#((anyway this has caused a feeling of panic and dread that every second he grows more desperate to stop.))

[sugarcraftcinemas]

Who blocked ya?

They want whats going on between us to be discreet so I'll just say its someone I interacted with on here recently who learned something that didnt make them very happy :') And I thought it was going so well, too... When I saw they were in denial I expected it to make them upset... but not this upset. I havent seen them for temp work either. Its... kind of taking a toll on me

[inkykeiji]

i have the warmth of the sun within me tonight

characters: takami keigo | hawks

genre: smut n fluff

notes: this piece was written with someone specific in mind, but i wanted to share it here, too!! this is, by far, the healthiest and most wholesome piece i’ve ever posted on my blog ehehe | title cred: the warmth of the sun by the beach boys

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, reader is extremely scared of thunderstorms, v romantic, shower sex, minimal prep, slight size difference/size kink

words: 4.6k

synopsis:

“Make it stop, Kei, please, m-make it stop, make it go away,” the words are nearly inaudible, wept into his chest and muffled by his jacket, snarled, snared, snagged on the choked sobs and gagged sniffles that scrabble and tear at your throat with their razored talons.

And even drenched, clothes sopping with rainwater, he’s still so warm, like he has liquid sun flowing through his veins, scalding waves of heat radiating off of his body and seeping into yours, cozy and consoling as it douses you, as it sinks into your skin, your bones, your soul itself and marinates there, twisting and twirling into a small ball of sunshine, of him, that sends pulsing zaps of warmth circulating through your flesh.

It’s dark. It’s so dark it almost looks like night despite the fact that it’s only late afternoon, heavy bloated clouds—charcoal and fluffy and overstuffed with raindrops—obscuring the safety of comforting golden rays from the entire city.

The torrential downpour feels endless, and for a brief second you’re terrified it truly may never stop, streets below having flooded with the rain, cars slowly wading through them, tires spraying out streams of water as they do.

Magnificent strikes of lightning crack through the dreary sky like thick roots snaking through the foggy canopy of smoke and steel, momentarily tainting them in shades of periwinkle and lavender and casting flashes of brilliant silver light across the skyscrapers and condominiums.

Their sudden presence makes you jolt, a rapid shudder working its way through your entire body, skin pebbling with chills in its wake.

But it isn’t the lightning that bothers you—not really, anyway.

It’s what comes after.

Rumbles of thunder so loud, so violent they cause the glass windows of Keigo’s apartment to quiver and the hardwood beneath your feet to tremble, roll through the sky, and you swear you can see the clouds ripple from the force.

Arms squeezing tighter around your body, your fingers curl in the material of your—his—hoodie, desperately attempting to resist the urge to grab your phone, to frantically scroll through social media as worried eyes scan for any mention of his name, for shreds of dreadful news, for things you never want to hear.

You hate it when he has to work in storms such as these. And you know, you know you shouldn’t be watching the sky, shouldn’t be searching the splotches of gunmetal adorning the atmosphere for a glimmer of scarlet and gold, shouldn’t be standing so close to the pristine glass windows that your uneven puffs of nervous breath cloud them, tiny blankets of condensation left by the hot air you exhale fleetingly staining the surface, evaporating into nothing just as quickly as they appear.

But you can’t help it. It’s a compulsion, almost—like some sort of sick obsession, some sort of twisted addiction you can’t control. Because—Because you have to know, unable to stand that feeling of uncertainty that gnaws away at your insides, incapable of handling the ambiguity and vagueness that comes packaged with the not knowing. You have to at least try—try to do everything in your power to stay informed, and if that means facing a vicious thunderstorm head on, with your cheek pressed against the cold glass as your gaze searches the tumultuous sky, then so be it.

You can brave it for him. You swear you can.

“Baby,” he scolds gently, his sudden presence surprising you, causing you to throw a quick glance over your shoulder. Topaz eyes observe you, overflowing with concern, pretty bowed lips turning down, soaked strands of gold hair sticking to his forehead, cheeks and neck. “How many times have I told you not to do this?” And although he’s reprimanding you, his voice is sweet, smooth and syrupy like the finest honey. “You know how much thunder freaks you out,”

You scoff, stiffening almost defensively as you turn your nose up a little, still avoiding his eyes. “It doesn’t freak me out,”

“Oh?” he laughs a little as he kicks off his boots, tension easing from his shoulders with every step towards you, every step further into the warm sanctuary of your shared home, wet sock-clad feet slapping against the hardwood and leaving gleaming footprints.

“Kei,” you whine a little, gesturing his dripping body. “You’re getting water everywhere,”

“Hey now,” a playful smirk spreads across his lips, and a sudden, sharp whoosh slices through the air as his wings spread, spanning nearly half the living room. He gives them one good, thorough shake, crimson feathers trembling and sending tiny droplets of water flying. “I wasn’t done,” he speaks over your squeal of his name, smirk growing into that trademark mischievous grin. “You shouldn’t just stand at the window and stare up at the sky—it only scares you more,”

“I’m not scared,”

Vicious growls of thunder roil through the sky before you’re even finished speaking, almost as if it’s laughing at you, mocking you, your body flinching as the sounds crash over you, curling in on yourself a little, face puckered up in a wince as your words stutter, catching on a gasp in your throat.

Exhaling a soft sigh, Keigo holds his arms open wide, wings still stretched to span them. “Yeah, right. C’mere,” When you don’t begin moving immediately, he sighs again, strong hands gently pulling you towards him.

Your body melts into his touch—an automatic and involuntary reaction, almost instinctual at this point—and you slump against his damp chest, nuzzling your cheek against the firm muscles.

“I’ve got you,” he says softly, arms wrapping around your body as he holds you tightly to his, voice reverberating against your ear. “The Big Bad Scary Thunder can’t get you here,”

Eyes rolling, you scoff at his playful teasing, a tiny smile materializing on your face as you pull away a little to look up at him, greeted with the sight of brilliant eyes—made of sunshine and liquid gold, you’re absolutely sure of it—gazing down at you, lips quirked in a cute little smirk.

His beauty never fails to knock the breath from your chest—it seems you can never be prepared for it; no matter how many times you’ve seen him, how many times you’ve been close enough to count the individual eyelashes lining those orbs, how many times you’ve been close enough to feel the inviting tickle of the short golden hairs decorating his chin—and you’re not sure you’ll never get used to it, either.

A peculiar mix of adoration and concern swirl in his honey irises, though you can see the mirth and amusement dancing just beyond that, thinly veiled by the love and worry.

“Oh, shut up—” another bang of thunder fissures through the sky, so raucous it makes the thick clouds waver and swell, your words morphing into a fearful little squeak, quickly burying your head back against the safety of his chest.

