#just opened a massive can of worms with no time to fix it

[clios-purls]

sent the second draft off for review; think I'll go die now

#helppppppp #just opened a massive can of worms with no time to fix it #reliving the emotional trauma of my mphil experience

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

Mm would Yves enjoy taking baths with his darling or no? I’ve been thinking about this myself because I really am not sure myself, while it could be really romantic and intimate (without anything sexual happening) I also get the vibe that he’d be uncomfortable with undressing in-front of his darling or being naked probably because he just hates the feeling but also because of all of the scars that he may have and that might open up a whole other can of worms.

MM! Maybe that’s a part of the reason why he drugs the reader during sex, so they don’t notice certain parts of himself and just simply focuses on the pleasure 🤔 thoughts?

TW: Suicide mention, self harm, body mutilation

Yves doesn't like being naked to anyone. Not even you. He didn't like how his skin looked, but most horribly: wounds that changed into healed scars takes time, seeing them reminded him of his age which he despises.

It doesn't mean that you would never see him nude, though. At some point, you will "accidentally" walk in on him changing because Yves "forgot" to lock the door.

You will see a massive, hideous scar spanning over his chest and back. Of course, you would ask what it is. Yves would take this opportunity to educate you on the dangers of not protecting yourself against deadly UV radiation.

That is true, he was tormented by melanoma for many years due to his excessive tanning and recklessness regarding suncare. Bronze skin was all the rage back then, he was a young, dumb boy who wanted to follow the trends.

You rarely noticed the chaotic, wispy scars on his arms that were caused by whips. Deep scarring on his wrists and ankles from rusted metal chains. Cigarette burns, other cuts, iron branding, scars done in intricate shapes and wounds that are too violent, too manmade, too self inflicted to have been done by skin cancer.

It is no secret to you that his genitals were mutilated and the surrounding flesh is in similar conditions, they're perfectly functional, but anyone could tell that Yves has been through harrowing physical and mental trauma.

Yves's nagging lecture about how you should always wear sunscreen and avoid the rays would already drive you out of the room to question the other ones.

It's always a wonder how he keeps his face, hands and feet flawless. But once upon a time, he was just like anyone else, he had severe acne that would leave him in tears over how ugly he was and how painful the blistering could get. His assailants would ruin his beautiful countenance either due to jealousy or due to some other sick reasons. He had melanoma on his face, the aftermath was made up of tears and a plethora of failed suicide attempts.

Yves wasn't supposed to have his hands functional after how he would physically defend himself or fight with them. No one could count the number of times a blade has cleanly gone through from the front of his palm to the back. He was no stranger to the feeling of being burnt, he had his pinkie and ring finger fused together after being exposed to extreme heat. Yves survived a fire and an explosion in his lifetime.

His feet, goodness, his feet. He walked through broken glass regularly. It was bound together and flogged almost daily, he had nasty infections that cost him his toenails. For a while, he was limping due to how damaged it was. Yves was lucky that he managed to save them before he knew he had to amputate both.

But, they are all seemingly untouched. You wouldn't believe that these three parts of his body went through horrific situations, there isn't even a blemish!

Well, he valued his face, hands and feet more than any other part of his being. Yves placed his all into fixing them, countless reconstructive surgeries, drugs, diets and grafts, all thanks to thousands upon thousands of his innocent, unwilling victims. If it weren't for them "donating" their precious lives for research, transplants or otherwise, Yves would have been a gruesome sight to withhold.

He could eradicate the rest of his scarring if he wanted to. But he's a lot more mature now, anything can be covered by his tops, pants and dresses aren't worth the effort anymore. You and Yves think his smile is beautiful, his fingers feel nice massaging your scalp and he can walk without wincing in pain, that's enough for him.

But back to the main topic, Yves wouldn't take baths with you- He would gladly bathe you as your caregiver, he would be fully clothed as he scrubbed you from head to toe. You might find it strange that he would rather suffer from wet clothes than showing you what's under his turtleneck despite knowing how it looks already.

You can't just try and purposely intrude if you know he's changing clothes or taking a shower. Yves would scold you for being very rude for breaching his privacy, and he would drone on and on about the importance of consent for hours. Of course, he does this after he kicks you out of the room to get fully dressed.

If you want him to be present in the bathroom with you when you're showering, he will be there. Fully clothed. If you're insisting that he joins you, he will. Fully clothed.

When it comes to sex, yes, he drugs you to heighten the pleasure. And it was mentioned that a blanket must be draped over you and he at all times. But these also serve the purpose of blinding you towards the stories his skin could tell. Yves doesn't think you're ready to know, you're too emotionally immature. You couldn't handle the distress no matter how casually or carefully he would word it.

Yves had an entire lifetime to get over it, and he did, but you don't. And that is alright with him, you don't have to know. The past is in the past, Yves couldn't care less about what caused him to look so disgusting. He wants you to hold onto that priceless, priceless innocence and naivety as much as you can.

All he wants you to do now is to relax and have fun. Enjoy the climax and forget the insignificant world around you. To know that you are loved until the very end and beyond. He wants you to smile, to giggle and to take great delight in his tender, loving kisses.

That is what he wants to do as well.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere male #oc yves #yandere concept #tw yandere #yandere x you #yandere oc x reader #male yandere oc x reader

[sandinthemachine]

Double Trouble

Summary: König and your dog conspiring against you

Warnings: None. Just a short drabble while I work on a longer request for this lovely man. Gender-neutral reader

Words: 582

I also couldn't think of a dog name so I named him after nerdforge's dog lmao

---

Light dances through gossamer window shades, honeysweet and agile as a dancer, leaping over your eyelids with easy grace.

You groan, yanking the covers back over your head, only to find far more than innocent sunlight conspiring to ruin your morning slumber. A cold nose, broad and insistent, wiggles its way under the covers, snuffling and snorting until it bonks into your temple. An angry little grumble escapes you as you shove the offending nose away, sinking deeper into your protective cocoon like a caterpillar refusing to emerge. A stuttering whine filters through the covers, and you press firm hands over your ears, only for a loud howl to burst right next to your face.

You whip the covers down and turn to confront your assailant, only to catch the tail-end of a raging ball of fluff carrying his temper tantrum down the hallway. Well, not your problem anymore.

-

König is well into breakfast by the time he hears heavy paws careening down the hallway. The bulky husky slides on the hardwood floor, scrabbling paws unable to stop his snout from bonking right into König's chair.

"Nóri," the man croons, reaching for the dog's ears, only for the dog to hop back with an irritated ruff. "What's the matter?"

Nóri taps his front paws back and forth, a grrr rumbling in his throat that soon erupts into a full-fledged bark.

"I see," König muses with a serious nod.

Nóri is already turning and prancing down the hallway, only to spin back around when he realizes König hasn't moved. He howls, bouncing on his paws with a stubborn awooo.

"If you insist." With a smile König pushes himself up from his chair and makes his way to the source of the problem.

-

You're already half asleep by the time you feel the bed shifting next to you, warm arms worming their way around you. "Errr...don't wanna," you mumble, trying to to burrow even further.

But he doesn't say anything, only wrapping himself around you and tucking his chin over where your head is under the blankets. You sigh, relaxing into him and pulling your shelter down just enough to crane your neck and nuzzle your face into him.

A wet human tongue immediately splats on your collarbone and you squeal, thrashing, but you're trapped in a prison of your own making as your burrito blanket squeezes your limbs to the side, forcing you to endure your partner's massive tongue as he licks up your neck and across your face.

"König!" You yelp, freeing yourself from his arms and rolling away, tumbling right off the bed. You struggle, trying to pull the blankets off you, but before you have the chance a furry anvil of a dog is dropping on top of you, one paw landing on your chest, another going right into your gut. A groan punches out of you, drowned in a flurry of slobbery kisses that are worse, infinitely worse than the one you escaped from. "Nóriiiiiii!"

You can hear König cackling from his perch on the bed, and try to yell your indignation at him only for Nóri to flop his full weight on you, fixing you with his signature wide-eyed crazy stare, mouth open in a panting grin. Begrudgingly, you chuckle at the little fiend, forgiving him for now.

König, on the other hand? You cast a glance at him, still wheezing and clutching his stomach as a smirk settles over your features.

He'd better watch his back.

---

Probably going to write a part 2 for this at some point when I get a good idea. For now, enjoy gremlin König :)

#König #könig fanfiction #könig call of duty #cod #cod mwii #könig x reader

[missveryvery]

Have you watched episode 1 of tgcf season two yet? 👀

Are you kidding. It's literally the only thing that's keeping me alive. Now my life is "hold out until Wednesday, buddy, we can do this."

I'm not sure but I think they fixed up the animation from the preview we got before (like a million years ago) of the scene where they're all assembling because I remember thinking "oh no they lost their budget" and now the scene looks like "here are a hundred gods we made look incredible just for the background"

(Still salty about Mu Qing's hair getting nerfed, make it bigger you cowards)

The part where Pei Ming is about to kick Pei Xiu came off as cartoony in the book but they made it really intense here! I guess because they're trying to hide his clown nose for as long as possible.

I feel very gratified that I was correct that the person we saw for a split second in the preview FROM BEHIND was in fact sqx and my brain worms have again served me well.

I think if I was watching this and had no idea what the story was, I'd think sqx was another love interest because holy shit. The way they shot Shi Qingxuan after transformation where her hair falls and her eyes are locked on him is from Xie Lian's POV, right? Three people have "hair that falls prettily" scenes in this and it's Hua Cheng, Xie Lian, and Shi Qingxuan.

Gif set by @murcielaguitos

They're really going "she's BEAUTIFUL" and you can get the impression that even Xie Lian thinks so. I love the way Shi Qingxuan is looking at him here and her cute smile ; ; like "see? :)"

This is the first time I realized how massive her boobs are. They're INSANE. I really like how Shi Qingxuan's other form is so different! I like to think the trans color scheme is on purpose but idk if they care about flag stuff in China? I don't want to like, push that on them.

In the book, there are a couple people Xie Lian remarks as being attractive, I think Shi Qingxuan is the only lady?

Also the shot earlier of Shi Qingxuan glancing at Xie Lian's chest like ":) I could put some ginormous bazoons there for you, friend"

(Lmao, He Xuan is so fucking stupid 😭 what kind of idiot...?!?? This could have been yours, you absolute clown.)

I was surprised they kept Lan Chang!!! Like wow you're gonna do that part, huh?!

The presentation of the mission's circumstanses also gave me a theory about why Shi Qingxuan was sent with Xie Lian on this specific mission...!

I saw someone talking about how lonely the opening of Xie Lian waking up seemed. But then he gets such a cute friend...! That's so similar to him! It's so nice to see him happy. I like to think that if Hua Cheng didn't exist and all that other background shit wasn't happening, Xie Lian's third go around might have been nice, Shi Qingxuan could have gotten him settled in, reconciled with the clown boys, etc.

The way he looks at Lang Qianqiu ;0;!! he's like "My baby ;0;"

Also losing my mind over this rando. I need to see what the uniforms for each god looks like or I'll die. Why was this dude so well designed and animated ;0;! I love him?!? So exasperated with his dumbass god ;0;

#tgcf #tgcf meta #tgcf spoilers #shi qingxuan #xie lian #i think sqx and xl should kiss #please it would be so cute #xiao shiwei

[thepaperpanda]

The Loyal Priestess || Khonshu x fem!reader

Summary: as a newly appointed priestess in Khonshu's temple, you hold a great deal of responsibility. On one night, the God of the Moon decides to visit his followers in response to their profound prayers 

Warnings: smut (deflowering)🔞 & the body of Marc is being taken over and fronted by Khonshu 

Word count: 3575

Author: Cass & Rouge

A/N: the green sentences refer to Khonshu's speaking

It's an ancient ritual performed mostly by high priestesses because it was a skill that took a lot of practice, but you knew exactly what to do and weren't afraid of doing something wrong. Being a newly marked priestess in Khonshu's temple demanded a great deal of self-assurance, skill, and interior renunciation.

You had the honor of leading the opening prayer to the god himself that evening. "Our Lord, hear us out," you began, head bowed and hands pressed together in front of a massive stone figure depicting Khonshu standing proudly with his staff in his left hand. "We have gathered here to seek your protection, our Lord, and your enlightenment."

Marc could feel cold, unpleasant creeps running down his spine, causing him to shake and hiss visibly. "What the hell was that?" He exclaimed, perplexed as never before.

Of course, Khonshu was there with him, unconcerned by Marc's remark. "My followers are praying to me."

"Followers? Praying? To you? Do you still have them?" Marc inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course I do, worm! Who do you think I am?" snarled Khonshu.

"Excellent. I was simply inquiring. There's no need to be so aggressive," Marc sighed and rolled his eyes. "I just hope they're over soon. I don't like the way it feels," the man muttered, uncomfortably rolling his shoulders.

"They will as soon as I acknowledge their presence."

Marc didn't have time to react before the robes encircled him and he swooped up into the night sky, going to the source of chanting. He didn't like what he saw when he landed. This was the temple. The one where he lost his normal life and self.

Candles and incense filled the room with a soft glow and the scent of olive and lilac. Few wicked baskets filled with things like fruits, dates and furs were placed on the stone altar.

Khonshu's followers in the chamber were humming an old melody that matched the words of your fervent prayer. "Our Lord, Master of the Night Sky, please listen to us. Send us your light and wisdom, keep us safe from evildoers. We're offering our modest sacrifices for you, our Lord."

"Modest sacrifices? That sounds intriguing, I'm curious what those are," a loud voice could be heard echoing off the walls. Khonshu entered the chamber in Marc's body, overtaken by the god; Marc's eyes glistened with white light.

All of the followers knelt and bowed their heads to the person who entered the chamber.

You were the only one who raised your head slightly to look the creature in the eyes; eyes gleaming with light that highlighted the god's nature. In the process, you bowed your head and knelt on the sand as well. "My Lord, we are honored that you have chosen to illuminate us with your presence tonight. Long live, Khonshu!"

The greeting was loudly chanted by the rest of the followers.

"Finally, someone who understands how to respect me," Khonshu hummed proudly, smiling at everyone. "However, I think I should punish you all."

Chanting ended as soon as it started; the silence filled the chamber.

You dared to raise your head up, looking at the man with glistening eyes. "Did we do anything wrong, my Lord? If yes, please, say a word and we'll do our best to fix the error."

Khonshu chuckled deeply as he approached you. He grabbed your chin and forced you to look at him. "You want to know what your blunder is? Where have you been all these centuries? I can hear every prayer, and it has been quiet for many years."

A cold shiver jolted your body to its core, and you began to wonder if calling Khonsh was a good idea. "My Lord," you said as you looked into his glistening eyes, "We'd been praying to you all the time, on a regular basis. We'd never forgotten you or your deeds, my Lord, and we'd always admired your wisdom."

He squeezed your chin between his fingers. "Human, don't lie to me!" He yelled. "I couldn't hear any of you praying for years! You've dared to arrive at my temple and now you're selling me a lie!"

"My Lord," you said quietly, trying not to aggravate the deity, "How could I lie to you in your temple? I would never do so. Some of your older priestesses have passed away, they were old and died of old age or were killed in the civil war going on," you elaborated. "My Lord, I and those gathered here tonight are from a new generation. Perhaps our prayers were not loud enough for you to hear."

"Maybe they weren't. You will all try to do better from now on," Khonshu demanded. "What about the offerings? I'm interested in what mortals like you brought me."

You waited for him to let go of your chin, and when he did, you went to the altar and pointed to the wicked baskets. "We don't have much to offer you, my Lord, but we'd like to give you our best. Our crops provide the fruits and dates, and our animals provide the furs. We also have the best wine in Egypt, fresh olives, and gold, all for you, our Lord Khonshu."

"That's all?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. "Some poor fruits and old wine?”

You bowed your head and knelt again. "This is all we have, my Lord. As I said, we can't offer you much more than our faith in you."

"And what do you think I'm going to do with it?" Khonshu inquired, looking at you. "I am the god! Not some pitiful, mortal being like you all or that meat puppet I had to use to see you. I'm not interested in wine or food."

You bowed your head even more, being afraid to look at the god. "Forgive us, my Lord. Please, have mercy!"

"You dare to refer to yourself as my follower? My old priestess, they were the ones who always knew what to offer!" Khonshu yelled angrily, his voice echoing off the walls.

A single tear rolled down your cheek; you were truly terrified with the god being angry with you. "Forgive me, my Lord. What can I do to fix this?"

He gave you a low chuckle as he looked at you. You were a lovely, little thing as for a priestess. He could make good use of his ability to gain complete control over Marc. "I'll tell you what I want as a gift, and you'll grant it to me."

"Of course, my Lord, I'm here to fulfill all of your wishes."

"Clean the altar," Khonshu ordered, waving his hand.

As he wished, you took all the baskets off the altar.

Khonshu turned to face the others. "Tonight, you all let me down. I have nothing else to say to you, worms, no blessings or encouraging words. Leave. Everyone except you," his gaze fixed on you again.

His strong voice echoing off the stone walls made you shiver once more as you watched your fellow citizens get up and leave with bowed heads.

You dared to look at God after everyone else had left the chamber except you. "Your wish, my Lord, is my command."

Khonshu was overjoyed. Finally, someone was listening to him and acting in accordance with his wishes. "I want you as an offering."

You tilted your head and blinked few times. "Excuse me, my Lord? You want me? In what meaning?"

"You good know. You seem like a smart girl."

Your brow furrowed. "Oh, Lord... I think I know what you're thinking about, but I can't give you what you want because I've never done those things before, and I don't want to disappoint you. We have a lot of lovely ladies, just say the word and I'll bring one over."

"I want no one else but you," Khonshu said, gently taking a lock of your hair between his fingers. "You are young and attractive."

"My Lord," you whispered and closed your eyes at the touch of his warm, calloused hand. "I see. Your wish is my command, but I'm scared of letting you down."

"You'll do fantastic, I'm confident you will, little priestess," Khonshu gave you his assurance. "Now. Remove those robes."

You nodded and began taking off your clothes. You began by slipping the sleeves of your long, beige gown, revealing your bare chest and round breasts. Second, you pushed the silky material of the dress down your body, allowing it to fall to your ankles. You stood fully naked in front of the god in human form with hesitation.

One of his hands boldly cupped your breast. "So soft and pleasant," he claimed as his thumb rubbed your nipple, which hardened within the seconds. "My precious, little priestess. Little, innocent thing, you belong to me."

You gasped quietly when his calloused palm cupped your breast, squeezing it. You looked up at the man with your eyes wide open, sighing. "Whatever you order, my Lord. I'm yours."

Khonshu nodded before grabbing one of the furs brought as an offering and tossing it over the stone altar. "Lay down."

You climbed the altar and did as he asked - you laid on your back, rubbing your thighs together, attempting to cover your breasts with your arms crossed lightly across your chest. As you looked up at him with sparkles in your eyes, your Y/H/C hair spilled over the fur.

Khonshu smiled and gently kissed your lips before moving the kisses to your neck and then collarbone.

"My Lord," you whispered lightly, your head rolled back a little, providing him with better access. "Can I touch you?"

"You can," he whispered into your ear.

You gasped quietly and put your hands to his arms, your heart beated faster when you sensed his tensed muscles under the shirt he was wearing. Soon, you moved one of your arms around his neck and begged him for another kiss.

"Little priestess, you're so needy. Your desires will be granted tonight," Khonshu hummed and gladly pressed his lips against your cheek, cupping one of your cheeks.

You shifted in his arms, giving the kiss back, letting your tongue slip past his lips, tasting him and imagining all of the things he was about to do to you.

Soon after, he drew back and began undressing himself before joining you on the altar.

You watched his perfectly shaped body, wondering if the man he picked for his avatar was someone random. If yes, Khonshu had a very good taste.

"Do you like what you're seeing, little one? I wouldn't choose a random mortal as my avatar," Khonshu reassured you, just as he would be able to hear your thoughts, and kissed your neck again, this time moving down to your chest and wrapping his mouth around one of your nipples.

You grabbed by the edge of the altar and arched your back a little, moaning at the feeling. With a little, hesitant smile, you nodded your head. "Yes, my Master, I like everything I see," your tone was nothing more than a whisper. "My Lord Khonshu, please."

"Please what? Use your words."

"I want you to..." Your voice cracked as you blushed hardly; realization hit your mind clouded already with overwhelming pleasure. "I want you."

"So now you want me? I was sure you're terrified of this. You're not anymore?" He hummed as he moved his hand down your body.

"I've never been so scared in my life, my Lord, but I trust in you, I trust in everything you do," you assured Khonshu, your cheeks flushed.

Khonshu moved between your legs with a low laugh. He picked your legs up and set them on his shoulders, then began to place kisses and bites on the inside of your thighs.

You moaned quietly, arching your back slightly and sucking your lower lip in. You initially felt compelled to run your hands through his hair, but quickly dismissed the thought as too daring. His lips on your thighs felt like a blazing fire, and you couldn't stop being vocal about how good he made you feel. "Please, My Lord, I need to feel you," you pleaded quietly.

He decided to grant your wish and gently sucked his lips around your clit, observing your reaction carefully.

Your back arched even more as a loud moan escaped your lips. Your hands slid down instinctively to meet his palms on your hips; you placed your hands on top of his rough ones. "I've never felt anything like it..."

His fingers intertwined with yours, squeezing your hand. Khonshu didn't respond to your words, but he continued to eat you like a starving man.

Your moans became louder; you barely could bear the tight knot forming in your abdomen. "Khonshu, my Lord, please, I want more!" You begged, holding stronger onto his palms.

"Is that so, my little priestess? And what do you want?"

You bit your lip. "I want to do this, but I've never... You'll have to guide me, my Lord."

"Do what? Use your words or I won't please you," Khonshu continued the teasing.

You propped yourself on elbows and looked at him; he looked perfectly sweet with his head between your thighs. "I want you to take me, my Lord."

He got off the altar and began to completely undress himself, tossing the pants and Marc's boxers to the side. Then he returned to you and wrapped your legs around his waist tightly.

Of course, you watched him with your heart beating fast and strong within your chest, like a tiny animal trapped in a cage trying to escape danger. When he removed his boxer shorts, his already rock-hard cock sprung free and stood proudly against his abdomen, making you blush and gasp. You did just what he expected you to do. With a moan, you pulled him into a kiss. "My Lord..." You whispered. "I'm all yours."

"Of course you are. You're my sweet, little priestess," Khonshu agreed, gently pushing inside of you so as not to injure you too much with his force.

You rolled your eyes back and let out a quiet scream mixed with a moan, your eyes close shut and you hissed at the sudden feeling of being stretched out painfully. "Ah!"

Khonshu smiled wryly as he observed your body's reaction to him. Your little whimpers and arched back were adorable. He'll definitely miss it once Marc is back in charge.

You wrapped your palm around one of his hands placed by either of your sides, then looked up at him, right into his eyes. "It.... hurts and stings..."

His palm moved over your belly and lover. "Hush. Just breathe, relax."

You followed God's instructions and went a little quiet. It didn't last long though - the pleasure and knot developing in your abdomen were impossible to ignore, igniting the lust in your soul. Your palm squeezed his hand, and other one wrapped around his neck as he kept on thrusting into you. Soon, you were moaning for him like all those whores you've heard about from your friends visiting public houses.

"You're a good girl. My dear priestess. You will be the only person to ever experience this," Khonshu murmured as he began to move his hips carefully while still stroking your belly with his calloused palm.

You looked at his face; the man whose body the god was using was dangerously handsome, with dark, brown eyes and fluffy, dark hair. "Kiss me," you whispered.

He couldn't say no to you, so he pressed his lips to yours, swallowing your whimpers and moans as he quickened his pace.

With a loud moan and overwhelming dizziness, you rolled head back when the kiss broke and let him fuck you the way he wanted. You wrapped your legs around his waist to guide him deeper into your dripping cunt.

He continued to fuck you hard and deep, kissing you on the neck. "My tiny priestess. You're taking good care of your god."

Holding tightly onto his neck, you moaned loudly. "Can we, ah! Try some else? I want to be on top."

Khonshu chuckled proudly before flipping you both over so you were on top of him. His hands were pressed against your hips, squeezing the tender flesh.

You began rolling your hips, smacking them back and forth, resting both hands against his broad chest, quietly moaning whenever his cock hit the right spot within you. "It feels divine, so good."

"Good. Excellent work. Please me, little priestess," Khonshu praised you, moving his body slightly to match your movements.

You increased your movements, moaning louder and louder. After leaning forward, you placed your palm to one of his cheeks and kissed him deeply, your tongues dancing together in a slow, passionate dance. "I feel so full, it's unbelievable."

"This is insignificant. I will continue to fill you up, little human. You'll be so full of me that you'll never forget how it feels," Khonshu assuredly moved his hand to your clitoral region. He began to play with your bundle of nerves, watching your reaction.

Your curses filled the chamber; your head rolled back and your pace quickened. His clit teasing didn't help at all, it only heightened the sensation. With a loud scream, the knot in your abdomen ruptured, and incredible wetness floated down, coating his member still buried within your tight cunt. "Oh, fuck!"

Khonshu continued to praise you while thrusting into you in order to quickly fill your nice, tight cunt with his hot load. He used all of his strength to flip the two of you again, to pick up the pace even more, chasing his own release; he hadn't felt so needy and desperate in centuries. When your pussy was still clenching around his shaft rhythmically, his cock throbbed painfully, triggering his orgasm, and he spilled all of his warm seed deep into you with nothing but a curse rolling off his parted lips. ”Fuck. Fantastic. My precious, little priestess. You made your god happy."

