#no one can ever take up that cause again without being tarred by the same brush (is the message of the story)

[equalseleventhirds]

also (w359 spoilers ahead), marcus cutter is a stand-out villain bcos like, u kno that writing advice that goes 'everyone feels justified in their actions so u have to make a Justification for your villain doing evil', but ppl keep doing those villains wrong (i have Thoughts on why but that's another post)

cutter, like, we understand his motivations. we know he was wronged in his youth! we can see some sympathy there! and we can see his goal is what he genuinely thinks of as a Better Humanity.

and yet we are not pulled into 'well he's right he's just Using The Wrong Methods'. we can also see how what he believes is wrong, even tho he's twisted it around to think it's right. we can see where a lot of his goals are mostly about making things better for himself, even as he pushes a line of 'for progress! moving forward!' along with those self-interested goals. and, vitally, he's not up against heroes who are trying to ~keep the status quo~ or w/e, or go sadly 'well because of your Methods we cannot accept your Very Good Goal'

he's a very good example of a villain with a reason, a plausible reason, an at times sympathetic reason, but with whom we do not side, and who also gets to be campy and evil and fun.

#w359blogging #i think one of the major failings of ppl taking the 'give villains a justification' advice and doing it wrong #is that they assume 'justified' means 'sympathetic' but like. VERY sympathetic. #unfortunately if a villain is TOO sympathetic we the audience... stop liking the heroes #ppl don't necessarily... like to feel conflicted abt good vs evil in media. this is why sometimes Just Evil Villains succeed so well #bcos the 'give villains a justification' thing is about adding realism to your writing #but sometimes audiences don't want realism. they want to feel GOOD when the villain is taken down. #(not all the time. some ppl like the conflict. but also some media is so damn bad at doing a Properly Conflicted Thing #like? black panther? did great on 'good motive bad methods' bcos the good motive was CONTINUED by the good guys #other media... says 'good motive bad methods' and dismisses the motive entirely bcos of the methods #no one can ever take up that cause again without being tarred by the same brush (is the message of the story) #and that's uhhhhhh rly shitty writing and also NOT a good way to feel conflicted abt the heroes & villains for the audience #bcos either they must hate the villain's good motivation or they have to like. question the heroes. .......anyway.) #this is all to say! cutter's a fantastic balance between 'understandable motivations' and 'just genuinely evil u can root for him to fail' #like you UNDERSTAND him but you don't AGREE with him. he's got the realism without that ethical quandary. #it's not the same approach to an understandable villain as black panther but it is a good one for a different message #....................i said these thoughts were another post. they are instead tags. sorry about that.

[queenoftheworldisdead]

Lane close

Note: Inspired by @sapphirescrolls​ https://sapphirescrolls.tumblr.com/post/633710107595767808/i-had-an-obnoxious-encounter-whilst-driving-so-ya

Summary: Going home there is always traffic.

Warning: bondage, forced sex, non consent, kidnapping

Dark Thor x reader

It felt like you had been stuck in the car for over an hour. It was so infuriating that one lane could clog up traffic so badly.Throwing your head back on the seat you start to stare aimlessly at the taillights in front of you.

Incoming traffic rushed by, but out going was yet again a drag. You could've sworn the construction workers were just fucking about instead of working. If there were any other options as a home route you would have taken it, but unfortunately there wasn't one.

Since the weather had been unusually fair you decide to roll the windows down.  

"Hey Siri, play my rush hour playlist" you call out to your cell.

The robotic voice came alive on your command, changing from the radio to your music. Tapping your finger on the steering wheel in time with the beat you sing to yourself while sitting through this slow torture.

"HEY!" Someone called out. Checking your rear-view you scanned to see if someone behind you was trying to get your attention. From what you saw the driver behind you seemed to be on his phone so maybe you were just hearing things.

"HEY!" Even with the music blaring that voice pierced through.

Scanning all around this time your eyes land on a giant of a man in an orange safety vest and hard hat. One of the road workers was waving his hands in the air trying to signal you. Scrunching your brow you look at him curiously. His bright smile was certainly infectious as he began dancing when your attention was focused on him. He was surprisingly on beat, but the sight of it was so goofy you had to laugh and the more you watched goaded him to do more.

*HONK HONK HONK

"Okay, okay" you say to the car behind you even though they couldn't hear you. Turning your focus back on the road and get in gear. He had distracted you so much that you hadn't noticed traffic move on a bit. Without giving him another glance you drive onward to home.

The construction on the road had been going on for over a month and you truly couldn't tell what they were working on out there. At least it never hindered you going into work. As you passed the closed lane in the morning you would glance over at the abandoned equipment while you wait at the light to change colors again.

When you were in the office your days were filled with meeting after meeting. The first one was just about to start and you were the only one in the conference room. Walking over to the window you watched the construction workers start their day along the outstretched roadway.

"Hey Y/N, you coming to lunch with us tomorrow?" Cathy's voice broke you from your trance at the window.

"What's going on tomorrow?"

"Tiffany is having a going away lunch. It's going to be at Zoe's kitchen since it's just right across the street"

"Ugh I hate that place, but I will go."

Moving from the window you take the seat next to her at the conference table. "Do you take Woodway avenue to go home?" You ask the curly haired accountant as she opens her laptop.

"I used to, but the traffic has been so bad." She answered. "I normally go over to Sam's since it's the other way. By the time I leave there traffic is normally cleared out."

"Oh, wow. How long has this been going on?" You integrate her.  

"I had been dropping hints to him for a while, then one late night a few weeks ago"Cathy's mysterious grin spread on her lip.

"Cathy! In the office" you try and lower your voice after the shock. She only shrugs while you shake your head in disapproval. "Any who I was sitting in traffic yesterday and heard someone shouting. I look over to see this road worker shouting at me then he starts dancing like a fool."

"Was he cute though?"

"That’s besides the point"

"So he was cute then...Next time take a picture I wanna see this construction hottie" she jokingly asked as more people started to file into the conference room.

When you got into your car at the end of the day you were happy to leave, but not excited about what lay ahead. Your gas indicator was dangerously low today and you cursed yourself for not filling up your tank last night. You knew it was enough to get home, but the gas at the station a few blocks from here was cheaper than the one by your apartment.

As the dead lock breaks to allow you to drive more than a few inches you signal so that you can get over in time to reach the station.

Pulling in you parked in front of the pump. The tank was on the passenger side so you walked around, popped the cap and grabbed the hose.

The bell on the gas station door chimed behind you. Spilling from the doors a group of road workers presumably on break or grabbing snacks for their journey home. Your head reflexively turned towards the noise then your eyes locked with the golden haired goofball from yesterday. When he saw you his face lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Hey!" he shouted and waved at you excitedly dancing his dance making you snort. When your hear the click from the hose you turn away. Pulling out the nozzil you put it away and walk to get back into your car. Glancing up you spot him looking back at you, waving goodbye as he and his group walk over to a large  red pickup truck. You wave back then startup reluctantly ready to sit through this traffic jam again.

In the rear-view you spot the massive truck he got into. It trailed a few cars behind, but it wasn't hard to miss.

Even after you broke free of the jam it seemed to be heading in the same direction as you. To ease your mind you drive into McDonald just before your turn off point. It was another late night of coming home and cooking for yourself wasn't going to happen.

After you placed your order through the speaker you see his car pull in too.

You are just being paranoid. He is probably hungry. You're overthinking things.

Paying for your food you then leave and speed on toward your street. Peeking at your rear-view you spot his truck again in the far distance.

Calm down. This is a popular road a lot of people take this route.

Shaking off the paranoia as you spot your street sign. Signaling you pull into the turning lane. As you waited at the light you watch as the truck gets closer, but the light turns green before you can see if he gets into the same lane. Turning on your street you breathe a sigh of relief when you saw it kept going straight instead of turning down your road.

The next day lunch came around before you knew it. Leaving your desk you go and grab Cathy. When you do she's shamelessly flirting with her new office bae, Sam.

"You ready to go or..." You ask leaving enough space for innuendo as you poke your head in through Sam's office.

"Yes, yes" Cathy turns to you pouting. "I'll see you tonight" she pecked him on the cheek before heading to the elevator with you.

Exiting the office you two head out toward Zoe's, chatting about the usual office gossip. The bustling sound of the road work buzzed around your office building. The walk to Zoe's would be brief, but noise and the smell of tar had you regretting the choice to go out for lunch.

"Oh my gawd there he is" you point in the direction of the statuesque blonde currently jack hammering the road. In his bright orange vest you could see pools of sweat seep through. His sleeves clung to his toned arms, his muscles flexed as the machine pounded and you wondered what the rest of him looked like underneath.

"Oh damn" Cathy exclaimed practically drooling at the sight of him. You had to nudge her ribs to stop her from staring.

The pedestrian light turned green as you two approached allowing your little group to cross the street. As your pumps hit pavement you heard his distinct call. Cathy turned her head to look before you did. When your eyes landed on him, he did his little dance this time adding in a crotch grab then blowing you a kiss. The shock of the lewd gesture had you both scrunching your faces in disgust before turning away and continuing on. He shouted at you more but you refused to give him anymore attention.

You checked your traffic app to see if there was anyway to avoid Woodway, but all the road lines were colored red. Signaling that they would be just as bad as going around.

Instead of sitting in traffic again you decided to stay in the office later. Spending an hour in the office sounded better than an hour in traffic.

You passed the time shooting off a few emails, scheduling a few client meetings and reading through some paper work you had put off earlier in the day. Checking your watch after all that done you were satisfied that enough time had passed so you pack up to leave.

Pulling out of the parking garage you were relieved that traffic had indeed cleared up. Though it was late you were tired of fast food. With all the road work you found it easier to get drive through than cook. Breaking from routine you head to the grocery store.

Walking down the various aisles while you load up your cart. The smell of fabric softener wafted through the air. The fragrant smell reminding you that you were running low on detergent.

Going down the aisle you find your favorite brand and smell the clean scent of the box.

"Hey!" The familiar voice of the construction worker startled you causing you to drop the box of detergent on the floor. "Oh sorry" his accent caught you off guard as well, he had only ever said one word to you before this point. Walking up closer as you bent to pickup the box.

"It's OK." As you rose to straighten. Your eyes roamed his stature you noticed he held a case of beer in one hand and his cell in the other. From the distance in your car you had thought he was tall, but now as he stood so close you had to crane your neck to meet his gaze.

"I just want to say sorry for the other day...I was trying to do that Michael Jackson dance and well..." He trailed off.

"That's what that was?" You cocked a brow at him. "Michael would probably roll over in his grave if he knew." You playfully kid him. He erupted with such laughter you were slightly embarrassed at the volume.

Clutching the detergent close to your chest you take one step back while he took one step forward. He stopped laughing and just smiled down at you.

"My name's Thor"

"I'm Y/N"

There was a thick silence that fell before you spoke again. "Well, I should go" you move your cart and start to push it away.

"You're checking out right me too" his smile was so infectious, but you couldn’t match his energy.

He followed beside you as you made your way to the checkout line. His presence almost suffocating as he walked quietly next  to you.

He waited behind you in line and you thanked your lucky stars there wasn't anything embarrassing in your cart this time around. When the cashier finished you waved him goodbye and walked off as fast as you could, but he caught up to you before you could exit the automatic doors.

In the dim light of the parking lot his pickup truck stuck out like a sore thumb in the distance. Luckily it was on the opposite aisle from yours.

"Sooo news on when that road might be fixed?" You try and break the awkward silence.

"Oh I don't know. I just do the work they don't tell me anything" he answered rubbing the back of his neck.

"Well, I guess I will see you tomorrow" you say as you approach your car. Waving goodbye you separate and push your cart to the back of your car. He looked like he wanted to say something more, but you had already started on your jaunt to the trunk.

Loading the car you peer over to see Thor in his truck lit by the light of his cellphone through his windshield. After closing the trunk you hop in the car. Starting the car you ready yourself to back out.

*POP

"What the fuck?" You exclaimed as your car gyrated in a peculiar manner. A worried crinkle rested on your forehead as you contemplated the obvious.

Putting the car back in park you take your phone and get out to examine the tires. The front driver side was fine, but when you walked to the rear the back was tattered and flat. Bending down you look for what could have caused such damage.

"You okay?” Thor boomed from behind you. His branch of an arm resting on his open window as he watches you bent over examining the flattened wheel. His truck now parked beside yours.

"Yeah, just a flat." You reassured him. You unlock your phone and lookup triple A while Thor hops out of his truck. "I have someone coming it's fine Thor" you try and wave him off, but he doesn't leave. Thor's arm wraps around your waist pulling you flush to his chest. Your phone drops from the surprise embrace. "What the hell are you doing?" You shout at him while digging your nails into his arm as you try and pry free.

He didn't answer you and the more you struggled the tighter his hold seemed to be as he inched closer to his vehicle. Thor opened the back door of his truck with one hand as you fought to get out of his other. Your feet lifted from the ground as he brought you up and tossed you in. When your back hit the leather of the seat you rise on your elbow and scurry backwards until your back hit the opposite window. Turning to open that door Thor yanks your ankle so hard that your entire body lays flat along the cushion again.

You somehow free your ankle and kick over a tool box behind the passenger seat in the process. The contents spilling in and out of the truck. The next kick landed in the center of his chest, but he catches it right before its impact.

"This isn't funny Thor let me go!" You demand. Thor ignored you and proceeded to pull off your shoe. Once removed he then tosses it over his shoulder.

His eyes stayed laser focused on you while he placed kisses on the top of your foot then trailed them gently down your leg. You try freeing yourself from his clutches again until Thor stopped. You watched on as he opened his mouth wide on your thigh then sinking his teeth into your meaty flesh. You whale loudly from the pain then shoot forward to grab a fist full of hair. Pulling it as hard as you can until his hands encircle your wrist. Pushing them together he holds them with one hand while the other digs through the mess of tools on the floor.

"You know you were always the highlight of my day?"

Your eyes grew wide at the sight of the thick white plastic strips. Twisting and thrashing under him he only scoffs at your attempts. Looping the zip tie around your wrists then around the handle of the back door. The tightness of the restraints only increased as you struggled, your fingers starting to tingle at the loss of circulation.

"Construction was actually supposed to be finished a long time ago, but I made sure to get the project delayed."

Hovering over you once he locked you in place his once infectious smile turned sinister. Lowering himself back down his meaty palm glided up and down your exposed thigh. Pushing your skirt past your waist he starts to pull your panties down as your legs continue to flail. Catching your knees with his hands he forces your knees to bend so that he could comfortably wedge himself in-between.

"You don't have to do this. You don't have to do this" your words were filled with panic and fear. There was nowhere to move as his head lowered down.

"Wait, wait. I have money. Just in my purse" you sob. "Thor your a nice guy please, donnnnnnnnnnn't" your whiny sobs did nothing to stop his assault.

He flung your panties out of the door and stared at your folds before lowering himself further. His hot breath sending shivers up your spine.

He hummed as he flattened his tongue on your folds. Your hips bucked involuntarily when he sunk his tongue inside you.

Dipping it in and out causing a moan to spring from your lips. No matter how hard you begged he did not relent it was as if your protests urged him on. Holding your legs apart you felt his fingers dig into you. The pain of his grasp and the overwhelming sensation of his tongue drove you mad.

"Oh sweetheart you taste so sweet." He said pulling back from your panting form.

Your shirt was still tucked in your skirt so Thor haphazardly pushed it up and out. Moving the fabric halfway up your neck to expose your breast. When he pulled down on your bra a strap broke.

"Sorry about that" Thor chuckled as he took both breast in his hand, pushing them together then began kneading them like dough. He hissed as he played with you as your protest fell on deaf ear.

Moving his head down to your chest Thor rubbed his course beard harshly over your breast. Inhaling each deeply before trailing kisses all around the top. His hands released your breast and you watched on in horror as he tossed his shirt, pushed his pants down his waist along with his boxers.

"No no no" you cry out as Thor pushed up almost level with you. The weight of him almost crushing your chest. His hand clasped your chin and forced your head forward to face him when you tried looking away.

"I am going to make you so happy Sweetheart"

The back door remained open as he pressed the head of his cock into your mound. Feeling the pressure of him pushing into you Thor devoured your lips before you could let out another cry for help.

Thor took his time as he eased into you. His tongue invading your mouth as you felt him stretch you. He smelled of sweat and tar. His hair cascaded over you while his hands roamed your body. Squeezing and pinching on your fatty flesh so hard that your body jerked and jolted.

Thor's speed increased as time went on and you felt your pussy grip and hold him. Betraying you to take pleasure from his forceful violation. His cock plunged deeper and deeper as your cries turned to heavy mewls. He pulled away from your lips with a deep groan.

"That's it Sweetheart" he praised as your cunt gripped his cock repeatedly. "Mmmmmmm Fuck shit!"  You came around his cock unwantedly while he continued to praise you for being such a good girl for him.

Your pussy grew wetter as you stayed at the mercy of his control. Thor moved to plant one hand on the window and snuck the other under your ass. When he gripped your cheek hard your back arched and the move allowed him to sink deeper into you. The truck rocked as he fucked harder into you. "Hear how wet you are for me." His cock ravished you, stretching you beyond your limits.

"MMMm shit!" You exclaimed as you came again around his pounding cock. As your cunt squeezed his dick you felt his cock begin to twitch inside of you. Then a warmth overflowed inside your convulsing pussy. Thor's hold would surely leave bruises as he dug into you. As a warmness bloomed in your core he stilled himself and as it leaked out he plopped down on top of you, crushing you under his weight, you felt his seed seep out of you.

After another few minutes he got up and off you. Putting on his discarded shirt and pulling up his pants. He slid out of the back seat closing the door leaving you still bound.

You heard him pop the trunk of your car and the familiar sound of plastic bags. It took a while before he reappeared at the drivers door and got in.

"All right I moved your groceries! Let's go home we both have work tomorrow." He said then started the trucks engine and set off out of the parking lot.

#dark thor x reader #black writer #dark!thor x reader #smut #dark smut #dark!thor x black!reader #dark thor x black reader #Dark!Thor x black reader #Dark Thor x black!reader

[miss-smutty]

Immortal Chapter 3

A/N- My first OC and I'm super excited for it and this story! Hope you love her ☺️

Summary- Thor learns more about his mystery love interest

Word count- 1,952k

Pairing- Thor x OC

18+ Only!

Posted: 21st June 2021

Taglist:- @innerpaperexpertcloud @pandaxnienke @chickensarentcheap @longlostinanotherworld @mostly-marvel-musings @darklydeliciousdesires

Part 1. Part 2.

The last thing Aria remembered before her vision pooled with bright lights and stars, was a car heading straight towards her. She felt the impact, her body flown through the air and crashing back to the ground with a sickening thud. She expected to hear her bones fracture into pieces with the impact of the car, to see her life flash in front of her eyes as she floated through the air. The world around her paused, time going incredibly slow, the speed causing the wind to blow her hair around the curve of her jaw in slow motion. She'd expected to feel the rough tar of the road, peeling away her skin as she landed in a heap, to feel tiny fragments of gravel imbedded in her soft and malleable flesh.

When none of that came though, she wasn't overly surprised. Instead of feeling excruciating pain, she revelled in the feeling of flying, enjoying the moment while it lasted until she was pulled back to earth and ultimately, back to reality. The reality of knowing the look on people's faces as she stood unharmed after a brutal collision that should've left her for dead.

Aria kept her eyes screwed shut, willing herself to just disappear and not have to deal with the backlash. The accident drawing unwanted and dangerous attention to her, attention she'd worked so hard to avoid. I mean she'd run away from her Prince Charming just to avoid this sort of attention, it was kind of ironic really.

Aria slowly opened one of her eyes, her vision blurred and glassy, there were people around her. Lots of faces she didn't recognise, hazy shapes all merging together until her eyes settled on one familiar face. Thor.

His distinct features standing out through the obscurity of her vision. Piercing sky blue eyes shone brightly, until that was all she could see. Eyes so clear she could see straight into his soul, a soul so pure it made her eyes sting. Thor's story playing through her mind like a movie, she blinked repeatedly willing it to stop, wrinkling her eyes tightly shut again.

"Everybody move out of the way, give her space. MOVE!" Thor bellowed over Aria, the crowd dispersing at once with his all commanding tone. He crouched down beside her, giving her body the once over, gulping deeply at the feel of her curves under his touch. Shaking his head while trying to ignore the unwanted thoughts that so helplessly followed. Wondering morbidly if it would be the second and last time he would be able to feel that magnetic pull he felt when their bodies touched.

Aria's tense muscles relaxed at the feel of Thor's hands smoothing down her legs and arms, checking for broken bones he was never going to find. A gasp left her lips when he lifted her T-shirt up just above her belly button, his fingers prodding gently at the softness of her flesh. It took all she had not to giggle, as his fingers tickled against her bare midriff.

Thor continued kneeding his hands softly around her precious torso, more than sure he would find something life threatening. Knowing there was absolutely no way a Midgardian could escape a collision like that with absolutely no lasting scars. His brow furrowed with suprise at finding absolutely no broken bones. Not even one. Even more surprising he found no cuts or bruises, not even a graze.

Aria lay before him, a vision of perfectness, her dark as night hair blanketing her defined features. She bent her hour glass curves, bringing her knees up to her chest. Thor's eyes widened, drawn to the definition of her hips and the swell of her backside in the tight black jeans she wore. He reached forward to stroke the silky hair away from her face, anxious to see her flawless skin and the rosy pink flush of her cheeks.

Aria's eye's fluttered open when she felt Thor's cold fingers brush against her clammy cheek. She recognised the painful look of anguish in his expressive blue eyes, the worry set deep within them.

"I'm ok, help me up please." She stuttered, trying to raise her head from the ground, twisting her body around. Thor's arms immediately reached out, cushioning his large hand behind her head.

"I don't think that's wise, you've been flung about five metres down the street. You need medical assistance. How are you even…" 

"Thor I'm fine, just dizzy. Help me stand please." Aria stopped him mid-sentence, desperate to get out of there before the ambulances arrived, not knowing how she was meant to explain how she was completely fine after being hit by a fast moving car and thrown at speed for quite a distance. The car alone should've broken bones and left her with internal bleeding and that's before she shattered onto the ground five metres down the street. She shouldn't even be alive, never mind perfectly capable of walking away unharmed.

Thor gave in and helped her to her feet, hooking his arms underneath hers and pulling her up gently. Aria's legs buckled when she stood but Thor was there to catch her and hold her steady, the bulk of him stood behind her as he waited for her to find her feet. 

Shaking loose from his grasp, squirming free, she turned to bolt but not before his thick fingers wrapped around her wrist. Aria's heart sank when she realised she wasn't getting away from his restraint, not then and maybe not ever. Thor wasn't about to lose her again, not after she was nearly taken from him for good.

The crowd of people that had gathered around to witness the miracle, the deception of logic, begin whispering between themselves. Sounds of astonishment filled the air at the spectacle before them. Thor pulled Aria against his chest, wrapping his arms around her back in an embrace. The warmth of his body was comforting for her,

the familiarity of his heartbeat thrumming against her ear. The sounds around them melting away as they held each other on the sidewalk, as they became lost in each other once more they heard the faint signs of cheering.

Aria let herself smile, she let herself be happy in the moment if for only a minute before the cheering and whistling was drowned out by the sound of approaching sirens. Thor noticed the visible panic on her face as she pulled back from him, searching the streets for a place to hide. 

If he knew anything after seeing that look in her eyes, that terrible look of fear in her emerald green, Doe eyes, he knew he would do absolutely anything to protect her. Thor knew it the first time he ever laid eyes on Aria, he would always do everything within his power to keep her safe.

Without a moment's hesitation he pulled Aria by the hand, taking her with him as he ran down the street. Glancing at her through his peripheral and taking a moment to appreciate the sight of her next to him, the feel of her fingers wrapped tightly around his hand as she gave her trust to him. The wind blowing through her shoulder length hair as they ran and realising that he hadn't needed to slow his pace so she could keep up. She was running at the exact same speed as him, running along side him effortlessly as they dodged the obstacles in their paths. Aria was just as agile, just as strong and with the exact same level of reflexes as Thor.

If Aria wasn't in a state of panic she would have enjoyed the feeling of running alongside Thor, to finally not have to hold back any longer. It was a big deal for her to put her trust in anybody let alone somebody she had just met but she didn't have much choice. She needed to get out of there and fast. 

They turned the corner together, down a narrower street lined with trash cans and through an even smaller alley.

With no where else to go, they stopped at the end of the alleyway, a metal gate blocking their way. Closed in with no where to escape but luckily no one to escape from. Thor leant one hand against the sturdy gate, studying Aria closely. Waiting with bated breath to see whether she would need to catch her breath, instead she looked up at him bright eyed, crinkling her nose in the cutest way. Then he heard the most glorious sound he has ever heard, like sweet music to his ears. 

Aria couldn't help herself, she looked up at the god of Thunder, a look of confusion etched on his chiselled face and she laughed. Not a cute little girly giggle either but a full belly laugh, holding on to her knees as she struggled to breath through it. The truth was, she hadn't felt that exhilarated in years, running away from danger usually wasn't so exciting for her but having a tall, strong, literal God by her side made her feel invincible. Cheating death also added to the thrill, to that untouchable feeling. She knew it wouldn't last long, it never does, but she would enjoy it while it lasted.

"Why are you laughing?" Thor couldn't hide the amusement in his voice from the warm feeling it gave him seeing Aria laugh.

"The look on… People's faces." She struggled to get out between laughing. Her pink cheeks turning red, her head feeling light from lack of air. "On your face." Her chest rattled as she finally started calming down.

"Yes, although it wasn't funny at the time, I can see why it would make you laugh." He leaned his body against the gate. The sound making Aria jump, goosebumps travelling up her arms as her ears pricked, the laughter dissipated. 

"Relax, it's just me." He soothed, taking note of how easily she startled. Not only eyes like a doe but the behaviour too. "So you're unbreakable, you have no trouble keeping up with my speed and your stamina almost matches mine. That's without even mentioning the feeling I get when I'm near you." 

The uneasy feeling came, as she knew it would. She was deluded to think she would automatically begin to trust. To forget about the way people had used and hurt her in the past. So much so that she'd built a giant wall, locked her heart up and thrown away the key. Luckily Thor had his own hammer to knock down that wall and nothing would stop him finding that key.