Fingers curl in the wet suede and you hug yourself closer to him, tugging him closer to you, body beginning to shudder.

He’s hushing you now, arms and wings curled around you in a defensive embrace as words of comfort pry past his lips, tender voice sheathing the armor of crimson surrounding you.

“At least they aren’t as bad as the ones back home, yeah?”

“I guess so,” you mumble, unconvinced, eyebrows knitted and mouth sculpted into a deep pout. “I still don’t like them, though,”

“I know, I know,” a warm hand rubs soothing circles into your back, voice only marginally louder than the next bout of thunder as it vibrates against your face, another quiet yelp clawing its way up your throat. “Shh, you’re safe, you’re safe,”

“Kei,”

The nickname escapes in a mangled little whimper, and you can feel it—fright, terror, dread—building in your chest, a strangling type of panic that weaves and winds itself around your windpipe and crushes; because they’re getting worse, they’re getting closer, growls and grumbles following the flashes of lightning almost immediately, roaring loud enough to quake buildings, your heart thudding so violently it’s almost painful. Tears sting your eyes, and you shake your head against him, as if trying to burrow into his chest, to carve out a little space in his ribcage, right next to his steadily beating heart, and live there.

“I-I take it back, they are as bad as the ones back home,”

Or, at least, this one is

Keigo doesn’t argue, all traces of amusement evaporated from his face, replaced by trepidation that mixes with his worry and pinches his features, eyebrows furrowed and lips downturned as he cradles you against him. Ferocious tremors course through your form, chest beginning to hitch with swallowed sobs, and he squeezes you.

“Make it stop, Kei, please, m-make it stop, make it go away,” the words are nearly inaudible, wept into his chest and muffled by his jacket, snarled, snared, snagged on the choked sobs and gagged sniffles that scrabble and tear at your throat with their razored talons.

And even drenched, clothes sopping with rainwater, he’s still so warm, like he has liquid sun flowing through his veins, scalding waves of heat radiating off of his body and seeping into yours, cozy and consoling as it douses you, as it sinks into your skin, your bones, your soul itself and marinates there, twisting and twirling into a small ball of sunshine, of him, that sends pulsing zaps of warmth circulating through your flesh.

“Okay, alright,” he’s saying as he rocks you gently, crimson wings wrapped entirely around you both, shielding you from the storm. The scent of freshly mown grass and sticky vanilla ice cream is nearly overwhelming as it washes over your senses, invading your lungs and smothering you in its embrace. It’s a welcomed feeling, the beautiful suffocation it affords you with, vibrant bursts of heat rushing through your veins, whole body flooded and thrumming with a deep-seated comfort—a special type of solace, of reassurance, of contentment unique to him, unfathomable and mystifying on all accounts, that soothes your frayed nerves and calms your irregular heart—because he smells like home; not your home halfway across the world, your real home, your forever home.

“Come,” he instructs a moment later, stern yet tender, keeping an arm draped firmly around your shoulders, one of his wings curving around the limb as he leads you away from the window, scarlet feathers obstructing your vision.

—

The bathroom—comprised of gleaming marble and shining chrome—is enormous, housing a mammoth glass shower that spans the length of the furthest wall, large enough to more-than-comfortably accommodate his wings, and then some.

Steam fogs the glass, and a soft hiss slips from between your teeth as he cages you between his chiseled body and the freezing marble, cold rock stinging your already heated skin, his wings spreading to mimic his arms, providing another layer of protection and entirely immersing you in him.

It’s your favourite when he does this, when he engulfs you in his grasp and creates a tiny universe where it’s just the two of you, whole world having fallen away outside of the barricade his thick wings offer—and you’ve never felt safer.

And it’s amazing, you’re thinking to yourself—or maybe you’re murmuring it, lips moving in a daze—it’s amazing how even after all of the rainwater pouring from the sky, all of the zipping through those dense clouds, all of the vicious wind that whips against him as he soars; none of it could ever manage to wash away, to ever dull, his intoxicating scent, not even for a second.

You’re completely overcome by him, vanquished by his enamoring eyes and his saccharine smile—drunk and high off of it all, addicted to him in the sweetest way—and he hasn’t even done anything yet.

But you’re leaning into him, closer and closer and closer, lips parted as you inhale deeply, filling your lungs, your chest, your heart and veins and blood with his aura, his essence, him. He conquers you, intoxicates you, poisons you in such a beautiful way, and you’re enchanted by it, yearning for more, a greedy and insatiable craving that will never be fulfilled.

And he knows it. He knows the effect he has on you by merely existing near you—his cocky smirk and dazzling gaze tell you so.

But then his eyes soften, glazing over with something else, lidded as they slowly travel across your body bared to him, and his mouth falls open only for his tongue to suck his bottom lip between his teeth, and his fingers reach to trace your features, the curve of your cheek and line of your jaw, the most gentle caress.

“You…Are breathtaking,”

And he really does sound out of breath, as if he’s in awe from your beauty, as if this is his first time seeing you, as if you’re some sort of goddess, having descended right in front of him, and it forces chills to erupt across your bare skin—damp and splattered with tiny droplets of water that gleam like morning dew clinging to grass—despite how boiling it is between him and the steam from the shower.

It’s a feeling you can’t quite explain, a feeling you’ve never really been able to find the appropriate words for, something that makes you feel simultaneously powerful and weak, a swirling concoction of contradictions that invade your bloodstream and travel straight to your brain, infusing the tissues with the potent mix and sending tiny sparks buzzing through your veins, collecting to flutter together in the pit of your stomach.

He kisses you slowly, tonight. He kisses you like it’s his last day to live, kisses you like it’s his first time, unhurried tongue deliberately exploring the concavities of your mouth—every nook and ridge and crevice—as if committing them to memory, as if attempting to leave his stamp, his mark, his claim, on the real estate there.

He kisses you until neither of you can breathe, lungs shriveling as your chests heave, exhaling into each other’s mouths only to suck breath from each other’s mouths a moment later. He kisses you until you’re dizzy from the lack of air and he’s burning and hard and pressed up against your thigh, leaking head rubbing against the supple skin, leaving the prettiest gleaming trails of cream. He kisses you until you’ve gone stupid from his spit alone, fervent in the way you swallow it greedily, in the way you attempt to suck, slurp, steal more from him as it surges to your brain, tissues and nerves vaporizing into nothing more than a dazed mist, spiked with him.

The kiss breaks with a sharp whoosh of air, his lids lifting to reveal glassy pupils outlined with the thinnest ring of amber. Your tongue darts out from your mouth to lick and lap at the stringy, viscous remnants coating your chin; starved, ravenous, and forever unsated.

The chuckle huffed out from between swollen, saliva-soaked lips is nothing short of sinful, makes your vision blur and your stomach swoop, a murmured tease following it.

