “I got rid of the bed.”

“Lovely, would you like a medal?”

Exasperated sigh. “Just… just what do you want, Baz?”

I stabbed at the burnt wall with my eyes, then looked back at him. “So this shit is now a part of the interior design?”

He brought his hand up and pulled on his hair.

I kept on pushing. “Maybe you’re used to having your living space look like a slum, Snow, considering the hole you crawled out of. But I suggest you get off your ass and fix it. Right now.”

“I – I thought – look, wouldn’t it be better if –”

“If what? If I did it for you?” I arched my eyebrow. “You’ve got to be fucking joking.”

“No! Just let me speak!” he bursted. Then he immediately took a breath in, determined to keep his composture.

Right. That was not going to happen.

This was a game. A game that could only end in my driving him so mad he wouldn’t manage to put together a coherent sentence. Possibly even cry, but maybe we were too old for that now. What a shame.

“Look,” Snow mumbled, “I’m gonna have it fixed. Soon. If… If I tried to do anything about it, the whole wall could just… disappear.” His voice full of shame, he added: “Things like that happened before.”

Was I supposed to feel sorry for him?

“You really are a sorry excuse for a mage,” I told him.

Snow’s face scrunched up like a child’s before he turned his back.

“But you do keep surprising me with how much worse you can get.”

“You say,” he blurted out.

“Great comeback,” I laughed at him, gaining momentum with every word. “Tells a great deal about your intelligence, just like the fact any twelve-year-old with magic could clean up after himself… but here you are. Waiting on other people to fix your fuck-ups as usual.”

“Stop.”

“Why don’t you run to papa Mage and bring him here? I’m sure that would make me stop. Or you could tell him you’re having bad dreams, he could come and tuck you in every night.”

“You –”

“I imagine he doesn’t want to spend more time around you than absolutely needed. Who can blame him. I’m stuck here with you and I feel my braincells dying every time I hear you speak.”

“Crowley, just – why – what are you –”

“Oh, there they go again. Gone. With every single word.”

“Jesus Christ, leave me the fuck alone,” he boomed, apparently at the end of his wits. (Whether he had any wits to begin with was disputable.) I could feel my lips sealing on their own as he stormed across the room and slammed the door so loudly the walls shook.

I sighed and relaxed into my mattress.

Finally. I had hoped to get a chance to nap in solitude.

***

That evening I decided to pass on the hunting. The nap I took left me all blurry and cranky and unwilling to move from my bed. I was sure I had drunk quite enough the previous night.

Besides, I couldn’t miss Snow coming back to the dorm room. I had to let him know how laughable his little tantrum was.

And yet, when he did return… I couldn’t bring myself to make a single comment about it.

Not because my heart had grown too gentle to torture him – as if that would ever happen. It was because Snow looked like hell. He did try to hide his face. But his eyes were all red and puffy. Morgana, was this real? Had I actually made him cry, just like when we were kids?

Maybe I was really getting soft. Because the thought made me feel guilty. Come to think of it… Snow had been having nightmares as long as I’ve known him, but these couple of weeks were positively more intense. He jolted awake multiple times a night, often almost catching me midnight snacking. The circles under his eyes grew deeper, darker. Like bruises.

Snow stomped to the wardrobe and started to pull out items of clothing at random, clumping them together. I was not worth a single look to him. Still, I put on a condescending expression, just in case.

I could feel a strange emotion grow in my chest. He was clearly on his way to sleep in the tub again – moron, he could’ve made a king-sized bed if he had learned to use his power properly – and I just couldn’t stop thinking about… things.

No, not those things. Crowley. More like Snow bursting into bright orange flames again. Locked in the bathroom. Devoured by fire…

It shouldn’t bother me. Fuck. It really shouldn’t. A dead Mage’s heir should be the best case scenario.

But it really wasn’t. Not to me.

I just… I was afraid for his life. I was a disgrace to my family and their values, I was the stupidest bastard alive… But I didn’t want Snow dead. I knew damn well why that is. Deep down. But just for the sake of my pride, I pretended it was because I had worked way too hard to end Snow for him to kill himself. Accidently, in his sleep.