"So what are you saying Thor?" She didn't hide the annoyance in her voice. Resting her back against the brick wall and slumping down to the ground.

"I want to get to know you, to figure out why we're quite clearly connected in some way. I don't even know your name?" 

"My name is Aria and I don't know what I am. I've spent my lifetime trying to figure it out. And I don't know, ok?" Aria sniffs.

"It's ok, I'm sorry I didn't mean to upset you Aria. What about your parents?" 

"I don't know my parents, they probably realised what a freak I am and sent me away." 

"I can help you." Thor pushes back from the gate and slides himself down next to her. "We're similar. And you can not deny the connection we have." He nudges her with his elbow, willing her to look at him just as the sound of footfall echoed down the alley towards them. They both turned their heads at the same time, in the direction of the noise. The footsteps drawing closer.

#smut #thor #thor odinson #thor series #thor smut #thor x you #thor x reader #thor odinson series #thor odinson smut #thor odinson x you #thor odison x reader #thor odison imagine #thor oneshot #thor of asgard #thor odinson x y/n #thor odinson x reader #thor x ofc #thor x oc #thor oc #mcu x oc #mcu oc #mcu fic #mcu smut #mcu series #mcu #mcu x reader #mcu x you #mcu x y/n

[littlefreya]

The Way to Hell - Part 13

Summary: Post Mi6, Alternate Canon. August escaped Ethan Hunt with his face intact and just won himself the title of being the most dangerous man on earth. Brooding as he is, August is unwilling to back down on his murderous agenda he plots to continue where he was stopped.

Series Completed: Previous Chapter | | Chapters Masterlist | Next Chapter

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Ingvild) 🖤

Word count: 5k

Warnings: Mentions of sexual encounters, child neglect, betrayal, hinted physical abuse,  foul language and lots of angst.   

A/N: I thought chapter 13 will be the last one, but I didn’t want to rush the ending or have a chapter too long. So for those of you still waiting, hang in tight! Many thanks to @agniavateira​ who’s my muse and my editor, to @raspberrydreamclouds​ for this amazing cover and to those who’s been asking me about the chapter, means a lot to me. I am going into my usual Way to Hell posting panic attack. So bye for now.

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of the source material and claiming it as your own*

Please comment, review and reblog.  💖

Title: Paradise lost

There cannot be peace before first a great suffering.  There cannot be love without first a great tragedy.

~*~

Opaline droplets of sweat form on his forehead. In his ears, a constant buzzing rings wretchedly as if an angry hornet is caged inside his skull. What was long buried abruptly awakens, stabbing at the back of his head. Red flashes sear through his eyes while images of Ingvild dissolving to ashes play in his mind, her bloodsoaked feathers crumbling to the ground.

“Why did you go?” August mutters under his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He crumples the little yellow note with sheer frustration before throwing it on the bed. 

‘I told her not to go, I commanded her!’

The air in the room grows thick like the pit of a stygian forest. Tentacle-like branches appear behind his eyes creeping closer, clutching his limbs. Even though lost and abandoned in the thicket of his mind, her angelic scent still lingers on his skin, impossible to wash off. Sniffing at his biceps, he inhales the mixture of their union on his flesh;  what begins as euphoric mirth quickly meets the sharp edge of rage and hatred.

She’s gone and it gnaws at the dark matter of his brain. 

He hates it. 

Hates her for being absent.

Frowning deeply, August reaches a rigid hand for his clothes, forcing himself to get dressed. The very first memory of her hinges on his mind: An icy woman with silver-moon eyes who refused his pursuit. 

‘Did you think the two of you are going to ride toward the sunset together? That’s not you.’

Letting out heavy gasps, he shakes his head. “She’ll be fine,” he whispers dismissively, pulling on his trousers and hastily buckling his belt. 

The new world order awaits, so close he can feel the fresh sun sitting on his open palm. It is his vision, his legacy: bigger than whatever it is Ingvild and him have together. 

There was no her in his plan, to begin with. 

The Devil never had a queen. 

‘You know what they’ll do to her…’

Another ray of daytime terror cuts through his thoughts: her wings plucked from her back, threads of flesh tearing from her naked body. Her screams die in silence.  

“She chose to leave, I asked her not to!” August yells into the empty room, frowning at no one but himself as he grabs the used shirt which hangs from the tall mirror. Turning to his reflection, he tenses at the sight of his body. Crimson valleys lead down his back, courtesy of her claws branding deep into soft tissue and toned muscles.

‘Do you know what is the probability of finding someone like her? A woman who wants to see the world burn with you? Who believes in your cause of building a new one?’

August swallows hard and combs his fingers through his hair with haste, attempting to act normal through the intensifying drumming in his ears. Being completely methodical, he pulls his long trench coat over his shoulders and collects his belongings into his black duffle bag on the bed. With a heavy painful breath, he forces his thoughts away, zipping the bag with urgency and reciting in his mind everything necessary for his trip. Time is scarce, the end and the new beginning are nigh; the smart thing to do is to forget her, erase her existence from the chambers of his heart. 

He doesn’t have one anyway. 

His hand secures the gun in its holster and harsh fingers lace around the black straps of his bag as he stretches himself straight, ready to leave this bedroom. That’s when his eyes fall again to the crumpled yellow note. 

‘You’ll never see her in Kashmir, you’ll never see her again.’ 

~*~

‘Amazing,’ the silver-haired wolf muses while scratching his bristly jaw. For 13 years the evil spawn’s eyes remained exactly as they were the day he picked her from the orphanage. Grey crystal orbs so naive, clueless, and oh so hungry for validation. A child desperate to prove herself worthy to someone, anyone. 

It was her single flaw and his greatest advantage.

Even now in the bloom of adulthood, the pale, scrawny thing standing before him is nothing but a lost little girl who wants someone to hold her bony hand. 

‘How can someone be so smart yet at the same time so blind?’

The cheap motel room smells like mildew and rotten wood. Speckles of dust float between the handler and his prodigy, cascading over his glance that seems rather alien and naked as glass. It pierces through her muscles - this sudden sense of peculiarity and estrangement.     

She chews the inside of her cheeks and sways slightly on her spot, arms hanging loose at her side. Ingvild lifts her chin to look at Liam, her eyes round with what can only be guilt. It makes her look like a child who broke an antique vase. 

“Thank you for answering my call,” she begins, wrapping her fist around a disposable phone before throwing it on the tidy bed.

Liam scoffs and shakes his head, ridicule spreading on his face. “You’ve gotten yourself into trouble over a boy, child?” He stares up and down the young woman, noticing the obvious change in her posture.

‘So, she truly is a woman now; how did I not see this one coming with her constant chatter about how handsome he is when I handed her the dossier?’

“Please don’t tell me you need money to get an abortion.” 

Ingvild frowns with disgust and shakes her head right away. “Never. No, it’s not what I’m here for.”

Displeased as always, Liam emits his usual grunt. He slowly shakes his head at his asset while running his fingers through his lanky grey hair. This is not how he imagined this mission to end. Her lack of emotions was a key element; Ingvild could have had a few good years running several missions for him, but what tipped the scale was for her to run into the wrong psychopath.

“Then tell me Ingvild, why should I listen to a failed assassin such as yourself? You’ve been weird about this mission since day one. Acting discreet, irresponsible, and reckless,” the old man’s Adam's apple bobs up and down in his throat as he speaks. Taking a small stride, he moves closer to get a better look of her diamond irises. So sharp and so strange, they’ve always irked him. As a child she downright looked like something out of a horror movie. 

“You’ve had 445 successful missions, not even 30 years old. Yet here you are a failure, and for what? For a boy?”

Shame traps her tongue and her glance drops to the floor. Failure stings like a rod of hot iron piercing her beating heart. Yet her mind races to the night at the pit where August finally claimed her, the memory of his lips sets glowing embers through her veins. On her skin remains the evidence of his embrace. Microscopic cells, tinted by his DNA. 

She doesn’t want this feeling to go away. 

Liam clears his throat, tearing her away from memories that turn from tar to honey the longer she dwells on them.

“You know why your mother gave you away, Ingi?” Liam asks, giving her a ghastly sardonic smile while cocking one eyebrow.

‘Liam never smiles.’ 

A small frown sets creases above her freckled nose. “I asked you many times before and you always said you don’t know.”

The Dane scoffs at her, his smile widening, exposing cigarette-and-coffee-stained teeth. The rot around his gums makes her curl her nose slightly and flinch as he leans closer. 

“You were a rape baby.”

The words send a pang through her muscles, like stepping on glass. She shakes her head with protest and steps back, yet Liam nods knowingly, standing in front of her.

“You’re lying.”

His small hazel eyes burn holes through her skull, his smile sinister and impish. “Your father was a savage, a rapist. He left your poor mother half-dead and impregnated in the forest you love so much. Who knows, maybe that’s why you kept going there as a child, reconnecting with your true nature.” 

Refusing to listen, she shies from his piercing glare. Liam reaches a coarse hand to cup her jaw, forcing her face back to his. “Your mother hated you. Your very existence reminds her of the most terrible thing that ever happened to her.”

For a child with such a limited emotional range, Liam finds that the muscles of her face are capable of stretching thoughtfully with spite. Pent up hatred creases her brow, her silver eyes turning to hot, molten gold. She bites on her tongue, keeping a vow of silence but he can read her face just the way an assassin would. 

“Nothing but a mistake, disowned by your own mother. So why would this man, this... mass murdering psychopath love you?” Liam shifts her head from side to side, inspecting the healing cuts and bruises that decorates her pale skin. “He saw an opportunity and seized it, used you…”

He pauses, moving away from a stare colder than icy lake water, “just like they will.”

Ingvild parts her lips with wonder, glaring at the person she knew all her life with disbelief. In the glossy reflection of Liam’s honey-brown eyes, she sees several black, long rifles pointed at her head.

Liam curls his thin lips with an utter lack of remorse and shrugs indifferently.

“She’s yours.”

*~*~

If colours had sound then the pale blinding white would be a continuous high-frequency hum. The tunes and shades of death. Like angry flies feasting on a corpse. 

‘Is this Valhalla?’

A small groan escapes her mouth, her eyes hurting from the sickly radiance of the narrow fluorescent lamps hanging from the ceiling. Her wrists feel numb as they’re pulled behind her back in restraints. 

“No,” she opens her mouth to speak, her throat burning, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Definitely not Valhalla...” 

‘You need to be a hero to enter Valhalla, stupid girl.’

Stupid didn’t even begin to describe it. August would never let her hear the end of it.

Loud, angry steps tap on the white marble floor, growing louder as the person approaching enters the room. Ingvild blinks, peering at the silhouette when a smile of comfort paints her drowsy face. Like a god, her lover strides toward her with his usual confidence. His ocean-blue eyes beam at her sight, his palm spread open to embrace his tiny Valkyrie. She chuckles at the mischievous, charming grin on his face as it reminds her the day they first met. 

Oh, she wishes to nibble his stupid chin right now and brush her fingers along his thick moustache.

But as she blinks again, large brown almond-shaped eyes replace the ocean-blue. A panther of a woman stands before her: confident, strong, and impossibly beautiful. Her dark, succulent lips are pressed together and concern shines through as she observes the small woman who has her arms cuffed behind her back and her feet shackled to the metal legs of the chair. 

With her head still heavy, the assassin turns her face from side to side. She quickly observes the armed guards at the entrance, the tall, greying agent standing nonchalantly against the wall awaiting orders, and lastly the sickly-looking, lean man who is positioned at the fore of a metal desk with his fingers laced together. Anticipation is written all over his line-riddled face. 

“Erica Sloane,” Ingvild calls knowingly, the ghost of a wicked smile dancing on her chapped lips as she turns her head to face the CIA director. Dressed in a black power suit and crimson pumps, the director is drenched with big dick energy.

“August told me so much about you, but he didn’t mention how fuckable you are.” Ingvild drawls, fluttering her lashes as she scans her from head to toe. 

Tilting her head, Erica grabs a white plastic chair and places it in front of Ingvild. She then takes a seat, crossing her long smooth legs together. Kindness and motherly concern pours from her dark eyes, expressions Ingvild never received from anyone in her life.

“Poor child, I imagine August Walker filled your head with many stories.”

“No…” Ingvild swallows, trying to dampen her sore throat. Noticing her struggle, Erica snaps her fingers and the greying agent rushes to bring her a plastic cup of water like a loyal dog. Focusing on the translucent beads around the cup, Ingvild flicks her tongue over her lips. “August was too busy filling other parts of me.”

The intrepid woman begins to laugh at her own joke, her voice dragging groggily while Erica rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

“I imagine so.” She answers and then carefully tilts the cup to Ingvild’s lips, offering the drink to the girl who sips with desperation as if she walked the desert. “August was my best agent,” she explains, watching the stream of water that rolls down Ingvild’s chin as she gulps with an incredible thirst, “a really proficient assassin, ranked high in every mission I sent him to. My golden boy. Even though that shit-eating attitude of him was something else...”

Withdrawing the cup, she looks into Ingvild’s cold silvery stare. “Those snarky, arrogant remarks and him going through the whole department like a fox in a hen coop I could overlook. But that fucker had us all fooled, Ingvild, as he fooled you.”

Ingvild flutters her dark lashes and tips her chin up. Her defined cheekbones sharpen even more as a snake-like arrogance poisons her face. “August told me what you did,” she utters sincerely, while Erica commands the agent to refill the plastic cup. Loathing melts her beautiful sullen glaciers as she focuses on Erica. 

The CIA director narrows her eyes at her in return, and curls her lips downward as disdain fills her mouth. “I am not the one who made Walker murder Agent Hartmann, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“You deceived him,” Ingvild retorts calmly and sucks in her bottom lip, collecting the remaining droplets of water onto her tongue. “That’s what you and your little agencies do to people like us. Set up traps for predators and pretend to act surprised as they eat the bait.”

Holding the cup, Erica stares at the young woman thoughtfully, the burning hatred in her eyes reminding her so much of Agent Walker: An entitled spoiled brat, thinking he can wind the world to the direction only he sought to be right. 

“You can’t blame a predator for following its nature, and you can’t expect him to behave otherwise.” 

“Is that how you see yourself?” Erica asks, moving the cup away, though she can see the thirst on Ingvild’s gaping bottom lip. “August poisoned your mind but I assure you, you are not the monster he is. You never had the choice that he did.”

Erica’s voice suddenly becomes soft, and her big brown eyes become round with care that only a parent can express. But the only form of parent Ingvild ever had was Liam, and he was never much of a father, was he? It took less than a few hours for him to give her away. 

She wonders how long it took for her real mother.

Her gaze drops, peering at Erica’s shiny crimson shoes as they counter the lifelessness of the floor like blood in the snow. Memories whisk her away again, a man in pursuit of a woman deep in an icy forest. She should have died that night and yet here she is, shackled to a chair. The voice of the man who saved her echoes through her head with a fair warning: ‘Liam never gave a flying fuck about you.’

Sharp as a needle, it pricks her heart.

“I know what Icarus did. Moulding you into the perfect assassin, depriving you of the childhood and the life you deserved.” Erica’s voice cuts into her trail of thoughts, making her raise her gaze back to the beautiful woman. “Now, I don’t know what twisted fantasies August may have offered but I can assure you, they are empty just like him. You read his file, you know what he’s capable of. Looking at your scars and bruises I assume he hurts you for his own sick pleasure, taking advantage of a woman who only wants to be loved.”

‘She doesn’t know him like I do, the way he drank my lips and called me his angel, the way his fingertips beat the warm blood in my arteries.’ Ingvild shuts her eyes, soaking in the remnants of his touch as it still ghosts across her body.

Erica’s kind, tepid hand wraps around the young woman’s jaw, lifting her pale face with the cautiousness of a human tending a wild creature. Grey and dark-brown collide at the seams as they share a silent stare.    

“If you’ll give us his location, we can arrange for your freedom and protection.”  

Ingvild breaks away from Erica’s grip, pushing herself back in the chair as much as she can. The screech of metal against marble makes the guards cringe. Slow and cold, a sardonic chuckle begins to burst from Ingvild’s lungs. The laughter echoes off the walls while she shakes her head with disbelief. 

“Do I look like a dumb bitch to you? Even if this was true, do you think I’m willing to be a slave to another government? Kept ignorant and tabbed? I’d rather rot in this cell while my beautiful monster dismantles your old world order.”

Drops of water splash at her face as Erica squashes the plastic cup in front of her, sulking with fury. Her eyebrows knit together and she purses her lips as if this young woman is something sour on her tongue. 

Evidently, Liam was right; the girl is far too gone, living in the little fantasy world August built for her. 

“If you think he ever cared about you for a split second, then you are a dumb bitch. No matter how this plays out, you and August are never going to end up happily ever after.” Erica spits, holding her finger at Ingvild’s childlike frown. “He’s never going to come for you. You were nothing but a toy, a plaything for him to pass the time.”

Ingvild scoffs and rolls her eyes, refusing to let these words cut into the beating muscle in her chest. 

`Stick and stones may break my bones...��

Solid, slender fingers wrap around her jaw, squeezing around her cheeks like a big spider. She is met with Erica’s long lashes, while those deep brown eyes slice into her soul. 

“You might think you know him, but I’ve worked with August long enough to know that he never loved anything other than his precious ego. So I would consider this as your final chance little girl, because if you don’t talk right now - this nice fellow here...” Erica pauses and gestures her head to the scrawny man who begins to hum a blissful tune while cracking his knuckles. Twisted excitement shines through his beady eyes as he glances at the set of sharp surgical tools lying on the desk.

“He’s going to make you sing like the precious bird you are.”

Fear shies from Ingvild’s stoic, icy face. The well-lubricated gears in the labyrinth of her head begin to work, observing the possible escape options and scanning every cavity, crease, and man in Erica’s lovely torture chamber.  

The door suddenly bursts open. A man in his mid thirties with bright red hair and a freckle-covered face rushes in, huffing heavily. His pink skin glistens with sweat, the strands of his fiery hair sticking on his large forehead while his hand holds onto his chest with distress. 

“Sloane, there is something you need to see…” he opens his mouth breathlessly.

“Not now!” Sloane snaps at him, looking at Ingvild with contempt. There is nothing she wishes more than to avoid torturing a young woman, especially someone as misguided as this poor porcelain doll. All she needs is to make her see the truth, that August never cared for her, that she was just another pawn in his grand scheme. 

“Director, I am sorry, but you really need to come and see this.” 

Agitated, Erica snaps in her chair to look at him. “What is it, Agent Louis?”

“It’s John Lark’s manifesto, ma’am…” he sighs, shoulders slumping, “it’s… it’s everywhere.”

A shivering hiss escapes her mouth. The shiver that graces the rail of her spine is like a shower of icy water, making her slowly rise from her chair. August’s harmful “poetry” is released into the air like toxic gas, contaminating every fragile little mind in an already unstable world.  

“Do you like my little surprise?” Ingvild asks, making the baffled woman turn to gaze at her. There’s a malicious little smile dancing across her eyes, her brows lifting with an arrogance that strongly resembles Agent Walker. 

Swallowing hard, the CIA woman takes a step back, tugging her jacket straight and looking at the torturer who lifts a small hammer between his pliable fingers. 

“Break her, until she talks.” 

The harsh tapping of her heels dies down and her silhouette becomes smaller until it disappears behind the shutting door. 

“Pretty girl...” The man’s voice is brittle and thin as he is, every word ending with a slight snake-like hiss. He moves to scrutinise her from head to toe, flicking his tongue over his bottom lip with a prying nature. 

“You know August used to mock me…”

“I can see why,” she spits out, looking back at him with both fearlessness and utter disrespect. She killed men bigger than him, hell, August’s kneaded her to submission and his torture was nothing but sweet. 

She can take him on, she can take all of them on.

The lean man beams at her, holding up the small shiny hammer and running his finger over the rim pervertedly. The dead skin around his nails rouses disgust in her gut, yet she rolls her eyes and fakes a yawn.

He chuckles at her theatrics and kneels in front of her with one unstable hand pressing onto her thigh. His revolting fingers scratch gently at her denim, making her shiver. If August knew another man was laying his finger on her… 

But August is not here.

“Well… shall we begin, little bird?”

***

‘When this world ends and the new one begins, what will be of your little Valkyrie? Merely bones and rotting flesh laid in an unmarked grave in the middle of nowhere and mourned by no one. Won’t you be jealous of the insects feasting on her narcotic tissue?’

Cold air seeps through his nose as sharp bullets of hail hit the ground with the fury of angry gods, shattering onto the ruins of an old bridge with a loud, clattering noise. Sheltered from the rage of the heavens, August stands beneath the wreckage, facing the men who came to make the final exchange. 

Blue and green ferns have grown over the decaying surroundings, climbing over rusted metal. Nature reclaiming its place over man’s occupied space. Justice and beauty in decadence and rot. 

‘Memento mori.’

“The plutonium,”  August demands, his thick brows shadowing his eyes in a battle to remain composed. Those same parasitic visions of sheer terror burden him like a daytime nightmare: pale as porcelain, she sinks to the bottom of a lake thick with blood. His hand reaches out for her, fingers trying to grasp whatever he can but she slips away. 

‘How far do you think Erica will go this time?’ 

A rogue droplet of sweat glides languidly down his temple, crossing over a bulging tendon. Unfortunately quite apparent to the three men who scrutinise him with wonder: two well-paid bodyguards and a slimy-looking slug, wearing a dark business suit that does nothing but emphasize his fragile masculinity. 

“The money first!” The businessman whines, attempting to make a tough face.

‘A cock and two balls.’ August jests and does his best to remain indifferent while anxiety threatens to claw its ugly talons in his throat. The seller’s receding hairline is thick with dandruff, his dull green eyes attempt to mimic confidence, as a beta male would do when facing a pure alpha, trying to compensate for lost dignity.  

‘I don’t have time for this,’ August huffs, his chest puffing and the immense shoulders stretching even wider, exhuming his natural overpowering dominance. His patience runs brittle as a dry twig. A restless throb thunders between his ears like a scab, latched inside his brain. 

The slug pries his mouth open to speak, yet his voice becomes dull as if the world just went underwater.

‘Do you think she’ll go as far as to let her men touch her? You know, not just the usual torture they put interrogated suspects through, but the type of touch only you are allowed to.’

‘She doesn’t have the balls, she won’t do that to another woman.’ 

‘Won’t she? It’s personal this time. Erica knows what you are capable of. And your Ingvild, she’s an apostle too now, an enemy of the world…’

Fever burns at his sweaty forehead and his lungs gradually collapse. Visions he can’t even bring himself to imagine attempt force their way into his mind. The yapping of the man who stands in front of him goes on and on; while August can feel himself speak in response, the words spouting from his lips are on autopilot. 

All he can think of is her, stripped naked, torn to shreds by dark shadows.   

‘She holds back a lot, but when she slips, aren’t her screams so beautiful? Her pleasant little voice, stretching so melodically, like skin over bone, thin and light.’

“Shut up!”

All eyes lift to August in silent bewilderment. His fists tighten, nails digging into his coarse palms as the will to rip someone to shreds beats through his blood. These men will be no more than a casualty. 

“Do you know who I am?” He asks in a deep, menacing tone, his hand but a second from reaching his holster. By measured calculation, he already anticipates how quickly he would shoot them one by one without so much of a scratch on his cheek.

“I’m John, fucking, Lark. My apostles are awaiting orders this very instance,” he reaches for his phone, ignoring the flinch in their posture as he draws it from his pocket and shakes it in his hand on display, “and you want to stand here in this shit weather and measure dicks? Spoiler alert,” he takes a stride in front of the little man, careless of his bodyguards who reach for their weapons, “mine is far bigger.”   

The seller peers at him silently, noticing the icy crust of rage in August’s glare. His pale eyes cut like diamonds while the shadow of his brooding figure falls upon the small man’s face. 

“You will get your money once I get to see the plutonium and confirm it’s authenticity,” August calls out assertively, each word distinguished, each syllable emphasised and sharp as a blade. Death is no longer an enemy to August Walker but an old friend, and those trolls under the bridge are a mere joke to the inferno he’s been basking at his entire life.

‘Limb by limb, feather by feather, while you waste your time...’

‘She wanted me here, she wanted me to secure the plutonium. If I don’t do this, it will all be for nothing.’

‘So now you are doing this for her?’

Not saying another word, the seller nods and snaps his fingers. Agitation is evident on his face yet the violence emanating from August forces him to bite down his pride. One of his henchmen approaches with a suitcase and opens it up to show August the orbs.

Thunder rips through the sky and the hail turns into a symphony of wrath. Icicles break across the construction site above, splashing water everywhere around them. Staring at the platinum spheres, August sees his own reflection dulled by the dirty silver curve. 

A dormant thing. But when set into motion, ever so deadly. 

He presses the beryllium rod to test the authenticity of the material and a sigh of relief pipes itself through his nose at the sound of the radioactive note on his testing device. Celebration blooms in his weary heart but the festivity is deemed achingly empty and dies out right away. 

‘Stop thinking about her, she’s gone. Focus on the cause, you’re almost there, just keep pushing through the doors.’ 

~*~

The blizzard melted into shy rain. The soft little drops dampen his hair, perming his large curls with the assistance of the cool winter breeze. Standing with the suitcase on the side of the rural road, August awaits his ride taking him to the helipad to proceed to Kashmir. It has been so long since he last met his true colleagues, since his departure from Lane in Norway. Avoiding any risks, contact was kept only necessary for the last stages of their tasks.

Doom’s day.

Securing the plutonium should have brought him relief, yet his chest continues to sink into his spine as if it’s being filled with coals. August Walker threaded through life alone, yet this sudden solitude is suddenly harrowing, making him feel like a gutted fish. Looking to his empty side he the ghost of her appears, giving him a bratty smirk. 

“Go away,” he chides, refusing to think of her. Of that stupid mouth talking back, tormenting him with sweet saccharine and cinnamon-like kisses. In his reminiscences, the softness of her lips still hinges. Tenderness meeting the bristle of his neck as she lay gentle wet markings up his coarse jaw. 

His fingers press to his mouth trying to harness the memory. 

A large car drives into the side of the road, speeding up and braking right next to his legs, missing August’s foot by an inch. Frowning at the careless driver, he grunts and brushes his hair before opening the passenger door.

“Took you awhile,” he grunts as he slips into the seat and peers at the driver. A bulky man in his early 40s with dark short cropped curls and thin lips. He shoots August a glance and turns back to the steering wheel.  