“Eager, aren’t you,”

And you want to point out that you weren’t the one practically humping someone’s hip, but the words tangle in your throat, catching on a gasp as nimble fingers slip between the apex of your thighs, an involuntary groan spilling from his throat.

“Fuck,” his head falls forward, face buried in your neck, and sucks an inhale through his teeth. “How are you already this wet?”

He’s nearly whining as he dips two fingers into you, soft little sounds that fall from his lips and sop into your skin, his breath scorching—sizzling more than the steam in the shower—against your neck.

And those fingers, now plunging into you, knuckles curling the moment they’re deep enough to press moans from your chest and cries from your throat, feel so familiar as they stretch you open—the same fingers that pet your hair and brush away your tears and feed you pieces of fried chicken; they feel like home.

Yet as comforting as that is, as much as it has your chest swelling with something so large, so dense you’re terrified your ribs may shatter and splinter under the strain, they aren’t enough. Not right now, not today.

Because even with the water hitting the tiles and the exquisite symphony of his pants and your mewls, you can still hear it, menacing blasts encroaching on you, deep and heavy and threatening to split the little world Keigo has created, the small haven his wings and arms provide.

“Please, please, Kei,” you’re nearly wailing out, forcing bleary eyes to open, belated in the way they find his gaze. “I-I want you, I need you,”

“Sweetheart,” he starts—and you know that tone, stitched together with hesitation and concern and embellished with thin ribbons of patronization. “You know you can’t take me without being opened up at least a lil’ first,”

Another clap of thunder rattles the apartment, sounding as if it’s just outside the bathroom door, ranting and raging to get in, and both of your hands claw at his wrist, trying to pull his hand away as words bubble past your lips, high and terrified and desperate.

“No, Kei, not tonight. Please, baby, please, I need you now, right now, Kei, right now, pl-please,” and you’re nearly choking on the pleads as they barrel up your throat and out your mouth, all garbled together and stuffed with spit. “I can handle it, promise,”

A hoarse whine hitches in his throat, the worried knitting of his eyebrows carving creases into his forehead. With pinched features and a scrunched face, it looks almost as if he’s in pain; like it’s pure agony to deny you. And you can see it, can see the internal struggle reflected in his eyes, stare wrought with the tug and pull between desire and care. But that need is growing, spreading, curling around your organs in a tight embrace, suffocating you with its urgency.

A final please, Keigo, croaked out in a broken whimper and thick with the threat of tears, is what breaks him, shatters his resolve to a fine dust and whisks it away in one breath.

“Alright,” he’s murmuring, though his voice is strained, tense and gruff under the combined paradoxical weight of lust and apprehension. “Alright, hush now, I’ve got you,”

Then he’s hoisting you up, and your legs are wrapping around his waist, one hand clutching the top of the glass door, the other digging bruises into his neck as he buries his cock inside of you in one swift movement, a set of relieved gasps escaping you both.

It stings a little, sharp pinpricks shooting through your gut as his thick cock stretches you open, but they’re chased promptly by thorns of pleasure that dissipate the pain.

Because he feels so good, and you feel so full, and everything feels so perfect like this—everything feels right again.

But a boom of thunder explodes through this moment, blowing it to bits and pieces, and you reflexively jump, whole body flinching in his arms.

“Shh,” he’s whispering to you as he pulls you closer, chest pressed flush against yours. “Don’t worry, songbird, I’m gonna make it better, alright? Just focus on me,”

And so you do, eyes slipping shut as his hips begin to pump—slow at first, almost languid in the way they roll forward, each thrust thorough, cock nearly entirely unsheathed before it plunges back in, the head nudging your cervix, and you revel in the delicious cracks rasps—of your name, of curses, and praises—that fall from his lips with each rut.

“S’deep,” you mumble, words already jumbled from the carnal bliss, from the hedonistic decadence that surrounds you, emanating off him and percolating into you, instantly diffusing the tension and panic knotted like thick vines in your chest—even though he’s barely fucking done anything. “S’deep, Kei,”

“Yeah?” the word fans across your face, sweet and fragrant, hazy eyes opening to be met with glittering gold, strands of honeysuckle hair stuck to his forehead and temples, framing the dark gaze watching you, pupils almost voracious in the way they soak up your expressions, almost greedy in the way they scan your face as his hips move, looking for more. His forehead knocks against yours, penetrating stare boring into your face. “Good? My baby like it?”

“So good,” your head nods in small movements with the whimpered affirmation, bumping against his. It’s already beginning to build, smoldering deep in the pit of your stomach, the spark that had been dulled when you had begged him to stop, begged him to give you more—to stretch and fill and form you like your insides were made for him—reigniting, bright and scalding.

“More, please,”

It just slips from your lips, brain already beginning to melt as you allow yourself to be submerged, swallowed and consumed by him; an innate desire that swamps your mind and floods your senses, and you want it all.

But he complies without complaint this time, void of the usual teasing remarks and requests that you beg for it, because he can see how depleted, how drained you are, utterly exhausted from the terror of the storm, his understanding evident in a gentle confirmation tumbling from his lips.

And his groans and grunts are so beautiful, vibrating deep in the recesses of his chest, louder than any thunder as they rumble in your ears. You find solace in them, gulping them in as he pushes them out, letting them vibrate down the column of your throat and collect deep in your belly, kindling with the flickering embers that burn and glow and multiply with each thrust, furling together in a tense ball of churning heat.

The canting of his hips increases, faster and faster and faster with each rock forward, the escalating force resulting in your body to rubbing against the marble and glass, tightly curled fingers readjusting themselves, slipping a little from the foggy condensation coating the surface.

You don’t even realize that your sensitive skin’s been rubbed raw from the action, too tangled up in his noises, his pleasure, his cock, to notice, too tangled up in him to care at all.

“Here,” Keigo pants out, hips suddenly stilling. A low whine catches in your throat, eyebrows furrowing as you attempt to fuck yourself on his cock, a breathless snicker escaping his parted lips. “I know, baby, I know,” he’s telling you as strong arms readjust you, folded wings suddenly spanning, a gentle gust of air bathing your slick body in little goosebumps, before they wrap around him—around you—sheltering you from the glass and marble as they swoop under your ass and thighs, aiding Keigo in supporting your weight. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna take care of you, I promise,”

And it’s so much hotter like this, so much more intimate like this, uneven puffs of breath mingling as his forehead rests against yours, florescent lights reflecting off of his thick feathers and tinting everything—his skin, his eyes, his hair—scarlet.

The sudden snap of his hips startles a moan out of you, and he laughs again, carmine-tinged topaz eyes positively glowing. And he looks so gorgeous like this, looks like a fucking god like this, those fine gold hairs that cover his body catching in the soft light and shimmering.