You tried to raise your body to kiss him once again. The wetness in you was unbearable and you didn't really want to move to not get rid of the pleasant feeling of warmth and thickness.

While returning the kiss, he almost purred into it. His arm wrapped around your waist with a soft hum, his hand gently tucking some of your hair behind your ear, and he grabbed your chin to take one more good look at you. "You're a lovely, little thing. Even though it was your first time, you did not let me down."

"Did I do well, my Lord?" You asked in a soft tone, putting your head to his chest; his cock still buried in you. "You've made me the happiest person alive, my Lord. I'm grateful and I will never forget it. Can I just have one question?"

"What is it, my beautiful?”

"Can you take me with you? I will give my life to serve you in the afterlife."

"This isn't going to happen," he said simply, playing with your hair. "There are some things I need to take care of myself. Besides, I require the presence of my priestess here."

"My Lord, will I ever see you again then? Or was I daydreaming?"

"If you serve me well, priestess, I will visit you again, and you weren't daydreaming, I assure," Khonshu said as he kissed your cheek. "You are mine now."

"I've been yours since the day I was born, my Lord," you shivered, grumping quietly at the emptiness as he pulled his dick out. As quickly as possible, you put your robes on, gaze lowered to not bother Khonshu.

Khonshu slowly sat up and began gathering his belongings in preparation for dressing up. "Are there any more requests, little one?"

"How could I request anything from you, my Lord? Your wisdom and presence is the best thing that happened to me, my Lord Khonshu. I, your faithful priestess, will preach your word even harder."

"And this shall grant you my visit again," Khonshu's laughter spilled all over the chamber.

Marc awoke in his bed, perplexed as he had never been before. He was uneasy and felt bad in general.

He remembered going to see Khonshu's followers, but there was a gap in his memory. "Khonshu! What the fuck?! How come I can't remember anything!"

The god appeared, sitting on the bed, holding the staff. "We came across my followers, led by a dedicated, young priestess. What did you expect?"

"That I will remember a fucking thing!" Marc growled loudly.

"We took part in a little ritual. Don't bother yourself with that. Did you rest?"

"I guess," Spector muttered, rubbing his forehead. ”Shall I be worried?"

"Why?"

"I have no recollection of anything. Who knows what you did while in control of my body."

"Who do you take me for, Marc? Have you forgotten? Your body is mine, you agreed to that on your own."

"Still, you took control of my body and played with it like a puppet," Marc shrugged and flopped back onto the bed, slipping hands under his head.

"As I said, your body belongs to me. And if you only saw her," Khonshu said quietly to himself. "We'll get back there eventually. To keep my followers focused, I must remind them from time to time who they worship."

#Marc Spector #Khonshu x reader #Khonshu smut #Khonshu x reader smut #moon knight smut #moon knight x reader #Khonshu x you #Khonshu drabble #Khonshu one shot #Khonshu fic #moon knight drabble #moonknight drabble #moon knight fic #writers on Tumblr #Khonshu imagine #Marc Spector & Khonshu #moon knight writing #moon knight fanfiction

[drpeppertummy]

[stuffing, tummyache, tummy rubs]

"Sunny, don't try to eat that whole thing."

"What? What the hell do you think I bought it for?"

"That's like eating three pounds of straight sugar!"

"Course it is, how do you think I stay so sweet?" Sunny flashed his friend a toothy smile, batting his long eyelashes. Laurie rolled her eyes.

"Don't come crying to me when you give yourself a bellyache," she said, returning her attention to her book.

"I wouldn't come crying to you if my life depended on it," Sunny retorted. He pried the packaging open with his teeth and tossed it aside, holding up his opponent: a three pound gummy worm. Laurie supposed she should just be glad he hadn't gone for the bear, which apparently was even heavier. Sunny chomped down on the worm--not on the tip, but right in the middle, as though it were an ear of corn. It was so sweet it almost made his teeth ache. With a grunt, he yanked off a rubbery bite.

Laurie was doing her best to ignore Sunny, but he was making a lot of noise. Each bite was punctuated with grunting and slurping and a small cacaphony of other unpleasant eating noises. After sitting uncomfortably through a few bites, she looked up from her book, wrinkling her nose at him in disgust.

"Can't you do this any quieter?"

"Huh?" Sunny looked up at her, mouth full of worm.

"You sound like you're trying to suck the siding off a house! If you have to eat that stupid thing right next to me, do it quietly," she said. Sunny nodded, swallowing his mouthful with a thick gulp, and returned to his worm. He took another bite, this time making an effort to be quiet, and to his credit, he did manage to cut down on the amount of noise. Laurie was a little bit impressed by this; quiet wasn't generally Sunny's strong suit. She could still hear soft sounds of struggle as he worked to pry chunks off of the worm, but she supposed she could deal with that. In fact, she would never say so, but his little vocalizations as he wrestled with his rubbery snack were almost cute.

Sunny had only gotten through a small portion of the worm, but his tummy was already beginning to ache. With the worm being as large as it was, it didn't take much of it to fill up his stomach with dense, gummy sugar. Still, he knew it would take forever to get through it if he didn't push himself a little, and by this point, it was too chewed up and sticky to share with anybody else. He took a breath and pushed on.

Laurie glanced over at Sunny again. He definitely wasn't eating with the same gusto he'd started with. Still, he looked determined. He also looked a little ill. It was hard to judge given the strange way he'd decided to go at it, but she estimated that he must've been about a third of the way through the worm. The thought of a solid pound of gummy candy sitting in his belly made her own stomach ache. She almost opened her mouth to say something when Sunny finally lowered the worm, looking tired. He sat like that for a moment, and then, to Laurie's surprise, he set the worm back down atop its packaging. He leaned back against the couch with a sickly sigh. His tummy bulged out slightly.

"You're in for it now, Sunshine," she said, reaching out and giving his belly a gentle pat. "I don't think even ginger ale can fix that." His stomach let out a sad little gurgle. Feeling sorry for him, Laurie carefully pulled Sunny into her arms, resting her hands on his achy, bloated belly. He tensed up for a moment, then allowed himself to relax.

"I thought you said not to come crying to you," he mumbled, laying his head against her shoulder.

"Well, you're not, are you?" She rubbed his belly softly.

"I guess not." He closed his eyes and tried not to think about how sick he felt. In addition to the massive onslaught of sugar, the sheer quantity of gummy worm he'd eaten was far too much for his tummy. He should've stopped when he first felt full. In fact, he never should have bought the stupid thing in the first place. Not only did Sunny feel sick, he felt foolish and guilty as well.

"You've gotta start being nicer to your poor little tummy," said Laurie, still rubbing his belly in gentle circles. It wasn't the first time she'd said it, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Sunny knew she was right. Sometimes, however, he just couldn't help himself. He wasn't known for his good impulse control, and he had a bad habit of taking things as a challenge. He was aware of this flaw, but he couldn't seem to shake it, and he was nervously waiting for the day when his friends' sympathy would run out.

"It's hard," he said quietly. It was all he could think to say, but Laurie had a feeling she knew what he meant. Taking care not to squeeze his tummy, she hugged him. Sunny opened his eyes, surprised, and, after a moment of hesitation, returned the hug.

#writing #belly kink #tummy kink #stuffing #stuffed belly #xsunnyx #xlauriex

[artbyblastweave]

Gideon The Ninth Liveread, Chapter 5

Gonna add some disclaimers here (if I haven’t already? I forget) that a lot of my predictions are at least partially going to be polluted by stuff I picked up via tumblr osmosis; I’m getting nice “oh, snap” moments from time to time but most likely not when the Author intended that I would. Here we go:

We open with a nice, domestic scene of mutual domestic hatred. Kind of interesting that apparently, they are capable of coexisting in a living space if necessary; you could infer that, because they can’t have been in a state of violent cartoonish warfare all the time, there are situations where they’d have to be off the clock, but there is this fun tension to the whole sequence, like those looney tunes gags where the wolf and sheepdog both clock in before starting to fight.

(also there’s a kind of. Homerotic face painting scene. reminds me of that one meme.)

I like the attention paid to the gross nitty-gritty of actually applying the badass war paint. I've done full-scale zombie paint on myself and that stuff looks cool and sucks ass, respectively.

Thanergy! This is I think the first big indicator we’ve gotten of how necromancy works mechanistically, and it implies a handful of nasty things:

Harrow is likely disproportionately powerful because most of the Ninth house is dead or headed that way; her power is inseparable from the collapse she’s (fruitlessly?) attempting to stave off. (I sense a prompt for a worm trigger event lurking in here somewhere.)

The Empire likely requires a continuous death mill for necromancy to be as culturally and logistically ubiquitous as it is; I suspect this setting has something like the flower wars going on, endless expansion where death is the natural resource being extracted.

First House, if it’s first but also has almost no one on it, may have been the site of a mass casualty event or depopulation, thus rendering it an ideal meeting ground for necromancers.

Side note: Thanergy is a very Homestuck kind of Portmanteu (complementary.)

So this is a Con- there’s no Ortus, there never was an Ortus, Gideon has always been the Cavalier, we’ve always been at war with Eastasia. Harrow expresses concern that her inability to control Gideon will convey to the other houses that The Ninth was unable to control Gideon- and that’s an appropriate fear, because they’re one and the same. Going full Sun king “I-am-the-state” is a double edged sword.

Side note: this whole set-up seems massively transmittable to fake-dating AUs, Regency Pride-and-Prejudice AUs, et al et al. Wouldn’t be surprised if the Author did so deliberately (and this is one of the few times this is not meant to be a remotely cynical assessment, I think this slaps.)

“When I’m a Lyctor, everything will be different-“  Oh, Okay, So Harrow is Taylor Hebert except textually a lesbian instead of by fandom consensus, and with more aggressive religious trauma. “When I take over the city, I can fix things!“ Want to get those two in a room and see who eats who first. Also, does Harrow have a reason to want to bolster the sinking ship that is Ninth House, or is she just fully inculcated on that as The Thing To Do?

So here we get some more detail that the Ninth (read: Harrow) has been isolating itself on purpose; the collapse makes a bit more sense when you realize that the group has been putting up a front while rotting from the inside out. Unless I’ve got the timeline wrong, and this is something Harrow’s parents started that she just continued, This marks a pretty specific harm that Harrow specifically has caused Gideon; there used to be strangers Gideon had to be dragged away from. There used to be outsiders. There used to be the faintest hope of outside intervention.

I get the sense that when, of course, this all ends very, very badly, I’ll be pining for the AU where all that happened was Ortus reading poetry over the still brawling corpses of Harrow and Gideon.

Anyway, to close things out, this strikes me as the kind of book and author where I need to keep that bone-meal-chestburster trick Harrow floated in the back of my mind, waiting for the moment where it rears its ugly head.

#gideon the ninth #gideon the ninth liveread #blastweave livereads #the locked tomb #tlt #gideon nav #harrowhawk nonagesimus #the locked tomb spoilers #the locked tomb liveread #thoughts #meta

[thebnha-auhoard]

Ask game for each mods Favorite AU's!

HEY HEY YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

Mod Asphodel here! And my fave au rn is Cyberbites! (Look out for the Traditional esque Zine soon!)

1• Neito found out that he SemiPerma copies Quirks via Blood through accidentally drinking Himiko's Thermos. But he needs a fixed diet from people so he doesn't get overwhelmed

2• First time Izuku saw Shigaraki he actually had his costume on. Shigaraki sees this Spiked Leather bound kid crack his knuckles and grab a Red oak Bo Staff. Later along with the gun wounds he nurses a broken jaw and a new scar on his face from the nasty lil green punk.

3• Izuku has chains on his Hero outfit, They work extremely well as Capture Weapons.

4• Mr Compress and Twice are absolutely Terrified of Izuku after the Yakuza Arc

5• Dabi has a YouTube channel that actually pretty popular where he dances. Mina is a *Massive* Fan and Squealed when he showed up at dorms as the Midoriya Bodyguard

——————

Borealll here, my fav au humm, i adore bav au but! my favorite to gnaw on is Black Nightshade au! so...

One, it is very clear that the second pair of arms Izuku posses is stapled into him, specially since the skin tone have a contrast between the arms and his own face.

Two, here, it is an unfortunate necessary step for the subject to die for the noumu process to take hold, and it is fortunate that the non-sentient don't remember such great pain.

Three, Bakugou still have gone overboard in the exercise of heroics, rumour has it there was even an expulsion involved.

Four, Incredible as that may sound, Afo has no idea of things brewing under Izuku mind and that things might connect them even more...

Five, Toshinori is a bit touch starved, and also gives the best fucking hugs, it does not compare, he is warm and soft of course they are the best, and of course few people right now know that.

——————

Hi it’s Kiwi. Don’t have a favorite au really but the one I have the most brain worms about right now is the Pokémon au so let’s talk about that! (Also if you guess an OFA User’s Pokémon for their gym in the ask I’ll give 5 more headcanons)

1. Izuku and Bakugou’s starters are Larvesta and Buneary respectively. Larvesta was a gift from Izuku’s dad because Hisashi knows that Izuku will become an menace and get bored eventually if he gets a regular starter. Buneary was just found near Yagi’s lab trying to fight the man’s Pokemon and Bakugou pointed at it and says he wants that one as his starter and then caught it.

2. Aizawa is the Ghost Type Gym Leader. He does not advertise this and the only person who really knows this is Shinsou. Lovely surprise for the kids when he gets “kidnapped” by his Drifblim in the Ghost Type Gym.

3. Kaminari and Dabi had Rotom phones before said Rotom just turned into a regular on their team. Kaminari’s is called Nokia and both of them have the lovely habit of having 999 tabs open at all times and are dorks. Dabi’s is called Budget and blew up his phone when it decided they want to battle now and keeps on insulting Dabi and blowing up all phones he tries to get Budget in.

4. Hagakure, Ashido, and Aoyama are going on their Pokémon journey to complete Pokémon Contests across the region. They all give each other tips and try to be the best Contest Performer they can be.

5. The Elemental Plates to summon Arceus are with all the Gym Leaders of their respective type. They are all kept in separate places and more often than not the Gym Leaders don’t have it on them. This makes the fact that 7 gym leaders got kidnapped a lot more concerning.

——————

anterior! umm as of right now my favorite au is either WitS(Wonder in the Stars) or TLVC(Tanuki Leaves and Violet Clouds) but ive already done one of these for WitS so TLVC it is!

-sako has this habit of spinning his cane around like one spins and umbrella, oboro thinks its really cool but sako barely realizes he's doing it

-oboro has two cats one orange cat named sushi and one black cat named coal, if coal and sako were to ever meet coal would try to lay on his cape no matter how many times sako tells her not to

-shouta and hizashi are sick and tired of hearing oboro go on and on about how cool he thinks tanuki is, but they let him because well its really really funny to see people who dont know about oboro's "obsession" with tanuki walk up to them and ask what they're talking about

-sako has shelves of glass jars that are just full of nomu's that he's marbled, the jars are like mason jars and thus aren't huge but hes got like multiple shevles of nomu jars, everyday he thinks about getting rid of them and every day he reminds himself that if he does they'll cause way more problems(he wants to get rid of them, so so badly)

-shouta has nightmares about oboro never being saved from that nomu lab

and this headcanon applies to sako in bout all our aus

-sako really likes oreos, he has like a pack of them in a marble to carry around so he can share with people he befriends

#my hero academia #boku no hero academia #my hero academia au #boku no hero academia au #cyberbites au #black nightshade #pokemon au #tanuki leaves and violet clouds #mod anterior #mod kiwi #mod asphodel #mod boreal

[eriellesudario]

Epic Snails on iOS – First Impressions // Review

Epic Snail is a mobile and PC game created by RocketSnail Games where the goal is to shoot your other snail opponents. The game is currently in its open beta stage so it’s not fully completed yet.

The game concept was created by Lance Priebe (aka RocketSnail), one of the co-founders and creators of Club Penguin. In an interview with Adam Hamilton, Lance said that he grew up with G.I. Joe and wished that Club Penguin went on a ‘darker route’ with the snowball shooter aspect.

“I’d love a darker side. I always wanted to add the wars. Like, where is the tactical snowball combat? Where’s the trench-fighting? Where’s the snowball forts? The buildings, the bunkers, WHERE ARE THEY?!”

Recently, the game was released on iOS and I took the time to give the game a shot. I will be reviewing the mobile/iOS version of the game. All of this will just be my first impressions as I only played it once… which was today.

First look

The whole concept of this game reminds me about this other mobile game which involves worms. It was a 2D (and in some cases, 3D) battle royale game where you take turns placing mines and shooting the opponent using missile launchers and other forms of guns and firearms. But despite the concept similarities, it also has massive differences such as you play as a snail, it’s not turn-based, and the weapons of choice.

The art style reminds me of the TV show Veggietales. Just the 3D look of the snails just reminds me of the cucumber character, Larry.

It’s clear that the snails are to resemble Lance’s animal mascot, the Rocket Snail so that’s really neat to see.

The Gameplay

This game is a multiplayer battle royal game, where the max players per session are 8. Unfortunately, you can’t choose which session you want to battle at and more players can get added when a current game is in session. There are no private rooms so you will be pitted against other players in the server.

There are currently 2 kinds of battle arenas (which get selected in random): The Snowforts and The Backyard.SnowfortBackyard

There are also 3 types of weapons you can choose. The Missile launcher, the assault cannons, and the canon.Missile Launche

Assault Cannons

Cannon

The most popular weapon of choice from players I’ve faced are the assault cannons due to its rapid-fire capabilities. The missile launcher doesn’t seem to work over on the mobile version of the game and the canon is really powerful but you only shoot once and have to hide just so you can wait for it to recharge.

Controls

The controls are not the ones you’re used to.

It’s like a joystick control but you can only move forwards and back, and moving the stick left to right just rotates you but you don’t move until you point the stick forward or backward.

This will take a lot of getting used to.

Art and music design

The music is very, very quirky!!!

It’s this innocent military game that reminds me of that tanks mini-game over in Wii Play. Very quirky and cute and doesn’t sound that intense compared to other shooter games like Halo.

The 3d art looks really cool. Kinda reminds me of Club Penguin Island but if it’s more military… and snails… But it’s child-friendly and a lot of. the design is REALLY cute.

While this game is Lance’s way to steer away from what Club Penguin was and create a child-friendly war game, he puts in these tiny easter eggs for Club Penguin fans to recognise.

Cross-platforming

This part doesn’t really work well for me at the moment.

The issue was (at least for Mac), I’m unable to log in my main account and just ended up creating another account. And to top it all off, I couldn’t log off or apply with a spare email to save the username of the 2nd account.

Hopefully, this part of the game would be fixed for Mac versions of the game.

My exeprience playing the game

Currently, the game is being played by people who are in the Club Penguin community (with probs a few of their friends). Remember Perapin from my previous post in my side blog? He plays the game… AND HE’S REALLY GOOD!!!

The fact that people in the Club Penguin community are playing the game makes it more welcoming for me to engage with them and the game. Like, being able to recognise each other in a world outside of Club Penguin is such a surreal experience.

Also, having the honour to verse Rocket Snail mano-to-mano is also cool as well (until the battle arena keeps adding more players).

I’d wish there were more customisable options as I don’t want to be green forever.

Overall thoughts

I’m not a fan for shooter games, first person or third person, not a fan. People who know me know that I’d be hiding in one location in either Halo or Counter Strike as I don’t enjoy running around and getting shot constantly by other people.

Epic Snails is a good introduction to the shooting game/warfare genre. It’s child-friendly so don’t expect blood and gore or music that makes you feel stressed. It’s quirky and innocent, and it’s made by the guy who created Club Penguin.

The only thing I dislike at the moment is the controls and me being unable to log in to my main account over on the mac. Hopefully, that gets fixed.

I’d give this a 3.5/5. Since it’s currently on beta, the expectations of bugs and other mishaps are expected but so far, I’m enjoying it!

What are your thoughts on this game? Will you play it? What do you think should be added in this game? Let me know in the comments below!

#2018 #video games #epic snails #review #Youtube

[dr3amofagame]

take a shot - dsmp!mcc fic

MCC FIC! MCC FIC! MCC FIC! To be clear, I outlined this weeks back, when teams were first announced, and I took very very little from the actual MCC itself when it came to actually writing this - all I have are the same teams, but it really exists in its own continuity outside of Real Life MCC (obviously, as it’s using the dsmp characters) and everything like that as a whole! Just to be clear :D)

The worldbuilding is also Absolutely Bullshitted start to finish, as well as any and all medical information. Rip. We’re here for a good time, not for a long or particularly accurate one - hope you guys enjoy regardless!! I had a LOT of fun writing this fic, dsmp!mcc aus my BELOVED

title obviously from win it all by derivakat

---

Michael loves MCC.

But it’s one thing to love the normal Championships and quite another when his team looks like it’s falling apart from the inside out - and as the games progress, it becomes more and more obvious that losing, this time, might not be an option.

tws: C!QUACKITY CRITICAL (sorry i promise i love him but he is NOT portrayed very nicely here, very dark portrayal of him), implied trauma, abuse, torture, panic attacks, manipulation, gaslighting, needles, hospitals, MCC-typical violence, emotional distress, prison arc, pandora’s vault themes

(16k words !! :D long boi) 

Michael loves MCC.

Of course he does! It’s fucking MCC - like, who wouldn’t love it? MCC is how he met so many people, how he met Dream, that one time, the two of them teamed with Techno and Burren and winning it all - MCC is a goddamn blast and he’s thankful every time he gets the invite that he’s able to compete. 

Still- it’s hard not to be a little more nervous, now. 

Dream gave him an invite to his SMP right after they teamed, but it wasn’t until months later that Michael actually cashed it in. Entering the server, it became very obvious very quickly that the DreamSMP, as it’s known, isn’t quite the same as its shiny media appearance. The spawn was covered in blocks, creeper holes littering the ground. The people he passed were grey-faced, too stoic to be the same, smiling faces he remembers from only less than a year ago. The air stings of gunpowder and iron. Worst of all are The Crater, shoddily covered in glass that does nothing to hide the damage done, rending the server in two straight down to bedrock, and the Prison, looming on the horizon. Absent-mindedly, Michael rubs at his left shoulder, remembering the Warden setting the prongs of his trident against the skin in warning, just hard enough to barely draw blood. Yeah, that place is bad news. 

The fact of the matter is the server is a mess. And like, okay, whatever, Michael gets it. Everyone has their issues - it’s just the DreamSMP seems to have more than most. Despite his original worries, it’s honestly not been as bad as he originally feared upon logging in; yeah, Bad and Puffy and Foolish and the rest of them are a little more trigger-happy than he might’ve expected (and he’s not going to say that Bad crying over turtles wasn’t a little startling when he first joined, but honestly he thinks Bad is just Like That.) There’s way more death than he’s really comfortable with, and Puffy keeps mentioning Bad murdering her son (Foolish? He thinks? The guy is also a literal God but like, families are weird, who’s he to judge) in a way that’s way too casual to come from anyone entirely well-adjusted, but overall his experience has been alright. 

Still, he gets the feeling that nobody exactly wants the outside world to know about the issues with the place. It’s not an issue for him usually, not when his sleeping schedule is the exact opposite of most of the people he knows and he spends most of his time screwing around on the server, anyway (usually harassing the Warden until the asscrack of dawn if he’s being honest) but with MCC, with everyone watching - he’s starting to get why everyone from the SMP was so damn tense all the time, now. 

Anyway- he loves MCC, he really does. But even that doesn’t stop him from wincing when he sees his team card, the names Dream and Quackity and Sapnap written in Scott’s looping handwriting. He’s not seen Sapnap at all since joining the server, has only heard a little about his place (something Kingdom, not that he was paying attention) from Foolish, and has no idea what the man has been up to. Quackity is his own unique can of worms; Michael doesn’t know exactly what’s up with him and his country, but everything he’s heard so far has sounded like nothing but bad news, casinos and schemes and a trail of wreckage following wherever he goes. And Dream-

Michael looks out his window, chewing on his lip, looking directly in the direction where he knows the prison stands, impenetrable, intimidating. Where Dream’s cell is, in line with his house, where he’s been hidden for months without a trace. Where the Warden had confronted him that one night, a dangerous gleam in his eyes, blood splattered on his boots. 

There’s no real ignoring an MCC invite - not without good reason, not without the admins picking up on something being up. There’s not really a choice, here, but for Michael to duck his head down and pretend everything’s fine just like everyone else from the SMP. He directs one last glance at the prison before walking away, setting the invite on his counter. If he’s lucky, everything will turn out fine. 

(He ignores the part of him that asks what’s going to happen if they’re not. No point in worrying about what hasn’t happened yet - right?) 

---

Weeks pass, the tournament creeping closer, and Michael gets no alerts from his teammates on his comm. No one comes to his house to check in, say hi, not even a ‘hey, we’re kinda competing in a massive tournament in like, seven days, you ready?’ Hell, he even starts checking his goddamn mailbox for a letter or something only to come up empty-handed every time. Never mind performing well - it’ll be a miracle if their team manages to arrive at the tournament at all. 

It isn’t until the day before MCC, the sun high in the sky at what must be near noon, when he finally gets a message on his comm. Michael fishes it out with a frustrated huff, seeing Quackity’s name pop up first when he manages to turn on the screen. 