“Not my bad, you made a fucking mess, Lark.” The man answers and begins driving right away, careless of the fact that August didn’t put his seatbelt on and that he is holding radioactive material. 

Throwing the seatbelt over himself and fastening it, August growls and carefully secures the case on the side of the driver seat, his index finger remaining on the brim. He gently caresses the hard black leather. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

The driver peers at him oddly before looking down the road, driving fast and passing a large log truck. “Releasing the manifesto. MI6 and the CIA are all over the place,” he says and turns the radio on, letting August hear the news on his own. “I get why you did it now, it’s brilliant to cause another distraction but you’ve made shit a bit harder with those cunts running around. They tracked it back from London and have been surveying the entire area.”

“I didn’t release the... “ 

August stills, his muscles shriveling up as realisation quickly hits him. 

‘Oh angel, what have you done?’

Drawing out his mobile phone, August immediately begins to search the newsite, his eyes an ocean of panic, fluttering back and forth. It’s everywhere, news about an anarchist manifesto, spreading like a virus through every social media outlet, leaked by codename “Jane Lark”. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, reading his own written word as he goes through an article posted on the BBC’s newsite. But she changed the last verse, added a little piece of her own:  

“Valkyries mounted onto beasts,  We will ride eternal to the sun. The blazes will sear us but we will not back down,  United by our cause of just war, Unflinching we will scour the earth, Until humanity comes together in tranquil and harmony.”

‘She loves you, you see? The way she lets you bleed her, use her, spill all your pain inside her. The way she held onto you just a night ago, your name falling from her lips, her body pressing into yours to take all of you. She’s the only one. The only woman who did and ever will. 

And you left her to die.’

________________________________

Disclaimer: I don’t own Mission Impossible and August Walker

#henry cavill #august walker #henry cavill fanfiction #august walker fanfiction #littlefreya’s fiction #mission impossible fallout fanfiction #august walker x ofc #mission impossible fallout

[angstyaches]

This is trope anon from before :) It might be interesting to see Elliot put off feeling sick, because he is so caught up taking care of everyone else? He kind of strikes me as a worry about everyone else first kind of guy lol. Then absolutely regretting it later haha

If not Elliot, Ryan also kind of gives me similar vibes

CW: mention of disordered eating/malnourishment, trauma mention, overwork, nausea, emeto, dizziness, blood mention (he’s a vamp, so yeah), pining (for absent partner), platonic/brotherly caretaking

Author’s note: Elliott and Felix are going to be just FINE! They’re not even broken up; Felix is just a little AWOL after a fight they had. I just loooove me some angst.

Elliott’s vision went pitch black for a moment as he stood and waited for the kettle to finish boiling. His stomach lurched so harshly that he almost turned towards the sink, expecting the return of the blood he’d drank for breakfast. Instead, he swallowed, closed his eyes, and breathed in slowly through his nose. He was overexerted, probably. He’d been pushing himself during his and Shayne’s ritualistic “sparring” (or, as Shayne called it, “trying to kick the shit out of each other” or “therapy”) session. Elliott had hoped his supernatural abilities would have begun to manifest by now, seeing as his transition to full vampire was complete. But still, nothing yet. Maybe the stress of Felix being gone was stunting his development. Maybe the stress was adding to how bad he felt.

The kettle clicked, reminding him of why he was standing in the kitchen in the first place. Elliott’s heart sank as he recalled Shayne’s eyes rolling back in his head, his body almost hitting the ground before Elliott could catch him. Turned out the kid had been starving himself again. Elliott would have punched his lights out if they hadn’t already basically been out.

A minute later, Elliott picked up a hot mug and crossed the open-plan kitchen and living area to where he’d left Shayne on the white sofa. He was conscious now, at least, but his eyes were glazed and unfocused.

The mug contained hot, weak tea and a few spoons of the glucose solution Ryan had concocted for Felix’s blood-and-sugar lollipops. Back in the day, when Felix refused blood and couldn’t hold food down, Ryan had fed him the solution like this, and it had kept him from passing out. The smell was so strong that Elliott almost gagged, his body so delicate as to protest merely being in the presence of human sustenance.

Elliott tried to hand Shayne the mug, but his cousin’s hands were so shaky he almost dropped it immediately. Elliott took it back, trying to ignore the fact that his own hands weren’t exactly the steadiest. He brought the rim of the mug to Shayne’s lips.

Shayne made a face and pulled away as soon as he took the first sip. His hand went to his mouth, like he was considering spitting it back out.

“Swallow it.”

A shiver seemed to roll through Shayne’s body as he did. His eyes watered like he was about to cry. “That tastes like shit, El.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what you get for forgetting that you need to eat.”

“I didn’t forget I needed to…” Shayne mumbled. “I’m not stupid.”

“That’s extremely debatable. Drink.”

“I’m gonna be sick.”

“Drink,” Elliott said again, as calmly as he could, “or I’m going to get Ryan.”

The last of the fight went out of Shayne’s eyes. Elliott knew he didn’t want Ryan or Nancy to know things had gotten this bad again.

Victorious but not feeling it, Elliott brought the mug to Shayne’s lips again and again, letting him take small sips. At one point, he covered his mouth again, shoulders jerking forward as he gagged slightly. Elliott’s stomach flipped at the sound and he had to turn his face away until Shayne stopped. He didn’t usually puke from seeing somebody else do it, but he had a bad feeling that if Shayne threw up, he would lose it too.

Shayne shook his head when presented with the mug again. A tentative hand rested on his stomach. “I can’t, El. It’s so heavy.”

Part of Elliott didn’t want to yield so easily, wanted to make him finish the mug. He wondered what Felix would do, or how Charlie would have reacted to that pleading look. Elliott knew he wasn’t soft in the same way they were. He just hoped he wasn’t harsh.

He hoped he wasn’t frightening.

He swallowed against a swell of nausea in his belly. Whatever was gnawing at the pit of his stomach weakened his resolve.

“Okay,” he said, “lie down.”

Shayne gave a small sigh of relief.

Elliott took the mug back to the sink. White floor and wall tiles swayed all around him like he was inside the world’s most colourless kaleidoscope. He slowly breathed in through his nose, leaning on the edge of the countertop to try and introduce some form of balance to his body.

He’d extended the offer to Shayne, but honestly, lying down sounded like an absolute dream to Elliott, too. Maybe his body would stop freaking out if he got a little more rest. His sleeping pattern was completely thrown off, his mind raced in the middle of the night. Felix had star-fished across about forty different mattresses before choosing theirs, and while Elliott had acted like he didn’t care which one they bought, he had ended up agreeing that it was the best mattress he’d ever used. But sleeping there without Felix felt wrong, so his body had been rejecting it as much as physically possible.

Nowadays, he might as well have been sleeping in a wooden coffin like the stereotype dictated.

He turned around to check on Shayne, frowning when he saw that he was still sitting upright on the sofa.

“I thought you were going to try and sleep?”

“I can’t – I can’t,” Shayne whispered, lowering his head into his hands. “El, I – every time I try, I feel like she’s here. Breathing on the back of my neck…”

Guilt churned Elliott’s stomach this time. Elliott felt regrets like cobwebs sticking to his soul, and although he didn’t allow himself many, one of those cobwebs was the feeling that maybe he could have gotten Shayne out of Madelyn’s sooner.

“She’s not getting in here,” Elliott promised. “Ryan will have her head on a stick before letting that happen. Nancy will turn her blood into tar.”

“She doesn’t have to be here, El. She’s already here.” Shayne pressed a finger to either side of his head and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Jesus, I’m – I’m sorry, man.” Elliott laid a hand on his stomach, stifling a belch since he really didn’t need gas leaving his body to make this moment even more stressful. “What usually helps when this happens?”

As Elliot should have expected, Shayne gave a lifeless shrug. Alright, think, Elliott told himself, swallowing thickly. He’d never seen Shayne warm up to anyone until that day in the park when he’d been clinging to Charlie like his life depended on it. He liked to act tough (and who did he pick that up from, I wonder?), but really, Shayne just didn’t want to be alone.

He’d be lying if he said he couldn’t understand that feeling.

Elliott swallowed again, fighting the lump in his throat and the swirling in the pit of his stomach.

“Want me to sit with you?”

Shayne opened his eyes, looking genuinely surprised.

Elliott sank down on the sofa without waiting for a verbal answer. He hit the cushions a little too quickly for his stomach’s liking. It shifted noisily, semi-digested contents swimming around inside. “Now, if you think you can feel someone breathing on you, you can tell yourself it’s just me.”

“Ugh,” Shayne groaned, curling up on his side so that the top of his head was just next to – scarcely touching – Elliott’s thigh. “Do not breathe on me, man.”

Elliott smiled through his vaguely-concealed discomfort, glad that Shayne wasn’t facing him. “Afraid you’ll catch vampire cooties?”

Shayne didn’t respond beyond a soft groan that Elliott interpreted as “shut the fuck up, old man”. So even though he’d have loved to keep taunting his cousin and keep himself distracted, Elliott shut up, letting his neck rest against the back of the sofa and draping one arm up over his eyes. Lack of vision made the world feel a little less like the spinning drum of a washing machine. Elliott regretted dreaming up that metaphor, gritting his teeth as he realised his stomach felt like such a drum, too.

He was swallowing constantly, every few seconds now, chest tight with the effort of drawing slow, shallow breaths. It felt like the fibres holding his being together were frayed and left just shaky enough to throw everything off without causing him any actual, physical pain. Beneath it all was a tiny flame of anger; what the hell was the point in becoming a vampire if feeling unexplainably shitty at inconvenient intervals was still on the table?

An icy shiver ran down Elliott’s back, and he flinched where he sat. He slid his hand around the back of his neck and gulped another wave of saliva. Nothing was there, yet when he exhaled, he shuddered again. Shayne’s talk about Madelyn must have wormed its way into Elliott’s mind. Lord, he really was a mess.

He glanced down to make sure his sudden jump hadn’t disturbed Shayne. It was hard to tell if the boy was sleeping or just trying very hard to stay still. At least he didn’t seem to be panicked or shaking anymore. Elliott desperately wanted to stand up and walk around; moving and distracting himself would surely ease the building pain in his stomach, but he didn’t think he could get up without jostling Shayne.

Sucking in a breath and trying to brace his stomach for the move, Elliott shifted his weight on the sofa, cringing at how much the cushions flexed with him. He watched Shayne’s head, his breath still caught somewhere between his belly and his lungs. Another trickle of unpleasantly cool sweat ran down the back of his neck and his hands shook until he dropped the weight of his head into them. His elbows felt unbalanced on his knees. His stomach flipped, and he swallowed measuredly against its protests.

“El?”

“Yeah,” Elliott choked out, though he’d meant to give a friendly, open yeah? As in Felix’s chirpy Yeah, buddy? Are you okay? What can I do for you?

“Y’alright?” was all Shayne replied with.

“I’m good, yeah.” Upon tasting blood and bile, Elliott gulped again. “Just relax, okay? No one’s going to –”

Elliott jammed a fist against his lips in time to stifle a wet, shallow belch. The sound was so sudden and violent that his head shot forward, almost ducking between his own knees.

“Fuck,” Shayne gasped, scrambling upright despite the fact his eyes were barely open. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Elliott half-snapped, annoyance at himself manifesting as annoyance at Shayne. “I may have pushed myself a bit this morning, but I’m –”

He was once again cut off by a belch, this one rumbling up from much deeper inside him. His belly continued bubbling even after the air stopped being pushed up.

“El, I think you need to –”

“Don’t.” Elliott shook his head.

“Why did –” Shayne winced slightly and rubbed at his head. “Why didn’t you say you were feeling sick?”

“Because I was trying to look after you!” Elliott sighed into his hands. The tiny burst of frustration was dizzying on top of everything else. “Lord fucking knows you can’t take care of yourself.”

“Fuck you,” Shayne said back, though his voice was empty of any of its usual fight. “I’m – I’m trying, I’ve been trying… Elliott, just go to the sink!”

Elliott’s shoulders rolled as he covered his mouth with his palm, feeling a thick film grow over his tongue. He was tempted to swallow it down again but a cramp ripped through his gut, making all of his organs squeeze in defiance of him swallowing anything.

“Shit,” he somehow mumbled, sitting forward and pushing himself to his feet as Shayne pushed – weakly but with good intentions – at his back to help him up. Elliott sprinted across the kitchen tiles and flung himself at the sink, stars in his vision and blood in his mouth. He was unbearably dizzy as he heaved up what he’d drank that morning. At least it had been an animal-blood day, and he wasn’t watching mouthfuls of human blood pooling in the sink and trickling into the drain.

It was a waste, but it could have been worse. He choked on a sob, realising he’d never thought like this until Felix.

“Fuck,” Elliott gasped when something moved next to him. He hadn’t even noticed Shayne following him to the sink. “Christ. I feel awful… Why – why do I feel this bad?”

“You’re trying to force something you’re not capable of.” Shayne folded his arms and rested them on the countertop, eyes falling shut again.

Elliott spat bitterly towards the drain. “How the fuck do you figure that?”

“Because that’s my whole life summed up, El.”

Elliott gripped the neck of the tap and turned it on, directing the water around the sink to get rid of the mess he’d made. His head was spinning and his nerves still felt alive with electricity and just wrong in general, but his belly felt a lot better. He felt like he could breathe normally again.

“You okay?”

“I think so.” Elliott rinsed his mouth, running tap water into his palm and lifting it to his lips. It was cool, and soothing on his throat after the retching.

Shayne looked positively miserable as their eyes met. “What now?”

As he shut off the tap, Elliott brushed a wet hand across the back of his own neck, relishing the cold drip that started trailing down his back. He shut his eyes, feeling like he was ready to drift off to sleep on his feet, like a horse.

“Well,” he said, “how would you like to take a nap on a really nice mattress?”

#Elliott #StW Elliott #emeto #nausea #emeto fic #sickfic #emeto sickfic #OC sickfic #OC emeto #vampire emeto #overwork #vomit fic #vampire oc #my OCs #Swallow the World #vampire whump #angst #emotional whump #long fic #fic length

[op-sheepy]

ok so I'm particularly interested in

Bellamy Law

Law and Bible stuff

Law is a substitute kindergarten teacher

shichibukai applications

reverse hanahaki disease (?? do u spit out flowers when your nemesis walks by?)

if you feel like elaborating on any of these!

This is gonna get long and I actually contemplated posting them separately but would that have been more work? Yeah, that felt like more work so for anyone interested, check under the cut. :D

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Bellamy Law

Hm… This would be an attempt to explore the parallels and contrasts between Bellamy and Law. I've always found it fascinating that the former was a foil to the latter.

They both come from well-off  towns in the North Blue.

Bellamy left because of boredom. Law had no choice because Flevance.

Both ended up seeking Doflamingo  because of  his notoriety as a pirate. Both admired him initially

Doffy favored one over the other though. Bellamy always sought his approval but was never really part of the inner circle Doflamingo cared about.

Law got the dubious privilege of being part of the family despite being absent for so long. Even offered one of the highest seats by Doffy's side for seemingly nothing.

Law had no trouble turning his back on Doffy once he realized the man's nature. Bellamy tried to stick to his principles until the end despite admitting that he new he was wrong.

Bellamy can (and did) quit piracy after his ordeal with Doflamingo. Having the option to live peacefully, perhaps a return to his previous life (the one he considered boring). Law can't do that quite as easily what with his Devil fruit and his reputation.

I thought it would be interesting trying to explore what Bellamy was thinking. Did he hear the Donquixote Pirates talk about their missing 'family'? Did he get to see Doffy be amused at Law's rise as a Supernova while he kept being reminded of his own status? Did Law save Bellamy partially because he also saw what he could have been had Corazon not saved him?

On principle, Bellamy should have hated Trafalgar Law. Does. Bastard even saved him without him wanting it. But there was something about the shadows haunting those eyes and Bellamy started to wonder.

He had heard the family talk about Law before. The child personally taught by Doflamingo, chosen to be his right hand. Never was he compared to the man because Law was just obviously better. Smarter. Stronger. Bellamy was ever just an uncouth thug.

He was allowed to 'borrow' Doflamingo's symbol while Law had an empty seat waiting for his return–a seat Bellamy had wanted enough to risk everything for.

Maybe he had resented, Trafalgar Law for carelessly rejecting the things he had that Bellamy had always desired. In the end too, Trafalgar Law did prove to be better. He'd done as a child what Bellamy had trouble doing even as he was now.

But having been given the chance to observe the other man as they all recovered, he wondered, perhaps for the first time, whether despite Law being better than Bellamy, Bellamy had had it better–barring the poor life choices.

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Law and Bible stuff

This is just me wanting to know how many biblical parallels and themes I can draw from Law, the Donquixote brothers, the characters associated with them, and his backstory. Honestly not sure whether this would become a fic and in what style or I'm gonna give up and just make it a post.

Not gonna elaborate on them much but here are the ideas in more bullet points (yay):

Law gets familiar with all four horsemen of the apocalypse: conquest, war, famine, and death. He even survives them.

Law is like the son in the parable of the prodigal son to the Donquixote pirates. Except the themes are inverted.

Doflamingo and Rocinante -> Cain and Abel

Ope Ope no Mi -> Granting eternal life by sacrificing one's own life

Gods descending or living among humans. Also, Homing and his family being prosecuted for other people's sins.

That scene where they were hanged by their arms outstretched looks like a crucifixion. Also, Rocinante was on the right while Doflamingo was on the left. Similar to how the penitent thief was on the right and the unrepentant one to the left.

Flevance being considered a paradise with walls/fences/gates and somewhere Law cannot return to.

In the panel where the Donquixote pirates are seated at the table, there were thirteen of them with Doffy at the center. Same as The Last Supper

There are a lot more of these (David and Goliath, Solomon, Jonah, Job, etc.) but I kinda lost the notes and some are more visual so I can't really explain it too well. This would is a drabble series to emphasize or highlight the parallels so no proper snippet for this one.

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Law is a substitute kindergarten teacher

Originally an idea to get around most of the Heart Pirates being nameless but evolved to include other characters as kids. Chopper is a kindergarten teacher and he convinces Law to take over his class for a week because somehow Law has the qualifications to and free time. Naturally, he wasn't able to say no.

Unfortunately, despite not being terrible at handling children, Chopper's class is filled with menaces. Also, despite not being terrible, Law can still be awkward so...

"Mr. Trofao–fargar—"

"Trafalgar."

The kid—which one was this one again? Shit, he should really get them name plates or something—scrunched up his face and tried harder, "Tar-pal—"

"Law. Just call me Law."

"Mr. Low"—eh, close enough—"can I go to the bathroom?" Wide imploring eyes stared up at him.

"Sure, go ahead." Law gestured towards the exit of the classroom with his head.

The kid just stared expectantly at him and he tried to suppress the need to narrow his eyes.

"Is there… anything else?"

"Mr. Chopper always comes with me to hold my hand."

Really?

"Mr. Chopper isn't here. You should practice doing it on your own now." He said after a deep inhale.

"But the monsters might get me…"

"No, they won't."

"You don't know that."

"I do." Before the kid could open his mouth again to argue, he added, "Besides, children taste terrible so you're safe."

The kid looked stricken and took a step back from him. Uh oh. Glistening eyes, wobbling lower lip… "Alright! I'll go with you." The kid did not look reassured. In fact he looked like going alone with Law was the last thing he wanted to do. Guess, he kinda implied that he ate children didn't he? Oops.

Well, the kid needs to go and he's not going to be cleaning up after him if he wets himself.

Law glanced at the rest of the children. It was Arts and Craft time and they seemed preoccupied enough. Still, Law doubted Chopper ever left these kids alone–already he could see some of them glancing up at him, waiting for him to leave no doubt to cause trouble. That Monkey kid in particular looked extremely suspicious.

He stood up from his crouch and clapped twice to get everyone's attention.

"Alright. Fall in line. Single file."

There was some grumbling and questioning directed at him. "What's going on?"

Law shrugged. "You're all going to the bathroom."

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Shichibukai Application Forms

Crackfic where the World Government and relevant parties review various Shichbukai Applications. Most submitted by the pirates applying themselves, some produced by their own staff. They discuss and debate. As well as judge pirate resumes.

She scanned the document. Terrible format, really. If you fail to impress within the first page, you've failed entirely. There just wasn't anyone promising enough in this batch of applications or any of the other ones before. The last one had been that clown. "Apprentice to the Pirate King," was a pretty hefty credential.

"Oh, how about this one? Three years experience pillaging, and they even listed all the towns they looted." One of the newly transferred administrative staff said.

"None of these are worth considering at all. You know, when Mihawk was asked to submit his application, he hadn't bothered with all of this. He just sent us a card with his name on it and the title "World's Strongest Swordsman," underneath."

The staff perked up. "Oh, there was an application like that." There was scramble and some shuffling before a plain white card was produced. "Here."

"'From Trafalgar Law'. What does this even mean?"

"Well, it did come with a big box..."

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Reverse Hanahaki Disease

(?? do u spit out flowers when your nemesis walks by?)

Haha. At first it was going to be that way (because it is hilarious) but the inflicted would probably choke to death too soon. Or if both enemies had it, they'd end up just coughing flowers at each other until they stopped being enemies.

The version I ended up going with was that this variant of Hanahaki, instead of afflicting those with unrequited love, affected those in denial instead. The reverse part comes from the original idea that this would usually happen if you somehow fell in love with your nemesis (someone you originally hated). So it's not the thought that the other person can't love you, it's that you can't accept that you love that other person. You get cured by confessing to the person sincerely.

This is actually another KidLaw (surprise!). And the flower coughed up directly represents the person they're in love with (I went with Oda's flower representation for them because I found it funny for plot)

So the idea is that, you get sick but you don't automatically know (maybe) who it is because that's part of being in denial. Kid and Law have many enemies after all. In this story they both get it though not exactly at the same time and not known to the other.

He survived Amber Lead Syndrome only to be killed off by a stupid flower disease that apparently knows more about his own feelings than he does.

He glared at the petals. Tulips. Red.

An image of a cocky grin and a shock of red hair flashed through his mind and—nope. That's not right.

He coughed harder, tears stinging his eyes with the effort. More flowers. Now he has enough for a bouquet.

Alright, he was a doctor. He could do this. Differential time.

First, which variant does he have. He doesn't particularly feel unloved or hopeless. There wasn't anyone he wanted in particular to love him. Ok, nothing. It was maybe safe to say he had that other variant.

Which was stupid because Law had many enemies and he hated all of them.

And cue the racking coughs. More red. He was very familiar with that particular shade.

New theory. This was a new variant that somehow makes you sick when you think of the person you hated the most.

Yes, that had to be it. He thought as he all but collapsed on the floor from the sudden paroxysm.

I knew this was gonna get long. :) Oh well...

Thank you for playing. :D

#One Piece #One piece fanfiction #wip game #trafalgar law #donquixote brothers #donquixote doflamingo #donquixote roci #donquixote homing #donquixote pirates #one piece bellamy #bellamy the hyena #eustass kid #kidlaw #trafalgar d water law

[jincherie]

florescence | v

❀ — pairing: taehyung x reader x seokjin ❀ — genre: hybrid au, hybrid tae, hybrid jin, poly au, fluff, smut (future), angst ❀ — words: 6.8k+ ❀ — rating: sfw ❀ — warnings: a pinch of angst, some hurt n comfort, and a teensy bit of risque content towards the end.... yay for scenting!! ❀ — notes: There was a fair bit that I changed in this one so part way through i ran into a bit of a block-- gradually, I pushed through!!! here is the next part uwu, I dont have anything written after this so the next update may take a while. (also, for anyone still having trouble with this, I did add a read more)

Okay, so maybe you’re lonely, and maybe there is something missing in your life, a void that you maybe want to fill with a companion that may or may not be of human origin… You’re perfectly content not doing anything about it though, until your best friend calls you in desperate need for your help and you suddenly end up coming home with not one, but two hybrids that may or may not have been on the way to the chopping block had you not taken them in. They’re more than a little rough around the edges, and the situation is less than ideal but… maybe the best things don’t always come in perfect, shiny packages. Maybe they just need a little time to bloom.

— posted; 11.03.2020 // masterlist || prev. | next.

When you wake up, you feel so well-rested that you almost completely forget what troubled your heart the night prior. Almost. As soon as you sit up and your gaze flits over the window, weather uncharacteristically gloomy, you recall what has been troubling you the past week and a bit and all of a sudden you can physically feel your mood drop. Right.

Well— you attempt to stop the spiral before it can really begin— today is your chance to make things right. You have the whole day off! That, for one thing, is sure to cheer the boys up a little bit. If they’re still not in the best of spirits, like you feel they might be, then you have the whole day to come up with a plan.

Yawning and scratching your head, allowing yourself a moment of indulgence before you get up to dive into the day headfirst, you attempt to bolster your confidence at least a little. With a little perseverance, you can do this!

You can do it! x   x   x

You can’t do it.

You thought that you’d be able to keep a cheery mood going, that you’d be able to cling to some optimism, but as it turns out you were somewhat wrong and this situation as it is now at around midday has your glass looking half-empty.

You’d gone about your normal routine after getting up; showering and then cooking and cleaning a little. To your surprise, the boys hadn’t come out to beg and plead with you at all. Even as their behaviour in the evenings changed during the past week and a bit, their behaviour in the mornings never did. So, understandably, this new development filled you with an icky feeling that stuck to the sides of your stomach like tar. You need to figure out what you’re doing that’s actually upsetting them, but attempting to pull the answer out of them is like pulling teeth. And with nothing but the barest hints to go off, you don’t really know where to even begin your online search, either.

So, halfway through the day and already almost at your wits end, you suppose the only way to go now is trial and error.

Off the top of your head, there are only a few things you can think of that might be bothering them.  

First, there are the insecurities they have that you’re already aware about. You don’t think this is actually the only thing bothering them, but you have a gut feeling that it has something to do with it. Each day they spent in the labs after their creation, under the technical label of ‘failure’, clearly took its toll on them. They only had each other there, and you know that the men you met while picking them up would have done their best to take care of them but as employees in that institution there is a line that they couldn’t ever cross to really give them the comfort they needed. So you know that Seokjin and Taehyung both were deemed ‘failures’ within their batches, exceptions, and you know that this knowledge has brought forth entire complexes around inferiority and worth within them.