He’s kissing, licking, nipping anywhere he can reach, stamping your flesh with physical manifestations of his love, pace never faltering as skilled, powerful hips continue to pound into you, cockhead dragging against that spot with every buck.

Your legs flex around his waist, muscles coiling as the sphere roiling in your stomach blazes, curled into a concentrated ball of fire. The heat it exudes is nearly unbearable now, heavy as it sinks into your gut, glowing orb spiraling as it coils, tighter and tighter and tighter until—

“Want you to cum for me, baby,” Keigo nearly keens, almost as if he’s begging you instead of commanding, voice cutting through the dense haze your brain has evaporated into. “Can y’do that for me? Be good and cum all over my cock?”

Yes, yes, yes, your head is nodding, emitting affirmatives in the form of high little mewls with each jerk. And it only takes two more sharp pistons of his hips before the fire-filled ball bursts, half of his name escaping your throat in a fractured cry as your entire body stiffens, cunt clenching so vigorously it’s almost painful.

Words start to spill from his mouth, an endless stream of praises, sandwiched between dark groans and broken whines and hitched curses; Y’so good for me, y’know that? Ah, f-fuck—So gorgeous when you gush all over my—my cock, baby, y’feel so good, I love you, I love you, I love you.

Hot, thick cum fills you suddenly, coinciding with his last choked out declaration of love, cock throbbing as it spurts rope after rope, taut stuttering hips pressed flush against your skin.

—

Everything aches as you unwind your limbs from around him, muscles sore and legs trembling as Keigo forces you to stand, propping you up against the shower wall and returning with the fluffiest towel only a moment later. Large hands pull you towards him, dragging you from under the shower head and into his arms, swaddling your shivering body in Egyptian cotton and strong arms and soft feathers.

He leaves the shower running on purpose, steady flow of water hitting the tiled floor and marbled wall, efficiently drowning out any roars or claps of thunder.

And you’re so tired, so pliant and boneless in his arms, barely able to keep your weighted eyelids from fluttering shut. He keeps you in his lap as he sits on the closed toilet, cradling you to his chest as best he can as he gently rocks you back and forth, whispering out praises—you did so well, you always look so gorgeous taking my cock—and avowals of his love, constant words oozing from his lips, sentiments cascading over your body like a stream of thick syrup.

Unconsciousness has you in its clutches, nearly slipping into the familiar embrace that promises the numbing ecstasy that comes with such an intense orgasm, until your tummy growls, and Keigo laughs.

“No, sweetheart,” he chides softly as you nuzzle into his chest, an indignant noise sounding at the back of your throat. “You have to eat at least a little before you can fall asleep,”

“Don’wanna,”

“I know,” he’s saying sympathetically as he stands, placing your feet on the floor a moment later. You wobble a little, eyes still shut, and he chuckles again, murmuring to himself about how fucking cute you are as he begins to dress you, tugging soft fleece that reeks of him over your head.

—

The rain has slowed to a drizzle by the time you’ve been clothed and fed, constant and leaking from the clouds overhead as you snuggle against Keigo in the plush sanctuary of your shared bed, tummy full and happy with roasted chicken and sauteed veggies. A deep contentment settles itself in your bones, weaving itself around the ivory in a protective glaze and imbuing you with a sense of calm, a sense of relaxation, a sense of relief, and you hum, Keigo’s lithe fingers trailing up your spine absentmindedly.

If you’re being honest, you’re not quite sure how he did it, how he slipped, slithered, seeped through the few cracks in your defence without being violent, without being forceful—how he tore down all of the barricades and shields you had built around yourself, hardened and firm from several years of paranoia and distrust, from the perpetual fear of being hurt again. It should scare you, really, how quickly he did it, how easily and inconspicuously he did it. But it doesn’t.

It doesn’t, because he did it with love; stripping those protective walls with genuity and sincerity, dismantling every brick and stone with gentle touches and soft kisses and tender words. He did it with respect, with patience, with passion and affection and devotion.

So it doesn’t, because there’s nothing to fear—because you’ve never felt more safe in your life, here enveloped by his strong arms and cozy wings, resting on his chest, legs tangled in knots together.

And as you drift off to the gentle pat-pat-pat of the raindrops against the windowpane and the steady thumping of Keigo’s heart echoing in your ears, you realize he’s your very own ray of sunshine, forever present to keep those menacing clouds and malicious thunder away, even in the strongest, the harshest, and the scariest of storms.

[bellakitse]

The one I can’t live without

“Am I okay?” he hisses like a rattlesnake. “My boyfriend just took a swan dive off a four-story building with an asshole with a gun. What do you think, Carlos? Does that sound okay?”

Carlos does something reckless at work upsetting TK.

Written for @911lonestarangstweek - Day 1: Emotional whump + “How do we fix this?”

In hindsight, Carlos probably shouldn’t have been so flippant in the sight of TK’s worry.

He’s running on adrenaline. They’re in the middle of a standoff on the roof of a four-story apartment building with him between an erratic gunman on the ledge and his girlfriend. He’s trying to talk the man into lowering his gun when his radio goes live, letting him know the rescue cushion has been inflated below them, and he cringes as it causes the man before him to lose the last bit of grip he has on the situation. He doesn’t stop to think; he sees the man’s trigger finger start to pull back, and Carlos rushes forward, his arms going around the guy’s waist. Next thing Carlos knows, they’re in the air freefalling before landing on the giant cushion.

Screaming and orders are being shouted as he rolls off the cushion with his arms still around the man. He lets him go to grab his cuffs before standing him up and passing him over to his partner, finding a look of exasperation on her face.

“You’re either the bravest or dumbest son of a bitch I know, Reyes,” she says with a shake of her head before tilting it in the direction of a series of first responder vehicles. “Get your ass over there to make sure you still have your brains in the right place, though after this stunt, I have to wonder.”

Carlos rolls his eyes but does what she says, starting to make his way over to the paramedics.

“By the way,” she calls out, causing him to look back at her. “Your man is over there spitting nails.”

Carlos winces, just now noticing the number on one of the rigs. He continues walking over, feeling dread as he spots Paul and Judd and sees the pitying looks on their faces as he passes them. He sees Tommy and Nancy first. They seem to be forming a barrier with their bodies, and he quickly realizes it’s because TK is behind them, sitting on the edge of their rig with his head between his knees, taking in deep breaths.

“Baby, are you okay?” he asks, concerned, stepping around them only to step back when TK snaps his head up to look at him, his green eyes flashing.

“Am I okay?” he hisses like a rattlesnake. “My boyfriend just took a swan dive off a four-story building with an asshole with a gun. What do you think, Carlos? Does that sound okay?”