Snow turned to me at the stupidest possible moment. I scrambled to get my expression under control. Who knows if it worked.

“You need to use the bathroom?” he spat out. “Or can I go lie down?”

I kept staring into his eyes, motionless.

Frankly, it did not happen very often that I’d find my morality challenged… since I had none. Now, my chest felt stuffed. And I wasn’t entirely sure what to do.

I didn’t like this.

Snow curled his lip and soon after, the bathroom door slammed shut behind him. There was a soft click of the lock. At the exact same moment, I caught myself reaching for the doorknob.

I grabbed my own arm and retrieved it. I shook my head; what was I thinking? I mean… there was a spell, of course… but even if Snow would’ve wanted my help, which I was sure he wouldn’t have, what good would it do? At the end of the day, he was still the Mage’s pet.

I couldn’t be the one saving The Simon Snow. No matter how many feelings for him I’ve harboured, we were at the opposite ends of the barricade. Actually, no – we were going to be the first to come through the barricade to try and take the other’s life.

I sat back on my bed.

I would leave him be, I decided. Wellbelove could kiss his pain away the following morning for all I care.

If he is alive the following morning, my mind opposed.

Aleister Crowley! What was happening to me?!

What I wanted to do, truly wanted to do… it wasn’t clever. It didn’t profit me or anyone I cared for. But there was, jumping to my feet and going back to the bathroom door. Taking a deep breath.

Then I called: “Snow?”

“Sod off,” he yelled back.

“Oh, save it,” I roll my eyes. “Just come out. I want to talk.” That was not true. I wanted to talk as little as possible. Solve the problem of the missing bed and say little to nothing about it.

“Ask if I care.”

Impatient, I knocked on the door multiple times just a little too strong. “I don’t have all night,” I rose my voice. “If you want to sleep in the tub so badly, then suit yourself. But there’s another way, so just get over yourself and open the damn door.”

There was only silence on the other side.

Then I heard steps. The familiar click of the lock. Two blue eyes looked up at me.

I swallowed.

I couldn’t believe I was doing this.

“So?” Snow asked, wary, but curious. “What is it?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Just to be clear, I don’t want anybody hearing about this,” I warned him, “or else I will find you and hex you. Understood?”

Snow shrugged, and his fingers found their way to the cross necklace he was wearing. I always found it annoying when he fiddled with it. I found it annoying that he had it in the first place. Yet another fuck you just for me.

“Alright, and…?”

It was especially hard to find words to explain what I was about to do. For… For him. To think that I’d be helping Snow instead of making his life even more hell…

Instead of speaking, I just took out my wand.

I knew what to do.

To my defence, it had not been my idea to watch Normal shows. It was Aunt Fiona, who found the Normal world really entertaining for some odd reason, that had me sit through four seasons of Doctor Who. After that, I eloquently explained that I thought it was kind of dumb. She still made me try out multiple spells that she’d invented after binge-watching the entire thing.

Now, I pointed the wand at my bed and cast a spell: “It’s bigger on the inside.” For this one to work, you had to mimic one of the Doctors’ accents. I was more than ready to murder Snow if he had laughed at me.

“I didn’t know that one,” he pointed out the obvious.

“Of course you didn’t.”

“What did it do though?”

I decided to demonstrate. I sat on the bed and scooted back to the wall, further and further, until my legs were stretched out in front of me. Which, obviously, was not supposed to be possible. The bed was not wide enough for that.

The trick was that whatever you used the spell on looked the same, but it got as spacious as needed. You could get infinite storage space without visibly enlarging the wardrobe, for example.

Considering this single bed… well, I suppose the entire football team could sleep on it and they wouldn’t even touch.

This spell was a bit of an eyesore, unfortunately. I could see Snow blinking in confusion. He saw the same thing I did – my legs laying comfortably on the mattress, and yet, the bed stayed the same size. Visually, my legs didn’t shrink, the bed didn’t get bigger… both realities existed at once. It was a bit much for the mind to handle.