Knowing this, it has you wondering if those complexes are leading the two of them to feel as though they’re being slowly pushed aside, or as though they have become a second thought to you. They most definitely haven’t, but with their background you wouldn’t be too surprised if that is a conclusion they have come to. You really want them to know and understand that they are a part of your home now, but you also know it’s going to be hard to get them to that point.

Regardless, it’s difficult to know what is actually wrong with them without being able to talk to them, and as the morning goes on they prove persistent in their efforts to ignore and avoid you. It irks you and upsets you at the same time, but still you do your best to be understanding. They’re not going to come out and have breakfast for as long as you’re in the kitchen, so you make the slightly wounding decision to return to your room for a while so they have a chance to at least eat. Taking care of them from the shadows it is—you leave some eggs and toast on plates for them before you retreat further into the house in the direction of your room.

You really wish that for situations like this there was someone you could just ask who would have all the answers you want and more—not many of your friends know that you even have hybrids, though, and Seulgi is probably at work still. Plus, she’d probably just tell you to look it up yourse— oh!!

You have the internet!

Honestly you’re not surprised it’s taken you this long to realise you could just look it up instead of lamenting and stewing in your own confusion and worry. Flopped across you bed, you pull your phone up and get to work. ‘hybrids upset with me’ is the first thing you intuitively type, and it brings forth an array of results. As one might expect, about 30% of them are actually relevant to what you want. You open a promising-looking one and begin to read.

“When instilling absolute obedience in wayward hybrids, it is expected that at first there will be a little backlash and they may react in an upset manner. A firm hand and unrelenting—”

Well, you click out of that one faster than you can blink. A closer look at the site name, perfectingyourpet.com, makes you realise you really should have inspected it a little bit more finely before opening it earlier.

Back on the search results page, you skim over the rest of them with a more scrutinising eye. It takes you a while before you actually open one that isn’t a run-around or an instant dead end.

‘Just like their animal counterparts, hybrids can become stressed and unhappy from a number of things that we often don’t think of from a human standpoint. Certain foods, environments, smells—the littlest thing can sometimes impact your hybrid companion’s happiness.’

Now that you’re reading this and really thinking about it, that makes a lot of sense. You aren’t sure how you haven’t been coming to these conclusions much earlier, and feel a little stupid and ashamed.

Chastised, you read a little further, soaking up as much information as you can, leaving the things you think aren’t very applicable for your situation. Towards the end, you admittedly skim it a bit, but to be fair that is just because you’re antsy to get started on fixing whatever has fallen through between you and the boys.

Some of the causes of stress this site tells you about are things you don’t think you have to worry about – yelling, fighting, having lots of guests come through and an always busy house. You definitely don’t have to worry about those. But then, when you read through the others, nothing is really clicking into place like this, this is it. You aren’t sure as to the cause still but at least you have something to go off now, even if it will be a process of elimination and learning by error.

One of the first things the site says, in addition to those you didn’t really think were relevant, is that it could be something in the diet, the environment, or a smell—or any change really. Branching off of that thought has you realising that it’s possible your big faux pas here is that you introduced such a big change – you going to work for a few hours a day – so suddenly and abruptly. From what you’re reading, it’s more than likely unsettled them and made them feel a bit insecure in their positions once more.

So, as your first attempt to make things right, you’re going to do your best to include them all over again. With a sigh you rise from your bed and attempt to steel yourself before making your way back into the kitchen, your fingers crossed that they have at least come out to eat something.

You’re quiet in your movements, and you think that is largely what allows you to catch the two elusive hybrids in the kitchen as they chow through the breakfast you left for them. It makes you happy to see they’re still eating what you make, but still sad to know they refuse to do it in your presence.

“Good morning,” you greet softly, leaning against the doorframe.

You hadn’t meant to startle them, but that’s what you end up doing. Seokjin, who had been looking through the fridge (most likely in search of some juice), jumps in fright, one yelp escaping before he bumps his head on a shelf and another, louder one follows it. Taehyung doesn’t make any noise, but you see him jump in his spot by the bench, whipping around to face you with wide eyes and a mouth full of eggs.

It’s an odd mix of emotions that cross their faces, prefaced by a wash of guilt and then a myriad of others you don’t manage to catch in time. They’re still upset, but clearly seeing you has weakened their defences slightly. You quickly take advantage of it.

“I’m glad you’re up and about,” you say, shooting them both a smile and doing your best to make sure none of the hurt seeps through. “I was thinking we could all do something together today!”

Surprise is what greets you as they stare at you, then at each other. Seokjin voices their thoughts, “You don’t have work today?”

From just behind him, you can catch his tail beginning to sway in cautious anticipation. His ears are slightly lowered, as are Taehyung’s, but they perk up when you answer them with a shake of your head.

“I don’t,” you affirm, feeling slightly bolstered by their response. “So I was thinking we could do something… maybe go out to the park? Or a café? Or—”

Their ears flatten and its obvious they’re not too into that idea, surprisingly. You really thought that would be something they’d love! You quickly backtrack. “Or, we could just cuddle on the couch and watch Netflix…? Seokjin, that zombie show you like had another season added.”

At that, they seem much more enthusiastic. Seokjin’s tail begins to wag a little more heartily, if still somewhat tentative.

“Already?” he asks, eyes wide. “Oh that’s good, they left it on a cliffhanger last season.”

The few moments after he finishes speaking are almost awkward, but you step in before they can get to that point.

“Perfect, did you want to watch that now?” You pose the question, before recalling that you’d caught them in the middle of stuffing their faces. “I mean, after you’re done eating of course.”

“Yes!” Seokjin nearly yaps in his excitement, the mood of the two hybrids seeming to have taken a complete 180 now that they know they have your time all to themselves today. You wonder if the ‘cuddling’ aspect had much to do with it, since you’d noticed their eyes light up when you’d mentioned it earlier.

You turn your gaze to the side, and when you see Taehyung looking just as excited, you offer them a bright smile. “Great, well you guys finish up and I’ll wait in the living room. I’ll get it all set up.”

Both of their tails are wagging as you turn and make your way to the room in question, and you feel significantly lighter than you have all week. You just need to bond with them a little more, assure them of their place with you and that you care for them. You were too dramatic earlier, you can do this!

Going around the living room, you end up setting up the couch like a makeshift nest, their comfort the main thing on your mind. Netflix is on and loaded, and you tidy things just a bit in the extra time you have before you hear the two hybrids approaching the room.

They’re excited, you can tell from the second you catch sight of them. Taehyung especially looks like he’s trying not to smile too big, but his tail is whirring a mile a minute behind him.

Seokjin picks up the remote, before turning to you. “You sit down first.”

Apparently it slipped out before he’d realised, because in the next second his face flushes and he hurries to correct himself at how demanding he feared he sounded. “I mean, uh… please. So we can, um….”

He doesn’t have to finish for you to know what he wants. More often than not, the two of them wait until you seat yourself so that they then can flop down and curl around you. Smiling at Seokjin to let him know it’s okay, you sit in the middle of the couch and wait. Well, you don’t even have to wait—as soon as your ass touches the seat the two hybrids dive for a spot on either side of you, nestling against you, the blankets, and the couch.

Their actions stir up butterflies in your stomach and you have to marvel at yourself—wow, you’ve really gotten quite touch starved because of this whole ordeal, haven’t you? That’s kind of embarrassing…

Seokjin swings his legs over your lap and Taehyung presses his body to your side, head on your shoulder. You can feel his large hands fisting the material of your shirt needily, oblivious to the way he brushes the underside of your breast with the action. You ignore the skipped heartbeat that results and pretend it didn’t even happen. That’s a dangerous rabbit hole to go down if you follow that thought.

“What are we watching?” you ask, reaching a hand up to play with the curls at the back of Taehyung’s neck. His grip on your shirt tightens and he presses closer before the tension leaves his body completely, and he lets out the faintest noise in satisfaction. You’d do the same to Seokjin but his higher level functioning ceases when you play with his hair and you kind of want a response.

“This?” he proposes, eyes on the screen. You follow his gaze and watch the preview that’s played for you. “I added it to the list but haven’t, um… haven’t gotten to watch it yet.”

“If it’s what you wanna watch, put it on,” you reassure him, holding your hand out for the remote. He sees your hand and his cheeks warm—you wonder why before the answer follows, and he places his hand in yours, threading your fingers together.

You don’t even have the heart to tell him that you were asking for the remote, especially now that you feel your own face burning. God, what are these two doing to your heart today?!

What Seokjin chose seems to be some new anime with alternate styling to what you’re used to seeing, the mode of animation different but quite cool. Unfortunately, you only get to watch about a minute of it before something disrupts the peace and content beginning to settle over the room.

Knocking. On your door. It’s light but sharp and very persistent. Seokjin pauses the show, confused but alert.

“Who on Earth…?” you murmur to yourself, regrettably rising from the couch and parting from the warmth of the hybrids. There is an odd weight on your side as you stand, and you don’t realise that Taehyung has risen with you, clinging to your side, until you take a step and he bumps into you by accident.

Endeared by the way he dons a sheepish smile, you accept his company and make your way to the front door, wondering who on earth would even be making the effort to visit you on your day off. Rustling sounds from the couch, but you figure it’s just Seokjin getting comfortable and preparing to wait.

“Just a second!” you call out when the knocking stops, worrying the culprit is leaving. Did you order anything recently? Are you expecting anyone and just forgot? You really don’t think so. Taehyung trails after you, connected only by his loose grip on the bottom of your shirt.

You could have peaked out of the peep hole, but you don’t, going straight to opening the door instead. The figure waiting on the other side makes you halt in surprise. Taehyung shoots ramrod straight behind you.

“What are you doing here, rude cat?” you ask in surprise after a moment, teasing nickname tacked on by default. Changkyun gives you a borderline dirty look, but doesn’t speak for a moment- his attention is captured as he catches sight of the hybrid plastered to your back. His mouth forms an ‘o’, realisation dawning across his features.

“Ah, the unhappy audience….” He murmurs to himself, a glint entering his eyes that you absolutely do not like one bit. Before you can warn him off whatever idea has just entered his head, he turns his gaze to you and offers a bright, if somewhat cheeky, smile.

“Hey, y/n,” he purrs, taking a step closer. You’re suspicious immediately. “You left something at our house last time, and since we were driving past your place anyway the madame asked me to come bring it up to you.”

As he finishes speaking, he pulls something out from behind his back, holding it out to you. You can feel the tension of the hybrid beside you as you reach out and take it, eyes wide.

“Oh, my cardigan,” you mutter, holding up the dark pink article and pursing your lips in surprise. “I did wonder where it got to. Thanks, Changkyun!”

“No problem!” he answers, perhaps a little too easily, He rolls the ring on his bottom lip as he stands in contemplation for a moment. It’s as though he considers doing something, entertaining the thought for a moment before deciding against it. Instead, he offers you a sly smile, beginning to step backwards. “See you next week, y/n.”

You return the farewell, waiting until he is a good metre or so away before closing and locking the door. The second you do, you feel Taehyung pull away from your back. Surprised, you turn in question—the second your gaze falls on him though, you freeze.  

You’re not sure if you can describe the current look in his face in just a single word—there are many emotions that seem to flick across his features, but the one that seems to linger the most is hurt.

At the realisation you’re baffled, understandably, and while your brain attempts to put pieces together and figure out why Taehyung is looking at you like that, he pulls away. His brows are furrowed, bottom lip a split-second away from trembling fully.

“Tae?” you ask, tentative. At the sound of your voice though the hybrid shakes his head, expression even more upset than before. It makes your stomach drag down with guilt and a certain sense of anxiety. Taehyung steps back, looking at you for just a moment longer before he turns and flees.

A call of his name is stuck in your throat and you can only watch him go, hearing him pass through the hall and then hurry up the stairs. Absolutely boggled, you almost miss the movement from the doorway to the living room.

You turn your gaze just in time to catch a glimpse of Seokjin as he slips away, following the same path Taehyung laid through the house just seconds earlier. After the sound of him climbing the stairs passes, you’re confronted with the painfully familiar sound of their door slamming closed upstairs.

You don’t have to have seen his face to know that without a doubt, whatever you’d done to hurt Taehyung’s feelings so suddenly, the same applied to the older hybrid.

God—you don’t even know what you did!

This is getting utterly ridiculous and at this point you’re sitting and stewing in your own ashamed juices. You’d just been so close to mending things with them! How had things turned around so quickly?

It’s like a bag of rocks has been dropped in your chest, pushing your heart down to your stomach. You feel very crummy, suddenly. You don’t doubt they feel similar. They’re not going to sit and watch something with you now, and there’s no point in waiting for them to come down because you’ve been with them long enough to know that they won’t.

What are you supposed to do?

Fighting a sudden batch of irrational tears that have risen to sting your eyes and threaten to fall, you scrunch the cardigan in your grip and make a beeline for your room. You don’t bother going to turn off the TV because right now you’re too upset and it’s just going to remind you of how you’ve managed to ruin things, again.

As soon as the door closes behind you and you’re in the sanctity of your room, you let a sniffle escape. The silence that echoes off the walls is all that answers and you throw yourself onto your bed, phone in your hand.

Even though you’re sad right now and want nothing else than to just cry into your pillow a bit and get these horrible, heavy feelings off your chest, `you know you can’t let this go on any longer than it already has. Somewhat sulkily, you unlock your phone and open the browser, returning to your search from earlier. At this point you can only conclude that the problem is you, and that you won’t be able to find anything to help your plight online.

Of course, that’s the last thing you want to be true. And so you return to your previous search, going through all the tabs you opened up previously and rereading to see if there was anything you’d missed or misinterpreted. You’re not all that optimistic, though, and as you read you try not to think about the sneaking feeling you have that you’re not going to find anything to help you fix this new mess you’ve made.

X     x     x   x     x

An hour later you’re climbing hastily from you bed, standing corrected. You’d just found the answer and the solution you’d been looking for—the fact that it was in one of the first pages you opened earlier and you didn’t get it until just now is an incredible source of shame for you. At this point in time you’re very frustrated with yourself, but thankfully there are more pressing matters to attend to.

You know what’s been bothering your hybrids and upsetting them so much.

Of course, in retrospect it’s something so painfully obvious that you want to kick the ground and ram your head straight into the wall at the same time. You read earlier about how change and stress can affect hybrids more than humans, but it hadn’t really sunk in the types of changes and stressors they are especially sensitive to. Reading through one of the first pages again had something you missed the first time through smacking you in the face the second time round.

Your hybrids are unsettled because you’re their ‘owner’, and you’ve been going out and hanging around other people and hybrids, covering yourself in a myriad of strange, different scents, when they haven’t scented you yet.

Your face warms as you recall everything you’d read after clicking the hyperlink on that word in the original article. Scenting can entail a lot of things depending on the hybrid, but mostly its innocent, and something they need to feel settled and secure, something instinctive. Which explains a lot of things, honestly.

Again, you feel so stupid.

Now that you’ve… enlightened yourself, you have the decency to feel a little ashamed and guilty for not taking better steps to understand your hybrids and accommodate them. It’s on you that you didn’t know any better because you hadn’t done the necessary research, but at the same time you wish they’d come to you and told you what was wrong. Although, you know that considering their background, it’s probably hard for them. They’re never sure of their boundaries, where they can go and how far they can push—they’re too cautious and worrisome sometimes, you think. You have a feeling that that’s kind of what was happening behind the scenes here too.

Trying very desperately not to give in to the flustered blush that’s trying to heat your cheeks at what you’re about to do, you attempt to calm yourself by going through the motions as you normally would at this time of day. It’s late enough that you can justify changing into your pyjamas, and so you do—and although these are the clothes you usually wear to bed, the fluffy pants and thin-strapped singlet leave you feeling a little more exposed than usual. You know that you’re going to be more than a little embarrassed while doing this, but honestly you’re just going to have to push through it—it’s the least you can do considering your part in this.

Once changed, you kind of want to climb back in bed and procrastinate the inevitable a little longer, but you force yourself out of the room. It’s somewhat sheepishly that you emerge, attempting to be quiet with your door even though you know there’s no way they’ve left their room. The trip down the hall to their door is quicker than you remember and it isn’t long before you’re taking a breath to prepare yourself and knocking softly on their door. The response is instant.

“Go away!”

You fight a smile at the sound of Seokjin’s voice—his words say one thing but the waver and hints of a plea in his tone say another. It’s cute, the effort he’s putting into trying to show you he’s upset when you have a feeling he wants nothing more than to spend time with you as he usually does. You take a moment to steel yourself before letting out a huff.

“I’m coming in,” you announce, trying to keep your tone gentle, and then you open the door before he has time to protest. When you swing the door open and step in, it’s to the sight of him sitting on the queen bed with his knees tucked to his chest, his face red— although you can’t tell if it’s from anger or embarrassment.

“What do you want,” he grumbles, reminding you very much of a child with the way he averts his eyes and pouts. His tail twitches anxiously behind him, his ears pressed against his skull. Your eyes sweep the room, confusion flickering amongst your thoughts when you don’t catch sight of his younger brother.

“Where’s Taehyung?” you ask, head tilting. Seokjin answers you a moment later, albeit reluctantly.

“He’s in the shower…” he says, and now that he mentions it you can hear the soft sound of music filtering through the wall. The dhole hybrid likes having something soft and jazzy playing whenever he showers or bathes, you suspect it’s because it helps relax him a little.

You hum in acknowledgement, standing in the doorway for a moment, leaning against the doorframe as you simply look at him. He seems to flush under your prolonged gaze, desperately trying to avoid meeting your eyes. It takes you a moment to decide how to start, and you try not to keep him on his toes too long. It still startles him when you finally speak a few moments later.

You decide to just bite the bullet and jump right into it. “Seokjin, do the two of you feel comfortable here?”

The male balks at your question, eyes wide as he finally looks at you. His knees drop into a cross-legged position against the bed as he straightens, sputtering. “What? Of course we do, you’ve given us everything.”

You wonder if he realises he’s fallen out of his upset character but push the thought aside in favour of continuing your interrogation, setting the grounds so you can lead up to a certain point. Distantly, you register the sound of pipes creaking in the walls as water is shut off and the sound of jazz music disappearing to a muffle. You shake your head at the male, but smile at his words. “Seokjin, what I mean is, are the two of you comfortable— do you feel at home?”

At those words, the hybrid freezes, staring at you with wide eyes. After a few moments he attempts to form a response, the conflict behind his eyes making your heart clench painfully. “I… we…”

You sigh, offering the male a slightly sad smile. “Seokjin, it’s okay. I… I’m sorry. I realise that I could have been doing a better job, with this whole thing. I should have done more to ease you guys into this, and reassure you.”

The male is silent, his eyes glistening slightly. You continue, “I realised earlier that it’s possible you don’t feel like… like this is a permanent home for you, that you could feel as though I’m just a middle ground or a foster home and that you can’t really settle or feel secure here. Is that right?”

His mouth falls open, expression conveying just how completely caught off guard he is—you are right, it seems. He can’t seem to muster a response, but his features contort into an expression of guilt.  “y-y/n, I’m sorry—”

Realising the turn his thoughts are taking, you hurry to step closer and sooth him. “No, bub, you don’t have to apologise at all. This one is on me. This is as new for me as it is for you two, but that doesn’t excuse it. I need to do better, and I will. I…”

At the barest sound of shuffling, you turn over your shoulder and hold your arm out invitingly; Taehyung stands clad in his stripy pyjamas in the doorway and regards the two of you with wide, watering eyes, apparently having heard your conversation thus far. The second he sees your invitation he darts forward, perching on the bed in front of you and clutching the outstretched hand he’d grabbed on his way past.

You take a deep breath before looking both of them in the eyes, one at a time, and speaking. “I want this to be your home. I want you to feel comfortable, and safe, and loved. I want you to know that this isn’t a short-term commitment for me, okay? I’m not going to ever suddenly change my mind, I’m not going to stop caring for you or wanting you around.”

Your voice softens as you take in the way their eyes water slightly. “You can let go of that guard you have over your hearts, and you can let me in. I promise that I will take care of you. You’re safe here, alright? I’m not… I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I promise.”

“y/n…” Seokjin’s voice wobbles, his chin trembling.  You reach up and wipe away the beginnings of tears, doing the same to Taehyung who moves and nuzzles his face into your touch eagerly. It soothes you to see his stormy mood from earlier has vanished completely.

“It’s alright, you don’t have to say anything.” A smile tugs your lips, a tender feeling warming your chest. “But… I do have something else to say.”

They both seem a little wary at your words, but relax when you cup their cheeks—Seokjin has long since moved over on the bed so you can reach him.

“I want to say I’m sorry, for not being more knowledgeable about hybrid things,” you say, catching the confused look in their eyes. “I’m going to do more research in the future, but for now…”

They seem to guess where you’re going with this, cheeks colouring. Seokjin mumbles, “You’re talking about how we’ve been acting, aren’t you.”

When you nod, he seems a little apprehensive and anxious. You speak before he can come to any drastic conclusions. “It’s because I come home smelling like other hybrids, right? And you don’t like smelling other hybrids on me.”

Now that you’ve voiced it, the two of them have the decency to appear somewhat embarrassed and chastised. They nod, heads hanging slightly, and you fight back a chuckle. At least they’re aware that it’s not an appropriate behaviour, though it’s not like they can help it. It’s instinct for them, and while its hard for you to wrap your head around as a human, you accept it. You accept them.

“You can scent me, you know.”

At your words, their heads whip up so fast you’re worried they’ll have whiplash from the sheer jerkiness and speed of the movement. Taehyung’s mouth has dropped completely open, eyes blown wide as he stares at you in disbelief—his whole face slowly stains pink and when you turn to regard Seokjin you find the fox hybrid in a similar state.

“Wh-what did you say?” he asks, so softly you almost wonder if you imagined it. He stares at you like he can hardly believe such words would come out of your mouth, like he’d never even considered the possibility.

“You can scent me,” you repeat, head tilting slightly. “I read that it’s something you need to do to feel secure, and comfortable… am I wrong?”

Taehyung’s mouth snaps shut and he shakes his head fervently, hands clutching yours at his cheek. Seokjin hurries to elaborate.

“No! No it’s not wrong, we… it’s an instinct…” he trails off, biting his lip. “We didn’t know… didn’t think you would be comfortable with it, b-because it’s…. it’s kind of weird….”

You tut, tapping your hand against their cheeks softly but enough to startle them. “You sweet fools,” you say, grinning—their ears perk up at the affection in your tone, tails twitching as though they contain the urge to wag. “I didn’t accept you unknowingly, I realised it would come with new territory and new things I hadn’t heard of or done before. Also, my cute boys, please don’t make my decisions for me. From now on, please tell me when something is troubling you, alright? Let’s keep honesty and openness as our policy. I really want the two of you to be happy.”

The two of them are nodding again before the last word even leaves your mouth, pressing their faces to your palms like eager puppies. It makes you giggle a little, and at the sound they both light up, tails giving a small wag.

“We understand, y/n,” Seokjin says, smiling and blowing you away for a moment with his beauty. “Thank you.”

You nod, appeased for now, and let a few moments of contented silence fall between you all before Seokjin is shifting suddenly, looking very much like he has something further to say. You look to him pointedly and he grows sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck shyly.

“Uh, about what you said earlier… c-could we…?”

You snort softly, sending him a reassuring smile. “Yes, Seokjin, you can scent me. Do what you need to do, pretty boys. I’m yours however you need me.”

The two of them are immediately visibly giddy at your words, though something foreign and dark sparks to life in their eyes. You don’t have enough time to decipher it before Taehyung is lurching forward, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you backwards onto the bed with him. Seokjin immediately shuffles back to accommodate, slotting himself perfectly into your free side when Taehyung nestles into the other. They seek out the crook of your neck on instinct, burying their faces there in sync and making you shiver slightly from the sensation.

They rub their faces against the skin, cheeks pressed to your shoulders, and keep that up for a while. You’re curious as to why that is all they’re doing; when you looked it up earlier, several sources said that certain acts embed the scent more deeply than others. Like rubbing their cheeks against you, versus licking, or even soft kisses as some sites had informed you. Different actions made the scent stronger. Although, you know that neither of them have been in an environment where they’ve been able to do this before, so you know this is all new territory for them as well and they’re unsure of their boundaries. Right on cue as you think this, you sense Seokjin grow slightly tense next to you, his movements slowing.

“y/n…”

You turn, pressing a kiss to the top of his head between his ears. “Seokjin, I know. Do what you feel you need to.”

With verbal permission from you, he sags in relief. At once he returns to clinging to you with a hand clutching your hip on the opposite side, worming beneath the edge of your shirt so he is closer to you. Taehyung shuffles on your other side, doing the same. You feel your heartrate pick up slightly from the way they nuzzle into you, lips brushing your sensitive flesh. It doesn’t help that all you read before is fresh in your mind and you know how scenting can go for hybrids of their type—the idea has your stomach flipping in anticipation.

Taehyung is the first to change his tactics. Burying his nose in your neck, he presses his lips to the skin in a soft kiss before you feel his tongue dart out. It swipes along your sensitive flesh in short strips, the tip of the muscle leaving blots of wetness in its wake—it’s a sensation that tickles slightly as much as it makes your heartrate skyrocket, and you can’t help the soft giggle that slips out as a result. You feel his answering smile moments later.

Seokjin has a similar idea, but his execution differs. His body curls around you, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hip as he begins to pepper soft kiss after kiss along the column of your neck. He pauses as he nears your hairline, taking a moment to bury his nose in your locks and bask in your scent—you shiver at the feeling and he holds you tighter in his arms.

There’s something about the act that seems to make them succumb that little bit more to their instincts. Unexpectedly, they quickly grow a little bolder. Taehyung pulls the thin strap of your shirt down so he can continue his trail down your shoulder and over the curve of your clavicle. Seokjin’s kisses turn open-mouthed, and he seems to have found a place on your neck just under the curve of your jaw where your scent is strongest—lightly, tenderly, he begins sucking over your pulse point. Your breathing hitches unwittingly in response.

At this point you think you’re going to have a heart attack; your pulse is off the charts and your stomach is a live pool of nerves. Even with what you read, your surprised and alarmed and shamefully a little excited at where this is beginning to go.  Through the haze beginning to permeate your brain, you realise you have to stop them in their tracks before they step too far and can’t go back. Still, it all feels so nice…

You’re only jerked into motion when Taehyung moves, shifting closer and holding himself slightly over you as his mouth maps over your clavicle and begins to move further down. Your heart jumps, and with a surprised squeak trapped in your throat you bring your hand to his head right before he reaches the start of your breast, almost at the edge of the singlet.