“TK – “ he starts to say with what he hopes is a calming voice. It seems to do the exact opposite as TK turns redder, his face twisting into a nasty scowl.

“Of all the reckless, stupid, boneheaded things to do,” he rants. “What were you thinking? Were you even thinking  at all – “

Carlos scoffs, and even though his brain is screaming at him not to continue, he can’t help himself when TK gives him a challenging look at the sound. “That’s a little hypocritical coming from you, don’t you think? Reckless is kind of your trademark.”

He knows it’s the wrong thing to say the second the words are out of his mouth. He expects TK to curse him out if he’s honest. What he isn’t expecting is the flash of hurt he sees cross TK’s face or the way his hand trembles. He feels his stomach drop unpleasantly as TK’s eyes shine wet, and he’s more than ready to apologize when TK turns towards his Captain.

“Captain Vega,” he starts, his voice shaking slightly. “If you would please check Officer Reyes over. I’ll go check on the girlfriend and make sure she’s okay.”

He notices Tommy look over at him, but his focus is on TK and how he won’t look at him anymore.

“Sure, TK,” Tommy answers kindly, her voice motherly the way he’s heard it at times with both her people. “Nancy, go with him.”

“You got it, Cap,” Nancy answers, putting herself on the side of TK to act as a barrier once again when they pass him. He thinks of reaching for TK anyway, but the glare Nancy gives him as she walks by stops him in his place. Instead, he watches them walk away, his dread growing with every step TK takes away from him.

Tommy clears her throat, forcing Carlos to turn back to her. He feels his face go hot at the judging look he finds on her face.

“Well,” she starts to say, letting out a loud breath. “That was an idiotic thing to say, wasn’t it?” she questions bluntly, and Carlos can’t help but cringe before nodding.

Tommy’s expression softens a bit at that. She rolls her eyes at him before waving him forward. “Well, come on, let’s get you checked out,” she motions to where TK had been sitting, probably hyperventilating because Carlos dove off a damn building – fuck he’s an idiot.

“TK might be pissed at you right now, but I guarantee the first thing he’s going to ask when he comes back is if you’re okay. It will go a long way to get you out of the doghouse if I tell him you’re fine. Then you can apologize for the stupid thing you just said when the man that loves you was on the verge of a panic attack over your safety,” she finishes pointedly, making him feel worse if possible.

 ֎֎֎

 He doesn’t get to apologize.

Mitchell comes over to tell him they’re wanted back at the station before TK and Nancy come back to the rig. He goes reluctantly; he knows he has a job to do, but he hates the idea of leaving things unsettled with TK.

Tommy sees his hesitation, her expression softening once more as she gives him a slight shove and lets him know that she’ll tell TK he’s okay. He nods, grateful, and asks her to tell TK if he can please text him, getting a nod back from the medical Captain.

He gets that text he’s waiting for hours later when he’s gotten home. Only it’s not with the message he’s hoping for, whatever that might be. Instead, it reads: ‘Spending the night at my dad’s. I’ll call you.’

Nine simple words that make his stomach clench with unease. He wants to call TK, but his eyes keep falling on the last three words of the text.

‘I’ll call you.’

The message is clear for Carlos to understand. TK doesn’t want him to reach out before he’s ready to talk to him.

He looks at his kitchen, prepped for an apology dinner he had planned of coconut curry ramen, and sighs as he starts putting things away. He loves cooking for TK, having him sit on his counters with a smile on his face as he watches him work, stealing kisses from him after he lets him taste a sauce. It’s not the same as cooking for one anymore.

As a matter of fact, he quickly realizes through the rest of the evening that his apartment isn’t the same without TK. He’s known for a while that his boyfriend spends a lot of time at his place, but Carlos hadn’t realized how much he’d gotten used to it until now that they’re fighting and he’s not there.

He eats cold cereal half-heartedly and then heads upstairs. Usually, he and TK would cuddle on the couch after dinner, only half paying attention to whatever was on tv as they exchange kisses and touches. Not having that tonight, knowing that it’s by his own doing, leaves him feeling despondent. He gets ready for bed, already knowing that it’s going to be a restless night. The only times he sleeps alone these days is when TK has an overnight at work.

He lays in bed feeling agitated and miserable as he turns to face TK’s side of the bed, hating how it’s cold to the touch when he extends his hand to touch the space. He wants to reach out and have his fingertips find his boyfriend’s warm body there.

He falls into a fitful sleep, startling awake when he hears movement in his bedroom. Sitting up, he inhales a sharp breath as he spots a tense TK by the door, the light of the hallway illuminating him. Turning on the bedside lamp, he plays with the covers as they stare at each other, nervous energy crackling between them.

“I’m still pissed at you,” TK finally speaks, his brow pinched. “But I can’t sleep without your arms around me anymore,” he whispers, obviously more upset than angry.

Carlos swallows hard, hating to see TK like this and knowing he’s the cause. “How do I fix this?”

TK lets out a sigh, and pushing his shoes off, comes over to the bed, sitting down on it. “I think the real question is how do we fix this,” he corrects him, giving him a sad smile. “And unfortunately, the answer is there is no real way to fix it. I was so scared for you today because I’m so in love with you, so unless I decide to stop loving you, I’m always going to be scared when you’re in a dangerous situation,” he finishes with a wry chuckle that sounds accepting of his fate. It makes Carlos’ heart break and fills with hope simultaneously.

“I’m sorry for what I said earlier,” Carlos whispers. He slowly reaches out, touching his fingertips to the hand TK has resting on the bed, letting out a sigh when TK turns it, taking a firmer hold.

“Yeah, that was dumb,” TK answers dryly, his eyebrow raised in challenge for a moment before he lets out a sigh of his own. “But you weren’t wrong. I have made you worry about me more than once on the job.”

“Yeah,” Carlos breathes out, thinking of TK getting shot, of the minefield and his abduction. Each time Carlos had his heart in his throat, but never did TK dismiss it the way he did today. “I’m sorry,” he says again, letting out a breath when TK’s expression softens.

“I know you are,” TK says softly. He moves, laying back on the bed, his arms open to Carlos.

Carlos doesn’t waste a second. He sinks into TK’s frame, relieved to be back in his embrace, closing his eyes when TK presses a kiss to his forehead.

“We have to be more careful out there,” TK says against his brow. “The both of us.”

Carlos nods in agreement. He thinks back to how lonely his place felt all evening without TK and lets himself voice the thought that has been echoing in his mind all night. “We have someone important waiting for us to come back home in one piece to.”

TK touches his chin, tipping his head up to look him in the eye. “The most important person in my life,” he tells him with a gentle smile, and Carlos knows he’s been forgiven completely.