“It’s as big as needed,” I explained briefly, not looking at him anymore. “You can sleep here just this once. And make sure it doesn’t have to happen again. Got it?”

“I – I mean –“ He looked shocked. Amazed, even.

“Speak, Snow.”

“Yes,” he nodded. His eyes got a completely bewildered look in them, I couldn’t keep the eye contact. “I – yeah.”

“The blanket is mine,” I informed him coldly. I would not pamper him like that. It was enough that I had just invited him into my bed.

Fuck’s sake. It’s going to smell like him, too, isn’t it? My mouth went dry at the thought. This was probably the stupidest idea I’ve had in the last ten years. Completely off the charts idiotic.

Good thing I had already changed into my pyjamas. Without a word, I lay down and slithered as close to the wall as possible; I felt as though I was never going to reach it. I covered myself with the blanket head to toe.

Nothing in this world would make me confess how nervous I was about the whole premise of Simon bloody Snow sleeping in the same bed as me. As I was laying there, a lot of memories came rushing to my mind. Of being fifteen and dying over how much I wanted Snow’s body on mine. How many fantasies of him getting up in the middle of the night and crawling into my bed had kept me up for hours? Smelling of firewood, his hands roaming under the sheets and his stupid mouth following suit…?

No.

No, this was not something I wanted to bring back. If he touched me, even by accident, I was pushing him onto the floor.

But still, I just knew where he was, how far from me exactly. I listened to him change from his clothes, the fabric rustling, floorboards creaking under his feet. Eventually he turned off the light and lay down somewhere behind me. So far… and yet so awfully close.

There was complete dead silence for a while.

Before Snow cleared his throat.

“Baz?” he sighed silently. “Thanks.”

I closed my eyes.

“Shut up.”

***

When I heard Snow whimpering in his sleep, I thought the events of last night had just come creeping into my dreams. This couldn’t be real.

Then came the burning smell. The air got thicker and every hair on my body stood up. It made me lift my head from the pillow to check on Snow.

It was the same as last time. Only I was closer. All the twitching, his body crackling with energy. Almost glowing with it.

My drowsy brain took about a second to know Snow was having terrors again. And another one to deduct that he was about to blow up my bed, taking me with it. He might’ve made it the last time, survived the magickal fire he started. Me? Not a chance there.

I was not ready to meet my fate.

I could feel panic rise in my throat and I pushed it down. In a millisecond, I calculated my chances. Snow will blow up, set me on fire. I die. Everybody in the dorm would be in danger. I couldn’t reach my wand, left it on the bedside table. No use talking to Snow, wake him up. No use trying to get out. He was getting all blurry again… his power made my mouth taste of smoke and blood.

The realisation dawned on me.

There was nothing I could do that was sure to save me.

In what I considered to be my last moments, I instinctively did the thing I wanted to do the most, just to keep the theme of being a pitiful, lovesick fool. Reaching across the bed, I took Snow’s hand. Closed my eyes.

I knew you would rid this world of me, I thought at him. It seemed to me like I was thanking him for the deed.

And then…

There was no fire.

Snow just squeezed my hand so tightly I felt my joints crack and curled around it like a small, frightened child. He was still breathing way too quickly… but the air got colder. The smoke was scattering.

I could not believe my eyes. Snow was holding onto my hand. I felt my pulse shoot up as I took in the view.

Something was telling me there was more. More I could do. And I felt like it must’ve been my destiny to die that night, because if Snow hadn’t killed me before he wakes from his nightmare… he sure would after.

Either way, I grit my teeth and came closer to Snow and our joint hands. I pulled the boy to my chest, all touches soft as velvet. His cross was buzzing between us, just another point of tension.

Snow’s bare skin was feverishly hot. I wish I wasn’t cold as a corpse. I wish I was alive.

Nevertheless, I tried to make the hug as comforting as possible. I ran my fingers through his hair; I saw Wellbelove do that once at the dinner table and Snow looked like he was just about to start purring. I kept my eyes on the black void of the opposite wall, a reminder of what I was trying to prevent here, and cautiously scratched snow’s scalp. Just like I had seen his girlfriend doing it.