Quackity whispers to you: you down for some practice?

It takes a couple seconds for him to blink away his shock - out of everyone he expected to arrange practice for their team, Quackity was definitely not at the top of the list. He half-thought they would have to drag him to the tournament kicking and screaming; from what he’s heard, he’s been nothing if not devoted to his country. Shaking his head, he goes to reply; practice is practice, and their team really needs it. 

You whisper to Quackity: sure. practice server?

Quackity whispers to you: yes

Pulling up his server list, Michael scrolls for the practice server, finding it and then letting the server transfer do the rest. A few nausea-inducing seconds later, he’s at the practice server spawn, standing in the middle of a neatly paved road surrounded by colorful arenas and signs. 

“Michael!” 

He turns; there, by the Battle Box arenas, Quackity is waving at him, already dressed in a red varsity jacket and a pair of shorts, the jacket bearing a front pocket embroidered with a rabbit and a large R stitched onto the back. He reaches behind him for a red bag, throws it his way for Michael to catch mid-air. 

“Got these outfits for us last minute - hope it’s alright with you,” Quackity smiles, and Michael tries to prevent his eyes from clinging to the scar spanning the entire left side of his face. “Anyway- how are you, man? I feel like we haven’t seen each other at all on the server. How’s it been?”

“I’m good- it’s been good.” Michael opens the drawstring bag, cataloguing the contents - there’s a jacket, just like Quackity’s, a pair of shorts and sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a headband, all in varying shades of red and white. “Nice outfit- thank you. Is anyone else around?”

Quackity waves a hand behind him. “Yeah- Dream’s here. Should be coming out of the arena soon, actually.” Michael looks over behind his shoulder to where he’s pointing - there, walking down the stairs, is another figure wearing all red that must be Dream. “There he is- hey Dream! Michael’s here!” 

Dream hurries down the stairs; unlike Quackity, he is wearing the sweatpants along with the same jacket, hands stuffed in his pockets. His hair is a lot longer than Michael remembers, pulled back behind his head in a ponytail, mask, as usual, fastened over his face. He settles behind Quackity, giving Michael a small wave; his hands are covered by a pair of fingerless gloves. 

“Hey, Dream!” Michael grins; it’s been such a long time since he’s seen his old teammate, and despite the circumstances and everything that’s apparently happened since then, it’s still pretty damn nice to see him. “How’ve you been?”

Dream seems to freeze for a moment, before shaking his head. “Good,” he says, quiet, sounding almost breathless. Michael’s eyes go to the slivers of skin that show on either side of his face, to the slight shake to his hands. 

“You alright? You look a little pale,” Michael asks, and he definitely doesn’t miss the way Dream stills at the words, muscles tensing, gaze averting to the side even with the mask - doesn’t miss how Quackity steps forward, looking Michael in the eye as he tosses a casual arm around Dream’s shoulder, smiling brightly. 

“Don’t worry. This idiot has just been practicing a bit too much before you got here,” Quackity gestures with a flippant twist of his wrist, “You know how he gets. Right, Dream?” 

“Um- yeah. Ha,” Dream responds just a little too late to be strictly normal, shoulders tight and nearly pulled to his ears under Quackity’s arm. “Practice- I’m a little out of shape.” 

“You sure?” Dream’s breathing hitches and Quackity steps forward, just a little bit, eyes still fixed firmly on Michael’s own even as he shifts his gaze to try and look at Dream. “We can take a break if you need, Dream-”

“I’m fine!” Dream smiles with a little stuttered breath that turns into a small laugh, “It’s- uh. It’s fine. Thanks Michael, but we can practice. Not much time left to waste, you know?”

“You sure, Dream?” Quackity says, suddenly, voice soft and sincere. “I guess it has been a while since you’ve been able to practice- you sure you don’t need a break?”

Dream shakes his head firmly. “No- it’s fine. Really- where’s Sapnap? He should be coming soon, right?”

“If you say so, pal,” Quackity replies, doubt coloring his tone as he pulls out his communicator. “I told Sapnap to come, he replied a couple minutes back; he should be here soon, I think. You want to go meet him at spawn?”

Dream nods, and they begin to set out towards the center of the server, Quackity and Dream quickly taking the lead as Michael falls back. After a minute, Quackity falls into casual conversation, rambling about something as Dream nods, Michael trailing behind the two of them and adding his own input as he sees fit. Sapnap arrives soon after, and the noise level picks up even more after that, Sapnap and Quackity falling into an easy rhythm of banter and quips as they set out to practice Battle Box and Parkour Tag, carefully working their way through the different games under Dream’s tutelage and advice. 

And here’s the thing- Michael isn’t stupid. Yeah, he’d hardly consider himself a top tier MCC player, and he’ll be the first to say that he’s nowhere near qualified to deal with the literal laundry list of issues that affect every member of the SMP, but even so, he’s not clueless. He’s good at looking at multiple sides of a situation, doesn’t easily give into intimidation or manipulation, and he’s observant as all hell. So when Quackity wraps his hand around Dream’s wrist, fingers wrapping all the way around until his knuckles pale, when Dream winces, muscles in his arm locking before letting it go limp, not protesting when Quackity drags him forward except in the tiny, tight expressions that flit across his face every few moments, tight and gasping and shaky at the corners - Michael notices. 

“See you at the tourney, yeah?” Quackity calls to him after practice with a wink before clapping Dream on the back, Michael watching silently as the muscles of Dream’s neck pull tight, head ducking to his chest. “Good job, big guy,” he says, laughing. “Keep this up for tomorrow and we’ll be good.”

“Mmhm,” Dream mutters after a brief second, “We’re- we’re gonna win.”

“Betting on it, pal,” Quackity replies, voice light in a way that completely fails to explain Dream’s full-body flinch. “MCC, huh? Can’t fucking wait.”

“See you tomorrow, Quackity,” Michael says as he presses DreamSMP on his server list, pretending that a chill doesn’t crawl down his spine at the smile that the other man throws his way in return. 

---

There’s no real easy answer.

Michael comes to that conclusion at some point in the middle of the night, restless and pumped on way too much adrenaline to go to sleep. He can’t outright antagonize Quackity, can’t let him know he knows something’s up - not when Quackity had already spent the majority of practice keeping one dark, narrowed eye on him at all times, lips pursed in a slight frown whenever he thought Michael wasn’t looking. He’s not stupid; whatever’s happening between Dream and Quackity is secret, and kept that way for a reason. His mind goes back to the brief flashes of anxiety that had moved over Dream’s face before he could react fast enough to school them back into a carefully neutral position; whatever it is, he doubts it bodes well for Dream in the slightest. 

Unfortunately, his hands are pretty damn tied. He knows public opinion on the masked man in the server is overwhelmingly negative, but has no damn idea how far it extends. How many people are in on whatever’s happening in that damn prison? How many people know what would make Dream, bold and bright and recklessly confident in all of Michael’s (rather limited) memories, into someone so quiet, unimposing, nervous? His head spins with the possibilities, with the ever-present reminder to not make a fuss, let the tournament pass on, to never, ever let anyone find out what’s going on within the SMP. Should he do anything at all? 

Too soon, it’s morning, and he drags himself out of bed with a groan to glare at the sun streaming through his window. Somewhere, Quackity and Dream and Sapnap are also waking up, are preparing to compete in one of the biggest damn tournaments to exist. Michael sighs, glancing over to where he’s set out his outfit, freshly pressed and waiting. Any other day, and he’d probably be fucking ecstatic. Here, he buries his head in his hands, muffling a frustrated groan against the palm of his hands. 

He loves MCC, but he sure as hell doesn’t like whatever the hell is going on with the rest of his team. 

Getting into the server goes smoothly enough. The outfit is comfortable and looks damn good, props to whoever made the thing, and the sight of the multicolored crowd successfully manages to tamp down some of his nerves. He busies himself with saying hi to all of the members waiting in the lobby, happy for the chance to talk to some people he hasn’t seen in ages, feels the night of anxieties wash away with every stupid joke told and burst of laughter drawn from his lungs. 

They come back the moment Scott steps up in front of the lobby. “Teams, it’s time to head to your team rooms! The tournament will begin in fifteen minutes,” Scott says, expression sunny and bright, “we’re wishing you all luck for a great performance today! May the best team win!” 

In a flurry of movement, they’re all whisked to their rooms for a final few minutes of preparation and morale-boosting, and Michael enters the glorified dressing room to Quackity, Dream, and Sapnap already standing there, seemingly in the middle of conversation. 

“You ready to win?” Sapnap yells, and Quackity whoops, and Michael manages a small cheer of his own. They’re all visibly nervous; Quackity has scarcely stopped moving, pacing from one side of the room to the next; Sapnap is basically jumping in place where he stands. Dream stands at the very back of the room, looking tense; Michael directs a wave his way and gets a small one in return. 

“Game plan, game plan,” Quackity mutters, “do we know what games we’re playing first? Dream?”

He nods at Dream, and Dream stands up straighter, mouth falling open.

“Oh- um,” he hesitates, a strand of hair flopping forwards as he tilts his head in thought. “We’ll want to save Parkour Tag and Battle Box towards the end- maybe something more high-risk at the beginning, but not first, just to boost morale,” his teeth catch on his bottom lip, “Maybe something like To Get To The Other Side? If they have that- or Build Mart, if we can get it out of the way.” He shakes his head. “If that’s alright- I mean-”

“Great,” Quackity cuts in smoothly. “Sapnap? Michael? Does that sound good to you?”

Sapnap flashes a thumbs up, and Michael nods. “Yeah, sounds great. Thanks, Dream.”

Dream’s head snaps towards him, mouth slightly open in shock. The sight of it makes Michael’s gut twist uncomfortably; there’s something about how surprised he is, at the nervous hesitancy with which he spoke that was nothing like what Michael remembers of his easy leadership in that MCC with Techno, that doesn’t sit right at all in his stomach. Even with his expression largely hidden, there’s no mistaking the clear, genuine surprise on his face at the idea of someone thanking him - Michael tries to tell himself that he’s reading too much into it as Quackity continues to speak. 

“We’re going to win,” he grins, just a little too sharp at the edges, “so get out there and play like your lives depend on it, yeah?” 

Sapnap cheers, and again, Michael and Dream follow. It’s not until he’s outside the door, within the clamor of screaming teams and people counting down with the timer that Michael realizes that Quackity was staring at Dream the entire time. 

---

Michael curses, frustrated, when he’s knocked off a platform again, making sure to flip Krinios the bird before he falls into the Void entirely. When he makes it to the other side, Quackity and Dream are already deep in conversation - if you can call it that. Even from here, it looks worryingly one-sided.

“-were you thinking, falling off there-” Quackity’s hand is on Dream’s shoulder, Dream standing stock-still in front of him, “you better be taking this seriously, Dream.”

“Hey- sorry about that,” Michael calls with a wave, “I swear Krinios had it out for me. At least I made it across, right?” 

Quackity turns, startled, and in the split-second that it takes for him to register Michael’s appearance, his expression smooths over into something friendlier, more inviting. “Michael!” He says, enthusiastic, and it’s like the anger that had filled his words just seconds before was never there at all. “Don’t- don’t worry about it, man. We all kinda dropped the ball on that one, right Dream?” 

The words should be encouraging, just simple ribbing between teammates. Dream’s mask is still ducked down, facing the floor, shoulders slightly hunched in. 

“Um- Sapnap did pretty good,” Dream says, quiet, “he got top ten, right?” 

Michael looks over to where Sapnap is standing a little ways away, seemingly busy typing on his communicator. Quackity laughs, sharp and loud. 

“True,” he punches Dream lightly on the upper arm, and Michael watches the way he freezes the second the fist makes contact with his jacket, “come on, man, you’re losing your touch. You really gonna let yourself get beat by Sapnap?” he shakes his head, still laughing as he pulls open his communicator. “Jesus- even I beat you in that last round. Watch your spot, Dream, I’m coming for you.” 

“I mean,” Michael says when a second passes and it becomes clear Dream isn’t going to respond, “Dream was doing pretty well with the last two rounds, right? I thought I saw his name pretty far up there.” 

Quackity takes a second before responding, again, staring at Michael oddly as he does. “That’s true,” he concedes, “hey- I was just making a joke, don’t worry. It’s all for fun, right Dream?”

His gaze goes to Dream, and automatically, Michael follows. Dream seems to startle under the attention, twitching Quackity’s direction in the awkward silence that results. Michael watches as the mask slants slightly to face Quackity, as Quackity looks back at him with an intense, unreadable expression, shoulders strangely tense. Whatever unsaid conversation that seems to pass between them is entirely lost on Michael as Dream finally responds with a sudden, almost strangled bark of laughter. 

“Yeah- just jokes,” his fingers twist over one another, hands held close together in front of his body, “Though Qu- Q’s right, I- I should probably pick it up. We’re playing to win.” 

A ding alerts them to the end of the round, and Michael steadies himself in preparation for the teleport to the next map. As he turns, he catches Quackity’s expression, once again, and the self-satisfied smirk on his face as he continues to look at Dream. 

“Good luck,” he calls just before they enter the next round, and tries not to think too much about what he’s saying it for. 

---

They manage pretty well for the rest of To Get To The Other Side, finishing with a second place overall that got cheers from Sapnap and even a slight smile from Dream. Hole in the Wall, on the other hand, has been a lot less successful - though Michael will be the first to say that it’s his fault. His practice in the last few months has been lackluster (at best) and it definitely showed in the arena. 

He leans over the railing, watching Dream and Sapnap through the crowd of participants left that have yet to be knocked out by the giant walls of slime. Quackity’s standing next to him, having been similarly thrown off the platform early in the round, expression tight and lips set in a small frown, and looking at him for too long makes Michael uneasy so he looks down at the arena again. They’re in the last round, and they’re supposed to be making callouts anyway for their teammates still participating below.

Without thinking, once again, Michael looks over at Dream. Sue him, he knows the guy best and Dream has been acting odd all day, to put it lightly. Even ignoring the part of him that’s screaming that something’s wrong, that there’s something up that has everything to do with the beanie-wearing man standing besides him, it only takes a few minutes of observation to see that Dream is - for the lack of a better word - off. Michael watches as he vaults over another wall, only barely managing to bring himself to his feet in time on the other side. Dream’s movements - even to his untrained eye - have always been fluid, effortless. He jumped and vaulted and ran like gravity didn’t exist, like every physics-bending maneuver he made was as easy as breathing. Michael remembers watching him sprint over the parkour course before, time completely unmatched as he appraised each obstacle and basically flew his way through, sounding hardly even winded when he whooped loudly in victory from the top of the salmon ladder. In total contrast, Dream jerks away from the coming wall again, movements sloppy and harsh as he scrambles to the other side of the disc-shaped arena. He’s still fast, and still making jumps, but everything is strangely angled where it had once been fluid, stopping and starting suddenly, moving in bursts of speed and then skidding to sudden stops. 

“WEST!” Quackity shouts, and Michael watches as Dream’s head turns jerkily at the noise before he dives out of the way of the incoming wall and manages, barely, to twist around the side. Michael winces at the tumble he takes on the opposite side, clutching his chest slightly as he stands back up again. 

“North!” Michael calls, because he should probably actually help his teammates, huh, and Dream manages to move around this one better, jumping through a hole in the wall and tucking and rolling as he lands. “Nice jump- East!” 

It’s an easy wall, thankfully, and both Sapnap and Dream visibly take a breath as they stand in place for the wall to pass over them. As it passes, a droning buzz comes from the speakers, and the walls below them speed up. 

“South-to your right!” Michael shouts as they turn, eyes turning between all of the false walls before finally focusing on the right one, his shout echoed by a similar one from Quackity. At each one of the calls from the man besides him, Dream seems to tighten further, movements increasingly erratic as he dodges and weaves around the walls. There’s still a lot of people left - Michael follows Dream through the crowd with a frown, watching as he and Sapnap jump the next wall, Dream’s foot nearly catching on the top edge. 

“West-” Dream flinches, jumping over the two-high wall at the last possible second, landing completely off-balance on the other side and falling to the ground. He scrambles to his feet, but there’s already a wall at the west edge of the platform - his head turns, still searching for the wall - Quackity yells.

“LEFT!”

Something in Dream’s movements seem to shift, even in the distance - Michael watches as he immediately, almost robotically, steps to the left at Quackity’s voice, not even jumping, not turning his head to take in his surroundings, just moving instinctually at the words, and slams into the coming wall hard enough to get flung into the middle hole in the platform. Quackity curses, fist crashing into the railing as Dream falls and the chat message shows on their communicators, and a second later he’s materialized beside them, face oddly slack and mask focused somewhere faraway. 

“Shit,” Dream mutters when he seems to come back into himself, shaking his head and then turning to the two of them, still by the railing, “Dammit. Sorry, I-“ 

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael cuts in before Quackity can speak. “You did good.” 

“I-” Dream catches Quackity’s gaze, then pushes his head away, mask facing the ground. Something about it and his raised shoulders and the dark, angry glare that Quackity directs over the railing when Michael looks back makes him shift in place, uneasy. “Could’ve done better, ha. Sorry.” 

The three of them watch, silent, as Sapnap continues to compete. He manages to get pretty damn far, making it to the top three, but getting knocked off-balance by a wall and off the platform just before the timer sounds. Michael cringes back at the sound of it over the speakers, watches the other contestants settle into place, panting, in victory.

“Great job, Sapnap,” Michael shouts when he materializes in front of them, and the other two are quick to echo his sentiments. If they sound a little duller than they should be, if Quackity’s jaw seems clenched and Dream’s all coiled up like a spring, far too tense, it’s from placing lower than they wanted and slipping in the rankings, not anything else.

Keep your head down, Michael reminds himself, and everything’s gonna be fine. And if the words ring more and more hollow with every repetition, well, that’s for him to ignore and for everyone else to never, ever find out. 

---

Buildmart is chosen next, which they all groan at, but at least it’s going to be out early and not left to ruin all of their scores later. Michael takes his place at his build, one third from the left side - it’s some abomination of colored glass and white concrete meant, if he is to guess, to emulate a stained glass window. He’s between Dream and Sapnap, the former positioned in front of a flower-dotted grass field with a picnic table, the latter staring down a miniature car with black concrete for tires and stone buttons for detailing. He breathes a steady breath as they await the countdown, already planning for his trip to the Colors section to grab materials for his build and the others’- Buildmart isn’t his strongest game, but it’s not his worst either, and he’s damn well going to try his best. 

He skids into the portal with an armful of colored concrete and glass, spilling half of its contents inside a chest before running to his build. He pulls himself to the crafting bench to craft - he squints at his build - he needs four red glass panes and 3 yellow, right. As he brings the panes to his inventory and begins laying out the frame of the build in concrete, he looks over to Dream, who is noticeably struggling with placing the flowers in his build and getting the placements to match that of the original. He knocks away a white tulip with a muffled curse, sounding frantic as he looks back to the original, and places it again to no avail. 

It seems that his struggle hasn’t only caught Michael’s attention, as the statue to the leftmost side of the room explodes in gold coins and confetti - Quackity has finished his build and is now looking at Dream with narrowed eyes. Dream places the flower again, and the build refuses to respond. Quackity’s gaze narrows further, and he opens his mouth-

“Hey Quackity!” Michael starts speaking before he’s even noticed that he’s opened his mouth, fumbling as he regains awareness of what he’s doing and tries to find a direction for his sentence to go, “do you have any concrete?”

Quackity looks at him like he’s grown a second head, which is fair, considering there’s a block of white concrete pretty obviously visible in his hand. “Um- no? Weren’t you supposed to go to Colors?”

Dream finally manages to place the tulip where it belongs, and the build between them disappears in another explosion of gold glitter. Michael laughs awkwardly. 

“Sorry- haha. I got a little mixed up.” He places the last piece of white concrete, watching as his own build disappears. A little wooden cottage takes its place, made of what appears to be just oak wood and cobblestone. “Are you going to get wood? Or should I?”

“I- You get wood,” Quackity shakes his head, visibly frustrated, “And I’ll get stone. We have to hurry, we’re falling behind.” 

After that, Michael finds it a little too easy - or maybe not easy, but at least tolerable, to interrupt when Quackity looks a little like he’s about to fall on the side of being angry versus just annoyed, stepping between his angry glares at Dream with a forced smile and an incessant string of annoying questions- 

“Hey Quackity, do you have any spare iron?”

“Hey Quackity, I think you placed that a little too far back.”

“Hey Quackity, can you take a look to see what I placed wrong?” 

It’s not perfect. It’s hardly even functional; Michael knows that Quackity has begun with the habit of directing death glares at his back whenever he thinks he’s not looking, his responses to Michael’s questions becoming more and more clipped, often paired with irritated grumbles and sighs. Sapnap, when Michael looks at him, seems largely engrossed with his own builds, but he’s also begun looking over at the two of them with a vaguely dissatisfied expression, and Dream only seems to be getting more jumpy with every frustrated growl out of Quackity’s mouth. Even Michael’s forced levity and falsely ignorant questions can’t do much against Quackity’s anger when they walk out of Buildmart dead last for the minigame, dropping their team all the way down to seventh in the overall rankings, and the tension within the team as they walk out - Quackity nearly stomping, Dream following with his hands wringing around each other and head ducked fearfully - is almost enough to make Michael scream. He looks at the scoreboard with a worried expression as he enters the Decision Dome, trying to quell the sinking feeling in his gut. 

There’s still five more games to go, and he’s not sure how long they can last before something snaps. 

---

Battle Box is chosen next, and they react to the game with quiet cheers and slightly grim faces. Michael’s been in enough MCCs to know that this game, of any, is crucial - after their lacking performances in the last two games, a good showing at Battle Box will be crucial to pull them back into the competition and raise morale. With Sapnap and Dream, if this were any normal game, they should be able to sweep through a good amount of the competition without much effort. As it is, though, Michael looks at the two more combat-oriented members of his team with a worried expression, the two barely even able to meet each other’s eyes. Their interactions so far have been less than promising- if they can’t hold it together for this round, well. 

Michael shakes his head. They’ll do fine. They have to. 

Even so, the first round only seems to confirm his concerns - they get woolrushed almost immediately, and in Dream and Sapnap’s stumbling to get to mid, nearly crashing into each other and focusing their efforts on the same player by accident, the other team manages to fill out the wool, sending them back to the spawn box even more frustrated than before. 

“Amazing teamwork, guys,” Quackity snarks immediately, and Michael rolls his eyes. 

“Like you did that much.” 

Sapnap is still staring at Dream oddly, Dream turning his head to avoid his gaze. The two of them look largely oblivious to Quackity and his whole deal, even as Quackity whirls around to give him the stink eye. 

“You didn’t do anything either, if I remember correctly,” Quackity mutters, and Michael shrugs. 

“Fair.” 

A ding alerts them to the round’s end, and they resign themselves to preparing for the next round. Michael picks the extra arrows from the wall, knowing that no one else will want the kit, and watches as Dream anxiously runs his hands over the crossbow. 

The next round goes better, barely; Michael and Quackity end up knocked out pretty early, but Dream and Sapnap manage to kill the rest of the team soon after. He watches from the box as they fill in the wool, Dream looking awfully tense as he shears away the white wool for Sapnap to fill it with red. Quackity watches them both with a tight expression, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

Michael turns away, ignoring him, going back to watching Dream and Sapnap still standing within the arena. Both of them look awkward, oddly out of step with each other - Michael’s not watched them fight much, but he knows that they have a reputation as a pair, was there for the Sky Battle round where they completely wiped through the competition. Even here, Sapnap moves forward and Dream flinches back - there’s something heavy and tense between them, lingering in the few words they’ve spoken to each other, if they’ve even spoken to each other at all, one always rushing forward too fast or following just a little too slow. They’re still brilliant fighters, almost unrivaled in hand-to-hand combat and with swords, but the faltering communication is sure to hurt them more in the future. 

His worries come true just three rounds later, the two in between being narrow wins for their team, each a little more shaky than would be comfortable. Michael has found himself easing off the worst of his anxiety in verbally sparring with Quackity, jabbing at the other with offhand remarks and little needling jokes to keep his attention off the other two, especially as his glare has become more pronounced and his words more angry. Even so, nothing he does or can do will fix the odd tension between Dream and Sapnap, whose communication remains as stilted and awkward as ever. 

They’re facing a stronger team, PVP wise, with Punz and Seapeekay, and Michael ends up falling in a bow duel against Jack. He watches as the Captain falls to a potion by Sapnap, then as Jack is taken out by a crossbow bolt courtesy of Dream, just before Quackity falls to a well-timed bow shot from the opposing team. 

That leaves the strongest PVPers to battle it out, and Dream and Sapnap manage to team up and kill CPK - but not without taking a nasty damage potion to the face that must leave the two of them low. Michael watches Punz, booking it to mid with a crossbow, anxiously - both of them would be a oneshot with the thing, and on the condition that he takes no damage before fighting with either of them outright, he’s probably got enough health to hold out a few hits. 

Sapnap pulls out a health potion, and Michael grins - that’ll be good for the two of them, and should secure them the win - only for him to gesture roughly with his sword and for Dream to stagger backwards, panic flashing over his face. He only seems to grow more fearful at the sound of glass shattering on the ground, falling backwards further - far enough to be largely out of range of health pot - and in their shock, Punz manages to catch both of them off guard and nail Sapnap with a crossbow bolt that downs him for the round before similarly dispatching Dream in two hits of his sword.