“The one I can’t live without,” Carlos whispers back, swallowing around the lump in his throat as he takes in the shine in TK’s eyes at his words.

“Yeah, the one I can’t live without,” he whispers back before covering his mouth with his, kissing him gently.

Carlos returns it, deepening it as he grows desperate for more, his hands reaching out under TK’s shirt to touch the warm skin he was yearning for earlier.

TK answers his touch by pulling back long enough to pull the shirt over his head, turning as he rolls Carlos over, covering him with his body, and kissing him thoroughly and deeply. Carlos lets out a whine when TK breaks the kiss, pressing smaller, softer ones over his cheeks and nose as Carlos makes another sound.

“We should sleep,” he says quietly, shaking his head when Carlos protests. “It’s been a long day, it’s late, and you jumped off a building. You can’t tell me you’re not tired.”

Carlos tries to argue only to let out a yawn that makes TK laugh.

“Thought so,” he continues smugly. “Sleep, sweetheart. We can pick this up in the morning.”

“Fine,” Carlos pouts, his eyes already growing heavy, causing TK to chuckle again.

He watches as TK stands to remove his pants before getting back in bed.

“Can I hold you?” he questions nervously.

“Yes, please,” TK breathes out, turning his back to him, letting out a sigh when Carlos throws an arm around him, tucking his face into his neck, breathing in that uniquely TK scent.

“I love you,” he mumbles into the skin, exhaling as TK squeezes his arm.

“I love you too, baby,” he answers, sounding just as tired as Carlos. After their emotional day, it makes sense he’s so worn out.

Carlos closes his eyes, finally relaxing for the first time all day with TK back in his arms.

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

The d’Avenir Treatise on the Essentials of Monster Hunting (Vol I) - Preface and Introduction

The timing of this whole thing with the campaign is pretty amazing, as it turns out. In the middle of absolute work hell and attempts to sort out my general apartment/living situation, a little while ago I entered a fic into the /r/CurseOfStrahd second annual fanfic contest. It was one of my attempts to kind of write out and process the way our own run through the module went, stretch out some poor, suffering, unused writing muscles, and it was also super duper self-indulgent. So I'm very, very proud to say it won first place amidst some really great competition, and super happy to rep my best girl Ez.

Summary: In the aftermath of Strahd's destruction and the not-quite-loss of her mentor, Ezmerelda d'Avenir sets out to tie up loose ends and lay some ghosts to rest, and continues carving out a path for herself in the Domains of Dread.

Word count: 9999, as there was a 10k limit. I had fun.

Rating/Warnings: T, with canon-typical violence, and dealing with death and loss in a general gothic horror setting. Spoilers for the Curse of Strahd module.

---

The d’Avenir Treatise on the Essentials of Monster Hunting (Vol I) - Preface and Introduction

Being a compendium of successes, failures, tricks, and warnings relating to detecting, tracking, fighting, and ultimately destroying undead, fiends, lycanthropes, and assorted monstrosities.

-

1.1. Introductory remarks

Their ride back to town is a quiet one. The silence is broken only once they are sitting, their hunting and travelling gear half-unpacked and strewn about, in the library just above van Richten's herbalist shop.

"Were we in any other profession, this would be a cause for celebration," van Richten's lips twist into a bittersweet wisp of a smile, and he pushes a warm cup of tea into her hands. "A demonstration of pride in an apprentice's first job well done, for all to see and revel in."

Ezmerelda tries to look up at him and meet his gaze properly, but her shoulders, her head, her eyes all feel too heavy. A leaden weight seems to have settled on every bit of her. She is tired, bone-deep, but the very thought of lying down and closing her eyes to attempt to sleep fills her with disgust and no small amount of dread. She knows exactly what she will see. The man, just on the cusp of middle age, entirely unremarkable at first... features quickly twisting into a mask of monstrous hunger, then to wide-eyed horror, and, finally, resorting to desperate pleas for mercy as the stake hits home and his screeching form dissolves to ash. 

It feels like the ash still coats the back of her mouth. The tea smells of strong herbs, with just a whiff of something even stronger that van Richten must have snuck in from the liquor cabinet. Her hands clench around the cup, and a burning need to justify and defend herself drives her to finally speak up.

"I was ready," she insists. "I am ready."

"I know," van Richten replies, softly, sadly.

The tea scalds her tongue, but she drinks it anyway.

---

Getting up from the damp, cold floor of the tomb again feels like an impossibility. She can barely keep her head above the ground, eyes stinging with a mixture of blood and sweat and the glare of pure, magical sunlight. The clawed gashes on her ribcage burn with every weak, hard-won breath, and a metallic taste coats the back of her tongue.

But she is not done yet. She has one last lightning bolt left in her, and Strahd and his dusk elf lackey are so beautifully, perfectly aligned. Ezmerelda can't keep her lips from curling up into a smirk as she raises an arm and mutters her incantation, feeling that familiar tickle of static rising all around her.

She holds on, builds it up as much as she can, teeth grinding together, ears buzzing - until she can hold on no longer, and the energy flies from her, the flash near-blinding, the roar of accompanying thunder ringing in her ears.

She sees it hit home, the first traces of foggy vapour swirling around Strahd's convulsing form, and a beautiful satisfaction fills her. 

Then, she lets herself go.

An instant or an eternity later someone is shaking her into jarring and painful wakefulness, jostling her head against the rough floor. Her mouth is filled with the bitter aftertaste of a potion, and she grimaces as she feels the familiar residue on her lips and chin.

"Fine, fine, old man, relax, I'm up," she manages, slurring the words, struggling to blink her eyes open and into focus. "I'm awake. Stop it."

But it's not him.

It is Ireena, wide-eyed gaze somehow growing wider still at her words. The reason for this becomes abundantly and agonisingly clear as she points to somewhere behind Ezmerelda... to where Rudolph van Richten lies, very pale and very still, a greater and more profound calm upon him than she has ever witnessed.

"No."

She didn't even see him fall.

"Why didn't you help him?" Ezmerelda knocks the empty potion bottle away, and it clatters loudly against the stone, finally finding rest near a streak of dark ashes. "What are you waiting for, what--"

"I tried. It was... it's too late," Ireena whispers, "I'm sorry." 

Ezmerelda feels shame flood her immediately at the misaimed anger. "No. No, I'm sorry. It's not your fault. I'm sorry. I just-- wait." Awareness of just where they are and what they were in the middle of doing suddenly overwhelms her, and she feels panic crawl up her spine. "Is it over? Did you stake that bastard once and for all?"

Ireena nods, mouth curling in visible distaste. "I did, just like you said to. Your last hit - it was enough to force him to turn into mist, and then, when... when he reformed in the coffin, I did it."