He relaxed against me almost immediately.

His hair was incredibly soft. I’d never got to touch it before, although I’d always…

My throat got tighter. I had to stop the train of thought immediately.

I was just going mad because of him, wasn’t I?

As if he had heard that, Snow twitched in his sleep and I brought him closer, petting his head, letting him drool onto my shirt. A giant murderous baby, that’s what he was. And I was just the moron that was stuck cradling him. And I was indulging in it. And I wished I could erase the memory of what it felt like to be so close to him after this moment…

I sighed and scratched Snow’s head again.

At least this bloody thing worked.

If nothing else, it was a good call to try and calm him down like this. He was getting more stable by the second.

“Shhh,” I found myself cooing. This night was not going to get any stranger at this point, no matter what I did. “It’s okay. You are going to be okay.”

Snow didn’t register that I spoke to him. Fortunately. He was fast asleep in my arms. I kept absentmindedly stroking his hair before I finally drifted off as well…

“Baz…?’”

What… What was that? I felt so hot…

“Baz – what the hell are you – what is happening?!”

Crowley.

Oh no.

My eyes flew open just to meet Snow’s. He was so close. And so extremely confused, trying to push me away. I saved him the trouble as I scrambled away in panic. He grabbed his arms like a lady that had just been harassed.

I regained false composure in a bat of an eye. I would have been completely red by now if I had any fresh blood left in me. Good thing I hadn’t drank this time.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Snow.” I made a mildly disgusted face. “I was trying to save my life from a certain pyromaniac.”

His eyes widened. First, there was understanding. Then shock.

“So you… you just… cuddled me?!”

“Fuck’s sake. It worked. Don’t be an idiot!”

I aggressively threw the blanket over myself and turned to face the wall.

I fucked up. I fucked up. I fucked it up so badly. Now the entire school’s about to learn that I cuddle my arch nemesis in my sleep. Snow is undoubtedly going to tell everyone, just as he’s been trying to convince the whole school that I’m an undead vampire that is planning his downfall. (Which is more or less correct, but that’s not the point.)

“It’s not – I mean – sorry,” Snow blabbered behind me. “And thanks again. Not – not for that, for stopping me. Er. Sorry.”

“You’re fucking welcome.”

“Baz – I –”

“That was not an imploration to keep talking, Snow. I’m going back to sleep.”

I felt him sink into the mattress.

When he took a breath to speak again, I thought I would rip his head off.

“It’s just… the terrors. They are getting worse.”

“You wouldn’t believe,” I sighed, “how happy I am to hear that.”

It shut him right up. Didn’t even call me evil, which was a first. It really must have bothered him… I was cursing at myself internally, but I asked anyway: “What are they about?”

“Huh?”

“The dreams. What are they about?”

Snow paused.

When he answered, his tone was flat. Dark.

“Everyone dead. Because of me.”

***

We said nothing about any of that in the morning. Who knows what Snow was thinking.

All I did was take the memory of him in my arms that was tingling in my skin and lock it somewhere deep inside of me. I would reach for it, I was sure, at those times when I would muse about how utterly miserable my entire life was. How I could never love anybody else but him. And how that doesn’t even matter because we were bound to destroy each other from day one.

***

“Look – er, I’m sorry, I really tried to get hold of someone, but –”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Sorry, Baz. Come on, don’t look at me like that, I really am sorry. I can go back to the bathroom, you know, if –”

“If I would rather you didn’t set me on fire?”

“Technically. Yeah.”

I sighed. I thought that would be a one-night-only issue. The bed. But apparently, the universe has a wicked sense of humour.

“Why don’t you just tell your little sidekick Bunce to come here and take care of it? I assume a single bed wouldn’t be much of a challenge for her.”

His eyes darted around the room. “Penelope can’t come here. She’s… a girl. That’s impossible.”

“You must be daft as a troll to believe I didn’t know.”

