#metronome's cave water

[soul-meister]

poly!lost boys x gn!marching band!reader : the lost boys : headcannons

note: i hope you enjoy these headcannons by a band nerd and i won't take any criticism if it includes marko

-let's start off with the bane of my existence, band camp:

-these boys--minus dwayne--don't understand that you're not going to leave your house, unless it's for dinner, after a day at band camp

-marko and paul want to drag you out to the boardwalk but that's a big no for you; one, you're really tired after being on you're feet for eight(8)+ hours, and two, you refuse to be around any loud noises after having a metronome and various instruments blasting in your ears for hours

-david does understand you're tired but doesn't understand that if you go to the cave with them and you will probably fall asleep there, meaning you'll be late the next day and that's just a really embarrassing situation to go through

-dwyane is the only one that's truly okay with staying in after band camp for about three weeks straight. like, y'all can read, cuddle, watch tv, listen to music. it's enough for him

-after the first week of staying in with you every night, marko and paul set up this every-other-day schedule where they'll stay in with you one night, and hang out around the boardwalk the next together as to not get bored

-if you like to get ready for band camp the night before--like packing your lunch or filling up your water bottle--david or dwyane will make sure it's done before leaving, and if it's not, they'll do it for you cause you're most likely asleep

-during marching season and the school year in general, the boys will wait for you to fall asleep before hunting

-there's a little something about marching band uniforms that really make a person's attractiveness go up another level and the boys see that

-after forcing you into the clothing the night you got it, they'll compliment you, call you beautiful/handsome, check out your ass

-guard uniforms are a different story, cause the uniform--not you--can either look beautiful or hideous, no inbetween

-if your uniform is just plain ugly, someone is laughing: david's smirking while trying to hold back an actual smile, there's definitely a look of amusement in dwyane's eyes as his lips quirk up at the corners, marko is at first trying to hide his smile behind his fist but quickly goes into critiquing it, paul is just out right laughing at you

-like with the marching band uniforms, they're checking you out, no matter how ugly it is; they got worried with how tight it is that you might flash someone so you had to explain you're wearing a unitard underneath

-if you're in guard, marko is helping out with your hair and makeup when possible and he probably gets it done faster than the other guard people

-marko also helps adjust your bibs if they're too long, maybe even zip you up or put on your gauntlets/shako for you. again, will help you put up your hair if it needs to go under your shako

-all in all, marko is a band mom that carries around safety pins for anyone that needs them... i could see dwyane, and maybe the other two, as prop dads

-the boys do get frustrated when it comes to after school practices because you have to stay late, and then when to do finish, you have to eat dinner, do your homework, take a shower/bath

-overall, you don't spend much time with them those days so if you have an off day from practice, forget spending time with your family or friends

-though, if you don't drive to school, they'll be glad to pick you up from practice, especially since that's not something they could do on a regular day... they also enjoy all the stares they get from your peers

-they'll also help you finish up your homework if it's due the next day and you're too tired to deal with it at the moment. and if david notices that your forcing yourself to stay awake to finish your assignments, david will use his mind manipulation to put you to sleepsounds like he's killing you

-during football games, the boys will at first be sat in your section with till they're kicked out by someone so they'll sit near you...then come back later in the game

-david and dwyane will definitely have to stop marko and paul from distracting you during stand tunes, especially if you're a drum major

-if you do front/back pit, there's not much to distract you from so paul and marko will talk your head off during the game

-if you're in color guard, it can go either of the two ways above: if you perform with the band during stand tunes, they're definitely watching and cheering you on from the side

-if there's anyone talking loudly during the band's on field performance, they might just become the boys' next meal

-also, they're not paying for those football tickets. you probably have to beg them to pay for tickets at band competitions cause that's where bands get most of their money

-and as much as i would love to say that the boys see all of your performances, they don't. they can't, especially if you're a smaller band or usually just perform during the day

-even if you did perform at night, probably a bigger band, they might not make it in time because competitions usually seem to happen at least an hour away from your school for some reason

-they'll still try to make it in time, even if it means breaking a fewmore than a few road laws...they probably enjoy terrorizing people to and from competitions

-if you have a solo, paul and marko will be the loudest to applaud once you finish, and sometimes they get carried away so david has to smack them upside the head to shut them up

-marko and paul have definitely tried to sneak on to the bus with you on the way back from a competition even though that means leaving their bikes behind? the band mom's obviously noticed, like with everything, and kicked the boys off

-they cannot stand those late night bus drives home because they just want you in their arms so they can congratulate you on your performance and if you got any trophies

-they'll be so proud for whatever trophies your band won, whether it be third place in a singular caption or grand champion overall

-you tell them all the band gossip, whether it be someone took a shit on the bus or two people were caught fucking in the band closet

-if your band does nationals, then how far it is from santa carla decides their mood when you tell them cause it could be a reasonable distance and you won't have to stay at a hotel or it could be a couple of hours away and you will have to stay at a hotel

-and if you do have to stay in a hotel, you'll have to deal with a few jealous vampires cause you'll be staying in a room with other people that's not them. so it's probably not the best idea to tell them who you're rooming with or you'll end up down a few band members

-if you have to take band class to do marching band--minus guard--then they're showing up to all of your concerts

-and if you show interest in joining winter percussion/guard, they're gonna definitely try to dissuade you from doing it because it'll again take your time after school away from them

extra : if they were humans/in high school (band) with you

-paul gives of alto sax vibes, and if your marching band has a guitar or drumset position, he's definitely trying out for that. would do winter percussion. did all-county freshmen year cause he didn't have to go to school those days, then realizes he has to play all day, doesn't continue

-david would probably start off as a baritone his first year then switch to drum line, going from bass(sophomore) to tenor(junior). senior year, he'd be drum major. might do winter percussion. does all-county and all-district, tries for all-state but doesn't make it, and this happens each year

-dwyane is definitely a tenor sax player who switches to bari sax his junior, maybe senior, year. is probably in jazz band. all-county and all-district for regular and jazz band

-marko totally starts out on clarinet in middle school and once he reaches high school, he starts branching off to try different woodwind instruments. he's probably taking multiple band classes his senior year so he can play various instruments(favorite is probably oboe). wouldn't be surprised if marko did winter guard. does all-county--because he gets out of school, but unlike paul, he actually enjoys it--all-district, and probably could do all-state if he practiced more

#tlb x reader #the lost boys x reader #poly the lost boys x reader #the lost boys #the lost boys 1987 #the lost boys imagines #marko the lost boys #david the lost boys #paul the lost boys #dwyane tlb

[toosmallformyowngood]

Sometimes tics and stims are so weird because like, "where the hell did I pick that up from?"

Like I know exactly where my "meow" vocal tic came from. I grew up with a cat, so obviously I mimicked her because I associated the noise with a good thing (see: the presence of a cat). I picked up purring from her as a happy stim because she purred when I pet her and I wanted to show her that I was happy to be petting her. I picked up bouncing and rocking from side to side from watching my grandmother play video games where the characters idle animations do that and I liked copying them. All fine and dandy, I know exactly where those came from and all the complexities of why that would take far too long to type out here. But! Where the heck did wiggling my thumbs come from? And not in a "twiddling your thumbs" kind of way because that's common and I could have picked it up from a bajillion places, but like, shifting my thumbs either side to side like a metronome or forwards like I'm pressing a button or popping the cap off something. Where? How? Why? I have never seen anyone do this, and it can't be a comfort stim because half the time it makes my joints hurt because apparently I have the body of a hundred year old guy who's been drinking cave water all their life and now has stalactites in their blood.

#actually autistic #actually adhd #adhd things #adhd #autism things #actually autism #autism #autistic things #hhh once agian there are so many tags #actually disabled #spoonie #<- for the joint pain thing because dear god do I have chronic pain

[boricuacherry-blog]

I'm very much a California girl. I grew up in Long Beach, then moved to San Pedro, which was very multicultural. And my stepfather was Thai and Hawaiian. I do have a musical family, my [biological] dad was in a barbershop quartet and my mom had a lovely voice, which I of course didn't inherit. I was really athletic - I played handball in school and beat all the boys twice before the bell rang - and I had a lot of anger I needed to get out, so I figured I would play the drums. I wound up playing in bands within three weeks of starting to play. Thankfully my family was encouraging. I always wanted to be an artist. There was this gallery near our house and they use to offer oil painting lessons. And I was really into that. That was really my jam.

When I heard punk rock, it had a really big impact on me. I was like, Woah, you can do that? In high school, these girls invited me to go see The Rocky Horror Picture Show and Pink Flamingos. Then you start meeting other people, you know, the guys from Red Cross, and The Stingers [a Longbeach band], because they were also seeing the movies. There was a definite crossover with, you know, punk rock and John Waters movies.

Some of the bands I really liked going to see in Hollywood were like, The Weirdos, and X. I really loved X so much. I copied Exene's hair, with just the bangs and kind of like the egg running down your head of different colors, as if you just cracked an egg of colors down your hair. I also liked The Alleycats - God there were so many bands at that time - Nervous Gender - The Bags. I also listened to a lot of Neil Young and Nick Cave and the bad seeds.

I played in a punk band that was like an art punk band. One of my first bands was called Sexually Frustrated. The two girls that were in it were little people [midgets] and you know, I'm like six foot tall. So it was like a visual thing on top of what we were doing. I was also in a band called IUD with the same two women. We were playing with The Omelettes at Camarillo State Hospital. You know, it was very arty, and there were like saxophones.

I met Courtney [Love] through a friend and she wanted me to be the drummer in a band she was starting. Courtney really wanted to make good songs. I don't think I'd ever played in bands where the words were really revealing anything of yourself - the emotional part of being a woman. I really responded to her lyrics. It's like Courtney was speaking for me in a way I couldn't for myself. The words really tapped into something. Pretty On the Inside really spoke to me - all the horrible stuff in my childhood, the dynamics in my family and with other people - that song just really, really spoke to me. I think I wrote a lot of my drum parts to accent what she was saying in the songs. I would, like, ride the cymbal, but make it sizzle - like Rat Scabies from The Damned, he would do that alot. I'm a very emotional drummer. I'm not the timekeeper metronome type of drummer.

When Jill [Emery] joined, that was when Lisa Roberts had left. Courtney let her go because she was threatening the owner of a club with a screwdriver when they didn't pay us. It turned out the owner was the wife of Eddie Nash, the infamous gangster, so Courtney was like, "No she has to go." And Courtney had already been in acting, so she knew all the Hollywood rigmarole.

I wasn't as into Pearl Jam - I was more into Mudhoney. I really liked the garage rock and Iggy Pop - kind of that Detroit thing.

Babydoll [from Pretty on the Inside] was about Madonna. Courtney saw her driving a Mercedes and didn't like it. Courtney worshipped Madonna though. I think that was her playbook. She wanted to be the rock version of Madonna.

I guess it could be said that grunge owes a lot of its existence to Reagan. We were deep in Reagan's America at the time, with the hypocritical values at the time.

Around the time Courtney got pregnant, I was also pregnant, but didn't realize it at the time. I'd had the flu for weeks, and Eric [Erlandson] goes, "Maybe you're pregnant." And it turns out I was. And unfortunately, my relationship at the time was breaking apart because I was always gone [on tour with Hole]. I got a voice-mail on my answering machine that I was being let go from the band, and this was after Eric had already given me money for an abortion. Courtney was telling me we were gonna be playing with Sonic Youth in November in Japan, so she didn't think me being pregnant was going to be good with me playing drums. So I thought, OK, as part of my career move, I'm going to have the abortion. And then she just kicked me out anyway.

I was actually kicked out three times, which a lot of people don't know. Courtney chastised me in the middle of a show because she thought I wasn't playing fast enough. I felt she was publicly humiliating me, so I threw a drumstick at her head. She was mad and kicked me out. Then it was like, OK you can come back if you just do Slimfast and cigarettes and then play drums everyday and do drum lessons. She really liked how I played, but she wanted me to play perfectly, like a Dave Grohl. So I would just comply - I lost weight, etc.

There were a lot worse experiences I had with Courtney, like her telling me, 'I made you,' and stuff like that, like saying I needed to do whatever she wanted at any given moment because 'I didn't even belong here.' So it feeds on your insecurities. That's what manipulative people do. It just got more and more tense that way.

And I mean at first she would, like, spend the night and we would pig out on Entenmann's and watch like weird videos, and have fun like that, but you know, now I realize what she was doing - she was trying to learn all my Achilles heels. And then she would just press on those things when she wanted me to do something.

Courtney was really smart. She was a speed reader - I mean she went to Montessori school - so she's a fascinating person.

Kurt's funeral was intense. There were about 50 people, not a lot of people there. It was Kurt's family, the Sub Pop family, and just all the people he knew. I was around Kurt, but I didn't really know him. We had very few private moments and unfortunately we did not get to be friends. I went to his apartment one time and he was in his pajamas and I sat on their bed. And he was excited to tell me he had a dream about me. He goes, 'We were in Aberdeen and we were riding bikes in my neighborhood,' and I was asking questions and he was telling me about it. And Courtney was standing in the hallway, very Bette Davis, smoking a cigarette, and she goes, 'Well he needs some female friends, but not you, your tits are too big.' And I was engaged to be married, so I don't think she thought I was flirting with him. And then he just looked at his feet, really ashamed. And I left shortly after that. But I'm proud of what we created.

-Caroline Rue, original drummer for Hole

#caroline rue #interview #hole #courtney love #pretty on the inside #carolyn rue #kurt cobain

[kendrixtermina]

(content-free)

I can only reference this bereft of context.

It seems to be the only way that it can be said.

Dwelling at least on the qualia,

and associated submodalities

Once in a while,

I think of it looming,

streching out dry and grey before me into the length

and in that instant,

I will feel it pressing inwards with a sudden, sharp inhale

the cliched spike of dread, perhaps,

but more the sandpapery wearing-ness of all things,

the future, pitch black,

as a gaping hole

that I’m plunging in head first,

suicidal cave diver,

walls like a womb,

closing in from every edge.

That’s what my vision of hell looks like:

Bodies like sardines, the suffering ones in suspension,

like gaping, drowning fish-mouths,

and all their hands go tearing,

ripping at the newcomer.

All their hands go touching me,

and I am pressed together with their stench

with their horselike musty heat,

pressed like a mushy pea in a tin,

crushed and suffocated from all sides,

and yet I remain so inescapably myself,

sealed off from them as they press me,

like oil and water,

never quite merging into one,

thus keeping a skin to feel the prssure:

Hell is that place with the long spoons that are longer than your arms.

I know the awful shit is not the whole truth either

any more than all the brightness is.

I just… lost perspective for a moment

and after a moment,

I’ve put it back in its place,

butterfly in the frame,

sample on the objective glass,

beheld from the height of the microscope.

Not even given the dignity of allowing subjective sentimental meaning:

Of course it just like everything else.

Of course it is only raining outside.

And all of us sediment washed away in the dust.

And ever that pencil scratch noting things down on some metaphysical paper,

the metronome-noise that reminds me of my existance.

The voice that most seems mine concluding:

‘Well, that sure was something.

Perhap I’ll try screwing with the submodalities some more

some other time’

theoretically I could do that

when the hot iron has cooled some -

but how will it cool,

if I can’t turn off the damn stove?

I never really left hell.

It plays ever in the background like a scratchy vinyl record.

#feelings #baby tries to art #music #poetry #freeverse

[silvokrent]

An explanation for each Pokémon’s type change can be found under the readmore.

[333 – 334] Swablu and Altaria — Swablu’s claim to Sound-typing is based on Disarming Voice and Sing being parts of its learnset via level up. The better justification, however, can be found in its evolution, Altaria. Altaria is one of the few Pokémon to naturally learn Perish Song (alongside several other species that will be appearing on this list). In addition to being classified as the Humming Pokémon, its Pokédex entries all describe its melodic soprano voice in detail, and how it instills wonder and awe in its listeners. Conversely, if provoked, Altaria threatens its attackers with shrill cries.

[401 – 402] Kricketot and Kricketune — Reclassifying these two as Sound-types isn’t just based on their in-universe lore, but their real-world premise, too. Crickets are widely-recognized for their complex, diverse chirps, created through a process called stridulation. In addition to resembling their namesake insect, both Pokémon incorporate instruments into their designs. Kricketot’s body has elements of a string instrument (likely a lyre), and when its antennae click together, they produce a sound akin to a xylophone. Kricketune’s torso appears to be a violin, with its arms functioning as a bow.

[441] Chatot — It’s a parrot with a head that resembles an eighth note, a tail that looks like a metronome, and its signature move is Chatter. It’s practically the damn poster child for Sound-type.

[527 – 528] Woobat and Swoobat — When talking about what Pokémon can be classified as Sound-types, it’s a common argument that all of the bat Pokémon should be collectively rebranded. You can take it or leave it with these two, but personally, I think they both work as Sound-types. Woobat’s Pokédex entries consistently talk about how it navigates its environment (dark caves and forests) using ultrasonic waves. This goes double for Swoobat, who not only hunts using ultrasonic frequencies, but whose sound waves are powerful enough to obliterate concrete.

[535 – 537] Tympole, Palpitoad, and Seismitoad — When I first started doing research for this project, I was surprised to see them appear on multiple people’s lists. Imagine my shock when I learned that all three Pokémon (their names, their appearances, and their learnsets) heavily incorporate sound. Tympole’s eyebrows are made to look like quarter notes, and the bumps (the warts, or parotoid glands) on the side of its head are actually headphones. Palpitoad’s and Seismitoad’s warts are meant to resemble loudspeaker drivers. All three have access to sound-based moves—like Echoed Voice, Hyper Voice, Round, and Uproar—and the etymology for their names includes seismic waves, palpitations, and tympanums/timpani (drums). As for why I kept their Ground-typing rather than their Water—solid matter transmits sound faster than liquids. I wanted them to retain the type that best complimented their new Sound-typing.

[648] Meloetta — Meloetta is another fairly obvious candidate for a type change, given that music is its entire gimmick. Its two forms—Aria and Pirouette—are based on a singer and a dancer, respectively, and are switched between via its signature move, Relic Song.