“Tae,” is all you say, but your tone seems to bring both of them back to the present a bit. Taehyung shudders, letting out a huff before simply dropping his body down half on top of you, head resting in the crook of your neck. Seokjin presses his lips to your skin in one long, final kiss, before burying his face there and relaxing against you as his brother did. Like this, they return to their earlier ministrations, before it began to get… yeah.

Now that they’re no longer making your heartrate jump to unhealthy levels, the longer you’re in their soft embrace the more sluggish and sleepy you feel—their warmth is like a blanket of security and safety thrown over you, their affection soothing any worries or stress you might retain from the week and day. The feeling is mutual; gradually, the two of them begin to slow in their movements, Taehyung’s soft lapping returning to the occasional press of his lips and nuzzle, Seokjin remaining still with his tongue darting out every so often. Without even meaning to, the three of you fall asleep there in each other’s embrace, tension soothed and worries mollified. One last thing crosses your mind before you drift off.

You really are starting to love these two hybrids with all your heart, but after this experience you have to wonder...

Is that the only thing you feel?

a/n: please let me know what u think,, and lmk if u enjoyed this with a like and/or rb!! also feel free to drop an ask, i’m keen to know what u thought! thank u for reading and supporting me!! <3

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[odelschwanky]

Don’t Leave (Coyote Starrk x Female Reader)

Word Count: 4055

**SMUT**

You sat there looking out at the desolate black of Hueco Mundo. The sand was so pretty, how it danced like gray glitter on the whispering wind.  The sky was deep, the clouds moved ever so slowly, and the horizon was just a thin line that you couldn't even decipher. Your hair stirred in the wind, only slightly, as you sulked and stared out at the only place you've ever known.

"Why are you out?"

You turned slowly to see him, and your heart jumped. You smiled softly as you admired the way his chestnut tinted hair swayed, grazing his shoulders. His silver eyes narrowed at you, and he appeared slightly concerned. It wasn't like him to show much emotion. You could see the slight furrow in his brow and the softening of his frown. He was worried about you, even though he wouldn't admit it. You could just tell.

"I wanted to look," you say quietly, turning back to the empty world that matched your heart. You didn't get to see the outside very often, for you were always deep inside the fortress of Las Noches. You were always inside that room. How were you an Espada, one of the most powerful beings in Hueco Mundo, yet so tamed and broken? You never understood it, but that's all you ever knew.

"It never changes, (y/n)."

He comes to your side, not quite standing shoulder to shoulder. You could still feel his pressure next to you. It was... overwhelming. He was always so intense. That intensity made you feel safe.

"I know," you reply because there wasn't any purpose in arguing. It did change. The wind was blowing Northeast today. Well, this time. You couldn't keep track of the days here. All you ever saw was the perpetual night. The only indication to the time was the slow and lonely cycle through full and empty that the moon traversed between. This time it was almost full.

He waited outside with you generously, allowing you to drink in the gloom for a while longer. You grabbed his hand when you were finished, and he took it firmly in his. He was wearing gloves, like usual. You liked the way the leather purchased in your hand, but you liked the way his skin felt much better. You haven't touched his hand in a long while. You thought about the last time, months ago perhaps. You sighed with the longing for it as he walked you back inside.

Your footsteps brilliantly resonated throughout the long empty halls of marble, almost as loud as the silence. You decided to ask him since you didn't ask for permission today. He never liked it when you disobeyed him, but he never seemed to punish you for it.

"Can I look outside again tomorrow?" You turn to glance at him. You didn't know what he would say. You hoped he would let you.

He grunted, running his hand over his neck. You were approaching the room. You didn't want to go back in there. You desperately wanted to stay, at least in the hallway, holding his gloved hand.

"Aizen won't like that," he sighed lazily.

Aizen never liked anything you did or didn't do. Anything that had anything to do with you, Aizen was already disapproving. You didn't understand why he hated you so.

"Then again, he never likes anything." He seemed to say exactly what you were thinking. Starrk looked at the ground and takes a deep breath again. He seemed to be trying to find either an excuse to keep you in or an excuse to let you out. You couldn't tell which. You patiently looked at him in eager anticipation. You loved the passive pout he always wore on his face.

"Maybe. Be good and I'll decide later."

"Okay," you say without protest.

You arrived at the place where you've spent years, maybe more, (you didn't know). You couldn't keep track of time because your monotonous life only had a few irregularities.

He pushed open the stone door you left unbarred when you escaped. Starrk looked at you with a mixture of annoyance and reprimand. You know better than to leave, he seemed to say with his gaze. And you didn't even try to be subtle about it either.

You both enter the dark, cold room. Starrk glances at the back wall with his eyes opened only a little larger than the restricted expression he kept them in. You hoped this meant he was pleased.

"What's this?"

You had done some painting while he was away. You hadn't seen him for a few days maybe. The black ink was now dry on the canvas you had propped up. The work was taller than both of you put together and wider than that. You had finished it before you had gone outside.

"It's something I did while you were gone," you tell him. He hadn't let go of your hand yet. You didn't want him to let it go. You wish he wouldn't leave so much.

"It's a beautiful painting." He said, assessing it. He seemed unimpressed. You sank, despite his compliment.

"Do you mean that?" You inquired this, not taking your eyes off of him.

He nods.

"I painted it for you." You squeeze his hand.

Starrk smiles for the first time in a long while. Seeing it made you happy.

It was strange, what you felt for him. He kept you locked up in a prison, not allowed to see or be seen by others, but you didn't hold any contempt for him. He likened you to some kind of pet, keeping you in a kennel all day, but you knew that he was keeping you safe. He was the only person you were allowed to see. When you think of human interaction, you think of him. All of your memories are made with him. Your life revolves around him. You were okay with that.

"Why?"

You look at him, confused. "What, you don't like it?

"It's not that. I'm grateful." He turned to you, face stone, void of emotion. "Why do you do these things for me?"

It wasn't the first time you had done a generous act for him. Many times you've made art for him. You've brought him things you find in the sand of Hueco Mundo, little trinkets you'd like him to have. You've made food for him on many occasions. You gave him gifts.

"I know you have the capacity to think. Why don't you want more for yourself?"

You did want more. You wanted freedom, autonomy, liberation from this place. You wanted to see a more beautiful world, like the one Starrk told you about when he went away to fight the Soul Reapers. You wanted to be free of this horrid, horrid place but the desire was never enough to light a fire under you and cause you to pursue it. The desire to be at Starrk's side was stronger.

"I... do." You say quietly. You wanted to be more. To him.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Did he feel guilty? Sad? Confused? Angry? You didn't want him to feel like this.

"You never wonder why, or who caused you to be this way? Or are you content with living like this?" He walked away from you, pacing about the room slowly, and deliberately.

You did wonder. You wondered about it all the time. Why you kept like bird when you had the tattoo on your front saying you were an Espada? Why didn't you have any knowledge of what you used to be? You didn't know anything except for him.

"Of course I wonder," you reply. You never raised your voice. You didn't have it in you to do it. You were making him upset, but he was breaking your heart.

"Then why don't you ever ask me what happened? Doesn't that matter to you?"

"I would like it to matter...  but it doesn't," you say.

It didn't.

Whether you knew about your past or not, nothing was going to change, was it? That's the only thing that you had faith in, was that things would be the same. "You know that, Starrk."

Starrk sighed again, shaking his head. He looked at you tentatively. He wanted to say something, but he decided against it. You could see it on his face. The single stream of light from the tall window high in the room crossed his face with an intense white glint. You could see every strand of hair glimmer, every strand of his stubbled goatee and thick brows.

"You make everything so hard."

"St- Starrk?" The tears pricked and began rolling down your face in one swift motion. He looked displeased with you. What did you do wrong?

The fury in his face wavered for only a moment when he saw you start to cry. As quickly as he faltered, he bulwarked his expression with deep-set brows, forming in a tight disapproving line.

"Don't leave again." He commanded.

Your stomach dropped as he turned to go. You reached out your hand to grab him, but you barely missed him. "What're you talking about?" You called, a lump in your throat.

"You're content with living like a helot. I can't accept that."

This comment shattered you like glass. His tone was full of disdain. He sounded like he hated you. His voice hurt you more than his words. You'd never heard him sound so angry before. Hopelessness filled you like a bubbling pit of tar, causing you to choke up on the hot, black tears.

How dare he be mad at you for that? He was the one keeping you hostage. He locked you away and treated you like a prisoner. How could he be mad at you for not doing anything about it when this was all you knew?

He walked so swiftly away from you, you couldn't bear to see him go. Who knew when he'd be back? He barred the door and was gone. "Don't leave again," you wanted to say to him. Why did he leave you? You were bound to this room with nothing in it, but you were also bound to him. Why didn't he know that?

Defeated, you drug the painting to the corner of the large, empty marble room. You wanted to burn it, but you didn't. It was for him. You still wanted him to have it.

Your bed, a heap of pillows and blankets tucked neatly between two pillars in the center of the floor, looked so inviting. You were destroyed. You just wanted to sob until he came back.

Time passed so slowly. Still, the days had passed. Over and over, the moon fell out of the line of the window, and you were left in total darkness, only for it to come back again. When the moon passed out of view for the tenth or eleventh time, you lit a few candles and placed them near your bed. You lie there, carved out and left empty. You wished another Espada would come to find you, and kill you. That would be the nicest thing they could do. You would ever be so lucky.

The door locked from the inside. You could leave. You could go look outside. You didn't. No desire came to you to disobey him. You couldn't stand yourself. Why don't you care? Why don't you have this desperate need to know your past? Why couldn't you act how he wanted you to? Independent, free-thinking, with a mind of your own.

You didn't know the answer.

You got up and went to the corner of the room, where the silent wall of water for your bathing was. It dripped down into a pool, big enough for you lie down three times over. You shed your clothes and stared at yourself in the solid, unwavering reflection. The number was branded across your chest, down your stomach extending to your hips. What did had it meant before? Why didn't you care? You didn't want to live like this anymore.

Crawling into the water, you lie down in it. Underneath the water, there was more sound than above. You could hear the blood rushing in your ears. You could hear your heartbeat. That was the only way you could even tell you were alive.

You were tempted to breathe in the water. Just to see what would happen.

Could you even drown?

It's been an unbearable time since you'd last seen Starrk. All those horrible things he said to you kept replaying in your mind. He was the only thing you had, the only one you loved. Could you even call it love?

How could you love a man who kept you in a cage?

You opened your mouth and let the water rush in. Your deep breath was a terrible one. Instant regret-filled your lungs, making them burn. Still you took another... but it was too much. Natural instict kicked in and you shot upright through the surface, coughing and sputtering. You threw up the water back in the pool. The retching combined with nausea building up in your gut was too much to take and you began to cry. The silence was broken with your childish bawling. You just wanted something, someone to stop your pain and loneliness.

You wanted Starrk to come back.

After you washed, you fumbled around in the trunk full of the clothes you owned. Most of them were elaborate, white robes with black trim that looked a little like Starrk's. You wore these as an Espada no doubt, but now you just wear them because it's all you have. You managed to find one of the less flashy items, a white shift gown made of satin. You liked to wear it when you slept.

With tears still in your eyes, you crawled into bed and let the feelings of worthlessness, hopelessness, and dread consume you. Within a few hours, you had finally wept yourself to sleep.

***

"Open the door."

You heard a firm order come from he another side. Groggily, you rubbed your eyes and sat up in a hurry. The blankets you buried yourself under had been strewn and draped all over your body. You heard the pounding again, more clearly now that you were awake.

"(y/n), open this damn door."

You throw off your cover and walk to the door, trying to wake up. Your bare feet pattering on the floor was the only noise that echoed in your hollow room.

"Did you hear me?" Starrk sounded urgent. You obeyed. It took all your strength to lift the bar on the door. You were weak, tired, sad. But you obeyed.

"(Y/n)!"

"I'm here."

The heavy stone door inched open and there you stood. Your long hair was still wet, your eyes were sunken and dark circles plagued them. You didn't look well at all. Your grief had gotten the best of you. You missed him.  You didn't smile when you saw him though. You couldn't smile. He had made you think about all of the things you hated about your life and made you realize how miserable you were. You were hurting. The look on his face let you know he could see that.

"What is it?" You ask slowly. You wanted to leap into his arms and tell him how you felt about him. You were so happy to see him, but you were so angry with yourself for feeling that way.

"Why don't you hate me?"

There was no feeling in his face. His indifferent eyes bore into you and it intimidated you. Your tears showed themselves to him and your lips parted to speak. You wanted to explain yourself but there were no words to explain how you felt.

"Because I can't."

Starrk's lips were on your in a second, and he had gathered you up in his arms. A sniffle escaped from you as you let him have your body. Starrk strode in, flawlessly multitasking between holding you in one arm and closing the door with the other, shoving the bar down with no effort at all, locking the both of you in your private world.

The only assertion you showed was the way you shoved off his clothes. Off came his jacket, then his shirt. They fell to the floor in a trail as he marched you to your bed. He laid you down, cupping your neck gently, but kissing you forcefully. The motivation in his motions was ravenous, as he tore your lips apart with his own. You had trouble keeping up. You tried to get some purchase on his back, but you couldn't find the strength to dig your nails in. Instead, you rubbed sensually on his bare skin. His bare skin...

He worked your gown off in no time at all. You couldn't feel the warmth of his touch. All you felt was leather. You seized his hands firmly and aggressively tugged both of the gloves off and forced his hands to your chest for him to grab. He eagerly obliged with a deep grunt and groped your body all over. Your heat was rising, ascending to something otherworldly. You needed him, whether you wanted to admit it or not.

He ground against your hips and you could feel him, gasping through the endless, messy kiss. His pants were hard to move, so you fumbled with them until he barked at you, removing them himself.

You said his name, softly yet desperately as he tried to enter you. It hurt, and you only clutched him tighter.

"Does it hurt?" He asked.

He parted from your lips to ask this important question. You couldn't see his face much in the utter darkness of the room, but you could see his pale blue eyes. The met yours with sincerity and intensity. You nod.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Starrk reassures you. He sounded soothing, exact, intentional. He wanted you to know it was okay. You felt like it was. You weren't worried.

You heard a slight slurp as Starrk licked his finger. It slid down your front, tracing the line of your tattoo and arrived at your sex, which wasn't quite as wet as it needed to be. He gently worked its way in, moving in gentle, circular movements that caused your core to tighten. "Talk to me," he commanded. "How does it feel?"

You nodded slowly and murmured your response. "It.. feels. good," you finished with a moan as he slowly, calmly entered another finger. You reached down to feel him. The length and girth of him was much more than his fingers could imitate. You rubbed your thumb across his opening, causing him to curse. Your thumb became a little slick. You continued to handle him, feeling him twitch in your grasp. He bucked into your hand, letting you know he liked it.

"Starrk..." you began. You wanted to tell him you loved him. It wasn't the right time, but you wanted to tell him anyway.

"Yes?"

Your the rustling of the blankets was all that you could hear beyond your voices. He positioned himself at your opening again, not giving your body any time to readjust back to the tightness it was before. He replaced his fingers with himself smoothly, it was like magic. It was easier this time when he pushed his way inside you. You moaned softly as your body gave way. You couldn't formulate the words.

"That's beautiful," he said, pinching your face in his hand. "You sound... Beautiful."

The way he rocked into your body sent chills through you. He filled you up with every stroke and you tightened around him every time. He went deeper and deeper into you until you could feel his hips press into yours. You were stuffed with him, and you didn't know how much more you could take.

He knelt now, back straight up and grabbed your hips. The inside of your thighs gave in to the pressure from his thumbs and you could feel the bruises already starting to form. In and out he went, growing faster and faster. His strokes were still light, like gentle swift kisses that barely swept the surface of the skin. By now you were a mess of whines and cries, but these were not of pain. You wanted so desperately to climax. The building pressure was aching inside you and all you wanted was release. You grabbed his wrists and squeezed them, saying his name over ad over.

"Starrk...please." You begged him.

"Not yet," he huffs.

He turned you over on to your stomach, and your breath caught. A firm hand came down on your shoulder blade, pressing you down into the cushions. You grabbed onto a blanket for some kind of outlet. Your hands clutched and Starrk lay down on top of you, his heavy weight feeling like a mass of stone. His face came close to your ear, and he spoke to you quietly, deeply, as he continued to drive you.

"Just relax," he groaned, making you feel all of him. His front was hot against your back and your sweat had started to mingle, making all his movements slick. You did as you were told, not knowing how much tension you'd been putting onto yourself. You were tightened on your own volition, and when you relaxed slowly, the sex felt better than you could've imagined.

He turned your head to kiss you, deeply, passionately. It was as if your tongues knew each other already, how familiarly they intertwined. It got messy, and soon his spit was dripping down your chin and your hair stuck to your sweaty cheeks and forehead. Your voice was fading with the strain. He had you in a hold and the only way out was to come.

You finished violently, tensing and clenching and crying loudly. Starrk gritted his teeth, the way you felt was too much for him. He came inside you while the two of you kissed, and he rolled over on his side with you still in his arms. He encased you in his grip, refusing to stop kissing you.

"I... don't want you to hurt anymore."

He said this between kisses, and you could feel the genuineness of the statement. It warmed your heart. All you wanted was him. Now that you had him... you were spent.

You fell asleep kissing him. There wasn't much energy left inside you. You had been hurt and healed by the same person. It exhausted you to the point of fainting and soon you were in a dreamless sleep.

***

The guise of the morning came by soft grey light, leaking in through the single window. You blinked open your eyes to see and feel Starrk still around you. His fingers lazily played in your hair and his legs draped over you, keeping you sheltered and safe. You looked up at him, the exhaustion hitting you.

"You're still here?" You sleepily mumble in surprise.

He plants a kiss on your lips and stirs, letting out a raspy groan.

"You're a wreck when I'm not around."

As much as you didn't want to admit it, he was right.

"Thank you for noticing," you pout, closing your eyes again.

"I didn't know it, but I need you too, (y/n)."

You felt around for his hand, which you found encircling your neck. You wriggled your fingers inside his hold and grasped it softly. "You... need me?"

You were dumbfounded. Starrk wasn't the type to need anyone. He was a lone wolf that didn't talk much to anyone, an apathetic, heartless man. The way he left and went days without coming to see you told you everything you needed to know about that. He couldn't be telling the truth.

"I'm telling the truth. When we're apart, something isn't quite right. I feel... incomplete. I don't like feeling like that."

So he only needed you to clear his conscience?

"But. That hurt on your face, when I came to you last night..." He squeezed your hand. "It looked like you were dying."

You were. You were dying without him. Now that he was here though, you felt better than you ever remember feeling.

"I'm not leaving you anymore."

#coyote starrk #coyote starrk x reader #bleach anime #bleach x reader #bleach one shots

[achliegh]

Bronze

Alright, I had this wonderful idea come into my head about Clayton, honestly he deserves his own fic. So here is his version of events! Lots will tie together with Golden so I recommend you read that as well. But you don’t have to of course.

Explaining:

Before Letter is the present.

Letter is updating the lives of the people back home, of whoever wrote it mostly.

After Letter is memory.

The first few letters will be very awkward because writing letters and not being sure what to talk about and what not to talk about is hard and confusing. Stick with me! Yes, this prologue is just a letter.

TW/CW: Discussions of death, miliatry training, smut, cringy jokes, underage drinking, dumb choices, swearing, hospitals, injuries and death caused by someone close, domestic abuse, blood, unfair treatment from police, false alligations.

Beta: @walking-crisis

Some Characters belong to @lumosinlove

Chapter 4:

Survivors Guilt

Whiskey Lullaby

“Can you at least tell me what happened?” Clay was getting restless, he has noticed a few odd things since he has woken up.

No higher up has come to see how he is doing.

No doctors or nurses have come to check on him while he is awake.

His guy, Grev, is always in the room. Sitting in the same chair. Looking at the same book or newspaper.

It made him think about his training, maybe he was a POW and didn’t even notice.

“I can tell you what happened if you think you can handle it.” Grev looks up from his newspaper with a playful look. Clay rolls his eyes.

“I think I can handle it.” He looks down at his hands and mentally prepares himself for something terrible. Being in a hospital reminds him of his ex when she threw shit at him after he broke up with her.

“You know your friend, Bryan? Well, it turns out he was struggling with an undiagnosed mental illness, the pressure of the job and the conditions you were living in caused it to increase in its severity.” He pauses and folds his newspaper over his arm to look Clay directly in the eyes. “He was convinced he was the next target for the mission and decided to take out your whole team. Execution style. There were no survivors.” The music in the background coming from an unknown source sunk into his body.

“Whoa… I-” Clay feels guilt just filling up his body from his toes to his chest like tar, dragging him down.

He was the only one who survived.

Clay,

Ifuckingmissyou,youfuckingdickhead!IhateyouIhateyouIhateyou!

Please come home…

Please.

Love, Reg

Ashley gets in the truck and gives Clay a sweet kiss on the cheek, catching him by surprise. She was in a good mood, but he knew it wouldn’t last long after they had a talk. He really hoped she wouldn’t somehow convince him into sex after the talk but knowing her she fucking would. He just turned the radio up to keep her from talking about anything.

Pulling into his driveway he was getting sweaty. He was nervous. He should have done this in public. He knew she would lash out but he really wanted this to be just between them. Walking into the house he feels her arms wrap around his waist and she nibbles on his neck. He gently gets out of her grip and turns around to look at her. Thanking the good lord that his parents were gone. The radio in the kitchen was on the same station as it was in his truck.

She is looking at him like he is insane. She may be skinnier and not as built as clay but he knows she has some power behind her words… and a good throwing arm.

“Ash-” She cuts him off by pulling him into a rough kiss, again grabbing her shoulders he pulls away and keeps her at arms length away. “Can you let me say what I need to say?!” He huffs annoyed.

She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms, then gives him a ‘get on with it’ motion with one of her hands. He lets go of her shoulders and takes a deep breath. Before he can even get a word out she interrupts him.

“I knew you weren’t manly but… all this ‘I want to talk about my feelings’ shit is getting annoying.” She examines her nails and shifts so she is slouching, leaning onto one of her hips. “Get on with it!” She snaps at him.

“I want to break up.” He speaks fast and jumbled but knows she got the message from how her face goes through many different emotions. Shock, confusion, thinking, to anger.

“EXCUSE ME! You.” She gestures up and down at him and takes a step forward. “Want to break up… with ME.” She gestures to herself. Laughing annoyed she puts her arms to her sides and starts flexing her hands. Clay backs up to hit the little table they have next to the wall phone that his mom sits at in a fancy chair to talk to his extended family.

“Yeah, I do.” He stands up straight and looks down at her as she gets right in his face. What he didn’t think about is that his mother's favorite item in the house was also on that table. A glass lamp that cost ‘an arm and a leg’. It’s a heavy son of a bitch too, so when it suddenly was being thrown at his face, he was so shocked he just stood there and let it shatter. Falling backwards taking the table down with him, he sees stars popping in his vision.

He feels blood dripping into his mouth and nose but he is so dizzy that any movement made him feel sick. He saw a blur move closer to his face.

“You’re nothing more than a criminal anyway.” She stands back up and uses the phone on the wall to call 9-1-1. Putting on her best sob, he hears her screaming into the phone before everything goes black.

Waking up he is in a hospital room. Monitors hooked up to him and he can only see out of one eye. He freaks out for a moment trying to reach his face but his arm is handcuffed to the bed… he realizes after a moment that it is gauze that is blocking his vision and he calms down.

“Good morning.” He jumps a little and looks over to see Sheriff Johnson sitting in the chair next to his bed. Fuck. He stands up and walks over to Clay, slapping a folder of pictures in his lap. Confused Clay looks up at him.

“I want a Lawyer.” He knows better than to try to talk to Sheriff Johnson without legal help. The death stare he gets from the sheriff is one he will remember forever. He could hear his mom and dad… and Eloise maybe outside the door trying to be let in but the officers at the door were denying them access. The sheriff walks away and talks to the officers real quick.

Hours later of nurses poking at his face and him getting medication. The family lawyer finally shows up. After hours of looking at the pictures of Ashley’s “bruises” which were really just red marks on her pale ass skin from him holding her away from him. The lawyer said some lawyerish stuff and finally got the police and Ashley to drop the charges.

Clay was exhausted, falling asleep before he even saw his parents that day.

Waking up a second time in the hospital he looked down to see his wrist was no longer attached to the bed and his parents were sleeping in the chairs next to his bed. Clay isn’t much for crying in front of people, even while sleeping. The only person he has ever been comfortable crying in front of has been Leo. But Leo isn’t here right now… and Clay really needs to cry.

So, he did. Silently. In the hospital bed next to his parents sleeping in chairs.

#leo knut #clayton bruss #finn o'hara #logan tremblay #thomas walker #noelle tremblay #james potter #sirius black #remus lupin #sweater weather #lumo

[eggxeggxegg]

All right. I compiled and fleshed out the wholesome angbang & story’s all off concept idea.

Melkor is actually a rather gentle person, albeit a chaotic disaster. He cares quite a lot, and it pains him that despite giving it his all, he ruins everything he touches and can only create corruption. Eru illuvatar gave him the self awareness of the role he was forced to play, and this causes him great sorrow, anger, and bitterness.

In the beginning, eru illuvator created the ainur and gave them singing lessons. Mairon often ditched his lessons and hid in the void. Melkor also hung out in the void and saw this beautiful unflickering flame: mairon. But mairon was always just out of melkor’s reach.

The reason melkor was hiding out in the void was because he was searching for something to fill the vacuum of darkness inside him — a fire greater than him that couldn’t ever be put out. And when he saw mairon, Melkor knew he had finally found what he was searching for.

Melkor adored Mairon from the start. And for awhile it was unrequited. Imagine melkor on his knees gazing in reverence at Mairon, and mairon is like, okay yeah cool cool I got to get back to work now. Mairon was called the admirable because he had a very strong work ethic. When mairon left the ainur and openly declared allegiance to him, Melkor gave him angband in gratitude.

Melkor always regarded mairon as his equal, and in fact considered mairon to have a greater value than himself. Mairon was the one who held him down, and melkor knew he needed mairon more than mairon needed him. Mairon brought the order within melkor’s chaos. everthing melkor did, mairon had a part in. While mairon could (and did) stand quite well on his own without melkor, Melkor functionally could not. And in the end, when his bleeding wounds couldn’t heal, his damaged foot made it hard for him to walk, and his fear became debilitating, he was incredibly indebted to mairon for picking him up each time he fell.