Sapnap explodes upon respawn in the box - “What was that? I had a health pot!”

“I-” Dream fumbles, face still oddly pale, “Sorry I didn’t- I- I-”

“We had that round!” Sapnap’s arms flail forward as he gestures angrily, Dream freezing further as one hand skims past his shoulder. “I can’t believe- I had a health pot! Punz was on, like, half! We could’ve killed him!”

“Easy, easy,” Quackity moves forward, putting a hand on both of their shoulders - Sapnap seems to relax immediately, while Dream, if anything, only looks more tense. “It’s time for the next round - we’ll talk about this later, alright?” 

Dream nods, movements overly tense, and Quackity flashes a toothy smile his way as Sapnap moves back, still mumbling to himself. He and Quackity move to talk in the back corner, words quiet enough that Michael cannot make them out, and something sick and cold slithers over his spine. Sapnap and Quackity are fiancés, aren’t they? 

Michael looks over at Dream, mask still covering his face as he looks away through the glass to the arena, shoulders still tight as Michael’s pretty sure they’ve been for as long as he’s seen him since he came onto the server. He remembers the panic that make itself obvious on his face every time Quackity came up to him, even as covered as it is, the similar- if not the same- fear that had painted his face when he respawned fresh off of the Battle Box round after Sapnap’s sword had passed a little too close to his body. 

Quackity and Dream- he’s sure, even if he doesn’t want to admit it, that there’s something going on there, dark and dreadful and poisonous. Who’s to say that Sapnap isn’t involved, as well? 

---

They finish Battle Box decently well, but not as well as they’d hoped, pulling them up to fifth place with a decently large gap between them and fourth. Quackity and Dream disappear immediately as the Audience Votes begin coming in, leaving Sapnap and Michael to stand awkwardly in the lobby to wait for the rest of their team to come back. Michael watches the crowd for a glimpse of Quackity and Dream, comes up empty. A sigh fizzles through his teeth as he looks up into the sky, the endless blue doing little to ease his nerves - he’s worried, even if he doesn’t want to think about it, for his teammates. For Dream. 

It doesn’t take a genius to see that the man is scared of Quackity, that there’s an odd sort of history there that Michael conveniently has no information about. Whatever it is, it’s left Dream unsure and uncharacteristically nervous, left the entire team floundering without proper leadership to tie them all together. Really, a part of him knows that the Championships should be the least of his concerns - if he were braver, or a little better at combat, or a little less inclined to just let things pass as they always have, then he’d be raising a fuss. Getting in the way, talking to Dream, doing something other than making backhanded compliments to Quackity that he’s sure have been doing little more than annoy the man further. 

“Michael?” Sapnap comes within his line of sight, lips pressed together in a carefully put-together expression that Michael is sure will collapse the moment they’re away from others’ prying eyes, “Can we speak for a moment?”

Michael forces another easy smile to his face as he turns towards his teammate, feels a little disgusted at the amount of them he’s had to use to simply function with the rest of his team. “Sure! Where to?”

They walk at a brisk pace to the team room, Sapnap’s eyes focused forwards the entire time, not speaking. If he’s being honest, it’s a little awkward, but the lighthearted comment on his tongue to break the silence dies out the minute Sapnap closes the door and looks back at him with fierce, focused eyes boring into him. 

“What’s your deal?” He hisses immediately, words pitched low even though he doesn’t really have to - there’s no one nearby, and the team rooms are decently soundproofed. Michael feels his hackles rising as Sapnap’s arms cross in front of him, eyes still focused on his own as he talks. “I’m not going to lie- I don’t know you that well, even though you’re on the SMP now, but can you quit it with Quackity already?”

“Quit what?” Michael snarks - sue him - matching Sapnap’s tone with irritation of his own. 

“Don’t- you’ve been antagonizing Quackity all day,” Sapnap’s hand runs through his hair, messing up his hair and tangling it into knots, “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re kind of in the middle of a competition here? So it’d be really nice if you could save the fighting for until after we’re done?”

“Says you?” Michael can’t help the retort this time, huffing irately at the offended expression that flashes over the other’s face, “I don’t really know if you’ve noticed, but your teamwork has been a little less than stellar, today. Pot calling the kettle black, much?”

“What-” Sapnap looks confused, even through his anger, gesturing more and more wildly. “What do you even mean?”

“Oh, so are we just ignoring what just happened in Battle Box then?” 

Sapnap’s eyes flash as he closes into himself again, hands gripping at his upper arms as he crosses his arms in front of his chest once again. “That- that’s different. That’s because of Dream.”

“Oh, just keep blaming it on the other guy, why don’t you?”

“No-” Sapnap shakes his head furiously. “You haven’t been on here for nearly as long, you don’t get it, Michael. Dream- he’s-,” Sapnap flails, and Michael groans at the familiar words. 

“Dream’s what? I was on the team with the guy before, you know. It’s kind of the reason why he invited me in the first place?” He raises an eyebrow. “We worked together perfectly well then - am I supposed to believe that his self-proclaimed ‘best friend’ can’t do the same?” 

“You don’t understand,” Sapnap repeats, expression hard and oddly far away, “Dream- he’s changed- he’s done so many terrible things. I don’t know what he’s said to convince you, but he’s bad news, man. He’s hurt- so many people.” 

“Oh- you want to talk about hurting people?” 

Michael isn’t quite sure what comes over him - only really realizes a white-hot flash of rage lancing through his chest, a sleepless night and half a competition’s  worth of anxiety and frustration and build up combining into a sizzling spike of fury that briefly tinges his vision red. 

“How about the way Dream looks like he’s about to keel over whenever anyone gets close to him? How about how he flinches back at literally every loud noise and fast movement? How about how Quackity’s been making these stupid, angry comments at him for the entire competition that make him freeze for a minute each time? Or how about when you were in Battle Box and Dream backed away from your sword like he thought you were gonna drive it through his chest?” Michael barely feels himself stepping forward with each word, jabbing his index finger into the other’s chest. “You want to talk about hurting people? How about you go talk to that fiancé of yours and then come back to talk?” 

A loud, droning buzz comes over the speakers, alerting them of the end of the break. Michael steps back, face flushed in embarrassment, before the world whirls away and they’re teleported back into the Decision Dome. 

He adamantly refuses to meet Sapnap’s eyes as Quackity and Dream materialize in the sector with them, Quackity’s hand clamped around Dream’s upper arm as the other man keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the floor, looking even more panicked and frozen than before the break. 

“You ready to win?” Quackity laughs, and Michael watches as his hand tightens around the sleeve of Dream’s jacket, knuckles paling from the strain. 

“Yeah,” Michael tries to cheer, and it feels like ash on his tongue. “Let’s do this.” 

---

Survival Games ends up being picked next - Quackity and Sapnap quickly pull up to the front of the group, close enough to be within eyesight but too far to really pick up their conversation. Michael keeps an eye out for the reddish glow of their bodies as they scout the surrounding areas for chest, staying back with Dream as they look at the other side of the road. He’d be lying if he said that he didn’t feel a smug sort of satisfaction of Sapnap seemingly confronting Quackity about whatever the hell has been going on, as awkward as his whole outburst had been. As it is, some time with Dream is nice without Quackity watching over his shoulder like a hawk - he directs a small, genuine smile at the man by his side that Dream seems to do a double take at before shyly returning it with one of his own. 

“There- I think I see a chest,” Michael points under a lamppost, running to the wooden box and flicking the lid upwards. He pulls out a chain chestplate that he promptly puts on himself, then throws over the iron boots to his teammate as well as a small stone axe that he’s sure Dream will make better use of. “We should probably catch up to the others - don’t want to be caught off guard while separated.”

Dream nods, and the two of them pick up the pace before finding another chest that Dream rummages through, this time, finding an iron sword that Michael takes for himself and a cake. 

“You’ve been doing really well so far,” Michael says after a few minutes of quiet, words becoming more firm when Dream looks up at him with a surprised expression. “Seriously- you’ve been doing great, man.”

“Thanks,” Dream smiles, words quiet and terribly sincere, and the sinking pit in Michael’s gut returns at the tone. “Not as good as I should, though. I’ve been underperforming a lot,” he laughs a little at the words, but even to Michael’s ears it rings hollow. “It’s not over yet, though.”

“No it’s not,” Michael concedes, rearranging his inventory as they run. “But it’s good enough, man, really - just look at my rankings.”

Dream huffs. “You’ve been doing good, Michael.”

“And you’ve been doing a hell of a lot better than me,” Michael tips his head in his direction. “Give yourself some more credit, man. You’ve been playing well.”

Dream smiles again, but even now the corners of his mouth seem tight, tense. “I need to play better, though, if we want to win,” he says, matter-of-fact, analytical to a damn fault. Michael rolls his eyes, but nods to concede the point. 

“Sure, but that goes for all of us, Dream,” he shakes his head. “And it’s okay if we don’t win, you know?”

“No.” 

Michael turns, frowning. Dream’s tone has become oddly flat, eyes dead as he continues to stare at the pavement under their feet. He seems to be chewing on his lip anxiously, startled out of his own thoughts when he looks up to meet Michael’s gaze. “I mean- I don’t know. I really have- want to win.” 

There’s something so carefully worded about the admission, quiet and scraped open and raw in the slow sincerity of the words. Michael wants to poke at it, wants to understand what’s left him so unsure of every step, what determination lies behind the words that has left desperation clinging to every shallow breath he draws. A crack of thunder on the horizon, heralding a player’s death, reminds him that now is not the time. 

Keep your head down. 

“Alright,” he smiles thinly, hoping that the fracturing, yawning pit of emptiness in his chest isn’t obvious in the words. “Then we’re going to win.” 

---

Michael skids to a stop at the finish line, feeling the elytra deequip as he’s thrown into spectator mode. He runs his hands through his wind-tousled hair, feeling it strain against his fingers as he roughly finger-combs it back into place. Dream and Sapnap are off to the side, standing next to each other but seemingly not speaking - Michael smiles as he floats over, still shaking the adrenaline off from the race. 

“Hey,” the two look up, smile in recognition, and Dream waves; there’s a small smile on his face, strained but present. “You both did really good!” 

“Thanks, Michael,” Dream laughs, earnest, “I did decent, I guess- haha. Top ten at least.” 

Sapnap whoops. “We’re popping off!” Michael cheers in agreement, and their efforts manage to pull Dream’s smile a little wider as he ducks his head to look away again. 

“Thanks, guys.” 

They watch as Quackity flies through the finish line, appearing in front of them and shaking his arms out as he gets his bearings. 

“Geez- that trident,” he shakes his head, looks up. “Hey, there you guys are. How’d we do?” 

“Dream got seventh,” Sapnap scrolls through his comm, looking through the rows of contestants and their times as they come in, interspersed by the occasional chat message, “And I got 10th. Michael got- 28th, I think? And you got 32nd.” 

“Hmm,” Quackity hums, “What do you think, Dream? Is that good enough to pull us to Dodgebolt?”

Once again, Michael watches as Dream stiffens under the scrutiny, head ducking down and looking for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else. “Um- I don’t know,” Dream mumbles, “I messed up a trident- fell into the void once, probably could’ve done better otherwise-” his voice trails off, tensing further as Quackity takes his usual spot by his side, jabbing an elbow none-too-lightly into his ribs. 

“But you didn’t, though,” Quackity says, tone flippant, “so what do you think? With those placements- is it going to be enough?” 

“Hey, we did great, man,” Michael glares at him, more forward than he’d usually be - but all he can see is the shoulder that he has pressed against Dream’s arm, the way Dream’s stood stock still since the moment he made contact, “Lay off of Dream, would you? He did great.”

“Yeah, Q,” Michael’s eyebrows raise in surprise as Sapnap chimes in from the side, rising further when Sapnap moves forward to link his arm with Quackity’s own and half-drag him away from Dream. “Chill out, man, we popped off. We’re gonna fucking win this, ok?”

Quackity’s lips press together; he’s still smiling, but there’s no mistaking the seething darkness that lingers in his narrowed eyes and furrowed eyebrows, gaze still trained on the pale off-white disk of Dream’s mask. Still, with the rest of the team against him, he’s in a losing fight and he knows it; Michael watches as he visibly backs down, rolling his shoulders back as he lets Sapnap pull him further back. 

“We’re going to fucking win this,” he repeats, and Michael wonders how he manages to make the words sound so much like a threat.

---

“Sky battle,” Sapnap calls as the decision dome below them lights up in confirmation of the penultimate game, expression immediately becoming more focused as he turns back to the rest of the team. “Alright- strats, what are we thinking?”

“There’s the iron at spawn,” Dream starts, interrupted by the teleport to the Sky Battle arena, making him cut himself off comically and take a second to shake off the resulting disorientation, “And then there’s the iron in the nearby island. We gotta pick one, tower as soon as we can.”

“Got it,” Sapnap looks down, seemingly calculating, before looking up again - Michael has heard him compared to fire before, but he thinks this is the first time he’s really seen it; there’s a veritable blaze burning in his eyes as he looks at each member of the team, easily taking charge as they prepare for the first round. “Same buddy system as Survival Games - Q, stick with me, Michael, stick with Dream. I’ll tower to the next island- Dream, you good with getting the iron at spawn and crafting armor for us?” 

Dream startles, before flashing a small thumbs up at the other - Sapnap smiles wider, teeth bared dangerously.

“This is our game,” he cheers, and Michael enthusiastically whoops in reply, “we’re winning this, you got that team? Let’s go!” 

This, Michael thinks, is the way the games should’ve gone - they jump into action upon the start of the game, Michael watching as Dream races through both chests on the spawn island, getting the iron and jumping down cleanly with a water bucket before following Sapnap’s bridge to the other island. He tosses over a pair of leggings and boots as he lands, then takes Sapnap’s excess iron to craft the other pieces of iron for himself and Sapnap as the other man begins shooting at opposing teams. Their communication is near wordless, simple one- or two-word requests communicating all they need as they follow each other seamlessly into the main arena area, sealing off their entrance as they search the ring for other teams.

Sapnap, especially, seems to have shifted - instead of waiting for Dream to take the lead, he seems comfortable barrelling on forward on his own, trusting for Dream to follow his steps. Michael watches as the two of them easily work through the two lagging members of Orange, shooting through a gap in the wall to catch an unsuspecting Yellow player chased by the border. Michael ends up dying to an unlucky block of TNT placed on his head - curses out what appears to be Quig, bounding over to the other side of the arena, and follows Dream and Sapnap as they continue to fight their way through the competition. 

It’s not perfect, for sure - Dream hesitates at a bad place a minute later, ending with Sapnap getting 2v1ed and exploding in a flash of red sparkles. Dream is similarly dispatched a few seconds after, and the three of them watch Quackity, caught in the crossfire of two other teams, before he also goes down. 

“Good work, team,” Sapnap says as he appears, disoriented, in spectator mode, and they watch the remaining two teams battling in a rapidly shrinking border before Fruit falls as well, leaving Pink as the winners. “That was close- we’ve got this.” The conviction in his voice leaves no room for argument, and Michael, briefly, feels bad for anyone that stands in the way of it. 

With the second round, they once again fall into rhythm without any major hiccups - someone tries to cut them off before entering the main arena, but are made quick work of by Sapnap’s relentless onslaught. As Michael watches, Dream seems to regain confidence as well, moving more to fight with Sapnap side by side instead of just playing support, tugging him back from a risky play and catching Punz in a nasty combo that does him in when he manages to slip past Sapnap. 

The four of them end up in the final stand off in the middle, but end up getting caught too high up and killed by the border before they can jump down. Sapnap hisses at the narrow defeat, but the disappointment has hardly seemed to dim his determination - if anything, it seems to burn brighter. 

“Last round,” he mutters, and Michael watches as Dream walks up to him, bumping him lightly with his shoulder. 

“This is our game,” he says, a small smile appearing on his face, and Sapnap returns it with a fiery, blinding one of his own. 

“Ours,” he says, and even just standing on the side, watching - Michael believes it. 

Still, his concerns have yet to disappear - they linger in his mind as they jump into an adrenaline-filled last round, jumpy from excitement and victory just within their grasps. Dream is still more jittery than he should be, taking a second more than usual to react to fights, and his teamwork with Sapnap - while good - is still noticeably rusty. Michael’s lips thin at the memory of Dream backing away from Sapnap’s sword in Battle Box, hunched into himself, almost on the floor, with a clearly desperate edge to his expression - and no matter how he tries, he can’t quite manage to shake it off. 

Unfortunately enough, the third round doesn’t bode well for them from the start - Quackity gets bowed off while bridging to the main arena, and upon entrance there they end up flanked, hard, by another team in a conflict that gets Michael killed within seconds. Sapnap and Dream book it to the other side of the arena, where they manage to work through a full team without too much trouble - but the next minute brings another half-team flying at them from the back, catching them in the middle of trying to recuperate. The two focus Dream in the middle of eating a steak, and Michael watches as Dream steps back instead of moving forward to fight, that same shade of fear making his muscles seize as he stands, stock still, watching helplessly as swords fly his way- Michael cries out, but there’s nothing he can do-

Between one blink and the next, Sapnap is standing in front of Dream, a snarl painting his features as he whirls through both players in a fury. Michael watches, awed, as his sword weaves and dances between the two attacking Dream, making quick work of them both until they’re no more than items scattered over the ground, then grabs Dream by the wrist and drags him up a nearby ladder onto the upper floor, plopping him by the wall and then backing off. 

Sapnap stands back as Dream sits against the wall, breathing fast and labored, dropping to his knees with his hands in front of him, palms up, no weapons in hand. Michael watches, frantic, for the signs of any teams nearby - with Dream panicking and Sapnap’s back to the rest of the arena, they’d be easy pickings - but for once, luck seems to be on their side, because no one comes. Dream heaves a breath through his lungs, deep and shuddery - Sapnap watches, lips flat from concern, but doesn’t speak. 

“You good to continue?” he asks, when Dream seems calm enough to recognize his surroundings, and Dream looks up at the words, jaw slack from shock and disorientation, before his head dips in a firm nod. 

“Good,” Sapnap smiles, tight-lipped and fiercely determined, fiercely loyal, as he reaches out a hand that Dream moves to take. “Let’s go fuck them up, yeah? You and me, just like we used to.”

Michael watches, heart in his chest, as they stand together to face the rest of the competition, towering towards the middle and facing off with the remaining teams,  watches as they move forwards through explosions and buckets of lava, coalescing onto the middle island, as they battle through the remaining opponents as one in a clean spiral of clashing blades and flying arrows, fighting with their backs to each other in the center of the arena. He watches as a well-placed fishing rod by Dream knocks their final opponent off the platform, leaving them in the middle, triumphant, as the only remaining team - 

Watches, a brilliant, bubbling laugh in his chest as Dream and Sapnap take their spots in the middle of the arena, standing side by side as Sapnap raises Dream’s hand in victory, both laughing and cheering  into the sky.

---

Their performance in Sky Battle manages to pull them to third - but second place still stands a few hundred coins away, and they watch anxiously as Parkour Tag is chosen as the last game and they are transported over the arena. 

“Last game,” Sapnap calls, “We’ve got this, alright?” 

He gets terse, short nods in return - it’ll be a close game, and even Michael is feeling the pressure. He breathes a soft, quiet breath through his teeth as they prepare, looking over to the opposite team as they choose their hunters and runners. 

“Dream, you up to hunting first four?” Sapnap seems to be watching the effects of his words more, waiting for Dream’s agreement before moving forward, sliding into the position of leader easily when Dream seems to struggle. Dream nods and steps into the hunter’s box, lips pressed together, flat and focused, and Michael turns back to the arena to plan out his route. 

Parkour, by far, is not his strong suit. It hadn’t been his strong suit during Parkour Warrior and sure as hell isn’t it now - he enjoys it well enough, but with the pressure of a hunter on him or the time creeping past and the competition standings hanging over his head like a guillotine, he’s prone to slipping up and he knows it. The map is full of dizzying, multi-colored structures and difficult jumps, the twists and turns of the arena making his head spin. Being good at parkour is more than being good at movement - it involves being able to make split-second decisions and execute them with no time to hesitate. Unfortunately, Michael isn’t particularly good at any of that, so Parkour Tag mostly just stresses him the hell out. 

He sets out to the arena, listening for callouts over comms as he fumbles over the buildings. Halfway through the game, Dream’s voice comes through comms, quiet, focused. 

“Gottem.” 

“Nice, Dream,” Michael smiles, trying not to trip over a particularly hard jump, only to fall to being tagged in the back by the opposing team’s hunter - Ant, if he remembers right. “Sapnap and Q are still in- we’ve got this.”

Once again, each time, Dream races through the opposing team in seconds, seemingly going faster with each round. Michael has heard his reputation as a hunter before, but only now is he really appreciating the extent - the speed at which he manages to dispatch all three opponents is downright terrifying. They manage to win all four rounds, lingering around second place overall on the leaderboards, before Sapnap and Dream switch off for hunting. 

With each round, Michael watches Dream in the lobby, watching as he tenses further in focus and determination and no small degree of fear, but it hadn’t been nearly as obvious in between rounds. Now, with him in the arena with Quackity and himself, Dream’s jumpiness is all that more palpable, adrenaline making him pace and jump in place from where he stands at the edge of the place. The glass lowers, and he explodes into motion, bounding on top of the nearest tower to wait for the hunter to come towards them. 

Michael ends up caught first, early in the round, once again, and resolves to following Dream over the glass to watch his movements and make callouts for the hunter chasing behind him. Watching Dream move through the arena, dodging below fixtures and through tunnels and jumping from tower to tower with seemingly no regard for gravity pulling him down, it’s become all the more obvious that this is his element. He makes another hairpin turn around a pole, kicking himself up over a tower and then diving from it to a nearby building, landing on a ledge inside it, hands clutching the wall - Michael watches, quietly awed, as he outlasts the hunter, landing in small, panting breaths in the lobby. 

“Great work,” he cheers, quiet, as Dream shakes off the last dregs of the adrenaline, all of them watching the leaderboard anxiously, “Just three more rounds, alright?” 

The rounds that follow continue in much of the same vein - Dream, once he’s gotten started, seems near-impossible to chase down; Michael and Quackity provide support, distracting the hunter for as long as they can until they get tagged, but part of him wonders if it’s all even necessary. Dream flies from structure to structure seemingly unhindered by The Laws That Be, expression firm, if a little frantic, as he parkours his way through the arena. To their credit, the hunters chase, and several come pretty close - but Dream, worked up on adrenaline or anxiety or some twisted mix of the two, races over and around the buildings within the arena like his life depends on it.

It’s a surprisingly (if sickeningly) apt description - the skill in parkour is far from unacknowledged on Dream’s record; they all know his reputation with Parkour Warrior, all know that there are little that can match his skill as a traucer - but there’s something newly desperate in the way he runs, the muscles of his body tight and taut even in between rounds, expression permanently tight at the corners from fear. His movements, lacking in their usual fluidity, are made up with sheer speed and mad scrambles up walls that no one else seems to dare replicate. It’s concerning, even to Michael’s untrained eye, how frantic he seems the entire time, the flashes of expressions that he’ll direct towards the hunter like being caught by them will be his end, but- if anything, at least it’s effective. 

Between his parkour and Sapnap’s own skill, they manage to dominate the other teams without much issue, and the bonuses from eliminating the other team first combined with Dream’s survival points each round land them a first place for the game by just a few hundred coins. The four of them watch with bated breaths for the event standings, whooping and cheering together when it shows the red rabbits in second - 

“DODGEBOLT, BABY!” Quackity cheers, loudly, and the rest of them join him, laughing and screaming incoherently, “LET’S FUCKING GO!” 

“LET’S FUCKING GO!” Sapnap punches the air with a loud, resolute whoop of joy, and Dream - still shaking off the jitters of his last round in Parkour Tag - soon joins in with a few cheers of his own. 

Michael watches them all with a smile on his face as they cheer in victory - Dodgebolt has them against the Yellow Yaks, which will be a hard match up, but between Dream and Sapnap’s skill, if they all stay focused, they shouldn��t have any issue. 

They’ve done it. They’ve made it to Dodgebolt - if they keep their heads in the game, then they should win. All he has to do is keep his head down a little longer, long enough to win them the game, long enough for them to go home with new crowns and new coins, long enough for him to go back to living his quaint little life in his quaint little house - going back to heckling the Warden at night and hanging with Bad and Puffy, working on builds and living life away from the rest and pretending that nothing is wrong. The server will go back to normal come tomorrow, and it will all be okay. 

The smile slips off his face. 

They’ve done it. And then they’ll go back to the SMP, and Dream might evade whatever immediate consequences come with losing, but there’s no evidence that whatever’s caused that heartstopping, devastating fear that has characterized his every move is going to stop. They’ll win, and they’ll go back to the SMP, and they’ll keep dying and fighting wars and keep pretending that the world they live in is normal; they’ll go back to the server, and Michael will go back in his house while Dream goes back into his cell directly across from it, still locked in a black box with no way in or out, no means of communication with anyone outside, locked away with the key thrown away for anything to happen with no one to know-

Michael glances over to Dream, to the tense edge of his shoulders that has never left for as long as the tournament has continued and long before. To the grey-faced, grey-eyed inhabitants of the SMP, coming to the Championships with sealed lips and a shared determination to never reveal that anything is wrong, to pretend that things are normal and move on. 