[714, 715] Noibat and Noivern — Out of all the bat Pokémon, these two have the greatest justification for being reclassified. Their names (noise bat and noise wyvern) reinforce their appearances, which include ears stylized to resemble loudspeakers. Noivern makes use of ultrasound to hunt, while Noibat’s Pokédex entries take it a step further: Its sound waves reach 200,000 Hz. For the record, the frequency range that humans can hear at is between 0 Hz and 20,000 Hz. That’s a 900% increase. If any Pokémon merits a Sound-typing, it’s these two.

[741] Oricorio — Out of all the Pokémon on this list, Oricorio probably has the weakest claim to Sound-typing. Its premise has more to do with dancing than singing, and the only sound-based move it actually learns is Growl. But I already gave Meloetta’s Pirouette Form a pass, and honestly, there’s something about Oricorio being part Sound-type that feels right. If you squint your eyes then you could reason that dancing is usually accompanied by music, so the connection’s definitely there, albeit heavily implied.

#pokemon #pokemon thought dump #my posts #i speak #sound type #half sound type pokemon (primary type)

[thefamilymadrigal]

room headcanons and ideas

-rooms can enhance, help train, or help dull the gifts of the madrigals through the environment they provide. antonio's room full of animals, isabela's nearly empty but plant-receptive canvas--those allow antonio to use his gift then and there, allow isabela to practice her gift constantly. luisa's room concepts included weights, training areas/obstacle courses, etc, as well as the idea of having an amusement park to let her relax, which reads to me as both training and allowing her to rest her gift.

room ideas:

julieta--an expansive, ever-growing herb and spice garden, a cottage nestled into the greenery. the space is bounded by mountainous, craggy rocks in an impenetrable wall. the air is very warm, humid, like a greenhouse, with light falling indiscriminately(there's no visible source. it also never turns off.) the cottage is made of heavy stone and thick, robust wood, filled with containers, compartments, bottles, and tools for harvesting her garden (as well as, of course, cooking utensils, but--the production notes state that she is the tie between food and magical healing, and that herbs represent that.)

pepa--a normal house at first glance, though the walls and furniture bear imagery of various weather phenomena. it is completely weatherproof, any damage lighting or water could do does not apply. rooms can change their order(not the contents) based on her mood--a door in the kitchen may lead to the living room one moment, to the bathroom the next. it's filled with weather instruments (weathervanes, barometers, thermometers, rain gauges, anemometers, etc) built into the furniture or with their own stands. it has specifically a cozy, domestic vibe--a place pepa does not need to worry about destroying.

bruno--the tower grew over the years; originally it was a small set of stairs to a heavily decorated and carved vision cave, with insets in the walls for vision storage, and the entrance was only a step or two above the floor, with sand running along the edges of the room. the entire room was perfectly circular and had large markings on the ground floor to demonstrate where to put items for a vision ritual(the walls grew more jagged and uneven with time.) visions in his vision cave are clearer and easier to see because the foci are built into the room.

dolores--a meditative rock/sand garden. all surfaces besides sand are solid and magically (mostly) non-conductive to sound (its dead silent for everyone else, for dolores it's what 'normal on the quiet side' would be.) anyone who makes sound other than her cannot hear it in her room, though she can. if she is inside the room no outside sounds can enter unless she wants to hear. there are no organic items--any trees are dead wood shaped as trees, without leaves, and so on. there are a variety of repetitive sound-makers, such as metronomes, waterwheels and sōzu/drinky-birds, even a controlled net of bells, as well as windchimes if she wants to train her exposure to unpredictable sound in a controllable environment. the walls hold archives of information she actually wants to remember.

--OR; a maze-like merge of different locations and landscapes, complete with changing terrain. the room helps her distinguish and hone her sound specialization--the sound of grassy or tiled or cobbled floors, sound bouncing off walls or whistling through window slats, etc. the room has low, indiscriminate lighting and can dim to pitch dark; her hearing makes her better at navigating it than anyone else.

luisa--a wide-open expanse of warm, smooth stone, with clouds drifting along the surface. the clouds are tangible and fluffy, and eventually form the walls of the room. there are sunken coliseum-like areas holding weights or an interactive model of the physical features of the encanto(synced to the outside; she can observe the town and see what changes someone may expect, or how the river is doing or etc.) or a living area. like juileta's room, the light never goes out. any structure of the room is indestructible and cannot be moved unless you are intending to move it--luisa can be as careless as she wants.

camilo--an escher-esque gravity defying mixture of a theatre, dressing room, and tailor's shop. marionettes stationed everywhere, with the clothes/musculature/skeletal dimensions of recent shifts. doorways, walls, furniture(missing the actual doors) all covered in murals and carvings of people's poses, facial expressions, and common items associated w/ others. scattered measuring tape and calipers and mirrors and so on. the entire place shifts and moves constantly; he's the only one who knows where to sleep.

--OR; an exact replica of Casita but reversed from his door; it gets less accurate or shifts to reflect whoever he shifts into(ex. if he's dolores all the floors have carpet, if he's isabela the whole place is overgrown). the area outside Casita's reach is void(the exception is if he shifts into pepa, then the outside reflects his mood in the weather). each of the other rooms shows all the features he remembers--and each room's mirror shows his best approximation/his closest shift into that person's form. if he's thinking about someone in particular, an illusion of them will move through the room demonstrating the movements he remembers.

#encanto #encanto fanart #julieta madrigal #pepa madrigal #bruno madrigal #dolores madrigal #luisa madrigal #camilo madrigal #the madrigals #encanto headcanons #my writing #just some ideas on possible room configurations

[junicai]

ridin’ n rollin’.

| order no. | 8/21

| summary | When the world is already off kilter, should you not free fall down to meet it? 

| word count | 2.4k

| warnings | injuries

| era | circa. April 2020

Aria stumbled into the changing rooms, fist shoved into her mouth to stop the broken cry from jumping out on the wave of tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. Her free hand was pulling at the mic pack, desperately trying to unwind it from where it was tucked in on the waistband of her trousers. 

A pair of hands joined her, unravelling the wires quickly and efficiently. Once the mic pack was removed, it was handed off to someone else - Aria wasn’t sure who - and she was being spun around to face a concerned Renjun.

“What happened?” He demanded, already searching the rest of her body for injuries. 

Aria didn’t know. 

The day had started off on the wrong foot; like god himself had woken up on the wrong side of the bed. 

Donghyuck had stumbled into the bathroom at six in the morning, and his retching woke up Jisung who was sleeping next door. The maknae had sleepily shuffled into the bathroom to see what was wrong, but when he was greeted with a shivering Donghyuck clutching to the toilet bowl like a lifeline, the tall boy snapped awake. 

Aria had been woken up, and then Jeno, and Renjun and Jaemin woke up soon afterwards from all the noise caused by the commotion. 

It took them two hours, but by eight, Donghyuck was curled miserably into the corner of the couch, pale cheeks contrasted by a bright red flush sitting high on his cheekbones. A waste bin was placed on the floor in front of him, and two fever reducers were all but force-fed to the boy.

At first, Donghyuck had adamantly refused to take them; saying that he wasn’t sick, he had just eaten something that hadn’t agreed with him and he was fine now, see? 

Aria all but scoffed at that. She held it in, because she knew she’d be doing the exact same thing, would she be in his position. The broadcast performance was scheduled to be filmed that evening, and no one liked stepping down. Not even for a day. 

It was only when Aria had fixed him with a pleading look, eyes wide and worried, that Donghyuck caved. The two pills were swallowed, and when he was once again comfortably swaddled in as many blankets as they could salvage from around the dorm did the members return to their own morning routine. 

After all; the world doesn’t stop turning for a sick member, although sometimes Aria wished it did. She hated to leave Donghyuck alone; and she knew he’d never admit it to them, but he hated it to. 

All of them did, really. It was visible in the way that Jeno had put the back of his hand up to Donghyuck’s forehead three times in the last ten minutes; in the way Jisung was hovering anxiously, waiting for an instruction to go get a glass of water or another pillow; the way that Renjun had only rolled his eyes a tiny bit when Donghyuck insisted he was well enough to perform but stumbled backwards onto the couch when he attempted to stand up. Jaemin had lunged for his arm, catching the sick boy before he could do himself some more damage. 

The van had pulled up outside the dorms several hours later; and Donghyuck had waved them a sullen goodbye from his position on the couch. Aria closed the door behind her, but not before reminding him again to take another fever reducer in an hour, and to keep himself hydrated.

Donghyuck had rolled his eyes, and told her to stop worrying. “You’ll turn yourself grey, mom.” 

Aria had narrowed her eyes and stuck out her tongue, swinging the door shut. She relished in the bright burst of laughter that echoed through the hall. 

The journey to the venue was quiet. 

As was the changing room - the only noise coming softly from Chenle’s earbuds that he’d put in the second they’d located their room, and the soft bustling of the stylists as they moved around the members. 

Aria was tensed in her chair, anxiety running up and down her spine at the thought of something happening to Donghyuck while they were gone.

What if his fever spiked again? 

What if he fell and didn’t have the strength to get up? 

What if-

“Noona.” Jisung’s voice dragged Aria out from her own head. His larger hand encircled her smaller one, gently but firmly unravelling the fingers that were digging her nails into her palm. 

She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “Thanks, Sung.” She whispered, patting his hand lightly. 

Jisung made no move to leave, and instead took up the vacant spot beside her on the plastic-covered sofa in the corner of the room. “You’re worried.” He stated. 

Aria turned to look at him. Jisung had lost a lot of the baby fat from his cheeks that year - accentuating his jawline. He looked older, more mature. It suited him, she decided. Maturity was something he wore like it belonged on him; settling like the sun sets comfortably without fail. 

“We all are.” Aria sighed out eventually, taking a glance around the room. Jaemin was laid back in the chair as a stylist worked on fluffing up his hair, keyboard clicking obnoxiously as he typed on his phone. 

Normally the sound would bother Jeno - who was sitting adjacent, in a similar position - was it not for his phone making identical clicks. 

Aria couldn’t blame them; she’d turned her phone off silent the second they’d left the dorms in case Donghyuck called one of them. 

If the boy knew how frazzled the group was without him there, he’d have a fit. He’d never let them live it down. 

“It’s hyung, noona. He’ll be fine.” Jisung said, nodding resolutely. 

“He will, Sung. He’ll be fine, and then we can all go back to complaining about his presence.” Renjun made his presence known as he entered the room, directing his attention towards the pair immediately. 

“Ari, they’re looking for you for mic check.” He said, jerking his head over his shoulder. 

“Right, okay. Thanks, Injunnie.”

The following thirty minutes passed in a smushed blur of costume fittings, foundation brushes and an uncomfortably suffocating amount of hairspray. Aria was coughing by the time the stylist let up, waving a hand to try and disperse the smell. 

“Ari? We gotta go.” Jeno called, already halfway out the door. 

“C-coming,” She choked out, eyes watering slightly but determined not to wipe at them, less she end up with a streak of black across her cheek. 

By the time Aria had met up with the others in the wings, sliding her in-ears in, her breathing had steadied, and a little knot was beginning to form in the bottom of her stomach. She still got nervous before performing - didn’t think it ever really went away completely - but those were normally excited nerves.

This pit that was slowly growing felt foreboding. 

It went ignored, sliding under the radar as her in-ears began the steady metronome click that she’d become so accustomed to. She zoned out, and zoned back in, body moving in time with the others in flawless unity. 

Dancing without a member always felt off - felt empty, but it was nothing the group hadn’t dealt with previously. They knew the formations, knew who took what lines to fill in, and where their positions changed to keep formations looking slick and clean and not like one of them had been knocked over like a bowling pin; out for the count. 

Aria stepped backwards to let Chenle take her place as centre. Her mind was busy, tracking Jaemin’s positioning and making sure she stayed far enough away to give him space; so when a heavy, piercing sound ran through her right ear, she hardly registered it. 

It took her a moment, but her gasp of pain was heard over the microphones, a both hands coming to clap over her ear as the in-ear continued to bleed head-scrambling sounds into her brain. Aria tilted sideways, knees crumbling beneath her as she lost her balance and went crashing to the floor. 

She didn’t hear the gasp that floated up around the room; skimming right over her head that was pounding like a sledgehammer. Her hands scratched at the floor, trying for purchase and finding none.

Jeno, behind her was already half-dancing his way closer to her, and trying to help her back up without completely abandoning the song entirely. Aria’s breath was coming fast; the tech team having enough sense to cut her mic for the time being. 

When a half bar of silence sounded instead of Aria’s vocals, Chenle stepped in, ever the professional, singing her lines for her as the girl tried to regain her balance. 

Despite Jeno’s insistent push towards the wings, Aria shook her head minutely at the boy, rejoining the second last chorus. She could feel the boys’ eyes on her, burning into her back.

The in-ears bounced around her neck on their chords, having unconsciously tugged them out from her ears. 

Per the formation, there was to be a metre and a half gap in between each member, but Jaemin paid no mind to that, coming to stand almost directly beside her in the final few bars of the song; completely prepared to catch her should she take another stumble.

Aria was the first off the stage, stumbling over her own legs.

She stumbled into the changing rooms, fist shoved into her mouth to stop the broken cry from jumping out on the wave of tears that threatened to spill from her eyes.

Her vision swam like she was sea-sick.

With her free hand pulling at the mic pack, desperately trying to unwind it from where it was tucked in on the waistband of the orange trousers, her breath was coming in heavy, shallow gasps.

A pair of hands joined her, unravelling the wires quickly and efficiently. Once the mic pack was removed, it was handed off to someone else - Aria wasn’t sure who - and she was being spun around to face a concerned Renjun.

“What happened?” He demanded, already searching the rest of her body for injuries.

“I don’t- I can’t- ringing-” Aria gasped, hands coming to clutch at Renjun’s jacket. “My ear, it’s- it’s ringing, I can’t-” 

“Ari, I need you to breath, hold on a second, okay?” Renjun asked, shooting a look at Jaemin, who went to gently pull off Aria’s sweat-soaked jacket. 

She sunk to the ground, knees giving out for a second time. Renjun followed her, Jeno’s arms slipping beneath her armpits to stop her hitting the ground too hard. 

The only sound in the room was Aria’s uneven breathing, coming in irregular pants and choking her. 

The members settled around her, but being mindful to stay a comfortable distance away. Should Aria slip too far into her own mind, too many hands could send her flying into another panic.

“I can’t hear.” Aria whispered eventually, hands still maintaining their tight grip on Renjun’s jacket. He inhaled sharply, turning to face her dead on. 

“What? What do you mean you can’t hear?” He questioned, his own hands moving to gently grip the sides of her face. 

“Ringing,” Was the only explanation that Aria offered, canting sideways in his grip. 

Renjun choked lightly, trying to hold her upright. “No no, Ari, you gotta stay sitting like this, okay? What happened?” 

Chenle and Jeno exchanged a glance. 

“Did she hit her head?” Chenle asked.

Jeno instantly shook his head. “No, I saw her fall. She was clutching at,” he pointed. “Her right ear though.” 

Renjun looked back to him, before returning his focus to Aria. “Hey, Ari? Ari, your ear is ringing, right? Am I right?” 

Aria nodded slowly. 

“Okay, that’s okay. Was the feed too loud, or something?” 

This time, Aria shook her head, lifting a hand to mime an explosion by the ear. “Was like it exploded.” 

Jisung looked frantic. “Did her earpiece blow up?!” 

Jaemin emerged from the doorway, a mic pack clutched in his hand and a dark look on his face. “Feedback.” He grit out. “Mic pack malfunctioned, sent nearly 120 decibels into her right ear.” 

Jaemin held up the offending piece of equipment. “It even fried the voice coils.” 

Renjun was trying to keep Aria from slipping sideways. “What does that mean?” 

“It means, Ari just got blasted with the sound of a fire cracker right in her eardrum. It’ll be ringing for a while.” Jaemin moved to crouch behind Aria, taking some of the weight from him. 

“Permanently?” Jisung asked.

“They don’t know, but probably not. It’s mostly the shock of it, that causes ringing, I think.” 

Jeno swiped a hand over Aria’s forehead, swooping the hair back from her face. She whimpered at the act, nosing her way closer to the hand. Leaning down to her left ear, Jeno lowered his voice to let him whisper gently. 

“Hey, baby,” He began, keeping his voice level. “You’re gonna be okay, alright?” 

Renjun’s arms tightened around Aria’s middle, and it wasn’t long until Jisung and Chenle moved forwards to do the same. 

“The in-ear got a little loud, that’s all,” Jeno continued, hand coming to gently flick at her right ear. “No explosions - your ear is still there. Do you want to try standing up with me?”

At Aria’s mild agreement, Jeno shifted into a crouch and the multiple pairs of arms around her waist loosened minutely.

“You’ll be a bit off balance, baby, but that’s fine. That’s normal, and you’re okay. If you feel like you’re going to fall, then I can carry you, okay?” 

“So, what I’m hearing is, we’re never using in-ears again?” Donghyuck whisper-yelled from his position on the couch; Aria tucked into his chest. 

His fever had broken while they had gone, and their manager suspected it was just a twenty four hour bug.

Aria shifted slightly, whining at the noise, and Donghyuck instantly began crooning at her, whispering soft words of comfort in her left ear to get her to go back to sleep. 

Renjun rolled his eyes. “Jaemin considered it.” 

“Hyung looked like he wanted to murder someone.” 

"I still do."

#*moonlight café #nct 24th member #nct imagines #nct extra member #nct female member #nct female member au #nct additional member #nct additions #nct addition #kpop additions #kpop addition #nct female addition #nct female oc #kpop #kpop!oc #nct scenarios #nct reactions #wayv #superm #nct dream #nct 127

[eclecticstarlightconnoisseur]

Paying It Forward

Good Evening all,

Ok, I know I haven’t posted the next chapter of Edinburgh to Boston. I am sorry about that. But it has been a pretty bad, horrible, no good end of the year for me. Hubby got sick again and I had to rush him to hospital. He needed heavy duty antibiotics.  He is now ok, but still very debilitated after his illness. Me? I have been taking care of him, going to work, and my characters have decided not to play nice with me. Hubs said I painted myself into a corner. Not exactly, I just haven’t figured out how to get them to do what I want them to do. And I am tired. Which is partially how this fic came about.  