“I – er – I don’t – Penny never –”

“Save it.”

His ears were red as a beat. He didn’t look at me again, just pulled as his hair and stuttered out: “Uh – will you be taking a shower? Or can I…”

There was no need for me to protest. I knew that. I could’ve just refused to share my bed again. That’s what I would do if I wasn’t just a little too desperate and eager to torture myself. But I had convinced myself that this thing – Snow in my bed, but not the way I wanted it, never the way I wanted it – was something I fully deserved. Why wouldn’t I?

I did not deserve nice things, that was for sure.

I did not deserve the golden boy. He was not for me. But I could borrow him one more time.

I made my way to the door. “I’ll be back,” I said, looking him up and down, “but you’re not sleeping in the bathroom.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because it’s nonsense. The spell hasn’t worn off yet, It would be… a waste of magic.” Crowley, how was that making any sense?! I really was becoming dumber by the minute.

“But… but…”

“But, but, but,” I mocked him. Snow frowned at me and finished: “Why are you helping me like this, Baz?”

I turned my back.

“I’m not.”

“You are. Why?” he kept pestering.

“Maybe I want you to trust me for a bit, so I could kill you in your sleep.”

“I would never trust you,” Snow assured me… and I hated the way my stomach sunk to the floor. “And besides, you can’t kill me here. Anathema, remember?”

One foot out of the door already, I smirked: “Well, guess I am just going to shave off your eyebrows.”

***

Upon my return, the room was dark and silent. Snow had curled up with his back to the wall, lips slightly parted, his hair an ocean of curls… on my pillow. For a brief moment, I considered snatching it from underneath his stupid face. But that would just wake him up and I didn’t want to talk to him. I also didn’t want him to move away from the wall. That way, if he starts setting fires again, I have a chance to roll out of bed and leave him to it.

I went and took a shower. I really needed it. Changed into my pyjamas and laid down on the very edge of the bed, facing the room and not… him. Good thing I was so tired… I let my eyelids fall on their own, that was all it took…

And all it took for my eyes to swing open again was the sound, the feeling, of Snow shuffling closer to me.

Before I realized what was happening, I had two arms locked around my waist. And his body pressed into mine. Firm. Hot. So fucking real. He let out a relieved sigh – a huff of air against my bare neck. I could feel myself going pink in the face.

This was not a situation my mind had the capacity to process. Snow, I mouthed silently, eyes wide in shock. But I did not speak. What was I going to do? Wake him up? Throw a fit, ridicule him?

Simon Snow was holding me. He did it. He initiated it. Aleister Crowley and all mages that came before me, what was I going to do with this?!

But…

Really…

Fuck, I didn’t want to make a scene. Or wake him up. Or move an inch. This was all I would ever get. Snow… Simon… He wasn’t gay. Probably not even bi. I could never have him. And this was not conscious, and he would feel incredibly embarrassed in the morning.

He was holding me now, though.

I couldn’t give it up.

So I relaxed into the embrace. I hovered my hand over his for a moment, wondering whether I should… but no, no, that was too much. I let it fall onto the bed.

Snow was breathing on my neck, sending little shivers down my spine. I was never this close to anybody before. Never this aware of somebody else’s presence, skin, breathing.

With every rise and fall of his chest against my back, I thought: I love you, Simon Snow.

I wish I could only feel love for you.

I wish that was all there is to life.

***

Snow woke up first. He slipped away from me and said nothing. Which was odd.

I almost let myself hope. Almost believed he knew what he did and did it on purpose. Almost lost myself in fantasies of a great secret romance with Snow.

But when I arrived at the dorms that afternoon, I found it clean, tidy… and there was a brand new single bed waiting on Snow’s side of the room.

I ran out and into the catacombs so quickly I forgot to close the door behind me.

Hope turned out to be the worst thing that could’ve happened to me.

***

I roamed the underground for hours, trying to get lost and failing miserably.

Seriously, what was I thinking? That I might get a few more nights? A week of snuggling close to the person I was supposed to be fighting? Did I think he would kiss me? Did I think he would touch me?