Michael’s hands clench into fists at his side, then unclench, the helplessness cutting through his excitement like a splash of cold water straight through his chest. They’ll win the Championship, and then what? They’ll go back to the server, and then what? 

He looks up at the sky, avoiding the eyes of the rest of his team as they are teleported to the arena. Around him, nothing comes in reply. 

---

“Shit-”

Sapnap disappears in a flourish of red particles, and Michael winces as Dream picks up the arrow he left behind, biting his lip as he watches the opposite side maneuver on the ice.

Both of Dream’s shots hit true, and Michael switches to dodging over the ice as the opposing team begins to shoot. His mind is still buzzing with uncertainty, questions whirling around his skull and making his head spin, the reminder to just let things be raging against the anxiety that has wormed its way deep into his bones for the better part of the day. His performance has fallen a bit as a result, and they’re tied, 2-2, for the last round of Dodgebolt against Yellow - winner takes all. 

He doesn’t know what to do. He wants to tell, but he wants to fall back into the background. He wants to make a difference, but also wants nothing more than to go on pretending that everything is fine. It would be so, so easy to move on and wash his hands of the whole affair - it’s not like anyone else will know, only himself and the guilt that he’s sure will haunt him to remind him of his failures. Is there even anything he can do? He’s no genius at combat, or parkour, or strategy- all he has are his eyes, his ability to see what the hell is happening with no means to change any of it. 

An arrow whizzes towards him, too low to hit, and falls to the ice by his feet. Michael feels it plop into his inventory as he runs past it, shivering slightly from the cold or adrenaline or some mix of the two - not that he can really tell. The other team still has an arrow, the gleaming arrowhead catching the light as the person shooting - Jack, it looks like - moves it from one side to the other, looking for someone to aim. Michael lets the arrow into his hand, feeling its weight.

A sudden shock of clarity. 

He staggers back and nearly trips over his own feet, feeling relief rock his body when he manages to catch his balance - his eyes rake over the rest of his team, still dodging over the ice, completely focused on the opposing side. He worries his lip between his teeth - it’s a risk. It’s a hell of a risk, and if he messes up - they’re fucked. They’re more than fucked. There’s a good chance that this does more harm than good, a good chance that it won’t do anything at all. 

Michael takes a deep breath, and nocks his arrow. 

With his bow pointed to the floor, he doesn’t think anyone’s noticed yet - especially the rest of his team, gazes still trained over the centerline to the other side of the arena. Michael plants his feet, raises his bow, aims - he’s standing still, too still, and he can already see Jack swinging the bow towards him from the corner of his eye, preparing to let the arrow fly directly at him. That’s fine. It doesn’t matter.

Keep your head down. 

Michael lets go, and Quackity manages to turn just in time to see the arrow hit him between his eyes.

Not this time.

Michael just manages a wicked, satisfied smirk before the world disappears in a flash of red. 

---

“What the hell was that?” 

Michael teleports into the middle of the MCC main lobby, finding Quackity already mid-yell in front of the podium, where the Yellow Yaks have taken their places as the winners of the Championships, new, shining crowns on their heads as they greet the crowd with smiles and cheers. Michael turns to where the rest of the team has gathered in the corner, Quackity hissing angrily at Dream, curled into himself against the fence. 

“I- I-”

“You lost us the fucking game, that’s what you did,” Quackity grabs him by the arm, rage painting his features as he yanks Dream closer to him, ignoring the other’s panicked yell at the proximity and flailing to get away. “What the fuck- you had both the arrows. How the fuck did you miss that?” 

“Back the hell off, Quackity.”

Michael steps forward, bodily shoving Quackity out of the way - Dream’s head rises just enough for the two eyes painted on his mask to look  above where they’d been hidden behind his arms, though Michael’s far too lost in his own anger to pay any mind to him at the moment. Quackity turns his furious direction towards Michael, only seeming to get angrier as he meets his eyes. 

“Oh, fuck off, Michael- you-” he rakes a hand through his hair, “You fucking- we fucking lost because of you, you know that? We had that! We were going to win that, you fucker-” 

“And then what, Quackity?” The words Michael had been pushing back the entire day come forth, mixed with his simmering anxiety and muffled anger that he’d been forced to push down, game after game after game, one bubbling mess of emotion underscoring his tone and making Quackity rear back, “Then you’ll go back the SMP and pretend that everything’s fine and dandy? Go back to your shiny little country with a shiny new coin, beat up Dream a few times to work off the adrenaline because, hey, it’s not like anyone else is gonna know if he’s black and blue inside of that shitstain of a prison, is that right?” 

The flash of panic that makes its way over Quackity’s face is more than enough to confirm the worst of Michael’s assumptions, and the rage that has made a home in his chest only burns hotter. 

“What- what the fuck did he say?” Quackity barely manages to catch onto his tone, pressing harder with narrowed eyes and a snarl, “He’s lying, you fucking idiot, that’s all he ever fucking does-” 

“He’s not told me shit,” Michael presses forward, forcefully pushing Quackity away from Dream, who is cowering from both of them behind him, “But you would know a hell of a lot about that, wouldn’t you Quackity?”

“I have no fuckin’ clue what you’re on about, pal,” Quackity shakes his head, hair whipping past his eyes, “And I’d recommend you shut your fucking mouth before you go around hurling baseless accusations- I could have you sued for defamation, you know-”

“Oh, we’re talking law, now? Fine! We’ll talk legalities- how about we start with that casino of yours and work from there?” 

Sapnap moves over, quiet thus far as he watched from the sidelines, and Michael watches as Quackity relaxes, minisculely, at his approach - only to tense further when Sapnap presses a hand to his shoulder, meeting his eyes with blazing eyes staring right at his.

“Q,” Sapnap says, voice uncharacteristically serious, “tell the truth, now- what did you do?”

Quackity laughs - it sounds unsure, even in Michael’s ears, “Sapnap? You can’t tell me you believe-” he waves his hands frantically, “this- this fucking asshole, now, do you hear him? He sounds- he’s literally out of his fucking mind-”

Sapnap shakes his head, firm. “Quackity, I’ll need you to cut the bullshit. What did you do?” 

“He’s backing up Dream, Sapnap,” Quackity focuses his gaze on Sapnap, something creeping up in his tone, sweet and cloying despite the bitter tone, that Michael can’t quite recognize, “You know what Dream is like- he pulled the same shit with you, remember? You and George? Tommy?” He waves a hand at Dream, who ducks down further at the attention, “He hasn’t changed, man! He’s still pulling the same bullshit, still manipulating people for the hell of it- you know, the exact same thing he did to you? Don’t fall for that again, man.”

“I-” Sapnap seems to hesitate, conflict warring over his features. 

“Look at me, Sap - you know what Dream’s like. He pretends to be your friend, makes up some stupid bullshit to justify his shit - Michael hasn’t been around for as long, not like the two of us, remember? He doesn’t know.” Quackity brings his hand to Sapnap’s own, ignoring Michael’s protests as he laces their fingers together, “I care about you, Sap. All of this- I’m just worried that he’ll end up manipulating you again. I’m just trying to protect you.” 

“...liar.” 

“What?”

Sapnap steps back, wrenching his hand out of Quackity’s own. His expression, out of what Michael can see from the sliver of his face that is facing him, is stormy with fury and no small amount of regret - Quackity steps back, unease finally beginning to flicker in the corners of his self-satisfied expression as Sapnap stares him down. 

“You’re a liar, Quackity.” Sapnap draws himself up. “Now, I’m asking this for the last time- what did you do?”

Quackity’s expression stutters, falls, as Sapnap stands back next to Michael, the two of them between him and Dream. His eyes flick between their faces, then to Dream, then back again, frown deepening with every pass he makes between the three of them. Michael keeps his arms crossed in front of his chest, feeling his muscles tense with every second of silence that ticks by, Quackity seeming to grow more and more angry and tense under their scrutiny and unforgiving stances-

-a second passes, and he throws himself forward. 

“Quackity!” 

Michael only manages to throw himself out of the way of the man barrelling towards him just in time - too late, he realizes that he wasn’t Quackity’s intended target. He tackles Dream to the ground, pinning the taller man underneath himself onto the ground in a rough thump that seems to knock all the air out of him. Dream immediately begins to thrash aimlessly, jaw going slack in panic as Quackity levels his arm against his neck, going still as Quackity presses harder against his windpipe. Michael is only barely close enough to pick up what he says over the sound of the surrounding screaming, Sapnap rushing forward to pull Quackity off to no avail-

“-make what I did two weeks ago look like a fucking joke when we get back, going to make you wish you fucking died-” 

The world explodes into white.

When Michael’s vision clears, he’s face to face to the stony face of one of the MCC admins, their status displayed by the proud red [Admin] by their nametags and the fact that they’re floating several inches off the fucking floor. He backs away, strangely winded - probably from the panic or adrenaline or yelling or, more accurately, all three, as Quackity is pulled back effortlessly by an admin, easily caging his flailing limbs with a snap of code as he is frozen into place - and Michael whoops. 

“LET’S GO!” 

(The arrow hits Michael in the shoulder, and he disappears in a flash of red - only instead of going to his usual place above the Dodgebolt arena, standing with the other competitors, he finds himself teleported in front of a dizzying array of screens and buttons, too many to have any idea where they connect and how they work. Michael turns to meet the faces of the MCC Admins, each one looking at him with odd, concerned expressions and furrowed brows. 

“You shot your teammate,” one says - Noxite - and Michael nods to concede the point, not quite finding the words to speak. “Why?”

“If you had such a big issue with the teams, you could’ve just talked to Scott,” another one pipes up from the back, “I’m sure we could’ve worked something out.”

“I know, I know,” Michael runs his hand through his hair, both relieved at the plan working better than he could’ve ever fucking imagined and suddenly lost for words in front of the admins, each one looking at him with their full attention. Every nerve in his body rails against the scrutiny, reminds him to pretend that nothing is wrong - but it’s too late to pretend, now. It’s been too late for a long, long time. 

He remembers Dream, looking away all competition, voice dead and lacking all of its former vitality - remembers Puffy, hair a little greyer from stress, grief painting her face whenever she thought anyone wasn’t looking - remembers Bad, hands still shaking despite his attempts to hide it - the prison, looming on the horizon, unbeatable, impenetrable - himself, helpless, for all this time, to do anything but watch and wait. Until now. He takes a deep breath, steels himself- 

“Something’s wrong with Dream.”)

“Thank you for your information, Michael,” Noxite smiles at him, and relief throws itself through his system so fast that it makes him dizzy- “We’ll handle this from here. Good job.” 

“Holy shit- when did you get time to contact the fucking admins, Michael?” 

Michael ignores the clamor around him as the lobby bursts into activity and people talking over each other, each one probably trying to figure out what the hell just happened, ignores Sapnap muttering, awed, from beside him, to move towards Dream, still sprawled out over the floor. There’s an admin by him, standing by to seemingly keep the crowd away but not engaging with Dream directly, and Michael ducks by them to kneel down by Dream and meet his gaze. 

“Hey,” Michael smiles, still shaking from the leftover adrenaline as he presses his hands to the ground to try and hide it, “We’ve got you. It’s over- Quackity’s gone. You’re safe now.” 

“Michael?” Dream’s voice is so damn small when his head twists to look over, hair having fallen largely fallen out of his ponytail to land in wisps all around his face. “You- how-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael shushes him, chest twisting painfully. “It’s alright.”

“...I don’t feel so good.”

Dream coughs harshly, and Michael quickly maneuvers him to a sitting position as his shoulders shake with another one, hand flying to his mouth as he is wracked with loud, wet-sounding coughs. Concern wells up in his throat, watching as Dream shakes with more coughing, nearly choking as he curls into himself, muscles tense. After what feels like an eternity, he pulls his hand back, and Michael gasps at the sight.

“Dream-”

There’s blood, and a lot of it - mixed with the saliva in his palm, shiny and stringy over the planes of his hand, dribbling past his lips and down his chin. His teeth are similarly stained red when his mouth opens slightly, stance wobbling before he collapses altogether against Michael’s body - Michael can barely hear himself shouting for a medic as Dream heaves a rattling, wet sounding breath into his shoulder. 

“Th’ts not g’d,” he mumbles, quiet, before going completely limp. 

---

When you first get strong enough to go to the Nether and collect blaze rods and brew potions for the first time, the first thing that gets beaten into your head forwards, backwards, left, right, and every way in between is that health and regen aren’t a replacement for actual recovery. Instant health pots are famous for their tendency to heal everything affected to the same degree - which is bad when you have a particularly deep injury, as it’ll often finish healing it near the surface while the injury persists underneath. Regen pots tend to be better at that front, but even they cannot completely fix a serious injury - the two can only act as a temporary, emergency fix for severe wounds, often being an invaluable resource to stop the worst of the bleeding and hold everything together for long enough to bring someone to proper medical attention. 

Unfortunately, when someone tries to use health pots and regens to completely bypass the time and rest needed for the body to properly heal itself and recover, what usually ends up happening is internal injuries - not completely healed by the potions alone - continue to be jostled and irritated, which can lead to further, worse, problems with internal bleeding and bones shifting out of place if they’ve been broken, which can then pierce through muscle and organ tissue - to be honest, Michael was never the best with all the medical stuff, and he’s half-sure that the horror stories he’s heard were exaggerated to beat it into his head never to be an idiot that thinks that potions can solve everything, but either way, he’s never tested his luck with the things.

Unfortunately, Dream doesn’t seem to have done the same, as the entire day’s worth of intense activity, between practices and MCC itself, were more than enough to fuck over the healing effects of whatever health potions he apparently downed before coming to the Championships. From what Michael has heard, it got a little harried after he was first brought into the hospital, but he’s apparently stabilized since - recovery will be slow, both physically and mentally, but at least he’s out of that damn prison to actually start on that path.

“Simply put, your teammate is a bit of an idiot,” Scott tells him when he finally catches him in the waiting room, hair fluffed up at the sides from where he’s evidently messed it up in Admin-related stress. “But he should be alright now, with proper medical attention and lots of rest - make sure to tell him to actually rest, will ya? No more parkouring for him - he can wait until after he’s out of the hospital to show us all how it’s done.” 

Michael laughs, relief settling into his chest, “Thanks, Scott.” He directs a playfully accusing look towards the other, a grin tugging at his lips, “but you know, he’s only my teammate because you made it that way. Kinda sounds like your own fault there..” 

“Oh, quiet, you.” Scott laughs- he looks stressed, and Michael feels a twinge of sympathy. The administrative side of things after his whole stunt at Dodgebolt, and then especially with what happened in the main lobby, must be an absolute nightmare. “Anyway, I need to go back - Admin meeting,” he shakes his head, already looking at his comm. “You should go see Dream, by the way. I think he’s awake.” 

“Thanks for everything, Scott.” 

Scott smiles at him, soft, sincere. “Go see your friend.” 

He disappears in a flash of white light, teleporting away, and Michael looks at the empty space where he stood for a few seconds before standing up out of his chair to move towards the door. He hesitates at it for a second, hand on the doorknob but not yet turning it to the side - it’s suddenly awkward, without the pressure of the competition at his back and the relentless questions of what he should do. He doesn’t even know if Dream knows what happened, or if he’ll be happy with him - for all he knows, Dream was the one who started the whole ‘don’t tell the Championships what happens in the server’ deal. His teeth catch on his lip as he stands, lost in thought, at the door.

Well. Here goes nothing. 

He eases the door open, getting a glimpse inside the room - it’s white, clean-looking, the smell of disinfectant heavy in the air. There’s a bed in the middle of the room, a chair on the side with his Championships clothing and what appears to be some sort of padded body armor laid over the cushions. Dream, as expected, is lying down in the bed, unmoving; for a second, Michael thinks he’s sleeping, before he suddenly twists his head over to look at him.

“Michael?” 

“Hey,” Michael smiles, moving into the room and closing the door behind him. For the first time today, Dream’s face isn’t masked, a glimpse of it visible behind him on the dresser by the bed. He blinks up at him owlishly, eyes wide and green, looking even bigger combined with the hollow planes of his cheeks, overlaid by pale, slightly raised scars. “How are you feeling, man?” 

“Um-” Dream tries to pull himself up, visibly struggling, and Michael rolls his eyes as he hurries over to help raise the back of the cot because you’re supposed to be resting, Dream, just let the fancy bed do its job, and settles back with an odd look on his face as Michael pulls over a chair. “Good? I think? I mean-” he flails his hands a bit, “this is weird. And I kind of hate this gown- but um. Yeah.” 

“That’s fair,” Michael laughs, and Dream huffs a small laugh out of his own, settling back into his pillow. He looks strangely small, with all the layers stripped away, frail and skinny against the sheets. His skin isn’t that same paper-white shade it had been when he collapsed in the middle of the fucking lobby, but it’s still pale enough to be vaguely worrying, especially combined with the IV and other wires hooked up to him. 

“Apparently, I’m dehydrated,” Dream drawls when he catches Michael staring at the IV, making a small, frustrated sound through his teeth as Michael turns to look at him, “figures, I guess, but still sucks. I hate needles.” 

“Ouch,” Michael winces in sympathy, “yeah, those don’t look that fun.” Dream smiles up at him, before his expression shutters, dulls, and he looks away, not meeting his eyes. The sight of it makes Michael frown, quiet, remembering the way he’d drawn back from them all over and over again throughout the day - that fear and trauma won’t go away in a day, but it hurts all that much more to see his face as panic flashes across it and he pulls back, gaze carefully detached. 

“Dream?” Michael moves closer, but is careful not to make contact, “you alright?”

“Hmm?” Dream directs another small, tight smile his way, strained at the corners as his eyes flick away to the floor once again, “yeah- I’m- I’m fine.” 

Michael sighs, but decides not to push it. “Have you done anything else here, yet?”

Dream shakes his head. “No- I think that someone’s going to bring food over soon, I’m not sure. Not really hungry,” he mutters, half to himself, and Michael tamps down the concern that wells up in protest, “But we’ll see, I guess.” 

“That’s good,” Michael nods, and Dream looks up at him, expression startlingly unsure. 

“Um- do you know?” He wrings his hands together, eyes darting across the room nervously before flicking over Michaels’ face, and Michael tries to make himself look as calm and comfortable as possible, “I mean- do you know what’s going on with- everyone?” 

Ah. Michael winces internally- he probably should’ve expected this question, but in the fallout of what happened in the lobby and Dream, you know, passing out in his arms, he ended up brushing off or ignoring a lot of the chaos that resulted. He wracks his head for snippets of information that he’d seen in his communicator and from visitors to the waiting room, including people that had been there with him that had been pulled for questioning and meetings, Tommy’s expletive-filled yelling from the lobby still ringing in his head. 

“Um- I think that they’ve got a team of moderators pulled up to investigate the server, figure out what’s been going on,” Michael ticks names off on his hands, mentally going through the list of people that he’s been given information on, “They have Quackity in custody, I think, for the moment- they’re still waiting for more information on what to do with him, but they’ve got a whole MCC lobby’s worth of witnesses that saw him assault you so far, if you plan on pressing charges and stuff- um- Sapnap got pulled for questioning, nothing too major right now, I think that they’re going through the other server members that were attending the Championships for the moment.” 

“Are they- putting them in jail?” Dream’s voice sounds slightly tinny despite his forced calm, arms crossed in front of him, and Michael shakes his head firmly. 

“No- legal stuff between servers is weird, and I think they’re holding off on anything like that for now. Quackity’s just there at the moment because of assault charges on the MCC server - stuff in the SMP is still technically outside of their jurisdiction.” Dream visibly relaxes, and Michael smiles thinly, “It’ll be rough for a few weeks as they collect evidence and figure out what to do, but for now, they’re just focusing on recovery - giving people medical attention if they need it, lining up therapists,” he laughs, quietly, “lots of therapists.”

Dream hums, looking away. The corners of his mouth fall, eyes fluttering shut as he breathes a shuddery sigh through his lips.

“I- never wanted it to get this bad,” he opens his eyes, looking down at his hands, lip slightly trembling, “I don’t- I don’t know where it all went wrong.” 

“Hey,” Michael slides closer, ducking to meet Dream’s eyes with a soft smile. “You’re not alone anymore, alright? You don’t have to fix it all by yourself. Focus on yourself, on recovering.” 

Dream hesitates, breath seeming caught in his throat, wide green eyes staring into Michael’s own, before ducking his head to look away with a slight nod. Michael leans back in his chair, watching as Dream turns to the side, curling in on himself slightly with a small wince, eyes fixed on the window.

“Didn’t think I was going to see the sun again,” Dream says after a while, gaze still trained behind the glass to where the sun is slowly setting, rays of sunlight streaming past the slits in the blinds and casting glowing stripes of honey-gold throughout the room and over Dream’s face. Michael feels something cold press against the back of his throat, the quiet admission making air stutter in his lungs at the image of Dream, alone, huddled in the middle of an obsidian box for months and months and months, never knowing if he’d see anything other than the same black walls for the rest of his life. 

“You’re not there, anymore. You’re safe now.” 

Dream doesn’t reply, continuing to look out the window silently, breathing slowly as he moves his hand through a sunbeam, watching the way it streams between his fingers and warms his skin, seeming mesmerized by its soft glow. 

“Michael?” Dream looks over, and Michael feels the air punched out of his lungs at the soft, disbelieving sincerity held within his expression, the fearful edges for once pulled back far enough for the light to catch the quiet, heartfelt appreciation gathered in the slight quirk of his lips and downward slope of his eyes. He looks away a second after, a band of light cutting across his face and landing over the bridge of his nose, smile still on his face, voice almost too quiet to make out. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Michael feels his own smile widen, looking out the window himself- it really is a beautiful sunset. “What are friends for?” 

#-> my writing #my writing :D #c!Quackity critical #tw trauma #tw abuse #tw torture #tw panic attack #tw manipulation #tw gaslighting #tw needles #tw hospitals #tw emotional distress #pandora's vault #prison arc #god this was so fun #hope you all enjoy !! #long post

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Button by Button

Prompts: (I’ve never requested anything before, so I apologize if I’m not doing this right) Would you be willing to write something where Janus (nervously) goes to Remus because he wants to get clean from self-harm, but realizes that he needs help/can’t do it alone? - anon

If you’re still taking requests, can you write a side (preferably janus, but anyone works) having a pretty rough time and resorting to unhealthy coping mechanisms to deal with it, and then one (or multiple) other sides help him? Love your works! - anon

Ah yes more of these. Y'all know what time it is!

CHECK POINT TIME MY DUDES~

unclench your jaw roll them shoulders back drink something go to the bathroom eat something look away from the screen for three goddamn CONSECUTIVE seconds

okay cool now you may proceed love you very much

Read on Ao3

Warnings: implied/referenced self-harm. Very brief description of scale removal

Pairings: platonic dukeceit

Word Count: 2187

It’s when Thomas catches him with one of his scales missing that he knows he needs this to stop.

The problem is that he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. Not until it’s too late. One of his fingers will just…accidentally catch the wrong edge of a scale and then he’ll slip his fingers under it and pull and…off it pops.

Well, it doesn’t really pop off.

If he’s being honest—heh—it’s part of the reason he started wearing the gloves all the time, not just when he has to go and perform for the rest of them. If he could hide his nails beneath the fabric then maybe it would be more difficult to pop them off.

But the seams of the fabric are even better at snagging on the uneven scales. He swears they were built to find the little ones that didn’t sit quite right with the others. How wonderful.

Most of the time he can hide it.

Not all the time.

It’s when Thomas starts frowning at his hand halfway through filming a video that he snaps.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing, it’s just—“ he waves to the glove— “there’s a—you got something there, bud.”

Janus glances down and notices the stain.

Shit.

“I’m sure it’ll take you by surprise to know that Remus is far from the paragon of cleanliness,” he remarks dryly, waving the hand out of sight.

Virgil snorts. “Uh-huh.”

Roman rolls his eyes. “Did he at least use the plastic tarps I dropped off?”

“Oh, there were supposed to be tarps?”

“You know, that’s enough of an answer.”

The conversation steers back on track but Janus keeps his fist clenched out of sight.

Too close. Thomas is not allowed to know. Janus may not be able to hide as much as he would like from Thomas but this Thomas will not know.

And…alright, maybe the feeling of too-raw skin rubbing against the inside of the glove is getting a little unbearable.

Maybe the fact that he has to keep his face turned away at all times is starting to grate on his insecurity.

Maybe trying to stop picking at his hands makes it difficult to keep the gloves on even though they’re the only thing keeping him sane some of the time.

…maybe he needs help.

Janus looks down at his hands, shakily pulling on his gloves and standing. He glances in the mirror and winces. Even for him, he looks like he’s trying to hide something. He makes a point to avoid the living room at all costs.

Remus’s door is ajar but the room is dark. He glances up and down the corridor, maybe Remus has gone into the Imagination. Then the toilet down the hall flushes and he sighs.

“Don’t tell me,” he says as Remus emerges, “you’ve ruined your own bathroom again?”

“I wouldn’t say ruined,” Remus chortles, “it’s a masterpiece! I just can’t use much of it right now.”

“Thrilling, I’m sure everyone will be glad to hear it.”

Remus just waves him off. “What’s up, Jan-Jan, haven’t seen you in ages.”

Janus blinks. “You saw me ten minutes ago.”

He rolls his eyes. “The point, Jan, is that you don’t come around anymore and I’m bored.”