I decided that I would start to read MOBY for two reasons. One, it has been some time since I read it and I am hoping that Bees will be out this year and I wanted to refresh my memory of what happened previously. Two, I was hoping it would help my writer’s block. It did but in an unexpected way. After getting to a certain point in the story, I went to sleep and dreamt the story you are about to read. It played in my head over and over, like it had to some out. So I wrote it and here it is.

Now that I said MOBY:  SPOILER ALERT!  SPOILER ALERT! If you haven’t read MOBY and don’t want to find out what’s going to happen, PLEASE DON’T READ THIS. The story actually draws on ABOSAA, ECHO, MOBY, and a tiny bit from the TV program.

As always I am indebted to @scubalass for her most excellent work as my beta. Also she contributed to the story which made it so much better. I’ll tell you at the end. I am also grateful to @gotham-ruaidh who told me it was different and good. And that I should go with it. The other important thing you need to know is it is written like one of Claire’s voice-over monologues. I know that people hate the monologues, but that’s how it was and I kept to it.

So I give you Paying It Forward. I hope you like it. 

The detritus of the woodland floor muffled the sounds of the Army advancing. Moldy leaves crackled and fragrant pine needles from fir trees helped to disguise their steps. But, it is not in the make-up of the military to travel quietly especially in the 18th century. Horses neighed and harness jingled. Goats bleated. Shot pouches and cartridge-boxes buckled to belts rattled and clinked  Wagons creaked under their heavy loads. Carriages groaned pulling the weighty cannon along. And, of course, there was Rollo, half-wolf, half-dog. The mongrel barked madly harassing man and beast alike as he weaved among them. The voice of my nephew, Ian Murray, called to the animal, “ Thig an seo cù .” Yipping with glee at the sound of his master’s voice, he raced to Ian’s side.  The sounds of infantry on the move certainly broke the peace of the coppice.

Our journey became hampered by the dense forest we traveled through. It was thick with trees, bushes, and bramble impeding the progress of the Continental Army as they marched toward Monmouth. Once there we were to muster with General George Washington and the other battalions.

Commanding this regiment is the newly ordained General James Fraser, my husband to whom I serve as company surgeon. I do admit it was quite a shock to first see him dressed in the full military regalia of a Continental Officer.  I began to tremble becoming a quivering mess when I first took him in wearing an officer’s dark blue and buff.

“Why does it always have to be you? Haven’t you, haven’t we given enough? Isn't it time for you to put down your sword and pistol?” I shuddered as I recalled the failed attempt by Charles Stewart to regain the Scottish crown which resulted in our twenty-year separation. The skirmish at Alamance that resulted in Murtagh’s death and the hanging of our son-in-law Roger which almost cost his life. The battle of Saratoga where I amputated one of Jamie’s fingers. Now, we were being pulled into another conflict. Was it too much to want to return to our simple life on the Ridge I wondered? But Jamie, my Jamie, is a highlander born and bred. A decent man, with strong principles and morals. He is a man of honor and that is not a small thing to be. I watched him as he sat at the head of the column, sitting straight and tall in his saddle like the true highland warrior he is. The breadth of his powerful back and shoulders would leave no doubt in anyone’s mind that he was born to lead, to command, to this moment in history. And command he would, braving the responsibility of leading his battalion to fight against the oppression of the British king.

Jamie knew the meaning of suffering, cruelty, and loss at the hands of the English. The loss of his home, his country, his own personal freedom came at their hands. And the loss of his family. He had quite the history with the Redcoats. Arrested for obstruction, escaping, then being recaptured. He ran afoul of a sadistic dragoon captain who had him flogged most cruelly one hundred lashes upon one hundred lashes. He escaped again and lived as an outlaw on the run instead of facing the gallows for a murder he did not commit.

Then there was Culloden. Where he, or should I say we lost everything. I was pregnant with our second child; our first child, a daughter, was stillborn. On the eve of battle, Jamie forced me to return to my own time for the safety of myself and our child. Jamie believed it would be his destiny to die in battle. Instead, he lived. Again he went into hiding for seven years living in a cave in Lallybroch. The Redcoats continued to harass his family, stealing what they wanted from the estate. They arrested Ian, Jamie’s brother-in-law as the Redcoats believed he knew of Jamie’s whereabouts. And there was the Highland Clearances which destroyed homes, Scottish culture, language, and their way of life.

Jamie was not driven to this war because of a need for revenge because of his losses, but rather he felt he was honor-bound as a father to take up his sword to protect those he loved. Even if those he loved lived centuries after him.

“Ye said that this was meant tae be Brianna’s home, her country, aye? Then I must do what I can for our daughter and her bairns. ‘Tis my duty as sire and grandsire to see that they will live free, Sassenach.”

And he would do what he must for Brianna, Jem, wee Mandy, and Roger. No matter the cost to himself.  

My mind completely focused on Jamie and our immediate future prevented me from noticing a tall man thin as a rail standing in the middle of the road blocking our progress. Immediately, Jamie’s second in command rode up next to his commander.

The man did not budge an inch. He was rather rough looking. Wearing a knitted cap on his head, his long greasy hair protruded out. A grizzled beard covered his face. His clothes were quite worn having been patched many times. He wore no shoes. In all, he looked quite primitive.

Suddenly, he moved with a decided determination; a man on a mission.  The man strode up to Jamie assuming correctly that he was the man in charge.

A strong downward breeze announced his presence. Most likely the man had not bathed in months if not years. The odor was enough to make your eyes water.

The old man came forward eyeing Jamie like an entomologist studying a new species of bug. Relaxing he gave a tug on his cap and briefly bobbed his head.

“Ye in charge here?” the old coot demanded.

‘Aye, I am. General James Fraser at yer service sir. Might I enquire to whom I am speaking?”

“Mortimer Hepplewhite the owner of this here land yer trespassing on. And I want tae know when ye will be gone.”

“Mr. Hepplewhite, we shall be off yer land as soon as may be. We need to travel off the main road for now as there have been sightings of English troops nearby.”

“Well, all yer clanging and stomping about is disturbing the peace of me home.”

Jamie turned around to look at the property. It had not been cleared for planting nor were there any animals grazing. All that stood in the distance was a ramshackle cabin with a lopsided chimney discharging an inordinate amount of smoke.

“I dinna see any crops, or animals grazing, or people that we might be disturbing, sir.”

“Not disturbing he says! Why I’ll have ye know me Arabella is in a right fit. She doesn’t care much for strangers.”

The recluse, a long-limb man, raised a heretofore unnoticed ball of fur and thrust it under Jamie’s nose. He focused on it intently causing his eyes to almost cross. It hissed, spit, and yowled with great ferocity.

It seemed that Arabella was a cantankerous cat. And was as ill-kempt as its master with matted fur and bald in spots. One fang hung outside its mouth and on closer inspection seemed to be missing an eye.

Mortimer drew the beast close to his chest whispering sweet words of comfort while tenderly stroking its scraggly fur. The cat settled in his arms and even began to purr.

Jamie called to his Lieutenant and leaned over to whisper in his ear. He nodded and rode off to follow his orders.

I sat on my horse watching this spectacle play out. Without warning, I felt the sudden loss of my cat and worried about his well-being. Adso was part house cat and part feral cat. However, he was my cat. He loved to jump onto my lap to snuggle and drift off to sleep. Or lie on the windowsill basking in a sunbeam tail swishing like a metronome. He did wreak havoc in my surgery at times but he was mine, a gift from Jamie. Adso was just as much a part of the family as any of us. So why couldn’t Arabella be this lonely man’s family?  Family is whoever you say they are.  

The Lieutenant promptly returned carrying a bundle which he handed to Jamie.

Jamie slid down from his horse and approached the gentleman.

“On behalf of the Continental Army, I would like tae offer ye recompense for disturbing yer peace. Please accept this small token from myself and General Washington. And for the lovely Miss Arabella, I make a gift of this fish just caught this morning.”

Jamie removed his hat and bowed to the man.

Mortimer truly wasn’t sure of what to make of this but graciously accepted the parcel. He removed his cap revealing a head of matted hair and returned the bow.  He replaced his cap, straightened his shoulders, held his head high as he strolled back to his home, a rich man. A man made richer not for what he received but for the respect given him.

Later that night as I lay in Jamie’s embrace I asked him what prompted his actions on the road.

“Do ye ken the conversation we had in the gardens in Philadelphia? The one about what happened between ye and his lordship?”

Did I remember, he wanted to know? How could I forget?

“Of course I remember, you said that you would mention it from time to time.  Am I to take it that this will be one of those times?”

“Aye, ‘tis. But not what yer thinking about,” he said with a sidelong look. “I’m speaking of how John’s friendship healed us during times of great need. Mine at Ardsmuir, Hellwater, and Jamaica. Yer’s when ye thought I died.” The topic of my hasty marriage to John (for strictly political reasons) was still a sore point to him. He understood it, but didn’t and wouldn’t like it.  

Jamie let out a sigh trying to collect himself before continuing, “Mortimer was naught but a poor lonely old man, Sassenach. And I did not do much for him. I gave him a wee bit of flour, lard, dried meat, apples, and some parritch.” Jamie stopped to think for a moment, “Oh, a razor, a lump of soap, and a fish for his mangy cat.”

“Are you saying that you did this because of the kindnesses John showed us?”

“Exactly so, mo ghràdh . I felt..it just felt like the right thing tae do.”

I raised my face to look at him, “There’s a term for that and it's called paying it forward .”

He looked quizzically at me trying to understand what I meant.

“What that means is when someone does something kind or helpful for you, you return that kindness to a different person instead of repaying the person who originally helped you. Did you know that the man who started this idea is alive now?”  

“Och, aye? Who is he Sassenach?”

“Benjamin Franklin. I think you would like him. He was a founding Father, freemason, inventor, scientist, and a printer.”

His eyebrows lifted at the mention of Franklin being a printer and a freemason. “I should like to meet this man one day. “

Jamie grew quiet as he attempted to digest this information. “Paying it forward,” he rolled the words around in his mouth tasting them. “Aye, that’s it. Just so, I was paying it forward.”

“Jamie, I think what you did was far greater than repaying a kindness. I think you gave him something more than he ever expected. You gave him respect and a way to restore his dignity.”

He leaned over and kissed me, “Aye, Sassenach, respect is something every man or woman deserves.” Jamie stopped to think for a moment, “No man wants to go about stinking if he can help it.” I knew he was thinking of his time hiding in the cave and as a prisoner at Ardsmuir. “There were days I thought I would never get the stink off my body, dirt from under my nails, or be rid of the lice. ‘Twas a small thing but it may make a big difference to him. Maybe it will help to restore his self-regard.”

The following day we resumed our journey. Once again a man stood in the road again blocking our path. There was something vaguely familiar about him. It was Mortimer, now clean-shaven, clothes washed having removed several layers of filth, and much less fragrant. He carried a pack strapped to his back probably containing all his worldly possessions. Strangely he carried a beautiful and well-maintained musket in his hand.

He approached Jamie, removed his cap, and bowed deeply.

“Yer Excellency, I have decided tae travel with ye fer a while. If ye dinna mind.”

“Yer presence is welcome, Mr. Hepplewhite. Find yerself a place among the men. This evening please come by tae see my wife. She is the physician of our troop. She will see tae yer physicking needs should ye have any.”

“I thank ye, sir.” Mortimer replaced his cap, lowered his head, and took a position among the rank-and-file.

Jamie smiled, a pleased look playing across his face. His arm raised and he waved us forward.

As the men resumed their march, a wee black puff ball of fur stuck its head out of Mortimer’s bag evidently Arabella had a wash-up too.

                                                  ********************

Thig an seo cù - Come here dog.

If anyone wants to know, Jamie’s white stallion’s name was Samson. And he sneezed violently when he sniffed Mortimer.

A little bit of history here. Benjamin Franklin lent Benjamin Webb a sum of money to start a business. He told Webb that when his business was successful and he had paid all his debts, he should likewise help someone else like Franklin helped him. In return, that gentleman would have to assist someone else like Webb helped him. Franklin hoped this would continue until some knave would stop its progress. The idea of paying it forward was born.

We can all thank @scubalass for telling me about Ben Franklin and Paying It Forward.  She is truly an amazing person and a fount of information and wisdom. I think that this added so much to the story and found it quite interesting.

Thank you for reading. I hope you liked it.

It is also on AO3 where I am LadyJane518:   https://archiveofourown.org/works/28907349

#paying it forward #moby #jamie and claire #Mortimer Hepplewhite #revolutionary war #arabella the cat #ol fanfic #My writing #Here Goes Nothing #good to flex the writing muscles

[consumedkings-archive]

ancient names, pt. xvii

A John Seed/Original Female Character Fanfic

Ancient Names, pt xvii: what the wolves taught me

Masterlink Post

Word Count: ~6.9k  

Rating: Explicit.

Warnings: mentions of gore and blood, like a LOT of mentions of blood, mentions of self-harm, shower sex without Reasonable Protection, also like kind of dubious if you squint because John is tripping, bad decisions are made as well as some questionable dirty talk (John really likes that she beat a man to death). Elliot kind of has like one (1) tiny power trip. Idk man just like proceed with caution??

Notes: A little bit of an interlude chapter, this one! Last chap was a bit intense, so this one's more of a transition--not a lot happens in terms of plot movement, so everyone can go ahead and catch your breath. ♡ As always, a big and huge thank you to everyone who reads and comments, has come and said hi to me on my tumblr. This fandom has been so incredibly lovely and welcoming and just understanding of my general chaos and my inability to bend to canon at all. I'm just so grateful to each and every one of you! Thank you thank you thank you!

Big thank you to @shallow-gravy for lending me their eyeballs and for making me this GORGEOUS moodboard for Elliot. When I say that I like died inside when I saw it, it's because my life became complete and I was ready to ascend. Thank you so much!!

And of course my angel @starcrier, my lover my life my shawty my wife, who proofreads all my garbage even though she doesn’t even go here but she goes here for me! ILY ♡

As always, I hope you enjoy and thank you again!  ♡

John felt pretty good, all things considered.

Yeah, he was probably going to feel like shit when came off of his high; yeah, kissing Elliot did smear blood all over his mouth, but when he spotted the two of them in the reflection of the truck’s dark windows, Elliot’s face and hair splattered in crimson and the very obvious incrimination on his mouth, he thought, well, don’t we make quite a pair?

Everything blurred and pulsed pleasantly around him now as he sat in the passenger seat of the truck. The crash of the drug wasn’t really much of a crash at all—idly, John wondered how it was they got the downturn to be so easy, so slow, so mild. Each time he took in a breath it felt like the car expanded with him. There wasn’t anything the world, in that moment, that wasn’t for him, not a single thing that didn’t sway and pulse and beat in time with the rhythm of his own heart.

Except for Elliot. When he looked at her, red sparked off of her in violent waves to their own metronome, mimicking the dashes of crimson on her face and in her hair; the bruises welled red and blue along the pillar of her throat, her jaw, one on the corner of her mouth. She looked wild; her eyes moved with a sharp clarity that had him wondering how long that Wrath had really been sitting inside of her.

Not a good girl, he thought, watching Elliot drag her thumb from one end of her mouth to the other, wiping the blood their liplock had smeared around. He could still taste it in his mouth. Not anymore.

You couldn’t be good and bash a man’s skull in, could you? And it was bashed in—John had gotten one single good, long look at Kian’s face, and there was nothing of it left except bloody mush and two battered eyeballs barely stuffed into his skull. Gruesome. Well past the point of killing him.

“They attacked the compound,” Jacob was saying from the driver’s seat, pulling out onto the highway with a not-so-kind lurch as they hit pavement. “About an hour after you took off. I bet they were waiting. Fucking cockroaches.”

John glanced into the rearview mirror. He meant to look and see if he could catch any movement in the trees—anything that wasn’t Eden’s Gate—but he just looked at Elliot. Sharp-eyed, bloodied, fingers knotted into Boomer’s fur as the dog lay with his head in her lap. It wouldn’t have done any good, looking back there; everything was moving. Everything was breathing.

“Drugged me,” he offered helpfully, his tongue feeling a little too big for his mouth. Jacob looked at him through the sides of his eyes and hit the cruise button. “Got a radio back, too. I tried calling you guys, but—”

“But not Elliot,” Jacob said, less a question and more a confirmation of what he believed to be true. John shrugged idly.

His eldest brother glanced back at Elliot then, but she was silent for two heartbeats longer than what it should have taken for her to answer before she replied, “Wouldn’t have been fun for him if I was.”

“Yeah, well,” the redhead muttered. “You sure made...” His voice trailed off, and his eyes fixed on the road again. “... Work of him, didn’t you, deputy?”

Elliot sighed. That Jacob said you made work instead of you made quick work made John painfully, delightfully aware of how many times and how much effort it must have taken for Elliot to cave Kian’s face in, and that knowledge writhed pleasant and desirous in his stomach.

But Jacob didn’t sound pleased. John supposed that he wouldn’t be, all things considered. Kian was dead, sure, but the rest of the Family had almost certainly scattered like rats to whatever corner of Hope County they could reach. They would be a problem. By now, they were all supposed to be hunkering down in the bunker to outlast the End Days, and instead, they were contesting with an entirely different pest.

Maybe Elliot was right; maybe without Ase and Kian, they would just leave. Go and kill some other tiny town of people. Get their skin melted off by the nuclear war.

In fact, if John really thought about it—and it did take work—he didn’t think that the Family was much of a problem at all anymore. The only thing that remained questionable, and up in the air, was Elliot herself.

My wife, he thought, his brain ticking and idling like an engine cooling down, wading through the neck-high water of his thoughts. Each leap from one thread to the next felt sugary-slow. Little killer, aren’t you?