Melkor stole the simarils as a gift for mairon. All the pretty stars shine for you my love, Melkor told mairon. (From the simarillion I directly quote, “the silmarils of their own radiance shown like the stars.”) After seeing what efforts it took melkor to get the jewels for him, mairon put them in a crown he forged for melkor to wear. Keep them safe for me, yeah? Mairon said. Melkor promised he would always wear crown, and he never did take it off. That’s why he was so angry when Beren and luthien stole one of the silmarils from his crown; he felt he had failed mairon.

It was only after melkor was sent into the void that mairon realized he never told melkor, never explicitly said the words, that he loved him. And it with him gone, he dicovered that though he could cope without him, but he didn’t want to.

melkor willingly became weaker in order give away his power to strengthen the world and others. So naturally he transferred much into mairon. And mairon tranferred that into his ring, so as to have a piece of melkor still with him. The ring corrupts people beacuse melkor can only create corruption.

Mairon also made a religion to worship him. tar-mairon was not in his temple laughing evilly when numenor fell, he was amongst all the citizens who were left behind, most begging him to save them. But all he could do was helplessly drown with them as the great waves ate the island, knowing that it was all his fault.

Mairon’s appearance was always beautiful, not some false guise he put on to deceive. Whether he was annatar, tar-mairon, alone where no one else could see him, it was the same appearance. He shape shifted into other things, but this was his default appearance he wore on arda. The name sauron the abhorred was one of those ironic titles. He had no vanity; he cared not for himself that his beauty was stripped from him. His only thought was, no don’t take my hair, Melkor loves my hair.

During his fight with elendil and gilgalad, mairon expected to lose. He’d never been much of a warrior. He forged swords, didn’t fight with them. He was much better behind the scenes, making plans and using words as his weapon. Also, he wasn’t even wearing armor. (In the books, there wasn’t any mention at all that he wore frightening armor. Only that he was tall, gave off deadly heat, and his hands were charred and uncovered). It was a last minute oh shit my side is being slaughtered, I need to help them. Armor takes awhile to put on, and he didn’t have time. He grabbed the closest sword he could find and gave it his best shot. Gilgalad and elendil only died because of getting fatal burns.

But in the very end, mairon followed melkor into the void and was finally reunited with him once again. So that’s sweet.

#sauron #mairon #melkor #morgoth #angbang #wholesome angbang: the story’s all off

[melisa-may-taylor72]

Accolades such as “greatest single long-playing achieve­ment since Sgt. Pepper” and “the most important record album ever made” fall over Queen’s latest album as easily as butter melt­ing on a hot potato—but few realize what a hot potato the album actually was in its pre-release days. It took a bevy of high-powered attorneys, some low-life finagling, and more than the usual amount of wheeler­dealing just to get the album out without its being hacked to death by defamation-of-character suits.

Guitarist Brian May explains: “I’m in real difficulty here because I’ve been threatened with libel because our old management had a good go at stop­ping the album coming out. They thought “Death on Two Legs’’ was about them. They wanted us to take the track off and we nearly had to, and in fact they got a load of money out of our publishing company be­cause it supposedly was libelous, but it’s never been proven. It’s all very stupid—they wanted to sue Freddie, the band, the publishing company, and the record company.”

All very dramatic stuff, but a band like Queen survives not on operatic finesse alone, but on gut-level melo- dramatics in the business department as well. When you produce your rec­ords, write the songs, play all the in­struments, and do everything your­self, chances are you’re going to have to pay some legal dues, too. But ah! the rewards—such as the single, “Bo­hemian Rhapsody,” hanging into the #1 spot in the British charts for seven weeks in a row!

“We’re a bit more in the public eye now, we’re starting to get recognized a lot more,” says Brian May. “We’re carrying on working just as we did before, but obviously we’re very pleas­ed with how the record’s doing. It’s sold more than a million copies in England— can’t believe it.” But it’s true: Queen’s stature in England has risen from that of The #1 teenage hard rock band to that of the-group- that-made-the-single-that-every-house- wife-knows-by-heart”.

What propelled Queen in that di­rection is their Night at the Opera album, a slight departure from what Queen fans know to be the Queen sound. The hard rock screams have temporarily subsided, replaced by ex­perimentation with different voicings of instruments and production tricks. Those who found Queen’s approach overdecibelled can relax to the quiet “ ‘39” or “Good Company” and tap their feet to “Lazing on a Sunday Af­ternoon” without fear of being gui- tarred to death. “It’s just what came out,” says Brian. “They’re offshoots of our main direction. There’s plenty of time for the rock.”

“The album wasn’t really supposed to go in the direction that it did, it was just the songs we had. While we were making it we were thinking, ‘Yeah, it is getting a bit light,’ but rather than fight against it we de­cided to do it properly and then think again afterwards. So instead of try­ing to heavy up the lighter things, we pressed on. We had a few things we didn’t use, but we’re getting more demanding of ourselves. There are a few heavy things kicking around, but we may use them on the next record.”

The two strongest forces in Queen have always been Brian and Freddie. With A Night at the Opera, where experimentation and branching out in new directions are the most obvious characteristics, the personalities of the band are often obscured by the newly emerging elements. “Some­times I feel that Freddie and I are going in different directions, but then he’ll come up with something and I’ll think, ‘My God—we do think alike.’ When I’m working on one of his things I can tune in very easily to what guitar part he wants, and vice-versa. In terms of what we’re trying to do in songs, we are moving in different directions, but I think that could be a good thing.”

QUEEN II: Critical response to the band is now almost unanimous­ly favorable in both Great Britain and the United States, which is quite phe­nomenal when you stop and think of how anxious many critics were to pan them two years ago.“I’m not going to take it too seriously,” Brian says, “because I remember what the critics said about Queen II. It would seem that everybody is beginning to like us. … very much. I can take it at that level, but there’s no doubt in my mind that sometime in the future there’ll come a time when we get slagged for everything. Queen II is still my favorite of the Queen albums, certainly the most daring. Especially for the time. I think we’re still finding our feet now, and the way I feel about the new album is that we’re searching for new directions and most of them are sort of half-formed. We’ve got the Queen II feel in some places, and in others we’ve got the Sheer Heart Attack polish. I don’t think we’re quite sure where we’re going”.

“This album, at the very least, ne­gates all the comparisons to Led Zep­pelin that we’ve been living with for the past three years. I think Physical Graffiti is amazing, by the way. I saw Zeppelin at Earls Court, and I met Pagey afterward, for the first time. It was great, he was very nice and gentle. I respect him a tremendous amount for “Kashmir” and “The Light,” for being able to put his brain on record—- it wouldn’t matter if he couldn’t play a note.”

Economic criticism has been less favorable, however. A Night at the Opera was wide­ly rumored to be “the most expensive album ever made” when it was released, a point which Queen’s management denies. Nevertheless, Queen has been taken to task by quite a few English journalists for spending so much money estimated at £30-40,000—making one record. Brian has a retort: “We wouldn’t have spent so much money if the studios weren’t so bloody expensive!

The album was recorded in seven of them, sometimes three at once.” We weren’t mucking about for any of it, it was four months of solid work. It came down to having the equipment available for four months, and we didn’t begrudge the amount of time spent in the studios, but it comes to a fair amount of money. There’s a lot of things that seem light, like “Good Company,” which actually took a great deal of time and care. All those trumpets and clarinets being fashioned from guitar sounds—I took it quite seriously because I wanted to do it right, even though it was a light­hearted thing. We worked too hard for our own health, we got a bit down and depressed.”

While Queen was laying about England between record and tour, a few of them got going on some independent projects. Brian and Roger produced an R&B group’s single, but there were some record company hassles and it may be some time before the record gets released. And on the eve of the Amer­ican tour, Freddie Mercury went into the studios with a singer/songwriter managed by the Rocket Organization (which manages Queen as well) to try his hand at production. “Eddie How­ells is the guy’s name, and he’s man­aged by David Mead, and they’re do­ing a single for Warners. I’m play­ing some guitar on it.” Brian re­strained himself from going out on any limbs before the American tour in order to get himself physically fit. His health had been a crucial prob­lem on an earlier American tour, and he’s not particularly anxious to spend time in hospitals when he could be on­stage instead. “I actually get more tired offtour than ontour,”he admits. But I am in good health.”

HAIRY LEGS: Once the English leg of the tour did get started, word started to flow very quickly back to the States about Queen’s dramatic stage show—a stage show to end all stage shows, with Mercury donning short-shorts to add a bit of the hairy leg to Queen’s otherwise pristeen pre­sentation. “The show is the same, but different,” Brian says confusedly. “We’ve merely developed what we did before with some new material from the new album. It’s a bit of re­shuffling. Plus we do “Doing All- right” from the first album, which we’ve never done onstage before. And “Seven Seas of Rhye,” which we’d do in England but never in America be­fore. It’s quite a lot different, ac­tually.”

American audiences got their first chance to sample the new presenta­tion on January 27 in Waterbury, Conn., when the first concert of Queen’s scheduled 32-date, 21-city American tour got underway in the Palace Theatre. After arriving in the States at Kennedy International on January 20 and spending a couple of days in New York for interviews, Queen began five days of rehearsals at the Palace to ready their show for American fans across the country.

After Waterbury they dove headfirst into the intensive six-week tour, which featured extended runs in New York, Philadelphia, and Los Angeles before its scheduled end March 12 at the San Diego Sports Arena.

Despite the novel direction of the new album, onstage Queen proved to be the same rocking outfit they’ve always been, letting loose with the same kind of guitar-bass-drums-piano barrage they’ve delivered in the past. “We don’t do “39” or “Lazing on aSunday Afternoon” in our show,“ Brian explains. He seems a bit defensive of Queen’s rock spirit, which is kept intact in the live set by “BohemianRhapsody,” “Sweet Lady,” “Prophet Song” and the deletion of the “experimental tunes” from A Night At the Opera.

By the by, those who missed Queenon earlier tours but want to see how they’ve changed now have the means. Queen bave joined the prestigious ranks of the Zeppelins, the Beatles, and the Rolling Stones whereby sorne illegal entrepreneur has issued a boot­ leg album of one of their American concerts. “I hate those things-they rarely give an accurate picture of the group,” Brian states unequivocally, and in this case he’s right. The Queen bootleg has transistor radio fidelity, and the only truly audible members of the band are Brian and Freddie. Yet the fact that a bootleg exists confirms the fact that Queen is now well on their way to the top.

CIRCUS MAGAZINE, APRIL 1975

@natromanxoff, @mephisto92, @moviestorian, @x5vale, @39-brian, @onegoldenglance, @crosmopolitan, @an-abyss-called-life, @his-majesty-king-mercury, @i-live-for-queen, @brian-39-may, @toomuchlove-willkillyou, @brimaymay, @sail-away-sweet-sister, @drummerqueenrmt, @old-fashioned-roger-boy-deactiv, @briianmaay, @l-over-bo-y, @inui-mycroft, @deacytits, @iminlovewithrogscar, @drowseoftaylor, @brianmayislongaway, @balticlover, @astrophysicist-guitar-god​, @miez-lakatz, @brianmayoucease, @jesus-in-a-life-boat, @roger-taylors-car, @silapril, @sherrifanciesfriskyfreddie, @tenderbri, @brianmydear, @thosequeenboys, @millionairewaltz-carpediem, @painandpleasure86, @bribrifrenchfry, @xlucylennonx, @a-night-at-the-abbey-road, @inthedayswhenlandswerefew, @madformeddowstaylor, @queenrogertaylorfan, @let-roger-get-a-lunch, @queen-for-life, @rethought, @darlinginnuendo, @mymakeupmaybeflaking, @old-but-still-a-child, @let-roger-get-a-lunch, @warriorteam1924, @funnydressesweirdhairanddance, @painkiller80, @thefanhuman13, @yourtieddownmother, @hgmercury39, @brimi-stardust, @thefairyfellermercury, @retroromantics, @foxmonkey, @sophiaintheskywithdiamonds, @holybrianmaywritingbear, @lydiannode, @39-yellow-daffodils , @ure-gonna-loveme-when-u-seeme, @kaykaybeachgirl, @rhysjoejoshtomfarisblog @redspecialandclogsandcurls, @briansrainbowsocks, @delilahmay39, @ohmybribri, @bless-the-queen, @infunitehearbeat, @sketchiesscketches, @everythingaboutfreddie, @doitforthevine67, @recordsoftheseventies, @tenementfunsterwithpurpleshoes, @drummah-in-a-rocknroll-band, @beatlegirl1968, @maylorsqueen, @shearrehartatacc, @gralto, @alittlepeoplemagic, @rainbowsockbrian, @sailawaysweetbrimi

#Circus Magazine #Queen article

[dallaswinstonsleatherjacket]

Ok y’all, here’s the Dallypop

this is for @chaotically-cas and @naturallesbain cause we love them

*

Soda didn't know where else to go.

He didn't want to go back home, he didn't want to have to see Pony and Darry’s faces, as they tried to make him feel better. He couldn't go to Steve's house, him showing up would make it worse with him and his dad. Two-bit was either drunk somewhere or at home, asleep.

So Soda walked to Bucks, each step heavy, his eyes red and hands jammed in his pockets. He really should have been looking out for Socs, but he wasn't thinking, he never was thinking.

He wasn't thinking, and so that's why he was halfway there, before he realized that Dally could be drunk, or passed out, or even have a girl in his room. What was he doing anyway? He should just go back home...maybe he could stay with Johnny in the lot or something.

But he trudged on, and sighed deeply as he approached Bucks, knocking on the door loudly before stepping back and closing his eyes for a minute.

Buck opened the door, looking startled at the sight of the middle Curtis.

“Hey, Sodapop, you alright? You ain't supposed to be here, you know that.”

“I know, Buck, I’m sorry...please, i'm just here to see Dally..”

“I don't know, kid…”

“Please.”

Buck looked around before sighing. “Fine kid. But no drinking, ya hear, or Darry’s gonna beat the tar outta me himself.”

Soda nodded, slipping inside and keeping his head down, walking straight past the drunks and the strippers and the creeps, and upstairs to the bedrooms. 

Making his way to the one Dally occupied, he slowed down. Was this a bad idea? Was he gonna wake Dally up?

He shook his head. He was here already.

Knocking on the door, he waited. 

“Comin!” he heard someone yell, and his heart jumped, although he didn't quite know why.

The door opened a second later, and there stood Dally, half asleep and rubbing his eyes. He was only wearing sweatpants, which hung low on his hips, and while Soda tried not to stare, he felt it was tremendously hard to do so, because Dallas Winston could be chiseled out of stone.

“Johnny?” he mumbled sleepily, “That you?”

“No, Dal, it's me. Sorry to bother you…”

“Sodapop?”

“Y-yeah..”

“What the hell are you doin’ here this late? It's nearly one in the morning!”

“I couldn't...I couldn't go home.”

Dally looked like he wanted to punch a wall, but instead he said sharply;

“Get inside, Soda. Man, you Curtis kids never think, do ya?”

Dally tugged Soda into the room. Sitting on the bed, he took a deep breath.

“You tell Darry where you were, kid?”

Soda shook his head.

“Oh for fucks sake-hold on one second-”

Dally walked out of the room, leaving the door wide open, and Sodapop hovered awkwardly in the doorway, not quite knowing what to do.

There was a phone at the end of the hall, and Dally stood in front of it, dialing the number quickly and holding the phone to his ear.

“Hey, Darry? It's me.”

There were frantic noises on the other end of the line, and Soda felt his heart sink. He hadn't even told Darry what happened, he must be worried out of his mind…

“No, Darry, I got him, he's here with me right now. Yes, I'm sure, I’m lookin’ at him right now. No, no, he's fine. Dar, I promise.”

Dally listened for a minute, closing his eyes and leaning against the wall. “I’m not letting him head home after dark, Dar. He can stay with me for the night, we’ll be fine. No, he's fine, I told you.”

Dally listened again, before muttering a quick “G’night, Darry” and hanging up the phone.

Turning back to Soda, he ushered him back into the room, shutting the door once again behind him. Crossing the room quickly, he pulled a pair of sweatpants and a shirt out of the old wooden dresser and tossed them to Soda.

“You can change in the bathroom, and then you’re gonna tell me exactly what's going on, ya hear?”

Soda nodded, swallowing before making his way to the bathroom. He didn't want to tell Dally anything, really, but it was better than telling Darry or Pony. He just wanted to go to bed, really, but he knew if Dally wanted him to talk, he would get him to talk.

He walked out of the bathroom a few minutes later, and watched as a very agitated Dallas leaned up against his headboard, grabbing a cigarette off the nightstand and holding it to his lips. Lighting it and taking a deep breath, he looked over to where Soda was standing.

“Come’ere, kid, sit down. I don't bite.”

Soda smiled a little at that, and sat on the bed next to Dally, leaning the same way as him and looking down at his hands in his lap.

It was silent for a bit before Dally finally spoke.

“What happened, Sodakid?”

Soda shook his head, looking up and straight ahead. “Nothin’ Dal. I’m sorry I came here and woke you up.” 

Dally sighed, letting out a small puff of smoke. “I ain’t dumb, Curtis.”

Soda looked over at Dally sideways. 

“Sandy...she cheated on me. Got pregnant with some kid, it ain't mine. She's packin’ her bags and headin’ to Florida tomorrow, as far as I know.”

He felt the knot in his stomach as he spoke, and he blinked away tears, fast. He didn't want to cry any more, especially in front of Dally.

Dally was silent for a minute, only taking short drags on his cigarette and making no comment. When he finally spoke, he sounded tired, a little sad, even.

“I’m really sorry, man. Sucks, doesn't it?” He laughed dryly, putting his cigarette out.

Soda swallowed again, trying to hold back the choked tears threatening to fall. He didn't answer, he didn't know if he could say anything without sobbing.

“I always liked you, you know that, Curtis?”

Soda looked up, a little surprised.

“What?”

“I always thought you were good lookin. Movie-star like, the type you see in films, ya know?” Dally lit another cigarette.

Soda blushed a little, smiling. He heard it often, mostly from flirty girls at the DX, but it was different coming from Dally, somehow.

“And I thought it was crazy, at first, you know? Cause I’m a guy, right? But then I remembered these guys back in New York who liked blokes. Gay, they said. I didn't mind them like some people did, and I guess I know why now.” He laughed again.

Soda didn't really know how to respond, he didn't know why Dally was telling him any of this.

“Anyway, think that's why things never worked out between me and Sylvia. I don’t like girls, and I liked someone else.”

Soda still didn't know what to say, and he hated it, he should say something. But he didn't know what. I like you too? I’ve liked you for years? I'm so happy you felt you could tell me?

But the words got stuck in his throat. 

Dally looked over at Soda, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry for dumping that all on you, man. Know you got plenty of girls you could have.”

Soda shook his head, words still lodged in his throat. “No-no, I've been…” He swallowed, trying to think. “I've been thinking about that...before she even told me all that today…” 

Dally raised his eyebrows, but didn’t comment.

“I’m-I like both, you know? I don't know what that's called or nothing...but I wouldn't be against dating a guy.” Especially not if it's you.

Dally grinned, shaking his head. “Good to know, Soda, good to know.”

The knock on the door startled them both, and Dally got up, stretching before making his way to the door. Soda stayed where he was, he had no interest talking to Darry if he had stormed over here in a panic.

Dally opened the door, and stood there for a second, silent. Then he spoke softly, dangerously.

“You. Get out of here.”

Soda heard the voice that responded, and he sank down in the bed, squeezing his eyes shut and burying his face in his arms, trying desperately not to cry.

“I told you to leave!”

“Please, just let me talk to him!”

“No. You've hurt him enough, leave him alone.”

“I just want to explain!”

“What is there to explain? Huh? You cheated on him.”

It was silent on the other side of the door, and Dally spoke again.

“Leave, now.”

He shut the door, crossing the room and sitting back next to where Soda was.

Don't cry, don't cry, please don't cry, Soda was begging himself, but it was too late, and tears were running down his face, and he was trying not to breathe, not to sob.

“Sodapop…” He heard Dally say, and it was the softest Soda had ever heard his voice.

“I’m sorry-” he gasped finally, “I'm so sorry, Dally.”

“Hey, hey, man, you don't have to apologise.”

Soda shook his head, and before he could even comprehend what was happening, Dally was leaning back against the wall, and wrapping a cautious arm around Soda, and Soda felt himself leaning into Dally, crying into his shoulder as Dally held him.

After a bit, he managed to sit up and wipe the tears from his eyes, smiling sadly at Dally.

“I'm sorry, Dally, I'm being a wuss.”

“You ain’t a wuss, Soda. It's fine. Let's head to bed, okay? It's late enough.”

Soda nodded, so they lay down, and Dally pulled the covers around them both.

“You alright?”

“Yeah” Soda said, but he shivered a little. 

“C’mere, man.” Dally opened his arms a little bit, and Soda stared. Dally, cuddling.

Dally looked at him and grinned, knowing what he was thinking.

“I’m feeling nice tonight, Pepsi-cola. You wanna cuddle or not?”

Soda nodded, blushing again and slipping into Dally’s arms. Head nestled in Dally’s chest, Dally's face was in his hair, and it was all a tangle of arms and legs under the blankets.

Dally was like a heater, and Soda felt himself getting sleepy, yawning and snuggling more into Dally.

“G’night, Soda.”

“Night, Dally. Thank you.”

Soda thought he heard Dally whisper “I love you”, but at that point he was too far asleep to tell.

#fanfic #The Outsiders #dallypop #dallas winston #sodapop curtis #bad writing #starsfics

[sephirothisaslut]

Time Travel WIP

Cloud woke up in a tank. Surrounded by an all too familiar green. He doesn’t try to fight. He gave up long ago. He’s been here for years now. And the only comfort he has are the three child Remnants he was occasionally allowed to interact with.

When Cloud traveled back in time, the very first thing he did was kill Hojo. Because even if Jenova still existed, it was Hojo who triggered Sephiroth’s decline to madness. (it also helped that he first awoke in Aerith’s church. Much closer to Hojo than Jenova). 

He spared Sephiroth. When he first saw him, Cloud froze. He looked so young. Too young to be leading an army. Too young to be a SOLDIER. His mind flashed to Denzel and Marlene. Gaia, they’re nearly his age. So he resolved to save him. Save him from being the murderer he used to will never be.

However, things aren’t as easy as it seems.

The planet wont heal from a single lost life.

Hojo was in a very high position of power. A very coveted position of power. Originally, it was Hollander that was slated to replace him. However, many of Hojo’s assistants have also fought for their right. This started a scientific war between different factions. All vying for the right to be crowned Department Head.

Undeniably, Hollander had the upper hand. But it was one of Hojo’s assistants that rediscovered the secret SOLDIER formula. Allowing them to gain better footing to one day snatch the position on the Board of Directors.

This all happened unbeknownst to Cloud.

The height of the Wutai war was at it’s peak. This caused the urgency for a Department Head to be selected even more large.

Cloud, on the other hand, traveled to Nibelheim to finally destroy the Calamity. (He discovered that the Cloud in this time didn’t exist. After all, how can a single soul exist at the same time. Apparently, the younger Cloud had died falling of the bridge) And he did. Throwing it into a vat of mako in the reactor. But to his surprise, the underground lab had still been occupied. So when he broke in, he had no choice but to fight his way through. Unfortunately, he never made it out.

He found three babies fitted into tanks. Mako being fed into their bodies by a tube. Seeing the Remnants this way broke Cloud. He had previously thought of them as mere manifestations. Born from memories. Created as adults. He had never once thought of them as human. That they had once been children. Like him. Like Sephiroth.

And so, Cloud was captured. Sedated with the drugs they used on Sephiroth. Stuffed unto a steel table. Cut open. Dissected. Used in the same he remembered.

Somehow, the scientists thought that he was one of Hojo’s escaped experiments. In a sense, this was true. However, how else are you going to explain the abundance of mutated S and J cells in him?

So once more, he was called a specimen. This time, though, he was called Specimen J2 instead of C.

At first, this confused Cloud. But as time went by. As the frequency of tests grew. As he spent more time in this horrid nightmare. He finally understood.

He was J2. Jenova 2.0.

Without Jenova, SOLDIER enhancements cant be achieved. And without the Calamity’s cells, new SOLDIERS cant be made. And as the war waged on, they needed SOLDIERS more than ever.

Cloud hadn’t known his J cells had mutated. However it seemed like they did. Producing “better quality cells” as the lab coats said.

And so this is how one of Hojo’s former assistants hopped to win.

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

Cloud woke up in a groggy state. He didn’t know how long he’s been here. He knew it’s been years. But he didn’t know exactly how many. His hair had grown long, nearly reaching his lower back. An indication of the time he’s spent in this hell.

He had once tried to reach Vincent, but it proved too difficult.

It seemed like the staff had dumped him into the observation room once more. Probably to test the Reunion Theory in whatever convoluted way.

The door hissed open, and three children were thrown into the room. Kadaj his the floor with a grunt, while Loz and Yazoo seemed to have passed out.

“You have an hour” one of the guards spat.

Cloud nearly tripped as he ran to them. “Kadaj, what happened”

Kadaj only whimpered as Cloud arranged Loz and Yazoo in a more comfortable position.

“It’s combat day” Kadaj quietly answered.

“That’s today?” Cloud cursed. He must have been in the tanks for a week then. Combat day is a weekly test that involves fighting mutated specimens. All four of them tested to the point of destruction. All of them slowly being toughened to one day be presented to the President as ‘Sephiroths’. All so they can win that stupid position Hojo left.

And the last time Cloud had been awake, it was combat day. 

“Hnn, Cloud?” Yazoo stirred from his unconscious state. 

“Shh, I’ve got you” Cloud gently said. He had grown to like the triplets. At first, it freaked him out when they had called him Mother. But he soon talked them into calling him Cloud. However, from time to time, often when they’re in pain or distress, they’d call for their Mother.

Of course, the reason they’d called him Mother was because he was basically their Jenova (sans the mind control power). When he had asked about calling him Father instead, they merely shook their heads and said  “But Sephiroth is our Father. The doctors said so.”

Loz’s coughing spurred Cloud back to the present.

“*cough* Mother? It...It h-hurts” Loz crumpled into a ball.