“Well, if you’re so easily bored…”

“Hey, nuh-uh, you just showed up, no leaving!”

He pretends that Remus dragging him into his room is the opposite of what he wanted.

“Take a seat,” Remus sings gleefully, plopping down onto the floor and wriggling around like a worm on a string. Not far off. “Talk to me!”

Janus sits, doing his best to avoid whatever that is and folding his hands. He drums his fingers nervously against each other.

“What’s going on, Jan-Jan,” Remus asks, and ah, Remus has figured out something is wrong, “are you okay?”

“I need your help,” he decides on eventually, “to hide something from Thomas.”

Remus quirks an eyebrow. “You know that’s not anywhere near my specialty right?”

“And here I thought you were the picture of subtlety.”

“What’re you trying to hide?”

Janus swallows. Then he shakily peels off the glove and offers his hand to Remus. Remus takes it, frowning at his face before he turns to examine the scales. He runs his thumb gently over the places where scales meet flesh and turns Janus’s hand over.

He sweeps a finger down the scales and his nail catches a rough one.

Janus flinches.

Remus’s eyes widen as he takes in the patchwork of missing scales and sucks in a breath. “…Jan?”

“Thomas can’t know,” Janus bites out, “I have to hide it.”

Remus fixes him with a look. “And what else?”

“What else?”

“No lies,” he reminds, harsh tone a sharp contrast to the gentle movement of his thumb on Janus’s hand, “that includes lies of omission.”

Janus’s hand twitches in Remus’s grasp and he takes a deep breath.

“I can’t stop it,” he whispers after a moment, “I need your help.”

“Okay.” Remus gives his hand a tug. “Come closer.”

Janus shuffles forward on the floor, shame burning his cheeks. Remus tuts and raises a hand to pat his face.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Snakey,” he says quietly, “this is hard. Talking about it is hard for most people, it’s gonna be harder for you.”

“It shouldn’t.”

“Don’t say that. You’re not perfect. It’s hard. And you lie.”

“A lot.”

“A lot,” Remus agrees, laying Janus’s scaled hand in his lap, “so it’s gonna be hard.”

Janus takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. “What do I do?”

“First off, stop looking like I’m about to have you executed by a pack of hyenas with machetes.” Remus raises an eyebrow. “I’m not mad at you, Snakey, and I don’t exactly have any authority over you.”

Janus huffs.

“Jan, look at me.”

Janus looks. Remus’s expression softens a little.

“Hey,” he says softly, “I’m not mad at you, it’s okay. You’re gonna be fine, we’re gonna deal with this. This is hard, this is mean. It’s okay.”

“…you don’t think I’m being a hypocrite?”

“If you are—I said if, bitch,” he says when Janus huffs again, “you’re far from the only one here and you’re far from being to blame for it.”

“What?”

Remus rolls his eyes. “Have you met the other people we live with?”

“…fair enough.”

Remus squeezes his hand. “It’s not gonna be easy, Jan, but it’s okay. I’m proud of you.”

Janus scoffs. “What on earth do you have to be proud of me for?”

“Okay first, don’t like the way you said ‘me,’ second, this is hard, Jan, admitting you need help and coming to find it? That’s not easy.”

Oh.

Janus swallows the lump in his throat and squeezes Remus’s hand back. “…so what do I do?”

“First, do you actually want to stop?”

Janus’s head snaps up. “What?”

Remus doesn’t waver. “Do you actually want to stop? ‘Cause this is only gonna work if you do.”

Does he want to stop?

It would be bad if Thomas found out. It would be bad if the others found out. He would have to deal with their looks and their whispers and he doesn’t want that.

If he grew all his scales back, if the scars faded, would it be like it never happened? Then he…then it would just be gone. He wouldn’t have it anymore. The scars hurt to get but something…something about them tugged on the string in his gut that made him feel safe.

Was that slight tug worth it?

Was it worth the gloves? The worry of someone finding out? The stinging showers? The look on Thomas’s face?

“…yeah,” he mumbles after a while, “yeah, I want to stop.”

“Okay.” Remus gives his hand another squeeze. “I’m real proud of you, you know that, right?”

“Alright, alright,” he mumbles, still ignoring the heat in his face, “that’s enough.”

Remus laughs and pulls him closer. “Gimme a hug, Jan.”

“Fine.”

Surely Remus can’t tell how much he really wants to hug him by how tightly all of the arms wrap around him. Remus chuckles into the crook of his neck and he definitely believes that Janus is being forced into this hug and there’s no way he’d be doing it on his own.

Remus definitely believes him.

“Hey, hey,” Remus murmurs, rubbing his back, and oh, he’s crying, “shh, Jan-Jan, it’s okay, I gotcha. You’re alright now, it’s okay.”

Janus turns his head into the crook of Remus’s neck. Remus is warm against his scales.

“It’s okay, I gotcha.” Remus squeezes him tighter. “You just sit here with me for a minute, ‘kay?”

They sit. For a while. Remus holds him close. It’s warm.

“Hey,” he mumbles after a while, “do you still wanna do the next part now, or do you wanna wait a little bit?”

Janus squeezes his eyes shut and pulls back. “We can do it now.”

“Okay.” Remus cups his hands in his lap and concentrates. Then a little glass jar appears. “Here.”

Janus takes it warily. “What is this for?”

“You. Now pick something you like. Something small that you can have a lot of. Eyeballs, old octopus suckers, paperclips, fuses, glue, wicks…you know, office supplies.”

Despite himself, Janus chuckles. “I forgot that was a Disney movie.”

Remus’s mouth falls open. “Oh, we are so watching that for movie night.”

“Is that tonight?”

“Think so.” He nudges Janus. “You got something?”

“…buttons?”

Remus grins and in a few moments, he holds a massive plastic bag of little buttons. “Like these?”

Janus nods.

“Great. Here’s what we’re gonna do.” He takes one of the buttons out of the bag. “Every day you can go without hurting yourself, you put one of these in the jar.”

The button clatters to the bottom of the jar.

“…that’s it?”

“Uh-huh. But if you break the streak you gotta take ‘em all out.”

“I see.” Janus looks into the jar. The lone button sits at the bottom. It looks so small. “Do I…do I get something if I fill up the jar?”

“Do you want to get something?”

He shrugs. “I’ve never been very good at the whole…self-imposed reward system. Because I can always just have it now and it’s fine.”

Remus snorts. “That sounds like you trying to give yourself deadlines and then being like ‘wait I know the guy who made these and he’s full of shit.’”

“Exactly.”

Remus nudges his shoulder. “Then don’t do that. Just set little goals to start with. Get one button. Then get another.”

“…one day at a time?”

“That’s how this shit works. Slow and steady wins the race.”

“You say as if turtle soup isn’t your favorite.”

“Turtle soup is a fucking delicacy, you whore.”

“You’ve been watching too much UNHhhh without me.”

“Then fucking watch it with me.”

“Thank you, Remus,” Janus mumbles, leaning his head on Remus’s shoulder, “I, um, I don’t know if I’m gonna be any good at this.”

“Be patient with yourself, Snakey, healing isn’t a linear process.”

“I know that…”

“But it never hurts to have someone else reassure you,” he murmurs, his breath warming the top of Janus’s head, “we’re here for you, Jan-Jan. You don’t have to tell us everything, just let us help you.”

Janus stiffens. “Do you think the others will…”

“They’ll ask if they worry—“

“Which they will.”

“—but they respect you, Jan,” Remus finishes, “and they’ll back off when you tell ‘em to. I’m sure you just have to tell them you’re working through some shit and they’ll ask if they can help in any way.”

“But I don’t have to tell them.”

“No, of course not.” Remus finds his hand and squeezes it. “You know I’m proud of you, right?”

“So you’ve said.”

“But do you know it?”

Janus turns his head to let his forehead rest against Remus’s. “Yeah, Remus, I do.”

“Good. Now come on, the day’s almost over. Let’s get you to dinner and movie night and see if we can get you that first button.”

“They’ll agree to watch The Lost Empire, right?”

Remus gives him a look. “Logan loves Milo, don’t let him tell you different—“

Janus snorts.

“—Patton is happy to do anything that makes you happy—“

“Remus!”

“—Roman wants to watch Disney always, all the time—“

“True.”

“—and Virgil is always going to make fun of obvious villains that no one is surprised by.”

Janus can’t stop laughing and Remus wraps an arm around his waist.

“You’re gonna be fine, Jan,” he says softly, “we gotcha.”

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If you would like to be added/taken off the taglist, let me know!

Also hey tumblr your Post+ shit is stupid.

#dragonbabbles #sanders sides #fic #janus sanders #deceit sanders #sympathetic deceit #remus sanders #sympathetic remus #self harm #tw self harm #tw: self harm

[puckinghell]

Before You Go | Jacob Markstrom

Summary: Lyrics: “And I know it makes you laugh, if I say it first would you say it back? // I don’t know how to say I love you before you go” Words: 4.3k Note: my fave @danglesnipecelly​ wanted a Jacob fic and what K wants, K gets. So here it is! Excuse my sadness about the trade. Not proofread, we die like men. 

--

It’s the most cliché way of meeting someone.

Later, you wonder if your friends are even going to believe you when you tell them. You wouldn’t, if the roles were reversed; you’d make a joke about them watching too many romantic comedies. But you don’t even like romantic comedies, and yet here you are.

“This isn’t good,” the guy says, a frown on his face. He pushes the elevator button a few more times, and you nearly snap at him.

It’s not suddenly going to start working because you keep jamming on the buttons.

But, well, you’ve seen him a few times before: not enough times that you think he lives in your building but maybe someone he visits often. And he’s never been anything but nice, saying “good morning” and smiling at you, holding open the door, remaining completely unbothered when you spilled coffee over his very expensive looking shoes.

You don’t know his name, but he seems like a nice enough guy, so you don’t yell at him. He’s also really hot, but that has nothing to do with the fact that you don’t yell at him.

“I think we’re stuck,” he says. There’s a hint of an accent there, one that you can’t place.

“You think?” you repeat, dryly. You let your eyes travel to the little screen telling you what floor you’re on. It’s been saying ‘3’ for way too long.

“Fine.” The guy laughs. “I know we’re stuck. What I don’t know is what we’re going to do about it.”

“I’ve seen enough action movies to know that there’s no way we’re gonna climb out of here.” You shoot him a pointed look, fixing your gaze on his arms – which are massive. “Although, you might be able to. Me, not so much.”

“I wouldn’t leave you here,” the guy scoffs, and it’s almost annoying how genuine he seems about it.

“So then we wait, I guess.” You slide down the mirrored wall of the elevator. If you’re stuck here a while, you might as well sit down. The guy seems to agree, because he sits against the opposite wall.

“So what’s your name?” he asks, and you introduce yourself. He does, too: his name is Jacob, and he’s originally from Sweden, which explains the accent. But he lives in Vancouver now and one of his friends lives in this apartment building.

“Oh, Alex!” you exclaim, when he tells you his friend’s name. “He’s very nice. He helped me build a table once when I just moved in.”

It was an IKEA table, so it was only fair that the only Swedish guy you knew helped you build it. Although you suppose he’s no longer the only Swedish guy you know, now.

“I’ve seen you around many times,” Jacob says, after some gentle ribbing about Alex’ table building techniques. “Too many times to only now learn your name.”

It’s a feeling you recognize. Jacob’s voice is nice and calming, and you think it’s only his kind blue eyes that are keeping you from having a freakout about being stuck in an elevator.

“I guess if it’s meant to be, the universe will find a way for two strangers to get to know each other,” you tell him with a small smile. You’ve never believed in serendipity before, but if there ever was a time to start…

“So it’s all up to us now to see where it goes,” Jacob says.

And you suppose if you had to get stuck in an elevator you’re glad it’s with him.

--

If it was serendipity for you to meet, it’s fate how well you fit together.

Jacob is everything you could want in a partner. In fact, if someone had asked you to design your perfect partner, you probably would’ve come up to someone awfully close to him; the only exception being that he wouldn’t have a job that takes him away from you so often.

Dating has never been fun for you, before. Relationships as a whole as a can of worms you’ve never been tempted to open, but you’ve been seeing Jacob for a few months now and you can feel the clock ticking.

He’s not pressured you, hasn’t even mentioned it, but the thought weighs heavy on your mind: if you don’t soon put a name to what you have, you might lose it.

And that’s the last thing you want. Dating has never been fun except now it is, because dating Jacob is just like hanging out with your best friend, who is really hot and you also like kissing and having sex with. And relationships are scary but when you’re with him, it doesn’t feel like that.

Nothing feels scary, when you’re with him.

“So I’m leaving for the California trip tomorrow.” Jacob takes a sip of his drink. His eyes are glued on the movie you’ve been watching, even though it’s not a very good movie: you’ve lost your attention long ago.

“I know.” You know because you’ve put the Canucks schedule in your phone, but you don’t tell him that. That seems like something you maybe shouldn’t do. Like a girlfriend thing to do, and you’re not that.

“It’s gonna be a long one,” he continues. His voice is almost too casual, and you don’t buy it for a second.

You’re gonna miss him, too. But you don’t really know how to say that. Instead, you move a little closer, lay your head down on his shoulder. His arm is curled around your body and the weight of it is comforting.

And suddenly you can’t do it anymore. You feel too safe and comfortable and good to imagine Jacob coming home and not asking you over right away, and you know you have to talk to him if you want this to last.

And you do. God, you do.

“I actually kinda wanna talk about something,” you force yourself to say. Jacob veers up as if that’s exactly what he’s been waiting for; maybe it is. He surely knows you well enough.

He switches off the movie and turns halfway, so he’s facing you. It’s harder, that way, to speak, so you fix your gaze on your hands.

Jacob’s hand comes into view, as he carefully takes one of yours and laces his fingers through yours.

“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?” he hums, and you tell him. You don’t want to, but you do, because you can’t bottle it up any longer.

“I really like you. And I’ve been wanting to ask, or, talk about… What this is, between us. Or what you think it can be, I guess.”

Jacob’s voice displays only curiosity when he answers. “This is hard for you.”

It’s not a question. It’s a statement, but you know there should be an explanation from you anyway. He deserves to step into this knowing what he’ll get, and it’s hard because there’s a chance he decides it’s not worth it.

That you’re not worth it, too hard and too messy and too many skeletons in the closet. It’s the scariest thing you���ve ever done, maybe, to open up to him like this.

But if it was ever the right time to roll the dice and try, now would be it.

“I’ve not had a lot of good, healthy relationships in my past to look back on,” you admit. “My parents had a really messy marriage until they got divorced, and my previous relationships have been somewhat of a shit show, if I can say that. So I think… It’s just kinda hard, to open myself up to that again.”

“I understand,” Jacob says softly, and you can tell from his voice that he means it. “But you think you wanna try?”

“Yes.” It’s not a hard question to answer. “Like I said, I really like you, and, well, I think what we have could be really special. So I wanna try.” You finally look up to send him a small smile. He smiles back, eyes filled with fondness and understanding.

“But you have to give me some time, okay?” you ask. “Allow me time to try. And to figure it out.”

“All the time in the world,” Jacob agrees easily, and when he leans in it’s not scary to kiss him, to feel his hands travel across your skin, the warmth of his mouth on yours. If anything, it feels right.

--

You’re already in bed when your phone buzzes, the expected FaceTime call coming through.

“Hi,” you smile, as soon as you answer. You know the smile probably doesn’t quite reach your eyes, not after the day you’ve had – but the connection is kinda blurry so hopefully Jacob won’t be able to tell.

Jacob frowns. “What’s wrong?”

Well. So far that idle hope.

“How did you know?” you huff, immediately letting the façade go. You were going to ask him about his game first, but now there’s no use. There’s no way he’ll wanna talk about that when he’s noticed your mood.

“I know you,” he answers easily, and that’s true.

Suddenly, your heart squeezes with how much you miss him. You wrap your arms around yourself, balancing the phone on your knees, and thread your fingers into the soft worn cotton of a shirt that definitely doesn’t belong to you.

Carolina is very far away, and you feel it when you look at the screen. It doesn’t feel the same, with Jacob’s face blurry and unable to feel the warmth of his skin.

“Hey,” Jacob says, softly. “Talk to me.”

He moves and you can see more of the environment behind him now, the hotel room bland and generic as most hotel rooms are. You wonder if he misses home when he’s there, or if he’s been around the world so much no place really feels like home. Maybe those generic hotel rooms are familiar to him like a home, too.

Vancouver feels like home to you, most of the time. But it’s not where you’re from and none of your family lives there, and that makes it hard sometimes.

“Is Vancouver your home?” you ask Jacob. The question probably comes out of nowhere but it doesn’t seem to faze him: at the very least he doesn’t show it.

“Yes,” he says. “Sweden is, too. I think I have many homes.” He cocks his head to the side, seemingly staring into your soul even all the way from Carolina. “Why?”

“I guess I just miss my family,” you tell him. “My sister broke up with her boyfriend and she’s really sad and I just wish I was there. We’ve been talking on the phone, but…”

“But it’s not the same,” Jacob hazards a guess, and, yeah, that’s pretty much what it comes down to.

“You know,” he continues, in a tone of voice that betrays nothing about the fact that he’s about to say something incredible, “Vancouver became a little more like home to me when I met you.”

In books and movies, they always talk about the butterflies in your stomach when you first realize you love someone. But it’s nothing like that, for you. It’s more like a tsunami of light flowing through your veins, lifting a heavy weight from your shoulders and replacing it with the comfort of a warm blanket.

And you wanna say it, say those three little words that mean so much.

“I…” you start.

“I loved him, Y/N,” your sister had said, just hours earlier. “How could someone I love hurt me so much?”

“I miss you.”

A tiny smile adorns Jacob’s face, almost like he knew what you were going to say anyway.

“Yeah,” he says, “I miss you, too.”

--

It has happened so many times that Jacob is starting to poke fun at you, a little bit.

“Don’t you just love sweet potatoes?” he’ll say, one eyebrow lifted and too much emphasis on the word love.

You know it’s stupid, okay. You know you’ve been with Jacob for way too long to still not have said those words. It’s a miracle, really, that he’s let you get away with it so long. Any other person would probably have long ago dumped you. Or at least gotten very mad.

And you don’t really know why it’s so hard for you. It’s not like you don’t love him. In fact, you love him with your whole heart, and every single day he does or says something to remind you of it. You’ve thought it at least a million times: God, I love you.

But something dark and twisted, deep inside your heart, tells you that it’ll only be true if you say it. If you say it, you open yourself up to the kinda hurt that’s come to everyone you know that has said it before.

Your parents, who got divorced. Your sister, who got her heart broken. Every single friend that’s called you crying about someone they loved. Every single previous heartbreak that’s left everlasting scars on your heart.

And it’s not like you really need to say it. Things are going well, with Jacob, and he doesn’t seem too bothered by it. Apart from his teasing remarks, he seems completely content.

Maybe he feels it when you kiss him, maybe he sees it in your eyes.

Sometimes, you come so close. So many times, you’ve almost said it. But every time you almost do, you don’t.

You think he notices, most of the time. A tiny smile will form on his face and sometimes he’ll even laugh out loud.

“But if I said it first, would you say it back?” he’ll ask sometimes.

“Of course I would,” you’ll say, but he never tries it, and you think that might be because he knows you’re lying.

--

And then the world gets turned upside down.

You guess you knew there was a pretty decent chance he wasn’t staying in Vancouver. But it was too painful to think about: every time you did, it nearly turned you dizzy and nauseous with worry.

If Jacob wasn’t staying in Vancouver, you’d have to think about what would happen to your relationship. And that wasn’t something you wanted to think about, because he became such a big part of your life you honestly don’t know what would become of you if he left.

But then you have to think about it, because it happened.

Calgary.

You’d never known one word could break your heart this much. And you’ve never hated one city as much as Calgary.

Almost in a daze, you make your way through Vancouver to go to his house. His house, that so much felt like yours before: it doesn’t anymore, and when you step inside you feel like a stranger in a familiar place.

Jacob appears in the hallway, having heard the click of the front door and your sneakers against the hardwood floor. His face is blank, devoid of any emotion, and you know that means he’s hurting.

He’s always smiling, usually, happy almost to a fault. He carries losses with great dignity, never complains, never gets angry or upset. He shakes things off like they slip away from his shoulders.

It’s something you’ve always admired about him, because things stick to you like you’re made of velcro.

This time, though, you can tell you’re not the only one hurting.

“I’m…” you start, but you cut yourself off. I’m sorry doesn’t seem like the right thing to say, and you don’t really know what else you could say.

Wordlessly, Jacob opens his arms, and you gratefully step into them, burying your face in his shoulder. It’s minutes before he speaks.

“At least it’s still in Canada?”

You can tell he’s trying to keep positive, as he always does. But there’s very little to be positive about, here. Calgary might be in Canada but it’s still so far away, and you wouldn’t see him for weeks on end…

“What about us?” you ask, words whispered against his shirt. It’s a surprise he hears you, but he does, and he pulls away immediately, frowning down at you.

“What do you mean?”

You swallow. It’s hard to get the words out but it’s something that needs to be talked about because his move could be imminent: you have no idea how long he’s planning to stay in Vancouver now that he doesn’t have to.

“What’s gonna happen to us if you’re not here?”

Jacob takes a step back, recoils like he’s been stung. It’s not immediately clear to you why he reacts like that, until he speaks.

“I wasn’t aware that anything had to happen to us.” His words are sharp and his face is still blank, but it’s the carefully constructed blank that tells you he’s hiding his true emotions.

You laugh, but it’s humorless. “You’re going to be in Calgary, Jacob. And I’m here.”

“I was gonna ask you to come.”

His words hit you like a tsunami, and for a second you’re rendered speechless. In that second, Jacob continues.

“I thought… We’ve been together for a while, you’ve said you’re not attached to Vancouver. You don’t like your job here. There’s no reason for you to stay here.”

And there’s a reason to go to Calgary, clearly. One very good reason.

But…

But if you go, and things go wrong, you’ll be in a foreign city with nobody. You don’t have friends there, you don’t have a job, or an apartment.

“Y/N.” Jacob’s voice is a little shaky. “Do you love me?”

There it is, the question that you wished to never answer. It lays between you like a heavy blanket of fog, blurring any connection there is.

For the first time, you’re not so certain about your future anymore.

Your future was supposed to be here, in Vancouver. You’d find a better job and in time, you and Jacob would move in together. He was supposed to be a Canuck forever and this would be where you’d raise your family. You’d get a dog, and a house with a garden.

And there’s no reason any of that couldn’t happen in Calgary, but. What if it didn’t? Suddenly you can only see yourself sitting on the floor of an empty, tiny studio in Calgary, snow outside, and nobody to talk to.

Apparently your silence has lasted too long, because Jacob speaks again, more forceful this time.

“Because if you love me, we can talk about this. We can figure something out. You could move with me now or later, or we could do long distance. We can make it work.” He pauses. “But if you don’t love me, maybe that’s just a waste of time.”

You love him. You love him with everything you have and everything you are. But there’s so many thoughts whirling through your brain, so many scenarios that could end so very badly.

And if you’re hesitating, maybe that means it’s not enough.

“I see.” Jacob takes another step back. Something calm has come over him now, a quiet resolve that the decision has been made. “In that case, please leave your key when you leave.”

And you open your mouth; you’ve gotta say it, you want to say it.

But Jacob’s footsteps are heavy as he retreats up the stairs and your feet are nailed to the floor. It’s impossible to move until at least ten minutes later, when you drag yourself outside.

The door closes behind you, the keys laying on the table in the hallway.

Tears are rolling down your cheeks, but you barely notice it. Nor do you notice the cold or the rain.

There’s so many things you don’t know, but if there was one thing you could’ve changed, you would figure out how to tell him you love him before he goes.

--

It’s been 4 days, 5 hours and 20 minutes since you left Jacob’s house and with it, his life.

Not that you’ve been counting. In fact, you’ve done everything you can to distract yourself from counting: eating ice cream, watching movies, calling your sister.

During one of those phone calls, she says something that pretty much shakes the ground you stand on.

“Just because you didn’t tell him you love him, it didn’t change much about how broken your heart is right now, did it?”

Of course, you told her everything: your sister is your rock, your best friend, the only person that knows all of your secrets.

“Uhm,” you say, eloquently, as you let the words sink in. She’s right.

Damn it.

Your whole relationship with Jacob, you’ve been worried about this. About heartache. Because from the very start, you knew how amazing he was, how precisely right for you. And losing him has always been the thing you were most scared of.

Sure, you were afraid to say those three words: but it was because you were convinced it would change things. Like something would shift inside you when you did, and somehow it would bind you to him more, ties that would tear in the most hurtful way when it ended.

But now it’s ended, and you’re hurt. You don’t think you could be more hurt, by anything in the world.

Including if you’d told him you love him, first.

And after everything he’s done for you, everything he’s put up with, after the way he so fearlessly loved you even when you refused to give him that back, he deserves to know.

“I’ve gotta go,” you tell your sister, and she laughs.

“Good luck, babe.”

It’s only two days until he leaves.

You probably shouldn’t know that, anymore. You lost the right to know those things when you didn’t tell him the one thing he needed to hear. But you couldn’t just let him go without at least knowing he was gone, so you’d texted Petey and he told you.

Not happily. You’re not surprised Petey is mad at you. He’s hurting too, probably, but not like you.

But then, that’s partly your own fault.