He didn’t think that she would be content with hunkering down in a bunker. That would take some time to warm up to, probably—and, John reasoned, he would have to first broach the subject of their legal binding. But that was another problem, for another time, and right now all John wanted to think about was getting home and enjoying his high while he had it.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When Elliot was very young, she remembered coming across a snake coiled on the hot pavement of the path up to their front door. It had been after school; her mother had had the windows of the kitchen open, playing an old song, something about a dream, and she could hear it from all the way down at the road. The snake was basking—drinking in the sunlight, mottled in shades of brown and copper, flecks of white highlighting the prettiest parts of it. The snake had been a dream to a girl who ran wild and barefoot through every inch of the Hope County wilderness she could reach; the speckled pattern begging for a touch, it’s elegant coil beckoning for attention.

The window to the kitchen had been open, and the second her mother had seen her staring at the snake, she’d come sprinting out the front door. Her mother had never liked any kind of animal that didn’t have four legs and wouldn’t fall under the “fluffy retriever” category, so at first, she had thought it was just her mother’s aversion to the scaly members of the animal kingdom; but after her mother’s insistent shrieking that she give the rattler a wide berth on the way up to the front steps, she’d thought maybe it was actual danger worrying her mother.

Of course, Scarlet had called the sheriff’s office and immediately demanded someone come and get rid of the snake (even though you weren’t supposed to call the sheriff’s office for that kind of thing, there was animal control) while she made herself a vodka soda.

“He’s pretty, mama,” Elliot had said, staring out the window at the snake. “Did you see his spots?”

“Pretty.” Scarlet had never sounded more displeased. She squeezed her lime into her drink, muttering furiously. “All those spots mean that ugly thing would kill you with one bite, bunny. Do you hear me? Venomous. Stay away from it.”

Now, sitting in the back seat of an Eden’s Gate truck, her face mottled with a dead man’s arterial spray, she felt like that prairie rattler, her spots belying a poison and vicious bite.

Pretty, she thought tiredly, combing her fingers through Boomer’s fur. Pretty venomous.

Her gaze drifted absently, away from the landscape blurring past them as Jacob cruised back to the compound and instead onto the occupants of the car. John was leaned back in his seat, eyes fluttering shut occasionally like he couldn’t keep them open very well, and Jacob had a tight grip on the steering wheel. A pack of cigarettes sat in one of the cupholders in the center console, and she reached for them on autopilot.

Jacob’s gaze flickered down to her hand snaking between them. For a second, he looked like he’d been about to grab her hand, like maybe he thought she was trying something—but his fingers stayed on the steering wheel, and he said, “Probably a lighter in the console.”

Elliot snagged the cigarettes and then fished around in the console until she found the lighter. The cotton fabric of Ase’s high-necked dress felt sticky on her skin, like she was in the middle of a summer storm; chill seeped down into her bones, and her skin bloomed feverish, and she thought this is when the crash happens, but it didn’t hit. She lit a cigarette and rolled the window down before she took a drag and felt the tiredness pull at the corners of her vision.

The song from her memory played on a gentle loop in her head. Leisurely, lulling. So dream, when the day is new; dream, and they might come true. Her mother had listened to that song so many times, growing up. She wondered, briefly, if her mother was alright. If she’d gotten out. If she’d gone with the resistance and fled, or if she was still here somewhere, or if she was dead.

“Anyone get hurt?” she asked after a minute. “At the compound?”

“A few,” Jacob replied. His eyes narrowed. “None dead, though.”

Elliot exhaled smoke out the window. She thought she would have felt dirty, now, sticky with Kian’s breath and his fingers and his mouth against her skin—but she didn’t, not right away. She just felt—

“Sure that’s disappointing for you,” Jacob continued.

—tired.

“Eat shit, Jacob,” she muttered. “I just solved your biggest problem.”

“No, you didn’t,” he snapped back. “Not by a long fucking mile, deputy.”

The redhead eyed her through the mirror, but she didn’t say anything to that—and for the rest of the ride back to the compound, it was blissful, empty silence.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

John thought he must have certainly fallen asleep in the car, because one second he was blinking through Jacob talking about how the compound had been attacked, and the next they were parking.

The compound looked a little worse for wear, but it was quiet; if not for the bullet holes in the walls of buildings, and the occasional blood spray dried nearly black with time, he wouldn’t have known anything was amiss at all. He would have thought it was a regular evening—but was far from it.

At the very least, John felt a little clearer now. His high was slowly cruising down, and he’d probably feel all of his bruises once he sobered up, but for now he buzzed.

Jacob climbed out of the driver’s seat beside him, and his body operated on autopilot to do the same. He saw Boomer drop from the truck and stick his nose to the ground instantly, eyes wary and waiting to see if any danger still lurked. When Elliot’s feet touched the ground, the Heeler did a single loop around her legs and then nosed her hand.

“John,” his brother said, his voice clipped. “Chapel.”

“Right,” John replied. He glanced over his shoulder and then looked at Elliot; she took in a little breath and waved her hand.

“Gonna shower,” she told him. “I’m good.”

John reached for her, fingers itching; Elliot caught his wrist before his hand could land on her shoulder, or her face, but she used it to pull him closer, and then she kissed him—leaned up and pressed her mouth, tasting like wild copper and a little like ash, against his. John’s brain fizzed white static and he sighed against her kiss, and he was reminded of how electric she had felt back there in the forest with the buzz of her kill still sitting under her skin.

“John,” Jacob insisted, louder this time, “now.”

“Okay,” John said, but he said it into the kiss, sliding his hand from Elliot’s grasp. “Okay, I’m—”

And like that she had pulled away from him; she whistled for Boomer and set off across the yard for the bunkhouse, and he turned and forced his legs to move towards the chapel. I’m good, she’d said. What did she mean? What did “good” constitute?

His brain felt too muggy for him to contemplate whether or not he was spiraling on a thought because it had some other meaning or because he was high, so he just pushed aside as he walked into the chapel, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Joseph was there, sitting beside Faith; their heads bowed in silence, only disturbed when the sound of his and Jacob’s footsteps echoed in the quiet.

“You’re safe,” Joseph said, sounding relieved. As John came closer, his older brother lifted an arm; beckoning him, and he went instantly. Joseph’s hand cradled the back of his head and pressed their foreheads together in an embrace that was far softer than anything that had occurred between them as of late. It felt like John’s entire body sighed in relief. “We were so worried, John.”

“And high as shit,” Jacob replied as they neared. “Tripping fuckin' balls, aren’t you, Johnny?”

“It’s fine,” John insisted, though he could hear the words slur a little even as he tried very hard to punctuate them on their way out of his mouth. “Not so bad.”

“You look awful,” Faith murmured. “What happened?”

“Um,” he said.

“Kian’s dead,” Jacob explained helpfully.

Joseph blinked. His expression was guarded, but hopeful. “Good news, then.”

“Deputy Honeysett bashed his skull in with a shotgun.”

Faith said, “Oh.”

A moment of silence stretched between them. Jacob paced to the front of the chapel; Joseph absently scratched at his cheek, his hand having withdrawn from John as he took in this news from his brothers. John tried not to shift too much, but the silence was killing him—he didn’t know how Joseph was going to feel about that. If he would still want Elliot with them.

“Was she?” Joseph asked after a minute. “Drugged?”

“No,” John said. “Not—I mean, she said she wasn't.”

“So she did it on her own,” he continued, “without being influenced by anything that could arguably… Cause a hallucination which would make her do that.”

“I—” John’s brain struggled to keep up with Joseph’s train of thought. “I—guess—”

“This is good news, then.” Joseph’s voice bloomed with warmth. “Don’t you see? There is no person more in need of us,” he continued, “than someone who has nowhere left to go.”

“And where would she go,” Jacob muttered, “that wouldn’t commit her to a psychiatric ward.”

Joseph nodded. His hand returned to the back of John’s neck and gripped there, firm and steadfast.

“You’ve done so well, John,” he said, “but our time is running out. You know that, don’t you? We are borrowing it now, from God himself, and I don’t intend to go into the next phase of our lives with a debt to pay.”

John blinked through the fog in his brain and swallowed thickly. He thought he knew what it was that Joseph was telling him—but before he could think too hard on it, Jacob interjected, “John hasn’t told the deputy about their blissful union.”

“What?” Faith asked, head snapping to look at him.

“Well,” John began.

“Actually,” Jacob continued, “he lied about it.”

“Well,” John tried again, irritably, “it had already been done, and she didn’t remember it thanks to Faith’s handiwork, and at the moment in time I thought—maybe—it would be worse off to tell her rather than…”

He fumbled for the words he wanted to say; the truth was that there were no good excuses. He just didn’t trust Elliot not to go absolutely feral when she found out, because she certainly didn’t remember it which meant she certainly was going to have feelings about it. And that was a problem.

But a problem for another time. Right?

“You’re gonna stick us in a bunker with her,” Jacob snapped, “and let her lose her shit on us while we’re trapped.”

“I won’t,” John insisted.

Joseph exhaled softly. “John—”

“I’ll—I’ve got it under control!” he exclaimed, looking at Joseph. “I know Elliot better than any of you, and I’ll find the right way to tell her, and it’ll be fine. I know.”

His older brother watched him with a pensive gaze. For a moment, John thought he saw regret flash across Joseph’s face—maybe for praising him too fast, maybe for entrusting this to him at all in the first place. But if he let someone down, that wasn’t his fault, right? This shit was so far beyond the plan of attack—so far beyond what they had anticipated, that there was a margin for error.

No, John thought, no, there isn’t. I know better. I’m better. I know.

“Borrowed time, John,” Joseph cautioned at last. “We’ve got to get rid of these locusts, and then we will be retreating for the End. You understand?”

John steadied the breath that tried to slip out of him. I don’t want to go into the next phase of our lives with a debt to pay.

“Yes, Joseph,” he replied. “I understand.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The stinging shower water ran pink to the drain. Elliot dunked her head under the water and passed her hands over her face; she stood there for a moment letting the water pool in the cups of her hands until her lungs ached and she had to let it go, spilling over her neck and shoulders. The dark dress, wretched thing, had been discarded and tossed into the trash; she thought if she had to look at herself in it for one more second she was going to come fucking undone, and that just wouldn't do.

The door clicked open; a brief moment of hesitation sounded before she heard footsteps coming inside. “El?”

She turned in the shower, wiping water from her eyes before tugging the curtain back. John regarded her with eyes only half-intoxicated, more clarity about them now than there had been in the truck.

Elliot watched him for a moment as she considered. The chill hadn't left her bones, even in the scalding hot water.

“Are you getting in?” she asked, watching his gaze flicker absently before landing back on her.

“Are you inviting me?”

Elliot pulled back from the curtain and ducked back under the water. “I’ve never known you to need an invite.”

“Fair enough, I won't disappoint.”

There was the gentle rustle of fabric, the push of the curtain, and then she wasn’t alone in the shower anymore; but it was fine, because she didn’t want to be alone anymore, because it felt like her entire body was vibrating and she couldn’t get it to stop. Unlike John, who she guessed was cruising down the same gentle crash that she had felt when the Family had drugged her with their weird shit, there was nothing inhibiting her body now. Only the quick, sharp, violent buzzing of blood on her mind, under her fingernails, between her teeth.

It felt good, too. An adrenaline high; the fall, right before impact.

John’s hands slid along her hips. The calloused pads of his fingers—fingers meant to hurt, to twist and coerce—skimmed the scars along her abdomen, sloping across her hip bones; she didn’t have to glance down to see that’s what he was doing. You’ll tell me, he’d said that morning. Eventually.

“I did them,” she said around the dull roaring in her ears. The words tasted strange on her tongue. A verbal admittance was very different from scribbling it into a journal. But the catharsis had begun; with Kian’s collapsed skull imprinted into her mind forever, it felt as though a tension had released in her, pulled taut and sharp and finally ripped free.

“Did what?” he asked, nosing past wet hair to glide his mouth along the pillar of her throat.

“The scars,” Elliot murmured. “I did them.” To feel real, she wanted to say, I did them so I could know that I was still real, but the words wouldn’t come. Maybe they didn’t need to.

John’s thumb swept along the one that stretched over her hip bone. He hummed, low and hungry, into her skin. He might have been coming down from his high, but it didn’t seem to be pushing him into sleep; he was enjoying it, the gentle careening to sobriety.

And maybe tomorrow she would regret telling him. Maybe tomorrow she would feel dirty for the way that she killed Kian, instead of intoxicated with her own magic. Maybe, maybe, maybe—but that was a thing to think about when the time came, and just like she had done everything else about herself that she hadn't liked, she would strangle it and move on.

John turned her around so that he could pull her against him. He said, “I thought so,” like he had recognized it in her, and she thought about that dream. Just like me, holding her blood-covered hands in his. You’re just like me.

Lifting her arms, Elliot carded her fingers through his hair and then gripped, pulling him in to press her mouth against his. She kissed him the way that she wanted to; no time for shyness now, she thought, no room for hesitation. John had watched her cave a man’s face in, and he was still here and hungry, so she kissed him hard—dug her teeth into his lip and revelled in the way that he moaned and leaned into her.

He’d kissed her frantically, too, back in the clearing and with Kian’s body just a foot away from them. Kissed her with blood in her mouth, greedy and insatiable, and frenzied, like he’d wanted her right then and there and wasn’t willing to let her go until he absolutely had to.

The raised skin of his Sloth scar dragged under her fingers. She dug her nails into the soft expanse of his shoulder, and he made a low, delicious noise against her mouth. I could give him more, she thought, dizzied at the idea of it, at this sudden humming, heady power she felt had become hers. This something that had become unlocked inside of her. I could give him more, and he’d thank me for it.

“Elliot,” John began, hands gripping her hips as he nudged her back against the shower wall. But he didn’t follow it up with anything; he just kept her there, skin on skin, heat bleeding out from every inch of him. His hand drifted up above her head, fumbling at the window, trying to push it open. “Fuck, it’s so fucking—hot in here—”

I want to be yours. I want a home with you.

Briefly, she wondered if that dream had been as wishful as she’d thought. John had been exactly what she wanted him to be—just the color, just the shape, everything in him built to lure her and keep her there like the most perfect predator. It was easy to forget that she had never known that she wanted a man whose hair was dark and his eyes a little cruel until she had looked at John Seed. But now it was impossible to ignore; she pressed to him, craved him, this delicious anchor of hers.

He could be cruel, if he wanted—he’d considered drowning her to death. He’d been greedy to mark her skin forever with her sin. He’d littered his body with markings and scars, testaments to his devotion, just like he had done every other conversion.

Yes, she thought absently, against the stifling heat of the stinging shower and John’s own radiating warmth, feverish from the hallucinogen seeping out of him. He is cruel. But maybe I—

And then he murmured, against her ear, “Want you,” hazy and buzzing and warm. His fingers slid down between them, gliding along the curve of where she most wanted his attention, and she felt her breath hitch in her throat. He buried his face into her neck and sighed, pressing into her and eliciting in her a spark that traveled straight down her spine; and then, almost as though he wasn’t thinking too hard about it: “Would’ve—back in the forest—”

He cut himself off and his movements stilled, just for a second. Elliot tilted her head to look at him through her eyelashes and canted her hips to gain some friction against the heel of his palm; she wasn't bothering anymore to stifle the stuttered, half-breath-half-whimper that came out of her as slick pleasure pooled in her stomach, the feeling of his fingers dragging a delicious, heady burn through her. 

Elliot heard him swallow back a sound over the white noise of the shower. It was a wicked kind of thing, this watching John as she leaned down into him; watching the muscle in his jaw tense and flex just before he beckoned his fingers against her and bit out a swear between his teeth when her body tensed and arched prettily into his touch. Needy and wanting; just the way that he liked, she was sure.

“Would’ve what?” she prompted breathlessly. John’s lashes, long and darker still from the shower spray, flickered. He seemed to be weighing it in his head, the pros and cons of what he had been going to say, but Elliot was no longer in a place of wanting to wobble. No floating, no drifting between ethereal and corporeal—she didn’t want to have to wonder, to have to piece together what it was he was thinking with the crumbling threads she could scoop up.

He didn't answer her; instead, he dragged his mouth along the slope of her neck, teeth digging against her pulse point. Elliot moaned, choking the noise halfway out of her spitefully, because she wanted him to earn it, and he did it again—harder this time, less like he was testing and more like he knew that she wanted it. The sting rippled heady anticipation straight to her brain, sparking through that hazy fog in her mind.

She sighed, "John," just as he dragged his fingers out slowly, torturously slowly, not enough to give her even half the friction she wanted and not so little that it didn’t make her suffer in the best sort of way. As soon as they didn’t return, but rather traveled the expanse of her abdomen, a quiet complaint slipped out of her; John kissed her, his tongue gliding against hers, his teeth nipping and biting as he dragged her leg up around his hip.

Everything felt like it was happening between breaths, between heartbeats, her pulse moving so sluggishly it was lava spreading through her body. Stifling, so hot, too hot, too much, but John’s mouth over hers pushed and pulled the breath out of her, guided the currents of her like the moon. Elliot tried again, giving the words more punch on their way out, “You would’ve what?”

She thought that she knew what he was going to say, and she wanted to hear him say it, that he would’ve—

“Fucked you,” John managed out hoarsely, just as he rocked into her. “God, I—”

Yes, she thought; the word left her mouth in something close to an exhale, and she didn’t know if she was responding to what he’d said or to the way it felt like he’d set a wildfire going racing along her skeleton the second they connected. He managed out a half-moaned swear and shifted into a slower, more leisurely paced as he sighed, “I would’ve, El— fuck , you’re so tight— ”

Pleasure wrenched in her stomach and writhed, hot and wicked. John’s pace was halting; he was trying not to go too fast or too hard even though he wanted to, but then he said things like how he wanted to fuck her while she was covered in blood and—

And she felt seen, and wanted, and she thought this must have been how they did it: took all of the grit and gore of someone and worshipped it, like something holy.

Biggest fucking Peggy-killer this side of Hope County, he’d spat at her that day they’d found Waylon’s body. But now? Now, it was all, so tight, El, want you, would’ve fucked you right there.