“Shit, didn’t they heal you” Cloud cursed again. He cradled Loz, and moved him unto one of the raised platforms in the room. He gestured for Kadaj to coax Yazoo closer.

“H-he...He blocked me from the Zolom.” Yazoo wheezed, clinging tightly to Cloud’s lab gown. “and they...T-they hit me because of it”

Cloud clicked his tongue. Trust the Doctors to classify protection as weakness.

“Cloud?” Kadaj asked from Cloud’s other side. “Will he be alright?”

Cloud gazed down at the children. He wanted to tell it’ll be ok, He wanted to utter those words so much, it broke his heart. But he can’t. He can’t promise something so unattainable. 

“I...I don’t know” Cloud whispered instead.

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

Genesis had called Sephiroth earlier about a possible lab in the Nibel region.

After the Wutai war, Genesis had been degrading. And with Hollander kept occupied by the ensuing bid for Directorship, he was simply “too busy to deal with Genesis’ childish wiles”

Ans so, it was up to the elite four (including Zack) to help scour for a cure. Thankfully, Sephiroth had no love for Hojo’s men, so he frequently targeted their labs under the excuse of inspection.

So when Genesis had informed him of a lab under a ShinRa mansion in Nibelheim, he immediately took a detour from his route home. He instructed his men to continue toward Midgar, and that Zack and he has been assigned another  mission.

When they arrived, the townsfolk had been hospitable but confused. After all, the local monster population was controlled. And they haven’t sent an S.O.S to ShinRa. Too ease their curiosity, Zack just told them it was an inspection on the ShinRa mansion, and that they needn't pay a thing.

Their trek to the mansion was chaotic. Mutated monsters everywhere. Large Nibel Dragons intercepted them as they went higher up the mountains. Black, oozing monsters often attacked from atop the trees. And vaguely looking humanoids screeched at them, alerting nearby mosters.

“Whew! It’s a good thing we got here Seph. These things could’ve killed the townsfolk!” Zack whipped his brow.

Sephiroth narrowed his eyes. “These must be coming from the lab. Although, I don’t think they’re supposed to release their Specimens into the wild.”

“A break out?”

“Possibly”

They continued, and finally reached the mansion. The townsfolk had told them it was abandoned. However, it looked like people lived here. Or used too.

The monsters seem to have come from here. The gaping hole in the floor basically told them everything.

Zack and Sephiroth drew their swords as they descended into the depths of thr lab. Ready to fight and defend at a moment’s notice. It was silent. Only their breathing and footsteps audible. That was until they heard the sound of a fight. However, the grunts they heard are most definitely human.

“Shit! Could it be one of Hojo’s men?” Zack sprinted to the source of the sound, Sephiroth beside him.

Sephiroth was inclined to agree. That was before he heard the sounds of children screaming.

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

“Kadaj! Stay where you are!” Cloud yelled as he took a piece of metal to brandish as a weapon.

It has been luck. A slip of fate. One of the cages where more violent Specimens are kept broke. It allowed them escape. It gave then the chance they needed to finally break free from their rooms. It was pure chance that it happened while Cloud was out of the tanks. 

A chance Cloud was unwilling not to take. 

But he wanted all of them out. He wanted them all to be free. And he won’t be leaving without all of them.

Loz was still passed out from earlier testing. And Yazoo was trying his best to protect him from stray attacks. Kadaj, on the other hand, was corned between a wall and one of the creatures. Cloud was in no better position. He was injured, quickly losing blood to a gash on the side of his abdomen and right arm.

“Damn!” Cloud bit back a wince as he blocked a strike from the massive cat like thing. Black tar oozing from it’s skin like Geostigma. It’s tail is it’s main weapon, slashing and whipping everywhere.

“Kadaj, I’m coming!” Cloud shouted. But to his horror, Kadaj had been hit.

Kadaj’s scream momentarily distracted the creature, allowing Cloud to impale it’s shoulder.

“Kadaj!” Cloud reached out to the child. He thows his body over him, shielding him from the strike.

...But it doesn’t reach them.

Instead, he looks up and sees his once enemy standing above him. Masamune raised. But not toward him. Protecting him.

“Sephiroth?” Was all Cloud could utter as he lost consciousness. 

#sefikura #Sephiroth #sephiroth x cloud #cloud #cloud strife #ff7 #ff7 remake #time travel #remnants #kadaj #loz #yazoo #the remnants #zack #fanfic #wip #my post

[anjuschiffer]

To Kill A Ladybug

I couldn’t help myself but write something for Maribat March, no matter how hard I tried to stop myself. So here’s my contribution to this event. Enjoy!

Maribat March- DAY 15: Gone Wrong

Context: Marinette is Marinette Wayne, the adopted child of Bruce Wayne. She wanted to study in Paris, the Dupain-Cheng’s her host family and family that offered her to use their last name to study in Paris. While they don’t know about her secret identity, Bruce does, but Marinette made him promise to not interfere unless she says so. She didn’t want to rely on her family for help, but fate had other plans for Mari.

----

AO3

He didn’t mean it. Really he didn’t. 

“If you truly cared about me, then why don’t just accept my love for you?!” Chat Noir exclaimed, placing down his foot. Ladybug looked at him with squinted eyes

“Are you being serious right now Chat Noir?” Ladybug said, capturing the akumatized butterfly. “Are you even listening to yourself?”

“Are you being serious?” Chat bellowed, his hand over his heart. “I’ve told you over and over again that I love you and each time you never give me the answer I want to hear.”

“Well sorry to burst your bubble, but I already told you that I don’t feel the same.” Ladybug said, releasing the purified Akuma. “And before you say anything else. I want to clarify something. I’m not interested in looking for a partner, not platonically nor romantically. I want to do this job properly. Until Hawkmoth is defeated, I will not be investing any time into romance.”

Chat scoffed.

“Are you enjoying this Ladybug?”

“Enjoying what?” She really hoped that what she was thinking wasn’t what was going to happen.

“Playing around with me. Playing with my feelings.” Chat emphasized.

He’s going there alright. Disappointed, but not surprised.

“Chat you know that’s not why-”

“Oh I bet it is.” He accused, walking up to her, pushing her back with his finger. “Not only do you like to keep secrets from me, but you also like to play around with my heart.”

 “Chat, that’s not true-”

“Oh, I’m sure it is.” Chat spat, “I bet you’re enjoying all my attention because I bet that no one like the real you.” Something loomed over Marinette, pressing itself onto her being. “I bet the real you adores lying, adores manipulating those around them, not caring at how they hurt others with their words.” At the accusation, Marinette took a step back. 

Again, she was being compared to that girl. That girl that always manages to crawl under her skin. That girl that she was nothing like. Nothing like what Chat was telling her he thought she was. “You do it all for fun, don’t you?” 

“I-I-”

“And maybe I was the first person to actually love you.” He turned to face the city, the chatter and noises became mute. “But how stupid was I to actually love someone like you. Maybe we really weren’t made to be partners. Nonetheless friends.” Chat huffed. “So from now on, do me a favor and take the high road, got it?” He said as he turned to face Ladybug.

 He wasn’t expecting the scene in front of him

His eyes widened upon seeing her face pale, her eyes boring through him, dripping with tears. 

“Is-Is that what you think,” Ladybug started, startling Chat. He’s never heard her voice so wobbly, so... fragile. “Is that what you think is the reason behind me not accepting your feelings for me?” Chat gulped. 

“Ladybug, I didn’t-”

“That I should take the high road?” Ladybug hiccuped, letting out a small giggle afterwards. “That’s the second time I heard that phrase.” She looked at her hands, her tears falling into them. “Both said by people whom I adore and trusted.” She looked back at Chat, who stared back at her with wide eyes, as if he just realized some grand revelation. “Maybe… maybe I really should take that piece of advice.”

With that, she dashed away, Chat’s voice fading as she grew further away from him. 

Little did he know that that was the last time he would ever see her. 

Night turned into days, which turned into a month. A solid month without Ladybug ever appearing. 

Chat had to fight akuma after akuma without Ladybug ever by his side. Sure he had allies, but none could replace the gap Ladybug had left behind. A gap he had caused and ate at his conscience every minute of the day. 

It didn’t help when the day after the whole incident, that Marinette went missing, appearing back to class a whole week later. When Adrien approached her, wanting to confirm his suspicions, she flinched harshly against his touch. After apologizing and telling Marinette that he knew she was Ladybug, her reaction horrified him. 

Marinette went pale, her breathing becoming faster with each inhalation, her eyes quickly darting around the room before she collapsed to the ground. 

Adrien simply stood there, watching and hearing as their classmates scurried to find help, Adrien watching as the world around him moved as he remained still.

A group of paramedics were soon in the class, taking Marinette off to the nearest hospital. 

Had Adrien looked closer, he would’ve seen that she no longer wore the earrings she had once held with great honor. 

He had missed the first of many signs of his bad luck.

That night, Adrien went out on patrol, wiping his tears for what seemed like the umpteenth time. 

Stopping a tiny crime didn’t relieve him of his sorrows, Adrien wanting an akuma to appear so badly so that he can forget the pain swelling in his heart.

That’s when he was taken by surprise, his vision flipping and the air from his lungs escaping him as his back hit the tar of the roof. Preparing to fight back, he froze upon feeling a cold blade pressed against his throat. All Adrien was able to tell from this guy was that he had to have been younger than him, but obviously was more trained than him.

The male was cladded in all black attire, the only color on him were his eyes.

Green met emerald.

“Adrien Agreste.” The person growled, causing the blood on Adrien’s face to drain. How did he know who he was? The only person that knew who he was was the Guardian, but the Guardian had been missing for quite a while.

“Who are-”

“On behalf of the Guardian, I now renounce your duty as Chat Noir. I hereby strip you of your mantle as Chat Noir.” The male spoke, Ariden seeing bloodlust in his eyes. Like if that was going to prevent him from backing off without a fight.

“You can’t just-”

“Orders are orders.” The male said in a monotone voice, shudders rippling through Adrien’s body. “It’s a wonder how she still kept working with such an incompetent asshole like you. If I were Ladybug, I would’ve kicked you off the team the moment I felt you were useless to me or a hindrance to the mission.”

“You know Ladybug?” A scoff.

“Of course. She’s the reason why you haven't been killed yet.” The male pressed his blade further into Adrien’s skin, causing Adrien to whimper. “If it were up to us, you would’ve been skinned alive and then killed.” 

“Us?” Adrien croaked.

“The rest of her brothers. Do you know how much pain you made her go through? For the past week, she’s gone through breakdowns and panic attacks, suffering from depression and anxiety. None of us can touch nor talk to her without her reacting negatively, mumbling self deprecating things about herself.” 

“And that’s just touching the surface.” A new voice added, Adrien watching another male emerge from the shadows. He wore a red helmet, Adrien feeling his heart temporarily stop upon seeing the guns holstered at each side of Red’s side. Adrien didn’t want to know if they truly were real or not.

“All because you threw a tantrum like a child because she said ‘no’ like the right she’s allowed to have.” Another male said, Adrien shifting his eyes to a male sitting on the building’s fence. He got up and started to walk on the fence with no care in the world, almost childlike despite Adrien having the gut feeling that he was the eldest of the new crowd. 

“I didn’t-”

“You’re an idiot if you thought your words couldn’t hurt her.” Another voice chipped. Adrien finally noticed the new person, leaning against Red. “She’s the most kind and caring person we know and you tore her because you’re spoiled ass couldn’t take a rejection. Even I know how to take one.”  

“So you’re going to do what we say unless you want to die tonight.” The young assasin said, Adrien gulping and giving an okay.

-----

Adrien watched as news spewed their opinions and theories of what happened to Ladybug and Chat Noir grew, the media wondering where they went and what was going to happen to Paris now that they were gone. 

Adrien already knew the answer to one question, but was also looking for answers for that second question himself. Where was his Lady? Where was Marinette?

The answer was soon given in the form of Adrien arriving home one day, seeing national forces in front of his house. There he saw his father get escorted to a car. Ladybug stood in the distance, Adrien cheering up upon seeing his Lady.

Or so he thought it was his Lady. 

When he had gone up to talk with her, she simply glared at him, ignoring his pleads of wanting to speak with her. It took the new cat to stop Adrien from pestering his partner.

“She obviously doesn’t want to speak to you.” The cat said, standing between the new Ladybug and Adrien.

“But I have to speak-”

“How insensitive.” The Cat said, shaking his head. “Didn’t you know? The new Ladybug can’t verbally speak? She can only physically speak.”

“What is that-”

“Sign language.” Cat said, narrowing his eyes in an all familiar fashion. “She’s a mute.” With that simple explanation, Adrien was left alone, the police surrounding him and taking him back into his empty home, giving him a briefing of what had just happened.

His Lady was gone, so was Hawkmoth, whom he found out that day was his own father. 

He had no one left. His aunt wanted him to come to England, Adrien compromising with her to let him finish his studies in Paris before heading to England. It worked. He was to live alone, but Adrien denied this fate.

He had one last hope.

However, that faith he had started to dwindle when he later found out that Marinette was no longer in their school, no longer in Paris, nonetheless France. She had left for the States, with a new family.

He was truly alone now.

Adrien struggled to keep his grades up, his health depleting thanks to his lack of self care. He hadn’t eaten a proper meal in days nor had a proper night’s rest. 

He was a wreck and he knew. 

It didn’t help when Damian Wayne came to the school and barged into the class, grabbing Adrien by his shirt collar and punching him square in the face and wanting to give him a few more.

A man with a white streak on his hair had to rip Damian away from Adrien while another male talked with Bustier. 

Under other circumstances, Adrien would’ve been more alert and willing to fight back, but now he didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore and for some reason, he felt like he deserved it.

Nino had helped him get back to his seat, giving him a few napkins to deal with the blood seeping from his nose. Alya then helped him go to the nurse’s office, which then led to him having to be sent to a hospital thanks to having a fracture.

As he sat on the hospital cot, he decided to ring his aunt when he found an envelope with the initials MDC and a ladybug sticker sealing the envelope. 

Adrien opened the letter, the first words caused him to tear up, covering his mouth in attempts to suppress a wail. 

He watched as tears dropped onto the letter in his hand, the paper soaking it, earning a stain. 

He didn’t want their reveal to be this way, to be done in this matter. He had imagined their reveal to be done properly, to be done face to face, not through writing.

Guilt gnawed at his body, causing him to vomit, a nearby nurse seeing this and attempted to help him before calling out for a doctor.

Soon after Adrien recovered, Gabriel  was losing to its opponent MW, Adrien having to shut it down and simply live with whatever his good-for-nothing father had left behind. 

He didn’t have anything to fall back into, having to use his aunt’s connections to get into the acting field, seeing as he had no dream to pursue and acting being the only thing he was decent at.

Another year at the Wayne Gala, Adrien sulking in a corner as this aunt and cousin enjoyed the event to their heart's content. He was only here because his company asked him to represent them. If not… there went his career...

“-introduce my lovely daughter and her fiancé, Marinette Wayne and Garfield Logan.”

Adrien’s eye ghosted over the couple that had gotten onto the stage to join Bruce when they sharply landed on Marinette Wayne, or should he say Marrinette Dupain-Cheng.

He watched as she dazzled everyone with her presence, her midnight hair done wonderfully into a side braid, covered in all different types of flowers. Her simple black sweetheart dress with golden trims matched Garfield own all black suit with golden cuffs and trims. 

That could’ve been him up there. That could’ve been him but he just had to have acted like a child instead of a professional all those years ago. 

What a fool he had been. 

Everything went wrong when he decided to kill a ladybug. 

He had killed their everyday ladybug and then Ladybug herself, although in reality, he had killed the same person twice.

They said killing a Ladybug was bad luck… seems like that was true. 

#maribatmarch2020 #maribat #adrien salt #garmari mention

[fragileizywriting]

secrets

AO3 | Start Here | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

I want to see you. I want your talkative companionship for just a little while longer, if that’s alright with you.

He is helpless to her wishes. After all, the demonic seal that is tattooed onto his chest and onto her ear lobes are exactly for that— whatever his Lady and Princess wants, so long as it is in reason, he’ll try to provide it to her. Her words aren’t chains or shackles— they are quiet and reasonable guides. She speaks the words out loud, wanting, wishing to be heard and understood, and Chat listens— listens to Marinette, his mother’s Ladybug, and he answers. It’s not an even exchange— not yet, anyway. He will do her bidding so long as she is willing to give in return.

At first, it had meant nothing to him— he’s been privy to working for humans before, and had never felt an inkling of affection or sympathy. Making a deal with a demon just means that their soul will be taken and corrupted whenever their wishes are done and completed, and he’s never felt bad about making deals with adults who crave power and indulgence. Their souls are filled with tar whenever he consumes and eats them, but it settles the hunger in his stomach. He’s never thought of anything less.

Until now, of course.

Marinette. Marinette. How could he ever take her soul away? How can he sit here, knowing that the hummingbird beating of her soul one day is going to end up inside of him instead of where it belongs? How could he live with himself, knowing that he’d ruined her this way? Even though Marinette made the deal with him willingly, there— there must be a way to get rid of the tattoos on their skin.

He can’t do this to her.

He has to keep looking.

He’ll search everywhere for an answer. Every textbook, every witch. Every spare piece of gossip from Alya. There must be a way to break and erase the tattoos that burn on their skin. He’ll do her bidding regardless— he’ll help her with her wishes to cast the miraculous cure— but he can’t do it knowing that her soul is on the line.

The world is so big, and yet, it always surprises him to think that he’s ended up in Ladybug’s life. The girl who worships and works for his mother from first breath to last, trying to make a world a better place— he can’t take away Ladybug’s soul, can he? He’s in a predicament in that sense, too. If his mom were to find out that he’d been planning on eating a Ladybug’s soul, he’s certain to get a scolding of a lifetime for it. But he doesn’t know what to do— it’s almost as if they were put together for a reason.

And the reason, he suspects, might be because of his father— with that shit-eating grin he’d had on his face the moment that portal had opened up in the throne room just as Chat Noir had walked in, claiming that it was time for Chat Noir to experience the new.

He’s yet to get an answer from that god if this is what he meant.

Maybe Tikki already knows. It’s possible she does— after all, Marinette does her bidding quite a lot. Surely his mom has already felt the whispers of his magic tainting everything that Marinette does as well, right? And knowing her, she’s probably adamant about the two of them staying together.

“I used to get a lot of migraines when I was younger,” He breaks the silence in the living room.

Marinette’s eyes are distant again, even as she watches him eat her piece of honey she’d given him. It’s a silence he doesn’t know how to navigate very well— he doesn’t know what to say or do. The honeycomb tastes too brittle without her company, so he doesn’t know whether to stop eating and just wait for her, or try prodding at the silence.

It’s been a little while that he’s transformed back into his normal form, with them sitting in the living room seating area in front of the fireplace he’s poked back into life. It helps— sometimes, not always— that he’s capable of using fire magic. There’s no need for any matches of any kind when all he has to do is create flames in the palm of his hand. His magic isn’t as generalized as Marinette’s is— most of his spells he’s learned are, after all, to cause as much chaos as possible. Fire, floods, earthquakes, cataclysms— all of it is in the realm of his hands.

He doesn’t know how to mend things. It’s never been his strong suit.

She startles, realizing that he’s trying to have a conversation with her. Trying to complete her wish in the best way he knows how. “You did?”

He blinks slowly, trying to figure out how to approach the topic, so he tries for a smile. “Don’t tell anyone that the great Chat Noir is susceptible to headaches, the last thing we need is another myth circulating around the world that Plagg’s prodigy is nothing more than a demon that is sensitive to light. Let’s keep it a secret between us.”

“Of course,” She nods, not exactly understanding that he’s being sarcastic. Her hair is ink against her skin as she sits properly on the couch with him, tucking her shoulder into one of the back pillows. “How bad were the migraines? How long they did they last?”

Is Marinette trying to get more information so she can read about it? That seems most likely— he could mention that he sneezes at a certain smell and she’d disappear with the scent entirely within hours. It’s a miracle he’d convinced her to not toss out all of the scented soap the moment she’d learned that his nose is capable of picking up practically anything— Marinette cares about him too much.

Still though. He can’t force himself to lie to her— not when he’s trying to make sure that she knows that he’s always available to listen to what bothers her. “I wish I could say they weren’t too detrimental, but… the migraines got so bad that most of my memories from childhood are gone.”

It’s warmer than it was before, and even with the lack of fur he can feel that the cottage is at a reasonable temperature. She’s not shivering anymore, which is good— Marinette shivers from simply a threat of a cold draft, he’d hate to have her actually be freezing. Her brows crinkle at whatever she’s thinking, trying to place her thoughts together. “What? Y-you don’t remember your childhood? Any of it? At all?”

“No.” He taps on the plate in his lap. “I don’t remember much of those days. Practically nothing— my memories are entirely blank and dark. Huge portions of my life are missing.”

“Chat,” She gasps. “How— you—”

“It’s not that bad. Twelve-ish years of life disappeared, sure, but that’s okay. I’ve been told that I’ll live for hundreds of years, so I can’t be too upset that a couple of years disappeared.”

“Oh. Yes, of course,” The sides of her mouth tick down. “I forgot that demons live for long periods of time.”

“My parents never thought of me as less for it, and it doesn’t sound like those years are fun to remember, either. From the parts I can still remember, it was a lot of seeing my parents in the throne room looking scared and confused while I cried for my mom, begging her to hold me and comfort me.”

“Chat,” Her face pinches.

He continues with a smile, trying not to feel elated that Marinette is so easy to sympathize with him. “My mom used to say that the migraines got so bad that she would have to sit with me for days for it to go away. Trust me, Princess, I’m fine now. I haven’t had any migraines in years. Mom always called our moments together as bonding-time, although I think it was just to make me feel better.”

“Tikki said that?” There’s a bit of humor on her face, a fleeting little bit of amusement in her eyes even as she thinks about his blanked memory, the same humor from bringing up the silly argument they always have with each other.

Marinette is still convinced, even after all this time, that the Goddess really isn’t his mother— that he makes it up for humor. After all, according to Marinette, Plagg and Tikki aren’t really together, they’re gods— they don’t have children. They’re from completely different realms— why would his deity Plagg and her deity Tikki be together? Why would Tikki and Plagg have a child? And why him?

No offense, of course. But he understands what she means— he doesn’t really look like either of them. His mom talks about him as if he’s a miracle. But still— and this is integral— why would Plagg and Tikki be together? Marinette doesn’t ever understand.

But then again…

She has no idea about the loving glances his parents give to each other.

She has no idea about how every time his mother would leave hell to go take care of her own domain, his father would spend every day waiting for her to come home by carving little wooden statues by hand. Large, calloused, working hands of a god as old as time, whittling away at pieces of wood so smooth and soft that it looked like he was cutting through butter with a knife.

She has no idea how many yearning nights he’d spend at his dad’s feet, listening to Plagg talk about how much he loves his mother, and how they both miss her dearly, with his father creating little wooden dolls to keep his hands busy while he wishes for Tikki to come back to them. Each wooden doll more elaborate than the last. Each wooden doll more delicate than the last. A horse— a princess— a dragon— a demon— a rose. Sometimes his father would even carve a little doll of Tikki for himself, and smooth his thumb over the little figure whenever his missing got too much for him.

Chat Noir still has a couple of the gifted wooden dolls still in his room lining his shelves, each doll a scene from a story that Plagg would tell to keep him entertained as little Chat Noir gripped his leg in sadness. Knights and dragons and princesses and Ladybug’s that healed the sick with just her hands, and Chat Noir’s that ate the sun to give fire to the humans just to watch explosions and war dot across the Earth.

He always wished he had the skill to create like his dad. He always chalked it up to not having enough patience to shave away at bark. Besides, his hands are more suited to tearing and grabbing. He’d keep himself busy, waiting for his mother to return, by hunting the wanted whose faces were always plastered outside the castle walls, bringing the hunted into the throne room by carrying them over his shoulder or dragging them in by the leg.

He’d take a few Earth jobs, too, whenever a summoning portal was open and he was in the area and didn’t have any immediate plans. As long as he sent a letter back down through the portal notifying he was on Earth, his father didn’t mind him leaving hell.

Marinette also has no idea about the plentiful gifts that Tikki would bring back from her domain, with flowers large and plentiful in her arms to decorate their rooms. They have always been his favorite gift from hers whenever she returns. No amount of trinkets, or prizes— gold, jewelry, fruits from above ever caught his eye like the way they catch whenever she brings these to him.

Fire lilies.

For a man such as himself who’s entire myth and legend is simply just fire, and destruction— hell’s favorite golden and green child— seeing fire being associated with a flower always amazed him. Even as a young boy, when his blackened claws were much too sharp to take care and cultivate flowers like his mother, he always tried to keep himself from ruining the petals. Sometimes it got so bad that he’d beg his mother to keep the flowers with her so that they wouldn’t tear in his hands. Watch from afar. Admire them in a glass vase. Keep away from his hands.

The petals of these flowers are always so dark and red. Petals as red as his mother’s fiery hair, lively and beautiful. He always attempted to keep the fire lilies as alive as possible, knowing that the flower would break at the slightest indication of accidental injury. Every time a petal would fall off, he’d break from it.

Oh, he realizes. Marinette is his fire lily.

It makes sense. Of course it does. One of Tikki’s gifts happens to coincide with her most valued worker on Earth— the thought almost makes it difficult to breathe. Marinette is the one person in this entire world that he cares about at such a deep level.

He likes bantering with Luka— their fishing competitions are fun, even if the naga cheats.

He likes the rivalry between him and Alix, who is convinced that she can win against a legendary demon like him.

He likes talking with Alya, who has so much knowledge in her glittering brown eyes that it would take him entire lifetimes to parse through all of her silver and golden words.

He likes being with Nino, too— the one completely magic-less human who never treats him like a creature of the night and instead just his friend. He’s never had one before this.

But Marinette is the one person that he’d want to preserve, if he had to make that choice. His very own fire lily, the most beautiful and wonderful flower of all, safely kept. He wishes to keep her safe from harm. He wishes to keep her from hurting any more than what she already has.

The more and more he thinks about it, the less he realizes that he’s not paying attention to Marinette, who watches him in silence. By the time he’s out of his thoughts, Marinette’s looking at him with a knowing glint in her eye, one filled with soft humor, and it’s enough to give him hope that maybe he’s guiding the conversation into the right place, even if he doesn’t know where he’d left off. “So, Tikki would really comfort you?”