The relief Ezmerelda feels at that is so bitter it burns. "I missed it, then," she murmurs, and feels ridiculous immediately afterwards. Ireena shakes her head, and helps her sit up.

She allows herself a few precious moments of rest against the cold, damp wall of the crypt, eyes painfully locked on van Richten's still, still form. As soon as she feels half-capable of moving, she all but drags herself to his side. Feeling for a pulse, a breath, anything at all to help her disbelieve what is plainly before her eyes.

She finds no such thing. He's dead, and it feels like a stake through her own heart. After all her efforts, after getting into Barovia just to get the damned foolish old man off his self-destructive warpath and out, only to lose him now, to fail right at the end...

A pale shimmer falls over the scene before her, like a curtain right before her eyes. Ezmerelda blinks and shakes her head, but can't make it go away. She reaches up, and--

Erasmus all but swoops down to be face to face with her.

It takes her a moment to properly grasp what she is seeing. Erasmus. Somehow still there, his ghostly form hovering over his father's body. Gesturing at her wildly, pointing down at something, and, finally, using his ectoplasmic paint to draw... a circle within a circle, hanging in mid-air.

She follows his wordless instructions to the best of her current ability and, with some painfully suppressed reluctance, looks down at van Richten. And there on his finger is a ring that was certainly not there before.

Erasmus seems insistent and quite unusually agitated, so Ezmerelda takes the ring, trying not to register the coldness of the hand it was on, and puts it on numbly, feeling utterly beyond thought.

Suddenly, cutting through the fog that seems to have descended upon her mind, bubbling up like an idea from her own consciousness, a thought - a voice. A familiar voice.

'Ezmerelda? Ah. I see. Well, that could have gone decidedly better.'

She feels tears welling up in her eyes, an unstoppable burning in her chest. She wants to laugh until she can't breathe, or sob her lungs raw. 

Instead, she sits back against the cool stone wall. As the adrenaline wears off, she becomes more aware of the extent of her injuries: the sting where foul claws raked across her midsection and upwards; the burns of magical fire on her palms. She fishes out the last potion from her pocket, and downs it in one greedy gulp. The relief is near-instant.

Her faculties at least somewhat returned to her, she opts for a laugh as she recognises the ring for what it is. Ireena looks at her with some concern, but Ezmerelda waves it away.

"A ring of mind shielding. Protect the mind, and store the soul, should the worst happen. Of course you of all people would come so prepared."

Ezmerelda twists the ring on her finger, marvels at the detailed engraving.

"Should I... we could... there's ways. To get you back. I mean..." 

She trails off, and there is a brief pause before the voice in her mind pipes up again. 'No. No, I think, at long last, it is time for me to stop. And rest.' 

Even though her entire being wishes to rail against this, to insist on the need for Rudolph van Richten to exist, and protest the injustice (just when she'd gotten him back!), Ezmerelda manages, barely, a soft, "I understand." 

'There is still some work to do before that, though, no? Loose ends for us to take care of before, well...' 

That, she feels far more comfortable with. It almost comes as a relief. "Yes, of course. First order of business, we will sit down, and we will work out a plan. And we will stick to that plan." 

There is a soft chuckle in her mind. 

"What's so funny? You love plans." 

She imagines, in better, happier days, the old man - only slightly less old - shaking his head at her with a long-suffering smile. 

'Thank you for humoring me, is all I'll say. Now, go handle things here properly and finish up, while I think of a list of priorities for us. Miss Kolyana is waiting for you.' 

-

1.2. A brief reflection on personal experience

Ezmerelda is pulled into a room, hand clamped over her mouth. The door slams shut, and she almost stumbles as she is suddenly released.

"What in all the realms are you doing here?" The colourful half-elf carnival master hisses at her in a voice decidedly unlike the one he was just using in the downstairs taproom. Now that they are close, she can see the magical disguise of the Great Rictavio is utterly impeccable, but the eyes... the eyes are unmistakable. 

They are also flooded with the closest thing to panic Ezmerelda has ever seen in them.

"I'm here to help you. You don't stand a chance on your own."

"How did you find me?"

Ezmerelda shrugs noncommittally, and doesn't look behind him. "I have my ways."

He shakes his head. "That isn't good enough. If his agents - and there are many, I assure you! - catch even a whiff--"

She finally glances at the ghostly form of Erasmus, just barely visible over Rictavio's shoulder, unable to be perceived by the one man he wishes he could reach out to and reassure. He meets her eyes and holds his finger up to his lips.

"I recognised your horse," she says, at long last. 

"Dear Drusilla? Oh..." Rictavio seems to almost deflate at that, though his nervous pacing doesn't slow. 

Erasmus' visage shows what has to be gratitude, or relief, or both. Then he closes his eyes, seemingly tired, and the shimmering remnants of him disappear from view. 

"Damned stubborn, foolish girl..." Rictavio moves deftly around the small room, securing the shutters on its single window, locking the door from the inside, gaze darting around wildly. Then he reaches up and removes his hat, and Rudolph van Richten, looking more old and more worn than Ezmerelda was perhaps ever prepared to see, stands in his place.

"I had a plan, you know," he sighs, tossing the hat onto the bed. "One that I can now no doubt forget about entirely."

"There's no time for your endless preparation and planning. Any waiting game we try to play is a losing one. There's a young woman who desperately needs our help, a legendary weapon to be found, and there's a monster to hunt, feeding on an entire land. I've been to the castle, scouted out--" 

"You've done what?" 

Ezmerelda doesn't look at him and chooses to pace a small circle around the room herself. "The castle. Ravenloft. Getting in was a breeze - getting out was the hard part." She suppresses a brief shudder at the memory of her invisibility spell running out and Strahd's eyes boring directly into hers, as if he'd known she was there all along. "But, well, I managed. And more importantly, I found a way into his crypt."

Van Richten sits down on the bed, rubbing circles into his forehead.

"Ezmerelda, you can't be here." His voice sounds pained, almost. "You know you are not safe near me. My curse--" 

"Sincerely, fuck your curse," Ezmerelda spits. "After all these years, it can wait a few days before striking. Can't be worse than what will happen to both of us and anyone involved if we can't manage to work together on this. We have to. I tried, by myself, but..." 

She tries not to dwell on the terribly brief confrontation, the bite of the cold, cold grasp that seemed to steal the very life out of her, and her rather desperate escape.

"Ezmerelda," van Richten starts again, then pauses, and just looks at her - a long, heavy look. "Why?"

"There are still people who care about your well-being," she replies simply and softly, "no matter what you may believe." 

Then she straightens her shoulders and allows the steel back into her voice. "So listen to me. We are going to stake that devil in his lair, and we are going to get out of this cursed land. Together."

For once, he doesn't argue.