His hands grazed the bruises on her body before stopping at her hips again. He pulled back to get a good look at her, and then reached up, cradling her jaw with his left hand and dragging the pad of his thumb across her lip. A thrill crawled up her spine, hot and searing and latching onto her; she thought, this magic is mine now, too, and she parted her lips obediently to drag him into her mouth just so she could watch John just about come unglued.

And never before had she felt like this, wicked with John’s eyes blown wide and dark with want as his gaze fixed on her mouth and moaned, “God, Elliot—”

She wanted to forget about Kian’s hands on her body, his mouth on her skin, his words ringing in her head. So she did; she indulged in the feeling of John’s breath trembling as her tongue flickered against the pad of his thumb and the way he hissed as his pace changed. 

“Should have,” Elliot managed out when his thumb slipped from her mouth so that he could press his hand against the wall by her head. She said it between dizzying, radiating pleasure dragging through her body, devouring her, dragging her further and further toward the edge. “Should have—fucked me then, John, I—”

“F-Fuck.” The swear left his mouth wrecked, his movements stuttering. “Fuck, that’s so— filthy.”

He stopped tempering himself. If he was doing it because he was worried about whatever injuries she’d sustained, she was glad that he’d stopped—each haphazard, frenzied connection of their bodies sent her rapidly hurtling towards her finish, his fingers digging and dragging against the parts of her that craved him the most. It wasn’t fair, really, that John could rumble a few dirty things about wanting to fuck her in the woods and get her so close: but he did, and she was, and that was the end of it.

She breathed out, “Close, John—I’m—”

“Liked that, did you?” He sounded awfully pleased with himself, even as each of his breaths were punctuated with a desirous sound. “Liked me telling you how badly I wanted to push that dress up and fuck you right there? You get s-so —fucking tight when I say that—c’mon, El, let me hear those pretty noises—”

“Yes,” Elliot moaned, hazy with want, desperate and still trying to swallow some of it back, so close so close so close. “Yes, yes, I— John—”

John said something into her mouth; she couldn’t have said what it was, because all of the blood went rushing through her head the second her climax hit. There was a strange, suspended moment of nothing before it ripped straight through her, every neuron firing off rapidly as she buried her face into John’s neck and dug her nails in hard while the wave washed over her, wicked-hot and nearly too much.

Nearly, but not quite. John’s teeth on her lip dragged her back, and he moaned, “Holy shit, fuck yes —fuck, El, I’m gonna—let me—”

He couldn’t quite get out what he was trying to say, but Elliot thought she knew; it wasn’t hard to guess, anyway, considering the way he was gripping her like he’d fucking disappear if he didn’t. And she felt a little wild, a little wicked, only a vicious desire left before she hit empty, so she managed out, “Beg.”

John pulled back a little and let his gaze rake over her. His movements slowed, just enough that she could tell that he was pacing himself, holding back the same way he had that first time when she’d dragged him through his own climax. Though his eyes were blown nearly black, the clarity about them made her want to squirm—that she knew he wasn’t quite so high as he was before, that he was going to remember this.

“Wh—” The brunette swallowed thickly; his hands skimmed absently across her skin, like he didn’t need to really think about it to do it anymore, but that they did it of their own volition. “What?”

With that same kind of recklessness, Elliot knotted her fingers in his hair and said, “ Beg to finish inside me.”

A short, breathless laugh barked out of him. He said, “Fuck you. I’m not—I don’t—”

Elliot squirmed, pulling on his hair until his lashes fluttered and he was leaning back into her on instinct. “You do now,” she replied silkily against his mouth. And then, in an attempt at graciousness: “Didn’t you want me to be loud, John? To hear me?”

He groaned. “Y—Yes—”

“So beg me,” she bit out, canting her hips against him and feeling his breath stutter and hitch, “and I’ll be as loud—”

“Fuck—”

“—as you want—”

“— yes —”

“—tell you how much I want it—”

“ Please,” John moaned as he slotted his hips against hers, unable to hold still any longer. He made a low, wrecked sound, and by the time the adrenaline rush from hearing John Seed say please to her had hit her brain he was foregoing all pretense. “Please, El, let me finish inside you, I’ll—fuck—make you feel so good, baby, make you mine—”

Elliot kissed him, hard and punishing, and moaned “Yes—yes, John, so good ,” against his mouth until he was driving into her like a man incensed, frenzied, each desperate dig of his fingers against the bruises in her skin delivering a different kind of delicious pain; and when he came, panting, yes, fuck yes, don’t stop, El, please, fuck, she held onto him tighter.

Anything to feel whole. Anything to feel safe. Anything to forget, even for a moment.

“Don’t move,” John managed out unsteadily. “Don’t—Jesus, fuck, it’s so fucking hot in here.”

“Don’t know where I’d go,” she replied in a murmur. Her brain felt foggy now, delicious sliding down from her high, remembering the surge of delight she’d felt when John had said please, El. The water had since gone lukewarm, and she wasn’t sure she even got all of the blood out of her hair, but it didn’t matter; pleasant after-currents rippled through her, and all she could think about was how little of her brain was being spent on churning around the Family.

John’s mouth traced a bruise on her neck—either from him, or Kian; she didn’t know—and his breath slid across her skin.

“Viper,” he murmured huskily, admiringly. “Aren’t you?”

“You said it yourself,” she replied tiredly, eyes fluttering as the desperate need for sleep finally registered in her brain; no more adrenaline to keep pushing it away. “More devil than woman.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It was the second time waking up next to John, and the second time of having to try and brace herself for some kind of impact after.

That is to say, Elliot thought that maybe fucking John Seed felt a little bit like throwing herself off of a cliff, and so every time it happened—she thought, as though it had been more than twice—it was the same sensation of falling. The feeling prevailed over any other logic in her brain: upon waking, she thought very little of the sensation of his arm draped over her waist or his face buried into her hair and only of the sheer blast of panic that raced through her.

I smell, I feel, I hear, she thought, closing her eyes tight, but when she did, she saw Kian—blood streaming down his face, gripping her jaw, will you feel guilty about this too? And the panic shifted into dread, knotting tight and hard in her stomach.

She forced her eyes open. Sheer exhaustion had pushed her through a dreamless night, but that didn’t mean that her nightmares were confined to sleeping hours only.

When Elliot shifted, John stirred; his fingers skimmed up the back of her shirt, palm flattening at the spot between her shoulder blades, and she winced. Everything hurt. Everything ached. She wondered what was worse; nightmares, or this?

Definitely the nightmares, she thought, each breath a labor of her bruised and battered body. Right? Has to be the nightmares.

“Stop moving,” John muttered against her head.

“I don’t know why you don’t get the concept of a twin bed,” she snapped. “Fuck, my body hurts—”

“Well.” He was clearly trying not to sound smug, and failing; she could feel his grin into her hair. “I do recall you spurring me on—”

Oh, she thought, reminded of their shared shower. That.

A problem.

“Not from that, fuckhead.” She squirmed back from him, back pressing against the wall. “Feels like someone tried to curb stomp my ribs eighty times.”

“Probably did,” he replied. John tilted his head, wincing a little, and then nudged the blankets back from her body. His gaze was admiring. “Christ, you bruise easy, huh?”

“A fucking van t-boned us in a truck that spit out pitiful, half-functioning airbags, ” she bit out, “and then I got tossed around like a ragdoll, so—yeah, I guess if you consider battery and assault “easy”, then—”

John’s hands came up to her face and he kissed her. It lacked the same kind of urgency that it’d had last night; this was John taking his time, savoring her, parting his lips against hers and sighing into the kiss as he carded his fingers through her hair. The gesture itself was so unexpected that Elliot could do nothing but reciprocate, and the breath hitched in her throat as he tugged her back against him—part in pain and part because of the way he did it, like he just couldn’t get enough of her.

“So ungrateful,” he said against her mouth, “after I gave you what you wanted so badly last night.”

“I’m not the one who begged,”   Elliot replied sharply, “am I?”

John’s hand skimmed the slope of her hip, and he made a low noise, thumb digging past the top of her underwear to press lightly into a bruise that she thought his fingers had left. She sucked in a sharp breath as a familiar heat sprinted down her spine and squirmed.

“Worth it,” he replied after a moment, teeth catching her lip, “to have you say how much you wanted me in you.”

He flashed that half-cocked, shit-eating grin that she could feel against her mouth, and she swatted his hand away from her hip. There was, perhaps, a part of her that regretted goading him like that—that regretted spurring him on—but there was no point in lingering on it now. As much as John might want to. As much as, when he looked at her with those too-blue eyes, she might want to.

Elliot opened her mouth to say something, but before she could, there was a soft, quick knock at the door. Boomer, curled up on one of her sweaters by the door, immediately pricked his ears and barked at the intrusion.

“Elliot?” It was Faith’s voice. She felt her stomach somersault, plunged into—well, it wasn’t quite shame, but maybe a little bit of embarrassment, in the way that it was to have the little sister of the man you were currently entangled with knock on your door while you were still in bed.

“I’m—” Elliot sat up, slapping a hand over John’s mouth when she saw him start to say something. “I’m getting dressed, what is it?”

“Joseph wants to talk to you,” Faith called back, pausing. And then, perhaps with a bit more slyness than Elliot liked: “And John.”

Fuck fuck fuck. The last thing she wanted was for Joseph to know . There was probably a ninety-eight percent chance that Joseph was going to be flashing that psychotic smile the second she walked in, knowing that she and John were—

“W—I’m coming,” she said, as John gripped her forearm and pressed his mouth to the pulse point on her wrist, letting his teeth drag there. She yanked her arm out of his grip and hissed, “Stop , you fucker, or I’ll pick my teeth with your fucking bones.”

“Okay,” came Faith’s light-hearted reply. “See you soon!”

As soon as she heard the footsteps receding, she turned to John. “What the fuck does your brother want with me, John?”

John shrugged. “Contrary to what you may believe about me, I am not entirely all-knowing.”

“As usual, you are stunningly unhelpful,” she muttered crossly, sliding out of the bed and over to her bag of clothes. Now, she really felt it—each impact had been dulled by the adrenaline at the time, but as she shimmied into her jeans, every inch of her body screamed in pain and her vision fuzzed around the edges.

John had gotten out of bed as well, but he departed to the bathroom and returned with a bottle of aspirin, which he shook two pills out of and held in his palm for her.

“You might consider something with a higher neck,” he suggested lightly.

Elliot snatched the aspirin out of his hand and swallowed them dry. “My teeth,” she said, jabbing a finger into his chest, “your bones.”

“Just trying to be helpful.”

“Suggestion box is closed,” Elliot snapped. “Now—”

Her eyes flickered over him. It was very easy to disassociate John’s personality from his physical body, but harder when he was half-stripped-down in front of her, scars and tattoos on display and reminding her how intimately familiar she was becoming with them.

“Now put your clothes on,” she finally said, somehow managing to keep her voice mostly steady. “I want to get this done as fast as possible.”

The brunette flashed her a cheeky smile and gave her a two-finger salute that rang sardonic at best.

“Anything you want, baby.”

#john seed x deputy #john seed x ofc #ch: elliot honeysett #otp: death keep off; i am your enemy #fic: ancient names #my writing #far cry 5 #fc5 fic #i'm not tryna be out here like have sex after you kill a man but if the mood fits u know #per usual john's hardware is on the fool setting only

[heycoyotegirl]

Safe to Shore

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24252283 Relationships: Paxton Hall-Yoshida/Devi Vishwakumar Additional Tags: Pre-Relationship, Panic Attacks, paxton is a soft boy and i will die on this hill, no beta we die like non-honors students, Mutual Pining Summary: Devi has a panic attack after falling into the pool. Paxton helps her through it. A/N: This is my first NHIE fic, so let me know if I got their voices right! It’s also unbetad, so please point out any mistakes.

Paxton was leading her somewhere. She wasn’t quite sure where. He’d said something—about clothes, maybe—but her ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton. And the party continued to rage around them. The bass of too loud music thumped through her body, shaking her bones and forcing her heartbeat to match the racing tempo.

The breeze against her damp skin made her shiver. Made her keep shivering. Hadn’t they just been inside? Why was there a breeze? Where—

Paxton’s hand left her lower back, and she found herself suddenly swaying on her feet. She hadn’t even realized that his hand had been there until its support was gone. What was happening to her that she hadn’t realized that Paxton was touching her? Was she dying? Her chest hurt with every inhale. The air stabbing into her lungs, trying to cut her to ribbons. Her heart was pounding, about to break free from her ribcage. And the world around her seemed muted and muffled and blurry. Weirdly distorted like she was—

Underwater.

Oh, God.

“Woah!”

She felt distant hands grab at her. Pulling her out of the water? Or pushing her deeper? The breeze was ice against her skin. Her pulse thudded in her ears, everything else drowned out by its roar. She had to find the surface, but her legs were numb, useless, paralyzed. Her lungs were caving in—or, no, filled with water. The pressure unbearable. Ribs cracking under the strain. Her throat tightened. She was choking. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe and—

“Devi! Devi, hey, can you hear me? I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

Paxton. Paxton’s hand in her’s. Paxton’s face in her field of view. His eyebrows drawn together, lips tight with worry. Worry—for her?

She managed to nod her head, motions jerky. The motion unbalanced her. Set her head spinning. The rip current threatening to drag her deeper.

Paxton squeezed her hand. A lifebuoy. “Ok, can you name five things you can see for me?”

The world was still swimming. She felt disconnected, trapped at the bottom of a pool while everyone watched impassively from above. She was still shaking. Why couldn’t she stop shaking?

“Devi?” Paxton prompted, voice so soft it made her ache.

“Right.” Forcing that single word out through the water in her lungs was exhausting. But she couldn’t let Paxton down. Couldn’t disappoint him. The last person still in her life. Five things. “Um. Your eyes. Your jacket. The ground. My dress.” With each word spoken, the next came a little easier. But still, she hesitated for a second. Her voice dropped, nearly whispering, “Your lips.”

Said lips curved into a small smile. “Good. Now, what are four things you can feel?”

Her breath hitched, and her vision abruptly went blurry. Her eyes stung—chlorine? She blinked rapidly. Her hand darted to her leg, pinching her skin roughly, nails digging in hard enough to draw blood. “My—my legs. I can’t—I can’t feel—”

Paxton caught her hand, gently prying it away from her leg. He replaced it with his own, palm burning her skin like a brand. “I got you. I promise, your legs still work. Do you think you can tell me four things you feel?”

Devi managed another approximation of a nod. His thumb started to rub little circles by her knee, the repetitive motion soothing enough that she managed to take a deep—shuddering and painful—breath. Still, progress.

“Your hand—hands,” she said. Paxton’s grip on her tightened for a second. She met his gaze and found herself shuddering for a new reason. “Uh, the breeze. The pavement. My awful, wet dress.” She was starting to settle back into herself. Unfortunately, that meant she was all too aware of the way the damp fabric clung to her.

“Good. You’re almost done, and then we’ll get you out of that wet dress. What are three things you can hear?”

Devi stared at him silently for a moment, but if he realized what he said, he didn’t show it. Perhaps she was still more out of it than she’d thought. Eventually, she answered, “Your voice. The music. My heart.” The last, she said softly, like it was a confession. Maybe it was. The fear was receding, leaving bone deep fatigue in its place, but her heart continued to race.

Paxton smiled at her. Had he been that close a second ago? “Two things you can smell.”

“Chlorine and…”—her nose wrinkled—“chlorine.”

He laughed. “Yeah, I’ll give you that one. It really covers everything up.”

Devi smiled back at him. They were still holding hands. Could he feel her pulse fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings? She hoped her hand wasn’t too clammy.

“Last one: One thing you can taste. Or would like to taste.”

You. “Chlorine, again,” she said, sticking her tongue out in feigned disgust.

Paxton chuckled softly, the sound punching her straight in the gut. They were both silent for a moment. His breathing was slow and deep, and Devi found herself unconsciously matching him. He was the metronome, demanding her to keep time. Her lungs twinged as they expanded fully, but when Paxton paused for a beat between inhale and exhale, she mimicked him, relishing in the ache after the suffocating feeling from before.

His voice was quiet as he asked, “Are you feeling better?”

She glanced away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah. Thank you for that.”

“Of course.” His gaze was heavy when she looked up, and she nearly held her breath in anticipation. But she couldn’t afford to screw this up and lose yet another person. She slipped her hand out of his, making a futile attempt—mostly for show—to squeeze some of the water out of the hem of her dress.

“You said something about clothes?” Getting her out of that wet dress, to be specific. She pushed the thought away; she had to focus on being a good friend, not pining away hopelessly.

“Right.” He sounded—disappointed? Her head whipped up. He didn’t look disappointed. Wishful thinking, then. This “being a good friend” thing might be tougher than she’d thought. He gave her thigh one last squeeze—how had she missed the fact that his hand was still on her leg?—and stood, offering a hand to help her up. “I have some extra sweats in the car that you can wear.”

The thought of wearing Paxton’s clothes would have sent her into a tizzy any other day. Today, she was bone-deep exhausted. Which she realized when she stood and nearly face planted into Paxton’s chest. Her knees buckling threatened to send her spiraling again, but she could still feel them, feel the lead weights in all of her muscles and the throbbing from her ill-advised pinch.

Plus, Paxton’s hands were on her waist, saving her from breaking her nose on his sternum or tipping over backwards to crack her skull on his car. He was murmuring at her, not really saying anything, but tone and cadence soothing. It reminded her of someone talking to an injured wild animal they were trying to catch. These days, she often felt like a wild animal, cornered and scared and lashing out at the people trying to help her.

“Devi?”

She shook the thoughts off, starting slightly as she realized that Paxton’s hands were still on her waist and her hands were clutching his forearms. “Sorry,” she said, not moving her hands. “I kind of got lost in thought there.”

Paxton shrugged. “No worries. I should’ve realized that your blood sugar would be low. I’ve got snacks in the car. Think you can lean against the car and stay upright long enough for me to grab them?”

She nodded, albeit reluctantly. But only because his hands were warm and she was cold. Definitely not because standing like that made it very easy to fantasize about kissing him. She half listened to Paxton rattle off an implausibly long list of choices—was he running some sort of strange convenience store out of the back of his jeep?—eventually just letting him decide.