He thinks back to those earlier days. The days where he’d beg for his mother to stay— the days where he’d scream for no apparent reason at the sight of summoning portals being open, the days where he’d cry endlessly at the prospect of having to go through them. His mother never knew what to do. She’d sit there, bewildered, struggling to calm him down— he realizes, then, that he’s much in the same predicament. How would he calm down? What would get him to smile that day? Would the same tactic even work on Marinette?

“She’d sit with me. Sit with me a lot and just let me cry.” His voice is soft, nodding along to his own words. “To be fair, my mom had no idea what to do. She’d never had a child before. Every other Chat Noir that Plagg and hell had created before wasn’t exactly their own child. This was different.”

“She did well, if you turned out to be like this.” She pulls her knees up so she can hug them. She’s interested in his story. She always is. “I know I haven’t met every single demon, but you’re the nicest one I’ve met. And sweetest.”

“She’s nothing short of a perfectionist,” He winks, not letting his face stain red at the compliment no matter how hard his face wants to. “Nothing less for her. It took her a bit of time to understand my migraines. I don’t know. Sometimes I wish I remember parts of my childhood, but my parents told me that I was frequently inside a lot because of the migraines. The headaches would get so bad that I could hear light.”

“The great Chat Noir,” She murmurs, the smile small on her face, but there. “Who knew that this version of Chat Noir was prone to headaches?”

“Not all Chat Noirs are built the same, you know,” He grins. “Some of us can pull the sun out of the sky, it’s true. Hold the flame in our hands. Light the Earth on fire with it. And some Chat Noirs stay inside their dark bedroom for long periods of time, hopeful that the headache would pass.”

“Gets into fights with the local fishers, too.” She muses softly. “Technically wins because the fisher doesn’t have fire powers.”

“You got to take wins where you can get them,” He’s so happy when she finally laughs. He misses her laughter every time it’s away. “And the great Chat Noir never falters to do the impossible.”

Her laughter is light, and airy, but as sweet as the honey on his plate. “What would you do to keep yourself entertained, then, oh great Chat Noir?”

“Listen to my mom talk about my dad,” He tries not to scrunch his nose. He takes a bite from the honeycomb, trying not to think too hard about how he wouldn’t mind being that way with Marinette. Would she tell her children about him, if she were to ever have any? Why does the thought of being out of her life taste so sour on his tongue? “I’ve never heard two people more in love in my life.”

Marinette’s face brightens at his words. “They must be very lucky to have each other.”

He looks around the cottage, to all their little things they’ve collected while being together. He thinks about their hens, their meals together, the days where he’ll laze in the sun patch as she works on long and complicated spells that she doesn’t want help with. He thinks about her attempts at perfecting her fortune charms by loading his arms with so many beads that it’s almost impossible for him to move his arms. He thinks about the way she hides her face in his chest when she’s feeling afraid.

He’s lucky to have her. He hopes that she’s lucky to have him, too.

“They aren’t the only ones.”

AO3 | Start Here | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

#marichatmay2021 #marichat may 2021 #marichatmay #marichat may #marichat #marinette dupain cheng #chat noir #day seven: secrets #fire lily au #witch marinette #demon chat noir #fragileizyadrienette

[phantomphangphucker]

Ectober Week Fog/Splatter (Also Works For Darkness/Poison And Glow Stick/REDRUM): Poised To Go Splat

Casper high, predictably, can’t even have a normal dance without it getting interrupted by something ecto.

Danny pushes in the gymnasium doors, drink -which is, in his opinion, unfortunately non-alcoholic punch- already in hand. Side-stepping and leaning against the wall purely to watch the pulsing, flashing, moving strobe lights and laser beams bouncing off and curving over people glowing bright neons thanks to the blacklight. Excluding that light, it was borderline pitch-black; which he finds he’s perfectly content with. Being able to see in even absolute dark and all that. Honestly, this would probably look cooler without his fantastic night vision. Seeing as everyone else probably can’t see the turned off ceiling lights or teachers dressed in dark colours hanging out watching the dance. But fuck, at least his parents aren’t here this time. Lancer is, but Lancer’s probably the only teacher left who doesn’t hate his entire being, guts, and continued existence.

Looking around at the decorations as he wanders aimlessly over to the food table, thank everything the theme was Creepy Critters, guess the school and town were finally tiring of making goddamn everything ghost-themed. Sure it was funny and ironic at first -honestly come on, a ghost going to ghost-themed events? HILARIOUS- but things lose that little spark of novelty real quick. Especially when you are a ghost -or half of one at least-, are surrounded by and fighting other ghosts, have ghost hunters for parents and friends, and live in the most haunted town in the world. Ghosts were their thing but nobody likes a one-trick pony, especially the people living with said pony. Now what does ponies have to do with the current Halloween Casper high ball and him acquiring fake cheesy snacks? Absolutely nothing. He’s not even wearing a pony costume. Sure he thought about it, FrightKnight would argue that undead alicorns absolutely do count as a creepy critter, but Danny’s pretty sure that’s not what the school was going for here.  

Needless to say, Danny’s rocking a pretty solid -if he says so himself- raven costume. And sure, maybe it was glowing all by itself and maybe the feathers were just slightly sentient and made of black moulded ectoplasm, but it’s not like anyone here’s going to notice that. Danny is exceptionally experienced with what people will and will not notice in this school and town. Regardless, he gets his hands on his sweet cheesy puffs... and is instantly disappointed they got the no-name brand. Those things were so greasy they legitimately tasted like straight-up flavourless grease, just with a side of cheese. Like someone poured grease into a mould, filled it with air to make it puffy ‘n shit,  and then sprinkled some cheese on top like an afterthought. Needless to say, he eats an entire handful. Danny Fenton-Phantom is not a man -teen, whatever- of refined tastes or any large amount of standards. He’ll eat cheese-flavoured grease, he’ll do it gladly.

Deciding to meander onto the dance floor aka the centre of the gym, to enjoy the light show and attempt to get lost in it a little. Most people are chitchatting with their friends, dancing stupidly, pretending to be drunk, or pretending they’re about to sneak into the bathroom to fuck purely to get a rise out of the teachers. Sure it takes all of half an hour for someone to start smashing apart glow sticks and smear the liquid around, which of course cause practically half his fellow teens -including him in all honesty- to follow suit, but that’s really par for the course at any Highschool dance worth it’s salt and ectoplasm. Besides, not like he actually had to wash his costume, fuck that he’ll just absorb the ectoplasm into his system; leaving the probably toxic glow stick juice though. He doesn’t have standards but he does have at least a mild desire to not intentionally poison himself. Regardless of the fact that his ectoplasm would just destroy whatever toxins anyway. Thinking of that though, maybe he could, like, drink one or two just to freak people out. It’s not a Casper party unless Danny Fenton does something weird and freaky, right? And pretending to get repeatedly trapped inside the mirrors and writing on them to be freed was so last year, like, literally last year. Yeah fuck it, self-inflicted poisoning be damned, that’s what he’s doing this year. Meaning he promptly snaps one open and shotguns it while winking at one of the teachers he can easily see. They scowl and throw out their hands to the side. Mission accomplished already. Nice.

Vaguely he wonders what the heck his friends are up to while he dances loosely and only absently aware of people around him. He knows neither’s coming, Tucker being grounded and Sam disliking the idea of school parties while also not being willing to tolerate one purely to keep Danny company. Which was fine, he could entertain and enjoy himself by himself just fine. And he gets that he can be a little much for most people, his friends included. But hey, they haven’t totally ditched him in life/half-life, so he’s going to consider it a plus. Tilting his head back to let some of the flashing beams periodically flash him straight in the eyes, how it made everything else blackout for a bit was a nice effect even if the light bordered on painfully bright for those split seconds. He gets his friends pulling away from him some, really it was hard for humans to be close with anything that wasn’t quite human enough. Same reason Vlad was utterly friendless, alongside being an evil nutcase anyway. Danny honestly doesn’t mind, honest, he’s perfected the loner act at least to some degree most of his life. He was always only close enough with people to be able to include them in his social circle. Sure Sam and Tucker got almost unhealthily close and attached to him for a while there, but the whole ‘we almost killed you and need to protect your dumbass now because fuck, you died’ and ‘this hero thing is cool af’ things wore off real quick. Their friendship was effectively back to normal now, close but at arm's length. He liked the breathing space even if it was just slightly lonely. But again, as he spins and twists a little, he’s perfected the sorta-loner thing.

He shotguns another little glow stick -that he’s pretty sure used to be wrapped around someone’s wrist- and lays spread out on the ground; not really giving a damn about occasionally being stepped on and waving off anyone who checks on him with a cheeky ‘I'm good’. That gets boring really quick though, especially as people just consciously know to avoid his spot on the floor now. He paused in his almost attempt to push himself up at hearing someone mutter, “ah yes! Finally got this stupid thing working”. Danny tilting his head at seeing something vibrate on the ceiling before making a hissing sound and spitting out fog. Ah, so they actually dished out for a fog machine? Oh wait, never-mind. It’s got a little green flaming F on it. Ah fuck, he should probably be worried about that, that F was probably ominous all things considered. But he can’t really be bothered to do more than watch it spit fog for a bit, fog machines were frickin’ awesome. He should totally buy one. Or make one.

It don’t take long to hear a couple mildly impressed sounds over the fogging up air above everyone’s heads, and a few complaints about it apparently smelling like rotten lime juice and cat piss. Which yeah, definitely ominous. Weren’t fog machines supposed to smell like fake vanilla or something? Make you wonder just what the Hell the added strong vanilla was there to attempt at covering up. Maybe this was just what it smelled like without the added vanilla. Doubtful and Danny’s hardly ever that lucky. Hence why he’s deciding staying on the floor is officially a good idea. Watching the effect with the lasers ‘n shit is cool as heck though.

He absolutely can tell when the fog gets far enough and thick enough to reach him, ‘cause the ecto making up his costume gets just vaguely liquidy. Oh yeah, he should probably nope out of this situation. At the very least if this stuff destroyed his costume he’d be stuck in just his boxers and a wife-beater. No one needs to see that. Or more specifically, he doesn’t want anyone to see that; considering all the scarring and the muscle he’s at least attempting to hide from the school at large.

Deciding to sit up and immediately deciding that crawling would have been a better idea at feeling like someone just started jabbing tiny needles into his face, which he immediately winces at and gets up. Pushing his way past the people, some looking legitimately drunk or otherwise like hot garbage. Zone, he probably looks drunk right about now since there is precisely zero chance he’s walking in a straight line considering how everything’s warping, bending, and pulsing. Yup, leave it to his parents to absently poison him at a seemingly basic normal high school dance. Lovely.

Well at least he got to have a good time for a while there. Right now though? He so totally is going to throw up. It’s happening and it can either happen on the dance floor -gross and unpleasant for everyone around- or in the locker room/bathroom -also gross, in fact it’s just slightly more gross but less embarrassing. But it’ll be less gross for everyone else. Which, come on, other people kinda tend to be his priority.

One stroke of luck though, the locker room is blessedly empty. Saving anyone from gross or just downright weird collateral when his costume effectively explodes in a sticky gooey ectoplasmic mess. Splattering all across the room while also sticking to him like some kind of disgusting vaguely sentient tar. Which effectively flings him into the centre of the room, smashing his back onto one of the benches, and makes wet slurpy suction noises when he lands on the ground properly. He absently thinks it was the single most comical stereotypical sounding ‘splat’ noise he’s ever heard, as he groans slightly.

Unsticking his arm from the ground with wet thwap suction noises to shot his hand over his mouth as he gags. Ah yup, there’s the whole vomit thing he was talking about. Shit body, time to get up. Preferably, like, now. It takes an honestly ungodly amount of effort to peel himself off the floor, the black ectoplasm still sticking and stretching with him as he stagger walks to the bathroom and effectively throws himself at the toilet; smashing his head on the ceramic tank in the process. Because, apparently, vomiting wasn’t enough for him. No. He also needed to have a mild headache. Fun.

It takes about three seconds before he feels like he’s hurling up his entire insides -which is a plausible theory- along with inner layers of flesh -also quite possible- and it glows ridiculously; that last one he can probably blame at least partly on the whole glow stick juice shooters idea of his.

Blinking down into the toilet bowl and wheezing, single most interesting mixture of glowing colours he’s seen in a long-ass time. And oh, yup more vomiting. Ah fuck, Jesus. He shoulda stayed home. He straight up really does feel like his insides are just mildly being torn apart or maybe liquified. Which, considering his costume and it’s black splatter remains, might be legitimately accurate. Which is, like, super not good for his half ecto ass. The fuck’s he supposed to do about it though? He’s stuck with his head in a toilet, ironically splattering the inside of that bowl about as much as the rest of the place was already messy with ecto.

He should at least attempt to do something about this. His phone is fuck knows where in the black mess behind him. Ancients knows if it even still will work properly after getting effectively soaked in supremely sticky ectoplasm and probably thrown violently into something. Eh, nobody said his ass wasn’t creative; hacking up his innards or not. Electing to use some of the ectoplasm -he’s not going to question how the heck he’s able to consciously move the black ecto. Beyond that he probably absorbed it some, in some weird attempt to make up for the glow stick contaminated crap he’s been hacking up- to smear a little ‘get help’ and ‘preferably from my dumbass parents’ on the mirrors, since speaking is kinda out of the option here. Not that anyone will walk in here and not call for help; this was kinda noticeable after all.

By the time someone does wander in he’s groaning into the stupid toilet -that he just mildly hates and feels way too friendly with at the moment- and feeling like his skin is going to bubble right off his muscles, his bones feel a little loose and wet too. Which, like, all that is a super supremely not good sign. Fuck, sometimes he wished his parents were just stupid rather than stupid smart. They wouldn’t be mildly good at actually hurting his ecto-ass otherwise.

“Oh holy crap, what the fuck”. Whoever’s footsteps get closer and make squelching noises, “oh god ew, why is it so sticky? Ah ew”. Danny retches again just to make a point that would dude bro to hurry the fuck up. “Fuck. Fenton? Of course it’s you, and- oh well that’s actually worrying. Ah, I’m just gonna go call your folks. Jesus fuck. You are one poor son of a bitch, you know that?”. Danny obviously doesn’t reply to that beyond sticking up a kinda floppy saggy arm and flipping the guy off weakly. “Wow fuck, that’s- uh. Are you like dissolving or something. Why the fuck do I still live in this tow- oh yeah hi! I don’t know what’s up but Fen-Danny dude is going all exorcist in the school locker rooms. Also kinda looks like he exploded black tar everywhere and bones seem questionable at best and pretty sure the toilet is, like, glowing or some shit so maybe come and like get him? So someone doesn’t have to, like, tie a liquid Danny up in garbage bags”. Ancients, people are way too used to weird shit in this fucking town.

Danny can almost hear his parents freaking the Hell out over the dudes phone, he would be actually able to hear it if it didn’t sound like he was underwater and actively sinking down deeper. This, decidedly, sucks. But he’s kinda good at the whole dissociating away the pain and other awfulness at this point. He feels it but like he’s watching himself feel it rather than directly feeling it. It’s a lot and kinda everything, but he’s not really there for it.

He feels the guy try to pat his back or some shit, whatever it is it definitely doesn’t happen right and he can feel himself latching onto the dude and sucking out whatever bits of ectoplasm the dude’s carting around in his system -every Amity Parker was ecto-contaminates after all- and Danny’s body kinda just devours it for some more energy. “Oh god, congrats I’m officially disgusted. I mean, I already was but give me back my freaking arm. Cannibalism is so not your style. Jesus”.

Both of them hear someone else opening the door. “I really wouldn’t, there’s some honestly nasty shit going on and this tar stuff is like fucking flypaper or some shit”.

“Holy fuck! Okay this is kinda cool and super Halloween-esque. But yeah- oh fuck! Hell no!”. Danny can tell the black ecto -which, fuck, absolutely part of him now. Cool. He needed the energy anyway- has sorta bubbled and popped onto the new guy and grabs at him. Promptly absorbing more ecto from that dude and apparently his ecto has just decided that this is the course of emergency action. Decontaminate people via lowkey ecto-cannibalising them. Yeah this is his luck alright. Not that this is actually really making him any better, since he just keeps throwing whatever up. But hey, it’s keeping him from getting worse. That’s something. What he honestly doesn’t appreciate really is new guy running out of the bathroom and taking a stretchy string of black with him. Right back to the whole poison fog situation. So he makes a damn point to smack more ecto on the mirror, ‘fog machine off’.

“Ah, you literally have not let go of my arm. But ah fuck, I’ll just text a friend. Fuck man”.

-

The dance outside goes into mild panic chaos mode as soon as a guy book’s it out of the locker rooms like he’s attempting to flee from the black thing grabbing him, which promptly just explodes and splatters everywhere. Coating, bubbling, crawling, and splattering all over the floor, walls, and multiple people. From there it practically spreads around like a freaking plague sticking from person to person.

Someone does manage to get to one of the teachers though, “the, fog machine, it’s causing this, shit”. The teacher sighs, “of course something the Fenton's made is causing this”, and runs off.

The chaos only gets worse when the Fenton’s themselves barge in, everyone pointing at the black stuff -which they can’t even be sure is ectoplasm at this point- or at the locker room doors. Which is enough to jerk the two hunters out of their shock and get them back to bolting to the locker rooms, which had been their goal to begin with. Meanwhile, the teachers attempt to free people from the sticky mess, fend the black stuff off, or control the chaos. Everyone wondering why the heck school dancers can literally never ever go off without a hitch.

-

Danny makes a point to smear up the mirror messages at just vaguely scenting his folks, while the dude mutters, “oh thank fuck”. Danny can practically feel the guy flailing around the arm that isn’t apparently stuck in him, which like mind trip right? Not that this entire event wasn’t already a bullshit trip and a half.

Seconds later feeling a very solid hand on his shoulder as he retches a little more and feels dude guy get yanked away from him. Well obvious as shit what happened there. His folks suits were ecto-phobic and ecto-proof after all. “Danny? Sweetie?”. Ah so that was his mom. Nice to know. He’d like to leave this entire situation now. Thank you very much.

He can hear her scowl and sounding slightly less directly talking to him, “damnit. Looks like the ecto-repulsitory solution is affecting him. I knew we should have tested it at home”.

“There was hardly time Mads! Nothing for it now I guess!”. His dad freaking laughs. Cool. Glad they’re having fun. They could totally help him out here any minute now. Like, any minute now.

Those glow sticks were a bloody terrible idea, the toilet smells fucking rank and he’s blaming it on that; he needs some kind of scapegoat after all, and it sure as shit wasn’t gonna be his ecto.

Who he’s assuming is his mom pulls him back and he sorta collapses backwards -into what he’s just gonna assume is a blanket- rather bonelessly. Like, literally boneless. As in, fuck he’s so totally a vaguely person-shaped sorta semi-solid liquid right now. Lovely. He should probably pull himself together before he scares the piss, shit and vinegar out of his folks. And hey, he’s not smelling or tasting the lime anymore so he might actually be successful at that. Though he makes some not particularly impressed or happy gag/grumbling noises at feeling his folks physically trying to tear off stuff from him. Probably the black ecto, which was kinda understandable at the moment. But fuck, that’s kinda all that’s feeding him ecto-energy at the moment so kindly fuck off yeah? He does manage to slur out, “mom”, in an annoyed tone before gaging and coving his mouth with a very limp hand again.

“Jack, bucket now”. Which yeah cool, he’s down for not throwing up all over himself. So fine, he appreciates the bucket as he hacks and gags some more. But at the very least the whole vomit ecto thing feels less thick and sticky, more vaguely like light water. Which may or may not be a good thing. But that’s pretty typical for, like, half the shit that happens to him these days. He gives his folks a little thumbs up when he’s done though. Partly to be an ass, partly to be reassuring. Those two things don’t seem like they can coexist, but by the Ancients do they ever. His mom takes the bucket away.

Blinking his eyes open a bit blearily, noting being wrapped in a towel -an anti-ecto one specifically- like a little Danny burrito. Not that he was exactly edible. Zone, he very explicitly wasn’t edible. Considering how ectoplasm was pretty gosh darn toxic. Glancing around at the black sticky splattered everywhere, well damn he sure made one Hell of a mess. The poor fucking janitor. It looks like his folks successfully ripped it all off him and are using the blanket to keep it all off. Explains why he feels tired and energetically spent then. Wasn’t being fed/absorbing ectoplasmic energy any more. Eh oh well, not that he can really complain about that to his folks. Instead choosing to groan a little, “what have I told you guys, about not testing shit against, me and my shit, before using it, like this”. And really? They have had this conversation dozens of times. Sure they still -how they haven’t come across the idea of halfas yet is absolutely befuddling- thought he was just weirdly ecto-contaminated. But they knew shit affected him and yet....

“Sorry Sweetie”.

His dad laughs a little, “we were in a bit of a rush. Wanted to protect the dance from ghosts you know!”.

Danny snorts, oh yeah, they so totally protected it from ghosts... by literally poisoning one. “Funny thing. Don’t think no ghost, has ever crashed, one of the dances. Usually you guys”. Ah Hell, he didn’t mean for that to sound kinda cutting; based on their slight grimaces it was at least somewhat hurtful. Which of course means now he’s gotta fix that. Fuck him. “Didn’t mean it, that way. Aw Hell whatever. Let’s just go home, yeah?”.

His dad scoops him up without any hesitation, “you sure Danny-boy?”.

Danny rolls his eyes tiredly, slumping bonelessly, “I doubt I’ll be, doing much more dancing”. Hell, was anyone? Judging by how they all kinda scuttle embarrassingly out of the locker room to a gym filled with only sticky black and people still yanking their limbs and shoes out of the tar-like ectoplasm. Why the heck the laser light show is still going on he doesn’t have the slightest clue. But hey, it looks pretty fucking cool, he’ll give it that. He kinda wanted to squirm out of his fabric confines and reach down to scoop some up, it was kinda part of him after all, but Ancients knows what in all is in that stuff at this point. Bits of other people’s contamination, fog poison, glow stick juice, generalised floor hunk, food and juice obviously, maybe even bits of people’s food. Yeah, he’s gonna give that one a hard pass. Plus his folks would freak at him. They didn’t exactly want him more ‘contaminated’, after all. Still he gives an impressed whistle. One of the teachers scowling at him, “you just had to one-up yourself huh?”. Which Danny gives a cheeky lopsided and slightly melty smile at.

Danny speaks back up as his folks settle him down in the GAV, “so, what’s that stuff supposed to do? What did it even do?”. He has a few ideas but better to let them explain themselves to him. Their intentions did matter at least a little.

His dad perks up, “oh! It was supposed to disorient and discombobulate any ghosts! And make them unable to use abilities by making their ectoplasmic cells disjointed!”, then looking rather guilty, “I guess with you it made your more unusual ecto suffer some kind of disconnect with the rest of you. Like it made your body think it was rotten. Like food poisoning! And made your ecto ‘think’ your body was foreign so it tried dissolving it!”, tapping his chin, “not the slightest idea what was up with the black stuff clinging to you though”, and looks to his mom who shrugs.

Danny will admit that shit was confusing as Hell, so fine that would make a suitable deterrent. Not so suitable when the thing it’s trying to deter can’t fucking move away from it effectively though. So major design flaw there. Ah well, with his less than pleasant -for everyone involved- reaction, they’ll probably scrap this particular experiment. Which is totally fine by him. He may as well satiate their curiosity a little, to avoid any repeat incidences at the least, “ah well, I may have went and made my costume out of some of that black purified experimental ectoplasm”.

His mom blinks at him, “you did what???”, shaking her head in clear disbelief, though really they should expect this kind of stunt from him at this point, “sweetie, did you at least have something protecting your skin?”.

Danny grins a little, “I used that spray stuff”, which wasn’t even a lie. Walking around a dance with literal purified ecto on him without spraying on some kind of barrier to keep it from hurting anyone would have been grade A stupid, even for him. And honestly? That probably saved his ass slightly, was probably why that ecto had been able to absorb other ecto at all instead of just being a liquid sticky mess.

His mom taps her chin, “huh, the caustic interaction between the settled spray and fog formula must have caused the ectoplasm to coagulate and seek out energy sources”. Danny decidedly doesn’t say shit, let them think what they want. While she continues, “and you were its closest potential source but were obviously having a reaction yourself, so it just clung to you instead”. It would probably be mean of him to point at that it was kinda part of him at that point and that he could absolutely feel through it. Or that it wasn’t feeding itself but rather him. So that he, y’ know, would, like, pass out from energy loss or some shit. Passing out in a toilet, ugh that so would have been not fun. Thank you weirdly sticky black ecto stuff.

Anyway, he yawns, because now he’s tired and would like to genuinely replenish all the ecto he hacked up. At least he was a bit more solid now though. That was a positive something.

His mom smiles at him sweetly a bit as they get home, “I guess we best let you rest rather than spewing theories at you”, and nods at his dad, who swiftly and surprisingly smoothly scoops him up. Danny’s cool with this particular course of action, not making a fuss about his dad carrying him up to his room or his mom kissing him on the forehead afterwards.

Eyeing his phone, naw, he’ll let his friends find out on their own and be confused for a bit. That’s what they get for sorta ditching him.

-

Nightshade: do I want to know how you ‘unleashed a black slime monster’ at the dance?

PDAxpda: ???

PDAxpda: ‘monster’ not ‘ghost’

PDAxpda: found photo the heckers

Nightshade: someone also mentioned you got drunk on glow sticks and vomited literal rainbows

Nightshade: nice asettic but yoyr a dumbass

PDAxpda: 💯 that shits toxic

PDAxpda: not that that matters to a certain someone

Dpain: 😉

Dpain: and I guess I kinda qualify as a monster

PDAxpda: I hate the implications there

Nightshade: that black shit was you wasn’t it you ass

Dpain: only vaguly

Dpain: nebulously

Dpain: margunally

Nightshade: I hate you

Dpain: 😏

End.

#ectober #ectoberweek2020 #ectoberweek #Danny Phantom #phandom #danny fenton #maddie fenton #jack fenton #vomiting #highschool dance #don't drink glow sticks kids #danny's a little shit #getting sick #fan fic #phan phic #my writing #have a fic suck my dick #phantomphangphucker #yeah that's right i put six prompts into one fic #suck it #gothmoth #thetribalmoth