It’s weird, to knock on Jacob’s door. You haven’t done that in God knows how long, ever since he got you a key. You remember his grin when he handed it to you, shrugging his shoulders.

“It feels as much like your place as mine, by now.”

And it did used to feel like that, but not anymore. You wonder if it still even feels like Jacob’s: surely he’s been packing his stuff, maybe even already shipping it to Calgary.

You don’t get to think about it more, because the door opens.

Jacob looks… Well, he looks good because he’s too good looking to not look good, but he looks tired. Worn out, even: dark circles under his eyes and the blue orbs contain no trace of the sparkle you’re so used to. When he sees you, he frowns.

“Y/N?” he asks. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

It’s ridiculous: after all of this he shouldn’t be asking you what’s wrong, he shouldn’t be worried about you still. He should slam the door in your face or maybe yell at you some more.

But he doesn’t. He wouldn’t. Because he’s the best person there is and he loves you, and you’ve always known it but he hasn’t known the same in return, and..

“I love you.”

You blurt out the words before you can fully process it and you can tell that he wasn’t expecting it, either. His eyes widen and his mouth is a little slack, and for the first time since you’ve met him he looks completely at loss for words.

So you just keep talking.

“I was so scared to tell you that, because somehow I thought if I didn’t say it it wouldn’t hurt so much when it went wrong. All I’ve known is love going wrong, and I guess I thought if we didn’t call it that maybe that would stop it from hurting. But now it’s gone wrong anyway and it hurts so much and I realize it couldn’t hurt more, so I might as well say it.”

You take a deep breath.

“I guess this isn’t the right way to say it, or the right time. But I had to say it now because you’re leaving and I can’t have you leave without knowing. I had to say it before you go.”

Jacob looks at you, and suddenly he’s smiling. Despite everything, it’s enough to make you smile back.

“Now,” he says, “was that so scary?”

“Terrifying,” you admit. “So, I said it first.”

“I guess I’ve got to say it back?” Jacob hums, and then he’s stepping forward and kissing you.

Now you know what they mean in the movies and the books when they talk about butterflies.

“I love you.” He whispers the words against your lips between kisses. “I’ve been loving you. I will continue to love you.”

When he pulls away you take the opportunity to bury your face in the crook of his neck.

“I don’t want you to go to Calgary without me,” you mumble. It’s easier, now, to say it: what you’ve been thinking. What you’ve been wanting. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Jacob answers without even pausing to think. “You don’t have to. Remember what I said?”

“If I love you we’ll figure it out,” you remember, and you can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks.

“So?”

“I love you,” you tell him, again, and you know you’re gonna tell him again and again and again and again.

“Then we’ll figure it out,” he promises.

And you believe him.

#jacob markstrom #vancouver canucks #calgary flames #<--- OUCH #nhl fic #jacob markstrom one shot #jacob markstrom imagine

[alolowrites]

Everyone’s Got a Sweet Tooth!

Summary: Bakugou hates sweets. You don’t think this is true and begin a mission to discover his favorite candy. After all, you are the brilliant Candy Master who won’t stop until Bakugou’s sweet tooth is satisfied.

Author’s Note: Hello everyone! I’m so glad I was finally able to write a full fic for Bakugou; it’s been so long. Originally, this was supposed to be for the bingo event, but had trouble fleshing out the story’s direction. I really wanted to write this story since the plot was hilarious to me, idk why. 

Please enjoy!

10.30.21 UPDATE: HI!!!!! I went back and edited the heck out of this baby since it’s my favorite Bakugou story I’ve written. I hope it is now decent lmao. Happy Halloween!! 

Word Count: 2.4K+

“Katsuki, what is the meaning of all this?!”

“The hell are you talkin’ bout?”

“This!” 

You marched with purpose and plopped down on the couch where he sat. Bakugou remained unfazed, clicking on the remote control. He mindlessly surfed through the channels with an attention span of an HR recruiter combing through a mountain pile of resumes. Stupid sitcoms, fake ass “reality” tv shows, QVC advertising their products like it's Black Friday all day, every day. Bakugou frowned—why does he pay so much for these useless channels? 

His eyes teared away from the screen as the phone waved frantically on his left. 

You huffed. “According to Maximus Heroes, you—and I quote—‘bleeping hate sweets!’”

Bakugou clicked his tongue. “Damn idiots censored my words.”

“That’s not the point!”

“Then what is?”

“That you hate sweets!” 

You viciously smacked a pillow at him, ignoring his yells. Bakugou snatched the weapon with a growl. For a soft pillow, it felt like a firm foam roller. You stood up and paced around, arms flailing in the air. 

“How can my boyfriend say such a thing?!” You pointed at your signature black top hat. “Do you know who I am? I’m the lovable Candy Master, CEO of the Candy Basket Factory!” 

Bakugou shrugged. “So?”

“So, you can’t say you hate sweets!” You gripped your chest, sniffling a bit. “I feel as though I’ve been betrayed.”

“Would you sit your ass down?” 

Bakugou tossed the pillow at you and crossed his arm; he was too tired to deal with this nonsense. Somehow the QVC channel looked more appealing now. You begrudgingly plopped on the couch, a small pout growing on your face. Bakugou snuck a glance and sighed, tossing the remote aside. 

“Are you seriously so upset about this?” Instant regret flooded through his mind as he remembered that ridiculous day. “It was a freakin’ answer to a stupid question in a stupid celebrity article.” 

“…maybe…”

Bakugou rolled his eyes. You took off your signature hat and examined it; the hat was firm yet soft and had three peppermint candies artistically attached like a beautiful brooch. You moped silently for an eternity until an exciting idea rushed into your mind. Bakugou jumped as you squealed, his mouth ready for snarl, but you beat him to the punch. 

“I got it!” Two hands eagerly cupped his sharp cheeks, your whimsical eyes meeting his feral ones. They did nothing to damper your beaming smile. “You don’t hate sweets; you just haven’t found your favorite candy!”

Bakugou grabbed your wrist yet didn’t pull them away. Another giggle rang throughout the living room as you shot up from the sofa. A specific look crossed your face—one that both irked and frightened Bakugou to no end; he was through dealing with your shenanigans. 

“Whatever you’re thinkin’ about, the answer is no!”

“Too late! The mind is churning,” you piped, taking a cheerful step toward the doorway. Spinning on your heel, you gave a hat tip to Bakugou and declared, “I won’t rest until that sweet tooth of yours is satisfied!” 

Yup, it was too late. Bakugou had no choice but to go along with this dumb idea. Closing his eyes, he slammed a pillow over his face and screamed.

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

Ground Zero’s hero agency was buzzing with life. Phones rang off the hook, yet all were answered to avoid the voicemail machine. Interns carried endless stacks of papers, their dying arms begging for relief and fingers stinging from brutal paper cuts. The afternoon shift sidekicks clocked in their arrival while the morning ones yawned out the door.

Everything ran like a well-oiled machine, just how Bakugou liked it. He took great pride in this, hiring only the best and brightest. However, none of them held a candle against him—the number two pro hero. Unfortunately, being a prominent hero brought lots of reports he needed to sign.

And he was not excited about this.

“Um, sir?”

“Damnit, Small Head,” Bakugou growled, halting his pen’s movement. Fiery eyes glared at the man peeking around the ajar door. “If you bring me another paper to sign, I will stab this pen in your damn eye!”

“I-I assure you that I bring no reports, sir!” Kioshi, Bakugou’s personal assistant, waddled inside the office, fixing the tie that was strangling his neck. He slid a peculiar package toward his boss and bowed his head. “You have a special delivery from the Candy Master.”  

Bakugou scrunched his eyebrows. On his desk was a white box with an orange ribbon wrapped neatly in the upper left corner. A tiny card sat underneath it, and with closer inspection, had his first name written across in gold letters. Bakugou shooed Kioshi away, waiting to hear the door close to ensure absolute privacy.

At first, Bakugou had a mini stare-down with the gift. When it didn’t burst into flames, he sucked his breath and snatched the card. Bakugou turned it around to read the following message:

Everyone knows you got a sour attitude, but only I get to see that sweet side of yours. Figured these treats might do the trick. I made them just for you!

Enjoy,

C.M

P.S. These are an ~exclusive~ batch from my top-secret collection! So hush-hush!

Bakugou snorted at your writing, tossing the card aside and opening the box. His eyes narrowed at the vibrant gumdrops nestled above the black tissue paper. White sugar lightly coated the green and orange candies, each twinkling under the natural light that shined through his large window. A smirk curled on his lips; the whole package reflected his hero costume.

“Let’s see how good these are.”

Bakugou ate the green gumdrop. It was chewy and sour, the lime flavor making him twitch a bit. The sweetness kicked in ten seconds later. Bakugou tried the orange gumdrop next, and the acid was strong too but enjoyable. He soon devoured the entire box in one sitting.

Once that was done, he marched out of the office to start his daily patrol. It didn’t take long for a stupid thug to cross his path. Bakugou slammed him against the concrete wall, hauling him up with just one hand. The man trembled in fear but stopped squirming and cocked his head to the side, dumbfounded. 

Bakugou growled. “What the hell are you looking at?”

“Your tongue...it got weird colors, man.”

“Eh? The fuck are you talking ‘bout?” 

Bakugou peeked at his reflection on the store’s window. He recoiled when he saw the horrible swirls of green and orange covering his tongue. A vicious scowl crossed Bakugou’s face, his iron grip tightening around the thug’s collar. The guy’s high-pitched yelps fell on deaf ears. 

“Fuckin’ gumdrops!”

They were crossed off the list.

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

“I don’t want it.”

“But, sir, the gift—”

“I know who it’s from, and I’m telling you no.”

“Sir,” Kioshi gripped the massive, cherry red treat in his hand. A black ribbon with long strings almost reached the floor. The assistant sighed. “It’s just a lollipop.”

“Do I look like a fuckin’ baby to ya?” Bakugou crossed his arms, refusing to budge on his childish decision. The irony made Kioshi roll his eyes mentally. “Give it away or something. Now get out.”

“Yes, sir…”

Lollipops were crossed off the list.

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

Another day, another gift Bakugou received from you.

They came sporadically and kept the hero on his toes. He never understood why you sent the gifts directly to his office; you both lived in the same apartment for crying out loud! Worst of all, he could never get a single hint on what candy he would receive next. Every time he asked—or more accurately, demanded—you shot him a coy smile and purred, “Ah, ah, ah! It’s a surprise!”

Bakugou wanted to rip his eyeballs out.

However, he reluctantly played along with your stupid game. Whenever Kioshi entered his office, Bakugou masked his slight interest with the usual scowl. If the assistant didn’t bring candy, then Bakugou blamed him for interrupting his private time. The anger was worse if Kioshi brought more reports for him to sign.

Kioshi was thankful for the days when a new candy gift arrived.

Unfortunately, the last three gifts were complete failures. The first was the strawberry licorice, which dangled in Bakugou’s hand. He took a few bites and complained that he was eating a rubber wheel. Next was a bag of colorful gummy worms. Bakugou shoved a couple in his mouth and swore he felt one of them move on its own. Finally, there was the lemon green jawbreaker; it was the size of a baseball. One look and Bakugou shouted over the phone: “You tryna give me dentures?!”

All three candies were crossed off the list. Still, you didn’t give up and sent another gift to Bakugou. He read the simple message on the card:

Chew and blow to your heart’s content, babe!

Love,

C.M

P.S. I promise this won’t change the color on your tongue, haha!

Bakugou opened the sleek, rectangular box and found a bubble gum packet inside; there were three thin pieces. He slipped one in his mouth, surprisingly pleased with the bold raspberry flavor hitting his taste buds. Bakugou skimmed the card again and did as instructed—he chewed.

Typically, an ordinary bubble gum would lose its flavor after five minutes. But the flavor in your gum only got juicier; it encouraged Bakugou to continue chewing. He then blew a tiny bubble before popping it in his mouth. Not bad, he thought as another bubble expanded in front of him. His chews became more aggressive, and the bubbles more prominent than the previous ones. Stupidly, he puffed out a massive bubble, and it grew…

…and grew…and grew until there was a loud pop.

Bakugou’s roars shook the entire building, spilling cold tea all over Kioshi’s shirt. 

Bubble gum was crossed off the list.

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

Everything was going well down at the Candy Basket Factory. People lined up outside for the magical tours that ran every hour. Kids bounced off the walls as if they were on a sugar rush while their parents felt a migraine pounding on their heads. Inside the factory, the ceilings were high, and the walls were vibrant like the sun. Laughter rang from every corner as employees chit-chatted about their daily lives; they were relaxed yet efficiently worked to the same drumbeat.

A soft smile crept on your face. You were glad everyone was happy; it was the driving force behind your factory’s joyful spirit. Eventually, that spirit would leave these doors and touch billions of people’s hearts with your precious candies.

Just as you closed your eyes, someone barged into your office and barked your name. You chuckled, spinning the leather chair around to meet a furious Bakugou. His nostrils flared like a bull, and his menacing eyes looked ready to kill. However, the gum’s blobs stuck on his porcupine blonde hair squashed the pro hero’s intimidating aura.

“You—”

“—I’m so sorry, boss!” Nozomi panted into the room, hands on her knees as she caught her breath. “I tried stopping him, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“It’s quite alright, Zomi!” You chirped without breaking Bakugou’s intense eye contact. “I can handle him. Please let everyone know I’ll be busy with an important meeting.”

Nozomi bowed and closed the door behind her. Bakugou wasted no time complaining, his hands slamming on your desk. 

“Quit sending me your cavity-infested garbage! I’ve had it with this fuckin’ game.”

“Oh, come on, babe!” You rolled forward and rested your chin on your gloved hand palm. “Can’t I just send my dashing boyfriend some sweet gifts? Get it!” You jokingly slapped his forearm. “Because candies are sweet? Man, I crack myself up at times…”

“You’re insufferable.”  

You winked at him. “But that’s what you love about me!”

Bakugou gritted his teeth and looked away. A light blush tainted his cheeks; he hated how right you were. You walked around the desk and stood beside him, wiping off the fairy sugar dust on his shirt. He probably barged through the sample stand near the entrance, scaring off the poor intern. 

“Alright, alright.” You gave a gentle pat. “Sorry for going a little overboard with the gifts. I was just excited about finding your favorite candy! I don’t want you hating them.”

Bakugou’s anger subsided. “Why is this so damn important to you?”

“Because I love spreading endless joy through sweets.” 

The answer was simple and innocent. Bakugou blinked and was taken aback by the gentleness in your eyes. 

“Candy makes everyone happy,” you chirped. “Knowing someone’s favorite candy helps me bring their smile back whenever they’re upset or lost. Can’t have the world be all mopey now, can we?”

Your fingers hovered above Bakugou’s head. The gum moved under your command and floated in the air. You flicked it into the trash bin with ease, and Bakugou murmured a quick ‘thanks’ under his breath. After ruffling his hair, you suddenly remembered something sitting on your shelf. Bakugou stared at the small pyramid of chocolate truffles coming toward him.

“I made these babies a few minutes ago,” you said, eying the plate with a proud grin. “Normally, I do a taste test and then send the gift if it satisfies my expectations. But, I got a feeling you’ll love them.”  

Bakugou’s face was unreadable. You gave him a gentle nudge and encouraged him to take one. He sighed before picking a chocolate truffle; it was warm and soft, the cocoa powder dusting his fingertips. After suspiciously staring at the truffle, he ate the entire thing in one go. His eyes widened as all the flavors exploded at once. The crushed red pepper flakes, the hints of rich cinnamon and orange zest, and the bittersweet dark chocolate made from the finest quality found on Earth all danced perfectly together with every bite. 

“So…” You placed the plate on the desk, watching Bakugou swallow the truffle down. “What do you think? Give me your honest opinion! Don’t sugarcoat it, haha! I’m on fire today!”

Bakugou turned away. “I’m leaving.”

“No, wait!” You hugged his bicep with a pout. “I’m sorry, I’ll stop. Just tell me if you liked the chocolate truffles.”  

“They’re good.”

Your smile grew. “Good enough to be your favorite?”

“Sure,” he smirked, shoving another truffle into his mouth. You cheered on the spot after weeks of constant failures. Of course, some of the complaints were nonsense which didn’t surprise you. Bakugou was a picky bastard; the lollipop fiasco served as a great example. You were glad he thoroughly enjoyed the chocolate truffles.

Before you walked away, Bakugou pulled you close to him and crushed his lips on yours. He caught you off guard, but the surprise was certainly welcomed. You soon melted into the kiss after tasting the rich dark chocolate and spices on his lips. Bakugou’s arms snaked around your waist as your hands gripped his broad shoulders.

“You know,” Bakugou’s hot breath tickled your right ear, sending shivers down your spine. “I think I got a new favorite candy.”

“Is that so?” You hummed, a coy smile plastered on your face. 

“Let’s hope it satisfies your sweet tooth then, Ground Zero.”

“Oh, it will.”

After all, you were the one and only Candy Master.

As always, thanks for reading!

10.18.20 UPDATE: Story’s sequel, Gold Coins and a Gold Heart now uploaded. 

#bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #bakugou katsuki #bnha imagines

[boxboysandotherwhump]

The new boy in town.

Tags:  @salamancialilypad  @whumpfigure @albino-whumpee @comfy-whumpee  @ashintheairlikesnow   @haro-whumps   @moose-teeth @vickytokio​ @yet-another-heathen​ @orchidscript

Chapter 2

CW: body-shaming/ insults, discrimination/ dehumanization of mutants, an insect gets hurt, a nearly fistfight ensues

Heat thrummed through Gideon’s bones and throbbed in unison with his building headache. His patience had shriveled up like dried fruit under the torrid summer sun while this horrible lavender scent clung to his hair,  his skin, his clothes, making him dizzy.

It became stronger on the village outskirts, Gideon realized as he hurried after Director Sahin. The man ascended the crooked stone staircase effortlessly, his moss-green robe billowing behind him. His artfully decorated spear swayed with every step he took, not brushing a single leave. The only thing rustling through the underbrush was the wind and the creatures living there.

A twig caught in Gideon’s black curls, while the Director rambled on about the virtues of disciplinary work. How it encouraged the growth of one’s character, or some shit. The twig broke off with a quiet snap, painfully pulling at his scalp. Gideon’s mood dropped even lower. It was going to be a nightmare to fiddle all those shitty branches and leaves out of his hair later on.

He was seconds away from losing his barely-held composure. 

The only thing keeping him from bursting at the seams was the promise he’d whispered into his brother's grave, a last farewell bedded beside a corpse. 

Gideon had come to this godforsaken village to learn how to fight and survive in the forest, not to become some obedient little soldier boy! But in order to do that, he had to get cleared for training again and out of suspension.

If he had to play the director’s errand boy for a day to achieve that, so be it. He had endured worse.  

“Haaah, here we are.” Director Sahin inhaled deeply, arms falling wide. “Finally. My dear friend’s farm. Tell me, young Gideon, is it not simply beautiful?”

Gideon shrugged. “‘S’ okay.”

Granted, the house did look cozy, resting encircled by giant roots with its warm brick walls, but those gigantic snails everywhere sent a shudder down his spine. If he had to touch those slimy monsters he-

The farm’s sliding doors opened before he could utter a protest, and a fine-boned, middle aged woman emerged, followed by a huge man with a greying beard.  A boy, probably his own age but significantly shorter, held the door open for them.

The older woman’s lips curled into a crooked smile as she caught sight of Director Sahin, whose whole face had lit up. Dark eyes shining. 

“Moira. My darling. Please do not tell me you are about to leave? Not when I looked forward to seeing your beautiful face again.”

Gideon suppressed a gag. Moira crossed her arms, smile growing sharper. Her eyes held a warm twinkle as she spoke. “Eric; charming as ever.”

The man behind her stepped closer and huffed:  “M happy ‘ter see ya too, Eric.”

“Oh Ansgar you flatter me. But I must confess, I am not here solely for tea and a chat-“

The Director rattled on and Gideon’s focus wandered to the girl that had stepped out the door behind a blonde woman. A fancy grey blouse hung off her thin shoulders, nearly covering the  lace trim of blue silk short. A stark contrast to the more practical attire favored by most villagers. But that wasn’t what caught Gideon’s attention, no, he had seen all sorts of fancy getups up in Berlin -in the city's upper ring that is- what drew his eyes to her, was her face.

Its left side was oddly deformed, her pale skin uneven like a creased silk sheet, drawing her left eye down and her full lips up. She mouthed something to the boy, smiling, earning a smile from him in turn.

“Ah yes may I introduce: Gideon, my newest student.”

Having lost most of the adults’ conversation Gideon tuned back in just in time, to give them a curt nod.

“I will send him to collect the salve after the feast, then,” Director Sahin announced, please as can be. 

“Wonderful.” Moira clapped her hands. All back to business brusqueness.  “Sahar will appreciate not having to deliver it for once. Right?”

The other boy snapped to attention, green eyes wide and fingers twitching like the hands of a pianist. A grateful smile rose to his face and he nodded.

Oh great, so Gideon had to take the trip up here twice. 

They descended the stairs, lined up one after another on the narrow path. Sahar right in front of him, following the strange girl. He had avoided Gideon’s eyes as he squeezed past him, careful not to touch, probably scared off by his uniform. The school’s emblem, embroidered on his stainless white shirt, proudly declared him a scout in training. Deadly. Fearless. The little farm boy definitely did better not to mess with an insect slayer like him.

The girl came to an abrupt halt, frozen in the woodland’s shadows before it gave way to the dusty hill road. Gideon nearly collided with Sahar, when he heard it.

A primal, bone chilling hiss tore through the hot afternoon air, rattling through his very core. 

Every hair on his body stood, muscles tensing, on edge just like his fraying nerves. 

He knew that sound. 

Even though he’d heard it only once before. On the crusade from last-stand-berlin to the village, where he had seen the beast it belonged to lurk on the riverside, watching them.

He would never forget a spider’s hiss. 

And there one stood, right in front of him, its eight thorny legs towering high above its ugly head. The spider’s giant yaws worked, rubbed against each other in agitation. Its razor sharp fangs glistened in the sun.

A man sat atop its massive, hairy body, scar-faced and clad in a straw cape that was fastened to a beetle’s shell armoring his left shoulder. Shimmering in iridescent hues of blue and green. The man did not smile as he glanced down at them. A silent challenge was edged in the hard lines of his rugged face.

Tense static filled the air, an almost tangible thing that bit at Gideons fingers. It wormed its way into his bones, crawled over his scalp.  

He almost, almost, flinched when Director Sahin shouldered past him, spear drawn and followed by the other man. Both planted themselves right in front of him and the others.

The intruder’s scar stretched with the rise of his eyebrows, eyes slitting in a lazy half-grin.

 “Hey, there. Hold your horses. Before someone does something he regrets later.”

“That a threat?” Ansgar grunted.

Moira ducked past him, face twisted in a furious scowl as she spit. “Oh, something other than entering our village on a damn wolf-spider you mean?!”

The corded muscle in her boney arm flexed as she shook her fist at the man, unveiling a wrath behind her primly dressed form that no one would have wanted to fall victim to.

He, however, just leaned closer, smile stretching into a shark-tooth grin. “Gutsy, are we? I like that.”

Director Sahim stepped up beside her, spear held in a steady grip. “How could you make it past our InD-Units with this monstrosity?! God show you mercy if you did something to-”

“What do you think I am?!” the intruder drawled, hands raised in mock offense. “A monster?! Only reason I got past your insect defenses was this baby here.”

Gideon had to stand on his tiptoes to catch a glance of the small round device that sat embedded into the spider’s head, partly hidden by the man’s straw cape. A little red light blinked in a steady rhythm above three buttons, which the man was careful not to touch as he rapped his knuckles against it. 

“Renders her absolutely obedient. All natural instinct turned off. See?”

He unsheathed a knife from a holster strapped around his leg and its steel blade shimmered in the sun before he rammed it in one of the spider’s eyes, plopping it out with a nauseating plitch. The spider endured its master’s violation in utter stillness, only its yaws twitched, creating this awful hiss in their never ceasing movement.

 “She’s docile as a lamb.”

“And how exactly is that supposed to work?” the girl inquired, meeting the man’s stare with a calculated cold composure. She ignored the incredulous look the blonde woman gave her, as she mouthed: “Charlotte, what are you doing?”

The intruder's mouth twitched.

“Man, what do I know, Missy?! I’m a mutant hunter not a scientist.” He leaned closer, eyes narrowed, fixed on the girl's deformed face. Venom spiked his words, dripped from his tongue like acid. “My expertise lies in chasing down freaks.”

The condescendingly cruel way in which he spoke, wielding words like a weapon meant to pierce and twist where it hurt most, reminded Gideon oddly of his father. Anger welled up in his chest, buzzed down his legs and made them move. He planted himself right between the girl and the intruder.

How dare he compare someone to mutant scum?!

“Tsk. Mutant hunter?! You’ve ever even seen one? Or are you just talk? Threatening girls?!”

“Gideon.”, Director Sahim hissed, squeezing Gideon’s shoulder in warning as he tried to pull him back. 

The man gave them a wry smile. “No no. Let’s hear him out. Have you ever seen one boy?”

“Yes.” Gideon spat, unable to reign his emotions back in. “They’re hideous monstrosities.  And I’m going to find and kill every single one of them.”

The man burst into violent laughter, shoulders shaking and head thrown back, nearly losing his balance under the force of it.