He’d returned quickly, snacks and sweats in hand and watched her like a hawk as she carefully lowered herself to sit leaning against the car’s tire. And thus, she found herself sitting on the ground outside Ben’s house—outside the biggest party of the year—in a wet dress, drinking a juice box and eating banana bread with Paxton Hall-Yoshida, the hottest guy in school. If her thigh didn’t still hurt, she’d be tempted to pinch herself again.

She was on her second slice—Paxton was on what seemed to be his second loaf—when the wind blew sharply, reminding her of the fact that she was still soaked. She shivered violently, and Paxton was on his feet instantly. “You should get changed,” he said, stepping around to the other side of the car. “Wouldn’t want to go to the hospital for hypothermia.”

She nodded and pulled his sweatshirt over her head so that she could maintain some amount of dignity while wiggling out of the clingy fabric. “Thanks for letting me borrow your sweats. This is so embarrassing; you keep having to rescue me at parties.”

“It’s not embarrassing for me.” He shot her a slight smile. “I always come out of it looking cool.”

#daxton #devi x paxton #paxton x devi #nhie #nhie netflix #nhie fic #my fic #my post #devi #paxton #paxton hall yoshida #paxton h y #devi vishwakumar

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #13 - Acrimony

(Prompt suggested by @savothesewercat​. Thanks ... I think.) (Note: We’re back aboard the hallucination and self-harm train. As such, everything will be below the cut.)

The Duskwight, age 21 Plp. Plp. Plp. The dripping of water into a pool counted the seconds for him like a metronome. An accompaniment of droplets against stone was layered beneath it. The Duskwight’s fingers found the back of his hand, warm and wet. Gritting his teeth, he gouged new furrows into his skin until the dripping of blood on stone quickened and matched the metronome, if only for a little while. “You’ve ruined the old man’s work,” a voice like broken glass, sharp and clear, chided. He knew it as the matriarch’s, though he also knew she’d been dead for … how long had it been? His years in the woods, cradled by trees and swathed in an endless sky, seemed eons away. He was certain only that it had been a long time. Long enough that the Duskwight was as much a stranger in his own body as he was in his own mind. The only things that felt familiar anymore were the ache lancing through his hand and the heat rolling through his chest. The voice continued, anchoring the Duskwight’s attention to the argument. “You’ve ruined it as thoroughly as you ruined us. We trusted you to guide us. But you let them murder us all. This is your fault.” “There was a traitor,” the Duskwight countered. His voice had grown raspy and weak, unable to carry for even the twelve steps it took to reach the other end of the cave. Merely whispering set his throat on fire. “They were waiting.” “You’d detected ambushes before. Was he the only traitor? Or did you want us to die?” “You put us there in the first place!” the Duskwight snarled, his hoarse voice rising until it was as close to a shriek as it could get. He recognized it as still shy of a normal speaking voice, but in the cave, where only the scratching of vermin and murmur of water could be heard, it seemed impossibly loud. “We could have quit, we had more than enough!” “So we could have led quiet little lives in hiding while the Gridanians hanged and skewered our brothers and sisters? Was our legacy such a small price to pay, so long as you and the witch could run away together?” the matriarch asked, her voice more ice than broken glass now. “Well. It matters not. Your fetters are gone now, little bat. So tell me. Are you happy?” The Duskwight felt heat rush through his hands, and his bloody fingers found a fistful of tiny bones. He flung them across the cavern, filling the chamber with a clattering that was thunderous to his ears. He didn’t shrink from the noise, instead sitting up in preparation to strike at the voice again. It didn’t speak, and the Duskwight knew that it was gone. For a time, at least. It would return, and they’d begin the argument anew, trading the same barbs they always did. He settled back against the wall, stone jabbing at his bare skin. He let his eyes drift shut, though it changed nothing here, where he was shut away from even the faintest bit of light. His world had been reduced to a single cave, twelve steps wide. It was occupied only by phantoms and a single sound, ever-present. Plp plp plp. (Prompt #12: Tooth and Nail) (Prompt #14: Part)

#ffxivwrite2020 #ffxivwrite #rythas brenelle #tw; self-harm #tw; mental health

[stewyonmolly]

so i can’t decide if i want something cute or angsty from the prompt list thing so could you write either 60 or 66?

guess what pal?? you get both!! i answered 66 here, so here’s 60! im also giving a secondary holla @peter-stank bc beedee gave me the idea for this one!!

----------

Michelle usually doesn’t wake with Peter’s nightmares.

He’s not the type to scream out or thrash. He tenses, rock-tight, jaw clenched, back straight. When he wakes up, his eyes pop open, flit, search the room for shadows that don’t belong. He grabs a handful of the sheets, or an armful of her, and waits for the sun to rise in silence.

Tonight is different, but only because, by some fracture in chance, she had been awake already when he froze.

She’d been sitting on her side of the bed, laptop on her thighs, typing up a new introduction for the article her boss had mentioned in passing and she had claimed. It had been plaguing her all day, an itch she couldn’t reach, but she’s got a half-baked idea now and she’s going to stick together with spit and a prayer and a whole host of hard work if it kills her. 

She stops mid-type when Peter seizes up. Looks down at him, closing her laptop halfway. 

Usually, she thinks of his dreams as something that just is. She can’t stop them. Can’t fix them. She can be there for him to hold onto after, when he presses his nose into her hair or drags her arm over his chest. She can whisper, “I’m right here,” or “you’re right here,” or “we’re at home,” and then talk mindlessly until he relaxes: about her work, or the weird smell on the wind, or the cat picture Morgan sent her. 

Seeing it happen, though. Something in the pit of her stomach writhes as his eyes roll under the purple sheen of his lids, searching for something he can’t see. 

She drops a hand flat on his chest and rubs at it. Maybe that will do something.

She’s never been good at the—emotional parts. Her parents were good to her, but they didn’t hold her, didn’t smooth band-aids over her skinned knees. She was taught to pick herself up and make her own way. To decide for herself. To be brash, if that’s what it takes: fear over love, sharpness and wit and feigned confidence like a sash and shield. If mountains stood in her path, she grabbed up the trowel and started to dig. 

Peter isn’t like that. Peter is a thumb on her cheekbone when she’s pissed; lips on her shoulder when he’s going to bed but she’s still hunched over the computer in the kitchen; head on her chest when they find time to lay out on the couch together. His hand searches for hers when they walk side by side on the sidewalk. He bumps their hips together like metronomes too close when they stand in front of the register in the coffee shop and pick their drinks. 

She tries for him. She always does. But it’s like tossing herself into a cave blind and expecting to find diamonds among the bat shit and stalagmites. 

She sets her shoulders. Drops her laptop on the nightstand and flicks the lamp on. Scoots down in the sheets and shakes Peter’s shoulder, the other hand smoothing sweaty hair off his forehead. 

“Hey,” she breathes, and when he does not rouse, she says, louder, “Peter. Wake up.”

His eyes shoot open and he freezes.

“Hey,” she says, making sure he can see her face. She continues to brush his bangs back. “Nightmare.”

He swallows, throat bobbing, and nods. 

His eyes are wet.

She hesitates a moment before leaning forward and pressing her lips to his forehead. 

“Did I wake you?” he says, scratchy.

“No,” she assures. “No, I was up, working on that thing for Jameson.”

“Oh,” he says.

She stares at him. The longer she looks, she catches the slight tremble in his lip. He tries to hide it, jaw clenched tight, but she sees. It’s what she’s good at. Seeing him, but taking too long to collect the courage to do. 

Doing. That is something she needs to practice.

It’s about time she does, anyway.

“Let’s go get some tea,” she suggests. “Sit on the couch. Change of scenery, since neither of us are sleeping.”

“Okay,” he breathes. 

They sit up. MJ grabs a pair of sweatshirts off the chair in the corner. They’re both hers, really, but Peter never really shot up in height even when his chest spread broad so it still fits him just fine. She stares at the floor while they walk into the kitchen, his socks and her bare toes. 

She looks up at him. Still pale, but calm. He used to be panicked after nightmares, she knows, and remembers. After Europe, he would wake up and need to leave the room. Walk around until his heart settled back into his chest, or find May, or Tony, depending if they were staying at May’s apartment, the New Compound, or at the lake house. Someone to calm him.

He didn’t let her see it, then. He started to, a little at a time, but by the time they were truly real together, truly bare, he grew into the dreams. Seemed to accept them for what they are. Not frightening so much as disheartening. Another weight curling his shoulders. Making his footsteps shuffle. God, he’s always so tired. She would give anything, everything, to give him some rest—real rest. 

She pulls her phone out of her pocket, leaning a hip against the kitchen counter, and scrolls. 

Peter stands in front of the fridge, door wide open, Brita already in hand, staring at the cluttered shelves. Unmoving except for the rise and fall of his shoulders letting her know he’s awake.

She wishes she could look into his mind, just for a second, to see what he needs. Prod around, water the roses, dust the shelves. Pour over the encyclopedias of him, run her fingertips over their crease-cornered spines, breathe in the musty, well-worn scent.

She presses play on the song she had been looking for.  

The first chord plays, and Peter starts. He peeks over his shoulder.

MJ stands waiting, arms up. “Dance with me,” she says. 

He never questions her, throwing himself into everything without stuttering. 

He puts the Brita on the counter and comes to her. In the soft light of the fridge, she takes him into her arms and holds him. 

Her hands lock on the back of his neck, fingers toying with the shorn edges of his hair. His chin settles on her shoulder, elbows loose on her hips. She thinks maybe he is the only person whose arms make her feel completely unchained, windborn. Far from trapped. Confetti and leaves on the breeze.

She hums along with Bill Withers. Peter presses his lips to her neck once, then burrows back into her shoulder. They’re both pale blue in the fridge light, the chill touching the skin of their legs, raising goosebumps on the bare flesh beneath Peter’s boxers. Their knees bump, hipbones press, feet knot together. They’re terrible, but it’s not about the dance.

“Ain’t so sunshine when she’s gone,” Peter sings along under his breath, to MJ’s surprise. “Only darkness every day.”

“You’re my sunshine,” MJ tells him. She pours everything she’s got into it.

Peter presses a kiss to the corner of her jaw. Gentle, fleeting.

The night is still around them. 

#peter parker #michelle jones #spideychelle #fanfic #fluff #michelle jones fanfic #peter parker fanfic #spiderman #spider-man #peter parker angst #michelle jones angst #peter parker angst and comfort #angst and comfort #my writing

[tazzytypes]

Apocalypse: Sanctuary - Chapter 3

Hey guys! Things are starting to get real in this chapter and Michael will be appearing in the next one (finally). I know I write a loot per chapter for the most part, but I get super into each and last detail. Trust me, it will all make sense in the end.

Read on AO3!

Time was a pesky beast. Sometimes it moved by you like the wind, gone before you could realize it was there. Other times it was thick as honey, your body burning in protest as you waded through it. Too much of either was enough to make you go mad. Then again, her sanity had been on a thread since the bombs dropped.

After 18 months — a year and a half, 547.5 days, or 13,140 hours if you wanted to get really particular — it was a wonder any of them were still alive.

After hours spent in the library, the Three Musketeers had found that nuclear winter lasted about 3 years on average. What they had found, however, failed to specify the radiation levels after those years. Eventually, they threw in the towel and resigned themselves to spending the rest of their days underground. The library instead became their oasis where no other resident dared to trespass.

Em had attempted to start drawing again, but Coco relentlessly asked for her portrait any time she pulled out her sketchbook. She swore the woman could hear the scrape of pencil against paper from anywhere in the Outpost. It was an artist’s worse nightmare.

Timothy had tried to entice the other two to work out with him. After the third meal cutback, they couldn’t even do a sit-up without their head becoming light and the world spinning around them.

The walls seemed to grow tighter and tighter around her. At night, the darkness was so suffocating that Em rushed to light a candle before it swallowed her whole. In those moments she felt like Atlas, smothered by the weight of the world on top of her. If she could just see the blue sky and feel cold air upon her skin she would be in heaven. Instead, endless anxieties plagued her — what if there was a cave-in? Was she running out of air or just panicking? It was so stale and cling to her despite it being circulated by a machine she could not see. She was choking to death and the walls would come closer and closer until they became her tomb.

The stabbing sensation in her hand drew her from the flood of thoughts, hands white as they curled around the cover of a book. Once again, the three musketeers gathered in the library. It at least kept their minds active and it had become Em’s personal goal to read each and every book in the outpost, shelves in nearly every nook and cranny. It was her own personal Alexandria.

Timothy laid back on a couch throwing a ball he had found up and down. The sound of it hitting the palm of his hand was like a metronome, bringing her back in synch with the world.

Emily, on the other hand, seemed to be physically exhibiting the anxiety Em internalized. She was pacing a hole into the carpet, arms crossed and jaw clenched.

“It’s October,” She said as she turned and walked back across the small clearing of couches and tables, “We’ve been here for 18 months.”

“Already?” Em asked, counting weeks on her hand. Wait… when did this week start? Did she count days by when she slept or when she ate? Without sun or a moon, they didn’t even have a concept of night and day. Just periods of sleep and consciousness.

“Already?” Emily echoed, voice going up an octave, “it’s felt like years.”

“Technically a year,” Timothy pointed out, quickly backtracking as Emily sent him a look, “but it’s not like Venable is passing out calendars or anything.”

Emily scoffed, “Venable isn’t doing anything… you know, I bet she’s hoarding food for herself.”

“Why do that when she can just chop up another person and eat them.”

Emily sent him another scathing glare, “not funny.”

Em sighed and shut her book with a loud thump, “What we need is a distraction.”

Timothy closed his eyes and stopped throwing his ball, hand held up in the air, “I think I may face the cannibals if we have to play Pictionary one more time.”

The brunette placed her book aside, biting her lip as she thought of something… anything to distract them from the world.

“It’s October, right?” she finally proposed, “What about some scary stories? We already have a bonfire… pretty much everywhere.”

Timothy sat up, “isn’t our predicament enough of a horror story?”

Em turned on her heel, hands behind her back as she tainted him, “What? Are you scared?”

“No!”

“Then prove it.” A smile finally returned to Emily’s face as she flounced towards the boy, coming to sit at his side. Her expression reminded Em of a cat, content and ready to watch the mice dance. “Tell us a story, Mr. Valedictorian.”

He shook his head and sighed, “I don’t know…”

“Did you guys ever have that book,” Em asked, “Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark?”

Emily gasped, “Yes! They made it into a movie, right? I could never sleep after just seeing those pictures.”

“Made Texas Chainsaw Massacre seem like a picnic,” Timothy noted, earning a laugh from Emily. She leaned into him and Em looked to the side towards the rows and rows of books.

“What even were the stories about?” Em asked, turning from the smitten couple to give them some form of privacy, “I can only remember the pictures.”

Emily stood, placing her hands on her hips as she surveyed their surroundings, “for all the book they have in this place there’s got to be a copy. It was a school, after all.”

“I don’t know…” Em teased, side eyeing Timothy, “ … if any of the boys were like Timothy.”

“For the last time: I’m not scared!”

“We’ll see about that as soon as we find that book,” Emily said, pulling the boy to his feet before turning to Em, “Timothy and I can take the first three rows and you can take the last two.”

“Careful,” Em warned, watching the two saunter off down an aisle, “Mead’s only going to buy me saying y’all are ‘just friends’ for so long.”

Timothy’s face flushed red. Emily’s face shined with a look that dared the world to take from her the one good thing she had found among the ashes. “Can’t let Venable control all aspects of our life.”

“Maybe she’s a vampire,” Em said, “some people say they feed on misery instead of blood.”

“She’s certainly got the personality of one.”

With a smile, the two disappeared from sight, Emily’s giggling reaching through the books to Em’s ears. With a tired sigh, she wandered to the other side of the room. Once upon a time, she would spend hours in any bookstore or library she entered. This place, however, seemed to be predominantly filled with books written by old white men. A few newer books were scattered here and there, but they were few and far between. On bad days, Emily and herself would battle for them with rounds and rounds of rock, paper, scissors.

She quickly fell into a rhythm. A state of focus, her brother would have said. He had been writing a book on the subject before... before...

 “Thoreau… Douglas...” Em mouthed the title an name of each and every book to keep her mind from wandering to the less than pleasant.

At some point, Timothy joined her. The sound of feet against carpet pulled her from her trance, forcing her to feel how tired her eyes had become. She pulled out of her crouched position, frowning as her back popped and protested.

“You’d think they’d at least have one scary book,” Em noted as Timothy made it to her side, “any luck on y’all’s end?”

“If you count Hawthorne as a horror author.”

“I don’t know… you could count The Birthmark as a horror story.”

“The Birthmark?”

“A woman born with a birthmark marries an alchemist. Instead of accepting her, he seeks out how to obtain perfect beauty and—”

“Guys!” Emily’s voice rang out from a row over, “Come look at this!”

The pair looked at each other then meandered over to Emily. A large tome was in her arms. It was as large as a small child, thick as the old dictionaries from reference sections. As they got closer, Em saw the cover lacked any discernable title and the pages were yellowed with age.

“What is it?” Timothy asked, pacing a hand on Emily’s shoulder.

Emily was clearly in awe, “I don’t know. Looks like some sort of grimoire.”

Timothy frowned at that. His family had never been particularly religious. It didn’t define their personality, but they still went to church every Sunday. The first thing they teach you as a Christian child is that those who commune with Satan are evil. There were two columns of items... one good and aligned with God and one bad and alighted with Satan.  

He thought back to his first day in Outpost 3. At first, he had dismissed it as a trauma-induced hallucination. “What kind of school has grimoires?”

“Religious studies?” Em offered. She motioned to the book, “let me see. Not going to lie, I’ve always been fascinated by these things.”

Emily carefully handed the book off to her. It was so heavy Em nearly dropped it as soon as Emily handed it over. Struggling ever slightly, she turned through the pages.

“See anything?” Emily asked after a few moments of silence.