I was a naïve fool. Simon Snow was going to fight for the Mage, as he always had, against the old families. Against my family. I had to protect my own, I had to do what was expected of me, and so did he. We had no future. Maybe one of us would live, but not both. Not together.

I thought I had understood a long time ago.

I thought I could control myself. Refrain from imagining stupid, unrealistic scenarios.

I was wrong. And useless. Noted.

I just wished Snow had never touched me. I would never forget all the things I would miss out on. It was better when I had no idea.

This was probably when I started crying.

***

It was almost dawn when I stumbled back into the room.

At first, I though I was just hallucinating. That I was this far gone.

But Snow’s bed was empty.

He was cozied up in mine.

I got inexplicably angry at a snap of fingers. I slammed the door and exclaimed: “Snow?!”

That scared him awake.

“What the hell,” he mumbled and rubbed his face. “What time is it?”

“Time for you to get out of my fucking bed!”

“Crowley, stop yelling,” he complained. “I, er… was waiting for you. Fell asleep, I guess.”

Waiting? In my bed?

Why, why would he do that?

He had to stop. I would not let him give me false hope anymore. I whipped out my wand and pointed it at him. His hands flew into the air.

“Get out now,” I hissed, not putting any magic into my words… yet.

“You can’t curse me.”

“Snow.”

“You’d be expelled out of Watford.”

“Try me. Maybe I’m willing to sacrifice my education for an easy kill.”

“Oh – come on –” He rapidly stood up. “See? Your bed. I just… wanted to talk to you. I mean, not originally, but now…”

“There is nothing to talk about.”

“I just though… the spell is still working and…”

“And what? You have your own bed. Problem solved. What the fuck are you on about?” I threw my blazer onto a chair and started angrily removing my tie.

Snow kept standing in the middle of the room like a lost lamb.

But when he spoke, his voice cut clear through the room and into my weak, weak mind.

“You hugged me the other night,” he stated. “And held my hand.”

I had a hard time coming up with a comeback to this that wouldn’t include physical violence. So I ignored him… only making it worse.

“And yesterday, I… I hugged you. But you didn’t pull away. You were awake, you let me do it.”

I abruptly turned on my heel and in a second, I was staring him down, face only inches from his.

“You leave me the fuck alone,” I growled. “I never did those things. Touch me again and I break all of your bones.”

“You know I’m telling the truth!”

“You are not. You are a sorry little attention-seeker and nobody will believe you.”

“Stop trying to manipulate me, it won’t work!” he retorted. “And I haven’t told anybody. Never will. I only want to talk to you about… everything.”

“Right. Before you try and blackmail me.”

“No, listen –”

“See, Snow, if there are some feelings you are repressing, I suggest you keep that to yourself. I want you five feet away from me at all times.” Then I spat at his feet. Snow winced.

It wasn’t fair of me. I’ve had my share of repressing emotions. But since when was I the one to play nice? Simon Snow truly was the source of most of my problems in life. Him and his fragile feelings could go fuck themselves.

“You’re disgusting,” he told me.

“You’re annoying.”

“Could you just hear me out for once?”

“Could. Don’t want to.”

“Crowley – just admit it –”

My hands flew to his neck before he could finish the sentence. But he caught them and fought me, even though I was physically stronger than him.

“Knock it off. Baz! I said knock it off!” I felt his magic rise to his panicked voice and make the air crackle with power. I couldn’t help it, I had to step away.

Snow was shaking, visibly upset at me. Maybe he would go off on me. Maybe he would be expelled for that immediately after. Delightful.

Snow’s rage was delightful too.

“I can’t fucking believe you,” he exclaimed. “I hate you so fucking much, you are just evil!”

There it was.

“Likewise.”

“What’s your problem, seriously? Why wouldn’t you just admit what happened between us –”

“Nothing happened, Snow,” I cut him off. “That’s it. Solved the mystery for you.”

“If it was nothing then why are you so scared of having me in your bed? I slept there before, you could’ve just left it!”