“You do have guts, I give you that. But also lots to learn. Do you really think a girl can’t be a mutant? Monster’s come in all shapes and sizes, boy.” His eyes wandered back to Charlotte.  “Just ugly, that’s the whole lot of them.`` 

The blonde woman gasped, searching for words to shoot back, but falling silent as she noticed Charlotte’s expression. 

Red blotches burned on her face, rage twisting it into a vicious scowl. The afternoon sun set her copper curls on fire. Ready to spew fury and flames, she opened her mouth but Sahar was faster, his small voice piping up.

“Char- Charlotte is… is no- no mutant and and and she’s neither ugly nor weak. And and and people who talk about, talk about killing others for no- no, no reason are… They’re the- the real monsters.”  

His fingers fiddled with his shorts, tapping and twisting in the dark, worn linen as he stumbled over his words. His big green eyes jumped from the rocky street to the spider’s fangs, lingered on the intruder’s face before landing on Gideon. They narrowed as he all but spat the last words in Gideon’s face.  

“The hell you just said?!” Gideon’s nostrils flared. How dare this little runt run his mouth about things he didn’t know shit about!

Crossing his arms, Sahar forced himself to hold his ground against Gideon’s furious, wide eyed stare.  “You you, you heard me.”

Gideon heart hammered in his throat, pumping liquefied fire through his veins. His hands twitched.

“I give you one chance to take. That. Back.”

The boy’s trembling fingers dug into his forearms, knuckles whitening as he lifted his chin.

 “Never.”

A roar tore from Gideon’s throat as he leapt forward. Rage burned through him like a wildfire, ready to ignite everything his fist would come in contact with.

Beating the selfritousnes out of that stupid stammering farmboy was the only thing that mattered now. Everything else blurred to background noise. Even the stranger on his shitty spider. 

In that frozen second between charge and impact, Sahar’s  feet moved. His body tilted to the side. Dodged Gideon’s blow. Effortlessly. He bounced back. Landed on the first stone step and uncrossed his arms. Ready to defend himself. His fingers had stopped twitching.

That little runt had nerves! 

Gideon broke into a sprint.

“You sure are good at dodging!” He swung his arm back. “Try to handle this!”

Muscles flexing Gideon readied for impact, only for his arm to be janked back. A  large hand had wrapped around his wrist. Stopped him mid punch.  Craning his neck, Gideon stared up into Ansgar’s stern face.

Fuck he’s fast?! 

“Looks like ya still got lots t’ learn about respect ‘n self-discipline, young man.”

Director Sahin sighed, eyes still locked on the intruder, who watched the spectacle with a lazy kind of interest.

Ansgar released Gideon’s hand and turned to Sahar. His grey eyes glistened like ice shards. “Same goes for you. Ya disappointed me, Sahar.”

Sahar blinked up at the man, eyes round and full of disbelief.

“Wh-what- what, what do you, do do do do- what do you  mean?”

“I haven’t trained ya to run off ‘n start mindless fights. I tried to teach ya discipline ‘n how to survive these woods.” Ansgar’s voice did not waver and every word made Sahar shrink into himself. His fingers tapped a hectic distorted rhythm over his leg

The intruder snickered, “someone’s a stuck up,” earning Moira’s venomous glare. 

“But- but I didn’t- he he he he he was, he was the one who-“

“Enough,” Ansgar thundered. “Don’t argue with me. If ya want a beatin’ so bad I’ll give ya one later. And now back t’ the farm. Ya grounded for the week. No fest. No nothin’!”

Sahar crumbled under the man’s anger, head ducked between his shoulders as the first teardrop fell. It trickled down his trembling jaw, painting a glistening path on his warm skin.

Voice reduced to a shaky exhale Sahar nodded,  “yes, sir.”, and stormed up the stairs.

He had just vanished between the thick bushes, when the intruder broke out into a new laughing fit.

#whump #whump writing #mutant whumpee #crying whumpee #insults #fighting #post apocalypse #post apocalyptic #whumpee #some flowers have teeth #sahar #gideon #charlotte #sahar tries his best #gideon the angry bean

[lexiepiper]

Reflection

Hey @danthectoman, I was your backup Truce gifter! I hope you enjoy this bitter(sweet) Dan thermos fic!

I know my blog’s formatting sucks, I haven’t been able to change it yet, but you can read it on Ao3 or ff if you’d prefer.

.

There wasn’t much else to do but seethe.

His body, compressed down to mist, strained against the smooth metal walls. He pressed, and prodded, and tried again and again to pop the seal, but it held eternally firm, and he was left with nothing but thoughts in the darkness.

So he softly settled, like low-lying fog across fields, and sulked.

His anger pulsed at first, and every time he thought about things, his core would flare and he would pound himself against the lid once more. Still, it never budged, and he always ended up sinking back into simmering stillness before his thoughts caught up with him and his fury inevitably swelled again.

It was a dark, stagnant cycle, and he didn’t know how long it had been going on until a tiny thought wormed its way through the haze of agitation. Jazz would be disappointed.

It caught him off-guard, and he paused in yet another attempt to break the seal.

She would be, wouldn’t she?

The thought held a bite of anger, and he coiled in readiness to throw himself against the lid again, but before he could lose himself in his rage he managed to picture her. Time had worn her smooth, and she was little more than long red hair pulled away from her face with a teal headband, and fragments of smiles and hugs that always carried more love than he ever felt from anyone else. He pooled again at the bottom of the thermos, trying to fit the glimpses of memory back together. He couldn’t picture her fully, but the more he tried, the more she slid into place in his mind.

His parents followed quickly, and sorrow pricked his core when he realised that he couldn’t remember what his mother’s smile looked like, or the scent of the aftershave that his dad had worn. It had been so long since he’d allowed himself to think about them, and now this tiny effort was far too late.

The deep, hollow ache in his core flared up, like an old wound that never really went away, and he curled in on himself. He wanted to stop thinking about them, to make the yawning emptiness fade into the background once again, but he just couldn’t stop himself… His family sprang back to the forefront, whose faces were blurred by time, and who had never known the truth about him. He wondered if things would have been different, had they known. He tried to picture it — ghost hunting with his parents, or making ectocookies, or trying to dodge Jazz when she ruffled his hair after he had easily caught The Box Ghost yet again.

The imagined scenes brought a fresh wave of pain. He’d never told them, and now they’d never know, because they were dead. They were dead, and it was his fault.

He had no physical body to cry with in the thermos, but he burned with the thick heat of grief, and Dan wrapped his misty form tighter around his core. He stayed there, pressed against the cold circular floor of his prison, while his core trembled and his mind dwelt on the little things that made up the people he’d lost. If he thought about it, he could almost smell Sam’s shampoo, or picture the shape and colour of Tucker’s glasses. He didn’t remember if Jazz’s shirt had been black or white that day, or if his parents had been holding hands when they walked into the meeting. He spared a small thought for Mr Lancer too, but then returned to trying to recall what his mother’s perfume smelled like.

He dug deeper into his memory, and every resurfacing detail felt like pulling out a splinter. It was painful in the moment, but once he stopped fighting the memory, and allowed the thoughts to linger, the pain was not so much that of continual hurt, but more akin to the ache of healing.

Sam’s shampoo had been a vegan one that smelled like roses, and Tucker’s glasses were large half-moons with black frames. Jazz’s shirt was also black, his mother smelled like orange blossoms, and right there at the end, they had been holding hands.

He missed them.

He missed them, and there, coiled as compressed ectoplasmic mist, he realised that he still loved them.

He had no mouth or throat, but Dan’s amorphous body clenched and spasmed in the closest thing to a cry, and he tried to remember as much as he could.

He reached for old memories, of the sound of screeching locker doors, and that his mother would always fold his socks so that the edges lined up perfectly, and how sand felt when it crunched and squeezed between his toes, and Dan realised that his family and friends weren’t the only people he missed.

He missed rain on his skin, and the taste of lime, and the way it felt to sleep in jeans after a long day, and a million other little things that made up the sum of life.

He missed Danny.

He missed himself.

He’d never thought that before, so swept up in the rage of abandonment, and then… then the rage of bloodlust. His core shivered, and he tried not to think about it. He tried to dredge up those nicer, softer memories, of picnics and sunsets and life, but every attempt was swept away by the sheer force of blood-drenched gloves and dying, screaming souls.

He’d started with himself, and then had never stopped… but now that he’d been stopped, and left in a soup can to rot? Now, he had time to think, and the more he thought, the more he remembered.

People had been so easy to kill. At the time, it gave him a rush of excitement, of winning the hunt… but now, if he’d had a stomach, it would have been rolling with bile. Unlike the hazy memories of happier times, he could picture every person he’d killed in crystal clear detail.

They rushed him, breaking through the mental walls that he tried to throw up, until all he could do was cower at the bottom of the thermos and face how each of them had looked in their final moments. Each terrified expression drove shards of revulsion deeper into his core, and these visions continued in an unrelenting wave until he had revisited every single victim, and felt the horror and guilt that had been so absent when their lives had ebbed away beneath his cruel fingers. He didn’t know how long it took, but when it was over, all he could do was lie there and steep in the blood that stained his soul.

He wished he had never done it.

He would do anything to have never done it.

As soon as the thought presented itself, Dan felt a vibration stutter through his prison. The thermos shuddered, and then the compression was gone, and Dan burst out of the darkness into a light that burned his eyes with its sudden intensity after so long in the darkness. He curled in mid-air, pressing the heels of newly-formed palms against freshly-made eyes and hissing in discomfort.

When he finally came to himself, the first thing he noticed was a soft, repetitive ticking. It was strangely familiar but misplaced, like the wrong lyrics being sung to a familiar tune. Dan shuddered, dropping his hands and squinting in the light. His core fluttered with the strain of his unrelenting emotional storm, and if he were a weaker being he might have worried about it collapsing due to stress.

He glanced around, frowning at the sight of a ghost screwing the cap back onto the thermos.

“Who are you?”

The ghost regarded him with red eyes, one of which was struck through by an impressive scar. “You know who I am.”

Its voice rasped like sand shifting, and brought to mind the endless dunes of a desert, eternally changing with the ravages of time.

He did know. “Why now?” Dan snapped, but the snippiness was somewhat lost from his tone as his core heaved with fresh guilt. “When I first learned of your existence, and searched the Ghost Zone, I could never find you.”

The ghost didn’t respond, and Dan shook his head as anger finally began to trickle back into his core. It pushed the guilt aside in its demand to be felt. “You… you hid from me!” he shouted, flinging out an arm for emphasis. “You knew what I would do, but when I came to find you, to… to fix this,” he gestured to himself, “you left me on my own! What did that other Danny have that I wasn’t good enough for, Old Man?!”

The ghost of time rippled, and his form changed into a younger man. “Come,” he said, and floated through an open archway set in the wall.

Dan paused. The room he’d been released into was nothing more than a small alcove, with a pedestal that must have housed the thermos up until now. Frustration bloomed in him, but it was quickly overcome with a spark of disbelief.

He was free?

After so long, it felt impossible. He immediately yearned for open spaces, whether the expanse of the Zone or the wide blue sky of Earth, it didn’t matter. He just had to get out of here.

He could run, but if that strange cloaked ghost with the ticking clock in its chest really was who Dan suspected, then he doubted that he’d get very far. Besides, it’s not like he had anywhere that he could run to, anyway.

Loneliness ripped through him, and Dan clenched his teeth and flew through the archway before the crushing grief could come pouring back. “Hey!” he shouted, speeding to catch up with the figure that was floating leisurely down a long, narrow corridor lined with large clock faces that all displayed different times.

The other ghost reached a door recessed between two massive clock faces just as Dan caught up. “Come, Daniel.”

The simple address struck him like a blow, and Dan recoiled, his hand flying to his chest to clutch at the HAZMAT. “That’s not my name,” he choked. “I’m not… him.”

The time ghost paused with a hand on the ornate doorknob. “Maybe not the way you used to be,” he demurred, “but in many ways, Daniel, you’re still you.”

Dan’s core clenched, and the shadows behind the clocks deepened as his hair flared in an inferno of white flames. “Don’t you get it, Clockwork?” he shrieked, the slight tether of self-control crumbling away. “I killed people! Millions and millions of innocent people! I murdered children, and can still see their faces, and feel their blood dripping off my hands! I am not your precious Daniel!”

Clockwork’s hand dropped back to his side, and he turned so that they were facing each other. His gaze was soft and achingly sad, and the ticking of the clock inlaid in his chest sparked a pang of longing that Dan didn’t even know he could still feel.

He shoved it away. “Why didn’t you save me?” he choked, and his core felt like it would smother him. “You saved him, with your time travel and your second chances. What was so special about him, anyway? Why did he get them back, while I became his lesson?”

Clockwork folded his arms across his chest. The watches lining his wrists flashed in the brilliant light of Dan’s hair. “Saving comes in many ways, Daniel. If I wasn’t going to help you then you’d still be in that thermos.”

“I don’t need your help,” he snapped.

Sad red eyes bored into his. “Don’t you wish that you could take it all back?”

The question pierced him to his soul, and Dan faltered, sinking so that his feet hit the tiles. His knees buckled and he sagged, leaning against the wall and grasping his chest as a half-forgotten sound squeezed where his ribs should have been and wormed its way up his throat and out through gritted teeth. It took a moment to recognise the sob for what it was, and by then, another one had broken out as well.

He tamped down on the emotion, blinking burning eyes and leaning heavily against the wall. “Yes,” he choked. “I… I want nothing more.”

The ancient ghost sighed, and it sounded like the faraway chime of a forgotten clock. “Come,” he said again, reaching for the handle once more and swinging the door open. “You are my ward, Daniel, no matter what form you take. I would fight all powers in the realms to give you peace.”

Dan blinked as an undeniable warmth wrapped itself around his core. “Oh,” he breathed, and for a moment, the pain melted away and he felt like Danny Fenton for the first time in what could have easily been a thousand years. It was nice, but overwhelming in its abruptness, and he sank to his knees. “But… but I’m still half Plasmius,” he managed to say past the swelling comfort that cocooned him like a blanket.

Clockwork shrank until he was in the form of a child, his eyes once again level with Dan’s kneeling form. “Without that half, you’re not stable,” he said, and laid a tiny hand on Dan’s shoulder. “You were stronger, and absorbed him. You have his powers, and his temper, but beneath that, you’re still Daniel Fenton.”

The comforting warmth continued to thicken around him, and Dan screwed his eyes shut and leaned his forehead against Clockwork’s shoulder. “Are you adopting me?” he choked as he recognised the bonds forming between their cores.

He felt the other ghost nod. “Technically, you’ve been my ward for over a thousand years now. I just had to leave you in that thermos until you came to your senses.”

“What, you left me in time out for a thousand years?” Dan retorted, but the words lacked any bite.

Small fingers brushed through his flaming hair, and he forced down a shudder at how unexpectedly nice it felt.

“You needed to experience regret,” Clockwork explained, and gently pulled back from the hug. “You had to want to change the past so badly that you’d do anything. You weren’t going to change until you were ready to.”

Dan leaned against the wall again. He still felt wonderfully warm and cared for in a way that he never had, not even during his distant, fleeting time alive. “I do,” he said, and tried not to think about how cheesy this all was, “and I will.”

Clockwork smiled then, and the scar that slashed through his eye crinkled with the expression. He reached out a hand and Dan grasped it. “Come,” he said, shifting into the form of a young adult and pulling Dan off the floor with the change. “You have some time travelling to do.”

#Danny Phantom #Christmas Truce 2020 #holiday truce 2020 #lexiepiper #dantheectoman

[chaseatinydream]

pirate king (16) || atz

The three of you are walking along in town.

Unsurprisingly, after the crazy celebration the night before, majority of the crew had woken up with massive hangovers, most retching over the side of the ship or trying to nurse pounding headaches. To be honest, the only ones who weren’t drunk were you, Seonghwa and Mingi.

Technically, Yeosang hadn’t been drunk either, but he had left for town earlier in the morning to go search for Wooyoung, who still hadn’t returned to the ship. When you had started to worry, Yeosang had simply reassured you that this was normal Wooyoung behavior, and he’d have their head gunner back on board before the ship set sail.

The biggest problem was, however, the fact that the ship’s resident healer was also suffering from a hangover.

“You’re such a lightweight, master.” You had chided him this morning as he groaned in his bed, half buried in a mountain of stuffed plushies. “Everybody needs you to cure their hangovers, you know?”

“You can do it, apprentice.” San mumbled weakly from beneath a pig stuffed toy. “You have a good master.”

“Red ginseng, lemon and ginger tea and prickly pear cactus.” You recalled diligently from your studies, glancing at the lump that was your master. “Am I right?”

The only answer you got was a snore in response.

So, that explains why you, Seonghwa and Mingi are together, walking along the town’s marketplace, searching for a hangover cure for your poor crew mates. Seonghwa had offered his services to help you carry the groceries back, while Mingi simply didn’t want to get in the way of his crewmates’ projectile vomiting.

You don’t blame him. The stench was absolutely awful.

“So, what are you looking for?” Seonghwa asks as you make your way through the crowd. There’s a soft buzz in the air, a little subdued, but you chalk it up to being early in the morning and that nobody is quite awake yet.

“Opuntia, or prickly pear cactus.” You tell him as you weave through the throng of people selling their wares at every corner of the long street. “Its fruit helps to ease hangovers, so that’s what I’m looking for.”

“Anything else?” Mingi asks, checking through his coin pouch. As the quartermaster and also the treasurer, all funds go through him before being spent.

“Lemon, honey and ginger.” Bending over to check out some of the fruits, you study a lemon carefully for any defects and put them in your basket. “I’m also looking for red ginseng to reduce hangover severity, but it’s an eastern root herb, so it may be a little difficult to find here.”

“We are in the Caribbean, after all.” Seonghwa remarks, using his superior height to his advantage as his eyes scan the multitude of stalls selling every sort of exotic plant, fruit, and even animal. “I do recall seeing a shop selling eastern herbs the last time I was here, though.”

“Ah, Master did tell me to make sure we stock up on eastern herbs if I found any!” You chatter excitedly, turning to Seonghwa. “Did you see any worm grass (cordyceps) or fish bladders (fish maw)?”

Seonghwa nods, a smile blossoming on his face. “Yes! I can’t believe I even found some dried black mountain ants there!”

Mingi stares at the two of you with a weirded out look on his face. “I’m not even going to ask any questions. None at all.”

“There, I see it!” Seonghwa points over the heads of the crowd at a stall tucked all the way at the end of the street, his grin widening. “We did it, Chin Hae!”

The two of you exchange high fives and dash for the stall faster than Mingi can blink. He simply sighs, following the pair of you at a more sedately pace, shaking his head dryly. “Are all cooks like this…?”

When he finally does catch up with the two of you, you’re gushing over the different herbs and spices with Seonghwa, picking up a piece of black root that looks suspiciously like a thin, black stick. You hold it to Mingi’s nose.

“Hey, Mingi-hyung, look what I found!” Mingi frowns as he stares down his nose at it, going a little crossed eyed. It’s black, thin and looks rather boring. Mingi doesn’t understand why you’re so excited over it at all.

“A stick?” He answers, a little befuddled to what it could be to get you so excited about it. Seonghwa clucks his tongue disapprovingly, reaching to take the stick from you and waving it in front of Mingi’s face.

“No, Mingi.” The cook shakes his head dramatically, brandishing the stick as if it is the cure to all the world’s troubles. “This wonderful, powerful herb is the cordycep!”

Silence.

“It looks like a stick to me.” Mingi grumbles, shoving his hands in his pockets. Honestly, he’s never been one for herbs and medicines like San is, but that’s why they have San and Seonghwa and now you, right?

“Yes, but you don’t get it!” You cry in horror, waving the black stick at him. “The cordycep is a worm-”

The quartermaster freezes, his eyes widening as he takes in the black thing so close to his face.

Then he screams like a ten year old girl and dives behind a stack of barrels, as if you’ve just pulled a musket at him.

“Uhh, Seonghwa-hyung?” You turn to the cook, who’s simply shaking his head in amusement.

“He’s afraid of insects and the like.” Seonghwa nods at the too tall shape that is Mingi crouching behind a cask of alcohol, his eyes peering over at the worm in your hand like a cat staring down a bath of water.

You can’t help but laugh at the sight as you turn to the shopkeeper and order a tael of cordyceps, red ginseng and ginger. Honestly, you would have never thought that the silent, strong quartermaster was afraid of insects.

The shopkeeper smiles at you. “Know your herbs, do you, dear?” She packages the dried herbs into paper and ties each up with a red string, before passing them to you. Each package is worth its weight in silver or more. “A gold coin and three silvers.”

Mingi carefully counts out the money before diving back into the relative safety of his barrel fort.

“Honestly, Mingi-hyung.” You say, going over to him. He doesn’t look at you, eyes fixated on the paper package that he knows has the cordyceps inside of it. “These are dead worms. The cordyceps are actually just fungi that grow on the worms.”

“Dead, alive, stuffed with mushrooms, worth a thousand golds, I don’t care.” Mingi hisses, eyes still trained on the bag like he’s ready to fight them. “I hate insects.”

You and Seonghwa burst out laughing at his hostile tone.

“Alright, alright.” Seonghwa steps towards the quartermaster. “Let’s get back to the ship and brew up a nice lemon honey ginger tea for the rest, shall we-”

Suddenly, a small boy shoves into you, knocking you to the side abruptly before dashing off. To your horror, you feel the package of herbs being torn from your fingers, the force leaving rope marks on your skin as you stumble to the ground, hands barely saving you from a nasty fall.

“Hey!” Mingi shouts, but the boy is already fleeing. He glances at Seonghwa. “Hyung, you and Chin Hae take the other way from the square, I’ll cut him off.” Then he pauses for a moment, staring at the cook, his gaze softening in worry. “Will you be alright, hyung?”

That seems like a strange question to ask, but Seonghwa must understand what he’s talking about because he nods, already pulling you in the opposite direction towards the town square. “Don’t worry about me!”

The two of you dash through the street, where people are filing out of their houses. It’s rather easy to move, considering that everyone is moving towards the town square, the same direction the two of you are. You simply move with the flow, following the crowd to the main square.

“There must be quite some commotion happening.” Your crewmate huffs for breath as the two of you tear along the town, bumping into several other people and apologising furiously. You’re sure one of them even curses you rather creatively in his native tongue.

“There are a lot of people today.” You pant, glancing around you as the pair of you finally emerge in the square. There weren’t this many people the last time you and Jongho had come to town, so you’re a little puzzled. “Why-”

Suddenly, the ringing of the town bells fills the air.

You’re instantly jerked back by the hand on your wrist and you nearly stumble to the ground. You turn back to stare at him urgently. “Seonghwa-hyung, we need to hurry!”

But Seonghwa merely stands still, face bloodless, lips moving without sound. You’ve never seen him like this, so afraid, so petrified with fear.

He looks so emotionally raw, bloody, haunted by the ghosts of his past.

You turn to look at Seonghwa in worry. Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong. “Hyung? We should be going.” But he doesn’t seem to hear you. His eyes are wide and unfocused, dark pupils dilated with fear, his breathing erratic and irregular. You tug at his hand once more, only to jerk back in shock, it’s slick with cold sweat. Your blood turns to ice inside you as you take Seonghwa’s face, cradling his cheeks with your hands. Your voice is gentle, afraid of pushing him over the edge into whatever abyss he’s dangling over.

You’re terrified.

“Hyung

? What’s wrong?”

His breath comes out in shallow pants, chest heaving. He doesn’t look at you. His eyes are fixed on something behind you, and you turn to see what could have possibly caused him to react in such a manner.

“-and I hereby declare the sentence will be carried out now.”

There’s the sound of a lever being turned, the squeak as the trap doors swing open.

And the noose jerks taut.

A soft whimper leaves Seonghwa’s mouth, and suddenly he squats on the ground like a small child, hands over his ears, shaking his head desperately as he whispers the same words again and again under his breath.

“Hyung!” You cry out in horror and panic, kneeling next to him to wrap your arms around him. What do you do? What’s happening to Seonghwa-hyung? He barely seems to be aware of your presence anymore.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers between soft, quiet sobs, raw and hoarse, from somewhere deep in his chest. You’re completely confused to why he’s apologising to you for a moment, until he begins to mumble names you’ve never heard under your breath. “I’m so sorry, mother, father, Hyunjung, Ha Rin.”

The last word is a wail, a cry of utter torment, so desperate that it yanks at your heartstrings, demanding you to do something, anything! But you don’t know what to do besides embracing him, watching him rock back and forth on his haunches like a deranged man.

There are tears winding down his face and you raise your hands to wipe them away as fast as you can. The sleeve of your shirt soaks with warm wetness, and suddenly, that same, tight agony wells up in you as well.

A single tear spills down your cheek.

“Seonghwa-hyung-” You manage to croak, your throat thick from unshed tears, but the older man merely stands as if in a daze, hands still over his ears as if that can stop him from hearing the sounds of the man at the noose slowly fading from this world.

Then he runs, tearing away from you without looking back.

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #ateez hongjoong #ateez seonghwa #ateez yunho #ateez yeosang #ateez san #ateez mingi #ateez jongho #ateez wooyoung #ateez pirate king #hongjoong #seonghwa #yunho #yeosang #san #mingi #wooyoung #jongho #w; ot8 #w; fanfiction #w; pirate king