The pages were well kept. A few water marks marred the writing and bled the ink. Most of it was illegible... in some language she didn’t understand with few English translations scattered throughout. The clearest page called to her, a large circular design taking up most of it.

“Summoning circles,” she muttered, fingers tracing over the design and tracing down towards the words written underneath.

“What?” Timothy asked, scooting closer.

“They're used in rituals to summon things.”

“Such as?”

“Good intentions, luck, money, sprits...”

“...Demons” Timothy finished.

“Exactly!”

“So... like a pentagram?” Emily asked, arms crossed and brows furrowed in thought.

“Kind of?” Em admitted, “pentagrams are actually symbolic of fire, water, earth, air, and spirit. It’s actually supposed to be used in protection.”

Timothy looked up at the sky with a bemused laugh, “I’m not even going to ask how you know that.”

“I had a friend that practiced Wicca,” Em told him, “... and I used to get bored and look up random stuff at 3 am when I couldn’t sleep.”

She quickly turned her attention back to the book, “this seems to be summoning... damn! The name is smudged.”

Emily, whose head was resting on the other girl’s shoulder, looked at the other two with a grin, “do we dare?”

“No. Nope.” He said, holding his hands up in the air and marching a few steps away and turning back towards them with a sigh, “I’m not messing with that stuff.”

“It’s the end of the world, Tim,” Em said, “if I haven’t seen a demon yet I doubt I ever will.”

“Maybe we can sacrifice Venable,” Emily whispered to the two, her counterpart laughing while her boyfriend continued to have an existential crisis.

Em seemed to consider the option, “or Coco. Spare us another conversation about influencer culture at the very least... I’d sell my soul for that.”

Smoky laughed and Timothy could only groan, hands covering his face.

“C’mon,” he pleaded, “this is literally textbook horror movie stuff.”

“You don’t have to join if you don’t want to,” Emily reassured before turning back to the other girl, “what do we need?”

Em hummed and read through the list once more, “a candle, a drop of blood, the incantation, and a summoning circle.”

“Really? No sacrificial chicken or anything?”

“I can start the summoning circle if you can get the sowing kit from my room. It’s in my desk.”

Emily nodded and left the room. Em fathered the book and wandered to the tables, putting it down and pulling her sketchbook out from her pockets as Timothy reluctantly followed in her heels.

Not bothering to sit, Em leaned over the table with her pencil in hand. Hair that now curled down to her shoulders fell into her face and she let out a huff before pulling out a ribbon and tying it out of her face.

“Tim,” she asked, not looking up as she carefully replicated the circle, “can you hand me some of those candles over there?”

With a reluctant sigh, the boy shuffled to the corner of the room. Wobbling the candle stand as carefully as he could, he dragged it across the floor and towards the table. It was like watching a child protest bedtime, dragging their feet and taking as long as possible for every task that brought them closer to sleep.

“This is a horrible idea.”

It was Em’s turn to sigh, “these things are like Bloody Mary. It scares us for a moment, but ultimately nothing happens.”

“Did you ever do Bloody Mary?”

She smirked, “The drink or the game?”

Timothy crossed his arms and stared at her, unamused.

“No,” she admitted, finally turning to look him in the eyes, “I was a child and I was scared and I wouldn’t even look in mirrors for a month after I heard the story. My dad finally had enough and forced me to do it... and here I am. Nothing happened.”

Timothy broke eye contact. He wasn’t expecting such an honest response and didn’t quite know how to follow it. How was he supposed to talk about the incident without sounding crazy?

Em watched the slight twitch around Timothy’s mouth. He looked shifty, eyes not focusing on any one thing. She stared at him deadpan and water for him to speak.

Finally, his eyes rested in her. To his surprise, she was still looking at him.

“What?” He asked.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. I was a psych major, remember?”

“I thought you switched to English.”

“That’s beside the point.”

Silence. One beat. Then two.

“Out with it,” she insisted.

“Something weird happened,” he blurted as she finished her sentence, her eyes widening in surprise at his sudden forwardness, “when we first got here.”

“What happened?”

Timothy opened his mouth to reply, but the sound of creaking doors interrupted him. Em... maybe he could trust. He knew logically that he could trust Emily as well, but... god, it sounded crazy.

“It’s nothing. Forget I said anything.”

Em moved to insist, but as she watched Emily come round the corner she also saw Timothy’s tensions leave his body.

“Forget about what?” Emily asked, looking between the two.

Timothy tensed as Em began to speak.

“He was telling me about a time he had a sleepover and tried the Bloody Mary chant.”

Timothy let out the breath he was holding.

“Dad thought it would be a good idea to play with the circuit breaker,” he finished, sending a grateful smile to Em, “my brother jumped so high he nearly got his head stuck in the ceiling.”

“See?” Emily said, squeezing Timothy’s arm, “you have nothing to worry about. Demons don’t exist.”

“What about Venable?” Em asked

Emily smiles and turned away from her lover, “lucky for us, in her case, it’s only metaphorical.”

The two began to set up the ritual, moving the candles according to the instructions — a semi-circle formation on the side of the symbol farthest from her. Em made sure they were melted to the table to prevent a fire. Then they would summon an actual demon by the name of The Cooperative. The symbol stood front and center, wax dripping onto its corners.

Emily and Timothy stood back, arms linked together. His hands dig into the fabric of her sleeve and she offered a reassuring squeeze.

“It’s going to be fine,” she whispered.

Em began the ritual, book in front of her for reference.

“quaesitor existunt veritatis,” she read, then pricked her finger with a needle. The blood welled up and she pressed on the wound until it dropped and stained the paper with crimson, “pondera excitare restitueret.”

Three times she repeated the phrase, drilling blood into one flame, then the next, then the next. Then she let it sit in silence. One second. Nothing. Another second. Nothing. A third—

“Raah!” Emily yelled, grabbing her boyfriend’s shoulder and shaking him.

“Shit!” Timothy cried, crossing himself as he fell backward off the table he had been sitting on, “get away from me!”

Emily and Em erupted into laughter. It took Timothy a few moments to realize he was in no danger and once he looked up at them they burst into laughter again, holding each other. Someone snorted which made the peals of laughter start up again.

He laid his head back on the ground and closed his eyes, arms draping over his forehead as he calmed his racing heart.

“You guys are horrible.” He sighed, a smile forming despite himself.

“All... Emily’s,” Em said between hysterics, “are some form... of chaotic.”

“I’m sorry,” Emily said, doubling over with tears in her eyes as she grabbed onto the other woman’s arm, “you just—“

Her stomach hurt and her lungs burned and she loved every minute of it. She looked up to Em who made the sign of the cross over her chest before crossing her fingers and holding them out in front of her.

“The power of Christ compels you!” She cries out between shaking breaths, doubling over again. Even Timothy began to laugh, shoulders shaking as he tried to picture what he must have looked like.

“If you three are finished with your magic tricks,” a voice came from the door, Mead’s figure looming as they bit their lips and held their breath to keep from giggling, “dinner is in five.”

Shaking her head, the older woman made her way back to the door, grumbling but unable to hide her amusement, “Damn kids.”

Giggling faded I to unrelenting grins that made flushed cheeks even redder. Em and Emily’s eyes were red and puffy from crying. Gathering up the remnants of their decorum, they held out their hands to Timothy, pulling him up to his feet.

 He looked at the two of them up to the ceiling as if he were asking it for guidance.

“Fuck you,” he finally settled, a chuckle escaping him and greatly amusing the girl that leaned against him as they began to walk.

“Careful with that word,” Em warned, walking backward to address the pair, seriousness taunting the fun demeanor she tried to keep up, “Venable would love a reason to cook all of us up for dinner.”

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

No one spoke anymore. There was nothing to speak about. They stared ahead, eyes vacant of life. Their bodies were moving, but their minds had long since given up and resigned themselves to fate.

Coco didn’t even bother with her hair anymore. Gallant had cut it when they hit the fourth-month mark and the humidity had made it curl into the shape of an orb around her head. Gallant himself hadn’t bothered to even change clothes in the past week...or was it two? Em was almost grateful for the pandemic and subsequent quarantine that occurred before they went subterranean. It had taught her the importance of a schedule for her mental health.

Venable was the only one that kept up with appearances. Red hair never had a strand out of place and not a single piece of fuzz could be found on her black dress. She sat straight at the end of the table, back straight as a board and her eyes full of contempt as she looked upon her charges. The ironwoman seemed to be searching for something as she stared at each one of them in turn.

Em did her best to ignore the intertwined hands of the couple beside her. God knows Venable was itching to torture them. Em had faced many people like the red-haired horror. She knew how to ignore something without making it obvious… passive manipulation.

If she was being honest, part of her was somewhat jealous of the happiness her friends had found… but she also knew how dangerous love was, even more so given their circumstances.

Venable’s cane struck the floor like a gavel, heads slowly turning towards her like zombies at the control of a necromancer.

“I have an announcement,” she said, nodding to the half of a cube that sat before them. Em could feel her stomach gurgle, felt the hot feeling of her own stomach acid digesting her organs. “This will be our last breakfast. We’re cutting back to one meal a day.”

Coco’s jaw dropped, but she didn’t have the energy to make a scene, “you can’t be serious.”

“An effective dieting technique,” Evie declared.

“Yeah, so is starving to death!”

Em sighed, running a hand through her hair, pulling it back before letting it fall around her shoulders once more.

“Perhaps we should move meals to breakfast instead of dinner,” Em proposed, “having fuel at the beginning of the day may—”

Venable’s eyes narrowed, head cocking to the side ever slightly.

“Are you questioning my judgment?”

“Yes.”

Damn surviving. She’d rather become everyone’s next meal that deal with the bitch for a single second longer. Starvation had lowered her control and her tolerance for the bullshit Venable had a knack for. She’d rather die tearing apart a tyrant than live bowing her head to one.

“May I remind you that I was assigned to this outpost for a reason.” Venable said, leaning back in her seat and letting the silence sit for a moment before she continued, “and unlike some, I was able to graduate college.”

Em had tried to be kind to the woman in the beginning. She had tried to take initiative by counting resources and assessing tools at their disposal, but as soon as the woman’s cane crossed the threshold her only message to Em was to sit down and shut up.

Gallant scoffed as he looked between the two, “How are we supposed to survive on half a cube?”

Venable pulled her eyes away from Em’s, “it’s not optimal, but also not impossible. Either way, we have no choice. Not if we want to keep eating at all.”

Em, Timothy, and Emily looked to another, trying to look for reassurance but finding none. For once Venable wasn’t wrong.

Gallant scoffed and stared down his fellow residents. How could they stay silent? He wasn’t going to let Venable starve him to death. They should cut the Grey’s meals instead, he reasoned, they paid for their tickets… or at least, Coco’s father had.

“I fucking can’t do this anymore!” She cried.

Sensing the collecting anxiety at the table, Dinah stood and addressed them all, “We don’t know how strong we are until we have to face adversity. This could be an opportunity for all of us to grow.”

“Finish that bumper sticker shit you used to say on your show, and I’m strong enough to shove this fork in your neck!” Gallant yelled, table clattering as he jumped to his feet brandishing his chosen weapon.

Em rose hesitantly, hands up and trying to get Gallant’s attention, “She’s not the one you're mad at.”

The hairdresser didn’t hear him, continuing to rave like a madman and Em fell back in her seat, head bowing and cradled in her hands. She was so tired. She was tired of the tantrums, tired of the hunger. Her ribs were showing through her skin, each and every piece of her spine sticking out as if she were a cactus instead of a person. They were all ghosts. Their bodies had yet to catch up with them.

Before all this she had dreams… to make it big as an artist or an author or anything. Having those dreams crushed made Em wonder if it was better to just give up. Certainly would be more peaceful. If only the grimoire had a spell to bring back her motivation for just living.

Quaesitor existunt veritatis pondera excitare restitueret.

Quaesitor existunt veritatis pondera excitare restitueret.

Quaesitor existunt veritatis pondera excitare restitueret.

“What was that?” someone whispered beside her. Em realized she had been quietly chanting the words from the ritual. Pulling herself from the fog, she removed her head from her hands and sat up in her chair.

“Nothing.”

Before Emily could note her friend’s odd behavior, the sound of porcelain shattering pulled them back to Gallant’s tantrum.

“What are you going to do?” Gallant demanded, bouncing like a wrestler in the ring and glaring daggers at mead, “Shoot us all? Huh? What are you going to do?”

The First moved forward to apprehend the man, towering over him like he was a child about to be thrown in time-out. Venable rose, opening her mouth to speak.

They were quickly deafened by alarms, red lights flashing. Em closed her eyes, suddenly blinded as she rose to her feet and fell back to the wall behind her.

“Perimeter alert,” The Fist said, “There’s been a breach.”

They all looked to Venable, but she was just as alarmed as they were. Em’s eyes immediately went to Emily’s. She was leaning against timothy, eyes turned up towards the ceiling and her hands curling around his arm. Everyone was frozen, suddenly back where this all began — the emergency messages that blared and told them the world was dying and taking them down with it.

“Back to your rooms!” Venable barked, “All of you!”

“If it’s a breach we should prepare a defensive position,” Em cried over the alarms, “If it’s cannibals—”

“This is my outpost!” Venable snarled, stalking towards her until her face was inches from her own, “and I am telling you to stand down and return o your rooms.”

Em could feel someone tugging at her arm, but paid it no mind.

“The noisiest flies are the first to be squashed,” Venable said.

“I fear more for the wasp in a beehive.”

Another tug forced her to turn towards the source. Emily was reaching out to the brunette, one hand on Timothy who was trying to drag her from the dining room.

“It’s not worth it,” She hissed, pulling the girl close, “pick you battles.”

Em snatched back her arm, “I’m tired of waiting for a hill to die on.”

With one last scathing look to Venable, she grabbed a knife from the table and stormed from the room. If she was to live out of spite so be it.

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

Em paced back and forth in her room, crossing it in three strides before turning on her heel and starting the whole process all over again. Her hands ran through her hair, tying it up and taking it down, braiding and upbraiding.

Waiting to see what her fate was infuriated her. Waiting infuriated her. If this was an attempted break-in by cannibals or monsters her room was the last place she wanted to be — it cornered her. No, the best defensive position would be —

She groaned and forced herself to sit at her desk, leg bouncing up and down. She wished she was one of the wardens, working alongside The Fist. At least then she’d be doing something. They all acted like the purples were the ruling class, but it was a lie. The Greys outnumbered them and could take over whenever they could. Venable could have them killed in a heartbeat. What they had was only an illusion. When the time came for them to finally wield it their hands would only meet empty air, leaving them to fall to an unsightly demise.

The alarm had stopped blaring, at the very least. Spared her from another migraine.

She jumped as a knock came at her door, raising to her feet and trying to seem as if she wasn’t in the process of losing her sanity. The voice that left her didn’t feel like her own, detached and far too formal.

“Come in.”

A creak filled the room and a Grey appeared, freshly laundered clothes in hand. She bowed her head to Em as she entered before moving to place the garments on her bed.

“Thank you,” Em said reflexively. The Grey turned to her, eyes on the ground.

“Do you want me to do your hair for you, miss?”

“What?” Em asked, hand going to feel the remnants of braids still in her hair. Heat rose to her neck. She must have looked like a raving mad man. “Oh… no. Thanks for asking.”

With another bow, the girl scurried from the room, letting out a gasp as she ran into The Fist right outside the door. A quick and fearful apology left the Grey before she disappeared down the hall, door left wide opened.

The Fist’s hand, which had been held up to knock, fell back to her side. “May I?”

“Please,” Em invited, rounding the bed to place the clothes the Grey had brought in aside for the time being, “it’s been a while since we last talked.”

The ability to look past the color-coded rulebook Venable enforced served her well as long as the woman never found out. Even the Wardens, strong enough to take her down by force, feared the woman… or perhaps trusted Mead so much that they bought into whatever demands Venable spat out. Em just needed them to doubt their orders if the time came when Venable ordered her death.

“How’s the research going?” The Fist asked, nodding to the pile of book balancing precariously on the edge of her desk. Em spared them a glance and sighed, shaking her head.

“You’d know more than those moldy things,” She said, the other woman smiling ever slightly, “is there anything we can do to create a self-sustaining food supply?”

The Fist’s smile faded, lips twisting as she thought, sauntering over to her books and reading the titles, “I know I once made a post about a special facility made to store seeds… problem is, we don’t have means for inter-continental travel.”

“Would the Cooperative?”

“That would be a call for Miss Venable,” she said with a shrug, “Right now our best decision is rationing.”

“I don’t like those odds.”

The Fist tried to offer a reassuring smile, but the truth was they wouldn’t last the rest of the year even with rationing. She had tried to press for explorative missions, but Venable said they couldn’t expend the manpower. They might as well fire all their ammunitions into the walls.

Em couldn’t help the frustrated sigh that left her. Biting her lip, she tried to think of any other option than sitting and waiting for the end. “Do we know anything about the composition of those nutrient bars?”

“I couldn’t find any documentation,” The Fist admitted, “The cooperative should be able to provide if we keep to the plan.”

The brunette scoffed, “Venable’s plan.”

In two strides, The Fist came to stand beside her. If she wanted, she could have snapped her like a twig. Instead, she placed a hand on Em’s shoulder.

“She was put in charge for a reason.”

They were interrupted by a blood-curdling scream that made Em nearly jump into the woman’s arms. The Fist hurried to the door, ducking her head through the doorway and standing there for a moment with her hand on her utility belt.

“Wait here.”

The door slammed shut behind her and Em moved to follow, but became distracted. In the sudden silence, a whispering sound could be heard. She couldn’t quite pinpoint it. It surrounded her like she was in a giant bubble, sometimes wandering to her left or her right like a beast that kept moving when she turned to look at it.

Closing her eyes, she tried to focus on the sound.

“Quaesitor existunt…” she swore she heard, too faint to be certain. It was a breeze in the trees, gone before you knew it was there, “veritatis pondera….” 

No. That was stupid. Demons didn’t exist. She was just being paranoid. Shaking her head, she made her way to her closet. It was a busted pipe, she reasoned as she picked up a candelabra to at leave give her something to see by.