“I’m not scared. You are just bordering sexual harassment,” I shouted back. I was positively losing it. Did he… know I was queer? He couldn’t. “Do you have any idea what this all sounds like?! Why would you want to sleep in my bed anyway?!”

“Because I liked it!” he boomed.

Silence fell.

The sky behind the window glass was turning yellow with sunrise.

What… what the everloving fuck did he mean by that? He was just probably trying to use me. Pushing me just to see proof that I have a thing for him. No, never in a million years…

“I – um,” Snow cleared his throat.

I don’t think I’d ever seen anyone blush so much.

“It’s like… I’m not saying I understand what it was. What it… means. But…”

He stepped closer, biting the inside of his face. I couldn’t move. If I could, I would run away in the speed of light.

“But I like this,” he finally admitted, and his gaze fell to his feet. Fuck, it was adorable. “The two of us. Close. Just… sleeping. Nothing else.”

I stared at him in utter disbelief. I tried to accuse him: “It’s some kind of a trick.” My voice was way too shaky though. It didn’t have the effect.

Snow softly shook his head.

“You’re the one who’s always plotting,” he pointed out. “I’m just the guy swinging a sword.”

“I still feel like there is a catch.”

“There isn’t.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. There just isn’t. I’m being honest.”

I wanted to tell him to go to bed, his own bed, but the words got stuck in my throat and wouldn’t come out. Snow, standing dangerously close to me at this point, hurried to add: “We don’t have to talk about it. We really don’t. Besides, nobody knows that we… you know. I haven’t told a soul.”

He talked like we’d been snogging or worse, not like we’d just… spooned. (But considering our history, that was strange enough.)

“Why not?” I asked him. Like a dumbass.

“Didn’t want to, I guess. Have you told anybody?”

“Crowley, no. I have a reputation to uphold.”

Snow nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

He looked me in the eyes again. “Let’s just… try and get some sleep.”

I was confused as in what to do with… well, all this. I watched him get back into my bed and scoot back, leaving me enough space to join him.

“I like to sleep closer to the wall,” I blurted out without thinking. And immediately regretted it. There goes pretending like his suggestion disgusted me. Snow yawned as he got back up, gesturing me to get into bed first. This morning was about to be the first time in my life I would be grateful for being a vampire… if I were not, he would see exactly how flustered that had made me.

“I still can’t tell what you’re trying to achieve here,” I frowned.

Snow shrugged, and the corners of his mouth tugged up. “I think I’m just going to shave your eyebrows off when you’re asleep.”

That almost made me snort.

I gave up. I took off my shoes and laid down. Snow followed me right away. Seeing how tense I am, he repeated: “We really don’t have to talk about any of this, ever.”

“You sound like a broken record. We are already talking about this.”

“Well, we don’t have to.”

I rolled my eyes at him… And noticed the colour of the sky outside.

The day was creeping up on us. But Snow was so close. And… he wanted this. He was all sloppy about it, but he wanted this. I didn’t even know what to think…

“Baz?”

“Mm? What?”

“Could… I hug you now?”

“I just decided. I don’t want you to talk about it.” Yet, he kept waiting for an answer. Honestly, he was just too good for me. Just for him, just this once, I let down my walls, closed my eyes and said: “You… can.”

And he did. Pressed me to his chest like a stuffed animal. I tried to let go of the stiffness in my muscles, to let myself rest, but how could I? He was so bloody hot. (Both in the temperature sense and attractive sense. As per usual, he slept without a shirt on.)

(His cross was nowhere in sight. Just like yesterday, I realized.)

“Your arms won’t fall off if you hug me back,” he remarked.

“Shut up, Snow.”

“Just do it, will you.”

There we were. A knot of limbs, circles under our eyes and deep breaths.

Maybe this really could be all there was to life, at least for the nights and early mornings.

Maybe we really didn’t have to talk about it.

#snowbaz fic #snowbaz fanfiction #snowbaz #baz grimm pitch #simon snow #writing #fanfiction #sharing beds #angst #fluff #and there was only one bed

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