The second the door creaked open, the whispering sound became louder. Then, from the depths of the shadows, a snake dropped down from above. Em jumped back with a gasp, slamming the closet shut and landing on top of her bed. Cautiously, she opened it once more. She stood far enough away to be safe, but close enough to examine. It was black… head rounded instead of pointed…

Em placed the candelabra on her desk and reached for the pile of clothes she had placed aside. Throwing them aside without much care, she founded what she needed in the pile. Working quickly, she twisted the wire of a hangar into as straight of a line as she could manage.

“Hello there,” she cooed, placing the metal in front of the snake and tapping it gently against its mouth. Patiently, she waited until the snake became irritated and bit at the wire. Swooping in, Em grabbed it by the neck the little beasty hissing and thrashing its tail. If it had been a thicker snake, it may have been able to wrangle itself from her hands, but it couldn’t have been bigger than a rat snake.

Once it had calmed some, Em reached for its tail and examined its underbelly. Best thing about an apocalypse was having an obscene about of time to read. There, near the end of the tail, two rows of scales sat.

“You’re nothing but a sweetheart, aren’t you,” She cooed, loosening her grip only slightly. It wasn’t venomous, proving her point as it opened its mouth to hiss once more, wriggling around in an attempt to free itself. She much preferred the company of real snakes to their metaphorical human counterparts.

Keeping a close eye on her new pet, Em walked out the door and right into Miss Miriam Mead. The woman got a good face full of hissing snake and stumbled back a few steps with a gasp. Her tone quickly turned from one of surprise to irritation.

“You too?”

Em smiled at the woman, “can I keep it.”

Mead scoffed and shook her head, but Em could see the fleeting smile on her lips as she procured a bag. “put it in there.”

Mead always reminded Em of a frustrated but amused mother. The smile quickly returned as Em plopped the creature into what looked like a wriggling mass of its brethren.

“First witchcraft, now snakes,” Mead tried to chide, “you’re going to be the death of me.”

“Does this have anything to do with the breach?” Em couldn’t help but ask.

Mead pretended not to hear, occupying herself with closing up the bag of snakes, “Any more?”

“Not sure.”

They both turned to The Fist as she approached, Mead giving a nod towards Em’s room. Dutifully, The Fist went inside. Both of them stood in the doorway and watched as her room was rummaged through. She was lucky she had hidden her banned items under a loose floorboard ages ago.

By the time she was done, two other snakes had been found and the two wardens wordlessly went on their way.

“Venomous ones have pointed heads, fangs, and a single row of scales on their anal plate,” Em called out once they had made it partway down the hall.

She could see Mead chuckle and shake her head. Em’s eyes flickered from the back of Mead to that of The Fist. The latter clearly respected the former immensely.

Locking the door behind her, she made her way to the library. Venable’s pawns could be easily swayed, but her knight would be more of a challenge.

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

Dinner time came around once more and once more Em had been forced to leave her book-filled sanctuary to play nice with all the residents... not that she was particularly the nice sort when with them. She used to be nice. At least, she liked to think she was.

Why was “nice” always just pretending you weren’t angry or annoyed? If one looked into the human mind they’d probably find that not a single one of them was truly “nice.” Everyone got annoyed, everyone got angry, everyone hated someone else. Yet, here they sat around the table once more, acting like they were refined and polite yet still being shocked when, as always, their humanity shines through.

Philosophical pondering was always far more interesting then whatever conversation was going on between this lot. Today, however, was an oddity. The table silent.

At least they weren’t eating cubes tonight... and she knew what exactly was in the soup. She was drawn from her reverie at the smell of it, mouth watering even before the Greys had entered the room.

They quickly straightened their silverware and gracefully draping napkins across their laps. Perhaps the silence was due to the last outcome of Venable’s hospitality.

Dishes clinked and Em smiles at the Grey who placed her meal before her. She eyes the others, waiting before she took a single bite.

Coco also eyed the food, watching the Greys serve them one by one. Her nose crinkled as she eyes what this evening had in store for them. “I have a rule against eating things with no legs or too many legs.”

“Oh, right,” Andre snipped, rolling his eyes. He had gone from denial to anger to depression and now back to anger in the past year. Grief never did like to be linear. “But you’re fine eating something with two legs.”

“For the last time!” Gallant snapped, “we didn’t eat your boyfriend!”

Mead sighed from her left, “Eat it or don’t. No one’s going to force it down you.”

“Adversity makes strange bedfellows,” Dinah notes, sending a pointed look to her son, “and worse dinner companions.”

Andre’s lips pressed into a thin line and his eyes flickered to anywhere that wasn’t his mother.

“It’s food,” Dinah reminded them all, “and we’re starving. We should be grateful for the fruits of the earth.”

Em quelled a groan as she watched Evie preen like a bird, signaling a story was about to begin. The old woman straightened her back and puffed out her chest before leaning against the table.

“Steamed snake soup is actually quite delicious,” she informed them.

“Jesus Christ,” Gallant whispered from the other side of the table, Evie’s hearing far too terrible to know that they were smiling more at her grandson’s distress than her tale.

“It was the centerpiece of a dinner I attended at Kuala Lumpur with Gina Lollobrigida.”

“The only time I’ve seen someone eat a snake,” Em noted, “was on that Bear Grylls survival show.”

Gallant’s head rose from his hands as he snorted out a laugh. Mead even smiled at her left.

“You’re lucky we’re not making you eat grubs.”

On her right, Emily was nearly buzzing in anticipation. As soon as Mead stopped speaking she was quick to address Venable, sitting on her hands as if she were resisting the urge to raise her hand — the only sign an untrained she could find that would display her eagerness.

“So, who’s in your office.”

Venable was off-put by the question, raising her head as if she had dozed off at the end of the table and was slowly rousing, “I beg your pardon?”

“The alarms went off before,” Emily notes, “someone came inside.”

Em turned to her friend in surprise. Someone was here? In the outpost? From outside? Venable allowed them to come inside?

“Who else is here?” Timothy insisted as Venable failed to respond.

Venable looked less than pleased but masked it well as the patience of a mentor trying to evoke the same quality from their student.

“All questions will be answered in due course.”

“And hoarding knowledge makes the flock more controllable,” Em said.

“Eat.” Was Venable’s only response, tapping her cane to signify the end of this particular conversation.

Em reluctantly fell in line with the others, obediently raising the covering of their soup. Hissing erupted from the bowls, snakes slithering across the table just as scared as the residents that jumped backward with screams of terror.

Mead’s eye’s widened as she witnessed the rebirth of the snakes she had personally beheaded, looking to Venable for answers. The woman had none, eyes widening in horror at the sight before her. This was not her orchestration, her design.

Some people ran in terror, Em froze. This time felt differences a fog had encompassed her mind and the world around her became a distant memory. A buzz filled her body and her ears, the screaming of others sounding far, far away. Did they even exist in the first place?

Her head tilted to the side as the black snake from before slithered towards her, curling around her arm. It feared its head upwards. Not to attack, but simply to look at her. She looked into its eyes and felt like she understood the world in its entirety. The weight of the world was not suffocating but consuming. She wanted to be consumed by it. She wanted —

The snake dropped from her arm to the floor and she was back, blinking away the fog as one blinked away sleep. The buzzing sensation left her and her surroundings rushed over her like ice water on a hot summer’s day.

#michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x oc #michael langdon #ahs #ahs apocalypse #ahs x reader #long fic #slow burn #AO3

[sexyenquirer]

wash it out

Title: wash it out Author: @translightyagami For: @complicatedmerary Pairings/Characters: mikami/light Rating/Warnings: mature/no warnings needed Prompt:  “Musician AU: Light Yagami is a pianist, Teru Mikami is a violinist. They are having an affair behind the scenes. Unfortunately for them, Misa Amane is Light Yagami's wife.” Author’s notes: I hope this does the job alright! I know there’s not much music, but I thought maybe for a shorter thing to focus on how Mikami felt about sharing Light - not very into that it would seem... Anyway, it was a lovely prompt, and I love to describe an opera house/small office crap. your choice on who used to love bear claws but... well... lets just say they’re not in the picture anymore... okay! bye!

The opera house stood taller than, in Mikami’s mind, God himself could ever stand. Every moment held in the ancient wood and sinew of its structure was divine: a thing to be worshiped before Mikami slept. Morning sunlight poured over the tented roof and trickled over the ornamental front entrance’s carved mural of angels bearing instruments.

Mikami pressed through the opera’s revolving doors with two coffees and a small paper sack in hand, violin case strapped across his back. Working at the desk was a silent, brooding teenager who scanned his artist’s badge and told him not to eat in the theatre. As though Mikami were such a heretic; as though the drafty hallways and peeling walls weren’t his home.

Even as he slipped through the opera house’s offices, he heard glimmering piano echo through speakers pipping in Light’s morning practice for all to hear. Mikami passed by Roger, an older tweedy sort in the programming department, waved to Kiyomi from her marketing cave and filtered into the practice room.

His entrance was loud and Mikami winced as the door creaked in a monstrous scream. Light’s fingers didn’t stuttered over the keys of Chopin – his shoulders raised a hair but surprise was so slight on him, only Mikami would know. At least, that is what Mikami liked to assure himself: his ownership over the small parts of Light. On the piano’s surface was a metronome, clicking out as Light slowed to an end mid-song. Plinking out a last note, Light turned and let a slow smile effuse over his mouth.

“Did you bring me coffee?” Light slipped the glossy black cover over the piano keys. “You’re spoiling me.”

“I want to spoil you.” Mikami went to the nearby table, covered with discarded sheet music and near finished resin boxes. His palms were hot from coffee and the way Light coddled his tone when speaking. He packaged even admonishment in a fondness no one had ever taken with Mikami. “Did you eat breakfast? Did you come straight from the apartment?”

Perching his elbows on the closed lid, Light dropped his chin into entwined hands. “And if I did come straight from the apartment?” He slide his gaze molasses-like toward the brown bag in Mikami’s fist. “I had an egg.”

“Just one? Not enough.” Mikami hummed and laid out the coffee and bag on it. “C’mon. I’ve brought two bear claws.”

From behind he heard Light’s high laugh and the scratch of the piano bench shoved back. Two arms looped around his waist, pressing the loose grey wool of his sweater to his quivering stomach. Soft crinkling sounded as Light lay his cheek on Mikami’s violin case, his fingers knitted into a belt that Mikami pressed against as he put out twin pastries on white napkins. He looked down, curious, and saw no ring on Light’s left hand. Excitement trilled through Mikami at the click of the continuing metronome.

“I don’t actually like bear claws, you know,” Light said, oddly speaking on beat with the clicks. “Only, I used to know someone who loved them and we’d always split them down the middle. If it’s just half, then it’s not as sweet. Right?”

“Yes. No. Uh,” Mikami bit his knuckle, his other hand covering the fists Light made on his belly. “What are you saying?”

“Nothing.” Light swung around and caught Mikami’s face in both palms. “I’m not hungry. I’d like to kiss you.”

Light’s palms were always cold – how Mikami loved that chill on his cheeks. A compulsive hand-washer, his love was, and even the warm glide of his mouth over Mikami’s didn’t drown out the soap-and-water icy touch. Light rubbed his thumbs right beneath Mikami’s eyes, trailing over cheekbone ridges. Softly a moan caught between teeth as mouths opened to each other, tongues touching and singing – but Mikami couldn’t stop thinking of those cold hands. He slid his own over Light’s and twined their fingers, touching every uncovered inch.

“You’re not wearing it,” Mikami breathed over Light’s teeth. “No ring. You’re not wearing that ridiculous ring.”

“Not now.” Light squeezed and nipped his lower lip. “I never wear it to practice – you know that. It’s in my pocket.”

Mikami let his hand trailed down, treacherous, only to brush the hard raised outline on Light’s hip. Scoffing, he turned from the kiss and frowned. “She’s not even in town,” he said. “She’s missing all of our hard work to make faces at a camera.”

“I told her to go.” A tart note of frustration stung Light’s voice. “Misa is hard to uncouple with. Remember when she was one of our sopranos? Every day, it was like peeling off Velcro.”

“No one forced you to marry the Velcro.” The memory of when Misa worked in the opera house – trailing after Light with a look of hunger and begged for coffee dates, dinners, and to hold the cool hands that weren’t hers to clutch – whipped through Mikami. Yet Light’s eyes on him now, glowing hot along with his reddening cheeks, chastised every ghost of sulking. “Sorry. Yes. You told her to go, so we could use the apartment.”

“Don’t you like having me in the kitchen?” Light smiled – false, fake, too-sweet – and Mikami’s heart fell for it, leaping the moment lip corners lifted. “We could fuck here, on the table.”

“Here? But the speakers –“

“Hooked up to the piano.” A genuine grin melted over the first false one. “I want your hands on me Teru. Can’t you touch me? Feel me?” Light grabbed him by the wrist and slipped Mikami’s hand onto his flexing stomach. “What chords can you pluck inside me?”

“So many.” Mikami ducked to kiss beneath Light’s jaw. His fingers tapped skin at the metronome’s rhythm, muscles tightening in instrumental tension, until a high gasp sung above where he kissed. “I’ll make your body sing.”

Faintly, the tune of Beethoven’s’ Fifth tweeted from Light’s back pocket. He groaned, placing one hand on Mikami’s crown to keep him at his neck and slipping the other behind to snag his phone. Shutting his eyes, Mikami kept licking and sucking marks over the thin throat’s skin, measuring how hazy he could make Light’s voice.

“Hello?” Light answered in a flinty tone, which turned dull on his next word. “Oh. Hello Misa.” His fingers danced through Mikami’s dark hair, pinching his ear playfully while he spoke without interest. “Yes, I’m sure they’re very impressed. You’ve had a fascinating career. Model and singer … Tonight? I’m not doing much.”

Mikami dragged his hand to toy with Light’s pants button, reminding him of his actual nighttime plans. In response, cold fingers nipped his ear lobe.

“I don’t mind being alone.” Light flickered his gaze to Mikami, gesturing for him to come closer. Despite their closeness, his expression remained turned off – guarded from passion or amusement; neutral to a point of robotic. Mikami kissed the cheek opposite where Light held his phone, feeling the rumbling of his parting goodbye to Misa. “I have so much work to do anyway. And so do you, hm? Yes. I love you. Talk to you later.”

The phone skittered across the table and Light took hold of Mikami, thumbs dug into his cheeks.

“Wash it out,” he whispered. “If you kiss me, it’ll wash out what I said and you can taste it.”

Mikami dropped into a hard kiss of Light’s soft, wanting mouth; he licked over the seam of it until lips parted for him. He tasted the dull I love you and its blossom into a lush savory flavor as  he held Light closer, kissed him harder. Light opened to him, beckoning with hands and tongue to drink in an unspoken declaration. When they parted, their lips clicked on separation. Mikami grasped Light by the wrist and brought his hand to his mouth.

Slowly, he licked and sucked Light’s ring finger – down to the naked bottom. He imagined that Misa’s awful ring was there, gold on his tongue and stinging, as the metronome clicked on for no music. He’d wash it away; he’d make Light forget her again and again.

#Fic #rating: m #ship: mikalight #20192020 #Light Yagami #Teru Mikami #death note

[takenbythebliss]

“ take it easy, drugs are still wearing off. ”

if it had been straight after the collapse - back when folks had first started venturing out of their bunkers - they would have taken one look at the cave entrance and shook their heads, deciding that the risks didn't outweigh what might be at the end. but these days any possibility of a cache or an abandoned bunker had to be snatched up. if it had been a bunker, linny wouldn't have been so on edge. if it had been a cave by blackhorse hill, she wouldn't have felt so wary either, but a cave by the henbane? and now by the river's edge to boot meant one thing; bliss. how did she know that? easy - she'd been one of the followers who'd helped to move barrels into all the nooks and crannies the henbane had to offer back in the day. hiding them out of sight, out of sight had meant out of mind to whitehorse and his deputies.

once upon a time, the caves would have been home to some angels too - but no longer. those who hadn't happened to be inside the bunkers when the bombs came had been left outside. their usefulness to the project had come to an end. if they couldn't farm or do the manual labour faith's crops had required, then they'd just been more mouths to feed. 

even knowing that there had been no angels in the caves hadn't stopped the eerie feeling they'd had of being watched - it didn't stop others from seeing shadows dance across the damp and uneven walls. it didn't stop one of them from raising their rifle and firing off a round at some ghost of the henbane's past ... right through the middle of an eden's gate cross on a barrel of bliss. the explosion had set her ears ringing, the air filling with aerosolized green vapour, the sickly sweet smell coating her throat and then all the shouting and yelling didn't matter anymore. the dank depths of the cave were brighter, the shadows chased away by the dancing shards of light that bounced off the broken green plastic of the barrel.

the monotonous drip of water creeping into the cave lost its metronome-beat to the lulling hum and a giggle linny was sure came from her own lips ... why were they all so ... scared? silly rabbits.  there was no clatter when she let go of her rifle's strap, her footsteps light, weight canted forward onto her toes as she moved away from the broken barrels, further into the cave; blades of grass sprouted where the wall of the cave met the uneven floor, vines snaking up along the damp walls to twist overhead, small blooms blinking down at her. hands took a hold of linny's wrists and she looked up, eyes wide and hopeful, waiting for sister faith to laugh - to tell her that she could see it now too - that they were chosen to help him.

but those dark brown eyes weren't faith's. the bracelets around his wrists weren't faith's either. his arms slid from her wrists to her elbows, holding her steady when she swayed on the spot.

' take it easy, drugs are still wearing off. '

why did he look so worried? he had that little furrow between his brows, he only got that when he was confused or really worried - turning her hands over in his grip, linny shook her head, eyes flitting up to watch the glimmering shards dance around his head. her hands trailing up to wheaty's broad chest, the woman leaned up onto the very tips of her toes, lips grazing the shell of his ear when she whispered out over a giggle.

' shussssssh ... you'll find it if you follow me. '

@whitetail-wheaty

#whitetailwheaty #here - have this beauty from 10 months ago <3 #XD #whitetail-wheaty #replied