---

Their lord and master may be gone, but there are plenty of foul things still crawling around Castle Ravenloft - and occasionally crawling out of it as well.

How lucky for the Village of Barovia, then, to have a monster hunter visiting.

"...so I think that should do it for that particular area of the barracks," Ezmerelda flicks a stray bit of zombie gunk off of her bracer, then casts an apologetic look at Ireena. "But who knows what else he has buried under there."

Ireena Kolyana, the girl haunted, hunted, and tormented by the vampire, deciding she's had enough of running, turning on him and wielding a sword of pure sunlight against him. Poetic justice, if Ezmerelda fancied herself a poet.

Ireena Kolyana, looking exhausted in a very different way, now caught up in burgomaster duties, barely finding time in her overstuffed schedule to hear about the results of Ezmerelda's latest expedition to the castle.

"You know," Ezmerelda begins, eyeing the stacks of papers and growing chaos on the desk between them, "if you ever get really tired of this, and miss life on the road..." she nods towards the window, and the wagon just outside it. "I have room for one more. And could always use a deft hand with a sword." 

Ireena smiles, but the sadness underpinning it is palpable. "I can't, not now at least. There is too much to take care of here. And without Ismark..." a shadow falls briefly over her face, then she visibly forces it back. "Some day, maybe. I would honestly love to." 

Ezmerelda nods, then moves to stand up, and holds out a hand expectantly. "Come on, you have time for a walk. A minute to escort me out and say goodbye, at least."

Ireena chuckles quietly and shakes her head, but pushes away from the desk and takes the proffered arm. 

The sunlight is bright, tempered only by a wisp of white cloud here and there. Ezmerelda feels a light pull on her arm as Ireena stops on the threshold of the house for just a fraction of a moment. The hesitation is brief, barely noticeable, but the pause as if needing to catch her breath and the subsequent dawning joy - pure, almost radiant by itself - as the sunlight hits her skin--

Ezmerelda realises she's staring, blinks, and makes herself look away.

Their stroll is indeed brief, and as soon as they turn the corner and reach the parked wagon, Ireena sighs and stands half-ready to hurry back to her office and her duties.

"Hey," Ezmerelda puts what she hopes is a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I know you can handle all of this. Never doubt that." 

This wins her a sincere smile. "Thank you."

Knowing there's no more point in delaying, Ezmerelda pulls away, moves to arrange her things around the wagon and prepare to leave. 

"The offer stands," she says as she climbs into the driver's seat. "Keep it in mind."

"Maybe next time," Ireena replies with another sad smile. But then she pauses for a moment, almost as if thinking something over. Then she darts in quickly, and kisses Ezmerelda's cheek.

"Don't stay away too long," she says, quietly, then draws away again. Ezmerelda nods her agreement, and takes up the reins of her conjured horses.

Ireena waves her goodbye, and stands, looking on, bathed in sunlight. 

And then the road turns, and she disappears from Ezmerelda's view.

'Well.'

"Shut up." Ezmerelda can feel her face burning. "Absolutely no need to read into things." 

'You know I mean no offense. I only want the best for you.' 

"I am perfectly fine," Ezmerelda grumbles. "Besides, this is the last thing she needs right now." 

'You don't know that. Ask her sometime, perhaps, to tell you herself. Too many people have assumed too much about that young lady, I think. Myself included.' 

"Oh, what do you know..."

There is a distinct sensation of stinging grief, never quite healed, as the voice comes again. 'You seem to forget I was young once. In love once. More... than once. And though it never ended well, like few things in my life did, the only thing I have ever regretted was not acting sooner. And regret is...' 

"... the enemy of progress. I know." Ezmerelda sighs, the old man's oft-repeated saying rattling around in her mind as she snaps the reins and takes them down the road westward. "Maybe next time."

-

1.3. Materials and methods, an overview

Her balance is off still, but the past few weeks have brought incredible improvement. She flicks her rapier upwards, then lunges - back, forth, back, forth, fully and properly bearing weight on her right side in the training yard for the first time in months. The new prosthetic is truly a work of art and a masterful display of craftsmanship. Ezmerelda feels almost giddy at the sensation of ducking and weaving under the wooden limbs of the training dummy, feinting deftly, ignoring the burn in her arm and shoulder. The maneuvers are not yet close to her peak speed and fluidity and elegance, not after the long, arduous recovery she is only now reaching the end of. But it is all so very, very promising.

It also brings to mind - because how could it not, when for the better part of the past half-year she has had more time to think, and remember, and reflect than in her entire life? - van Richten's drills. He was always far more of a theoretician than practitioner of swordfighting, but he was certainly no slouch with a blade. The precision and perfection of form he insisted on instilling in her initially seemed to clash with her more free, improvisational, off-the-cuff approach, but ended up blending with it to great effect in ways that occasionally surprised them both.

She goes through attack patterns he's drilled into her and realises she misses him, the cantankerous old man and all his frustrating ways, and suddenly finds herself fervently wishing she wasn't doing this alone. She spares a moment to imagine the amount of fussing over her he would likely have insisted on, with his overprotective bedside manner that she used to chafe and scoff at whenever one of their hunts went badly for her. She thinks of all the lovely, fleeting drawings Erasmus would have made for her.

Her next step is careless, thoughtless, distracted, and as a result only a little off. The lunge is misaimed, unbalanced, and her knee twists unpleasantly. For the briefest flash of a moment she could swear she can feel the teeth sinking in again, and the horrible tearing.

Ezmerelda winces, fingers clenched around the rapier's handle, knuckles white. Her teeth grit as the wave of pain subsides so very, very slowly, but doesn't quite go away. She remembers, belatedly, that she has an audience.

"Ah, almost there," she calls back to the artisan eagerly awaiting her feedback, voice forcefully kept steady, without turning to face them, and taps her rapier on the metal plating running up from the heel. "We'll need to make another slight adjustment to the ankle joint, I think. But this is definitely and by far the best one yet. Let me get some more practice first, and we can go over the details in the afternoon."

Ezmerelda doesn't wait to see if her words are acknowledged. She hefts the rapier back up.

---

Before she reaches the first crossroads west of Vallaki, she turns the wagon south and into the woods.

"I have some unfinished business of my own to settle first," Ezmerelda states very matter-of-factly, preempting any interrogation from the ring's general direction.

The wagon trail to the top of the hill is easier to navigate than ever, and the camp is abuzz with activity, as it usually is. But this time the feel of it all is a bit different.

Ezmerelda knows it well; the air of a caravan packing up to leave.

Arabelle sees her weaving through the horses, strolling towards the large central tent, and darts towards her immediately, then freezes not three feet away. Ezmerelda can tell plain as the new Barovian day that she is torn between looking dignified and throwing herself at her in a hug.

So she crouches down and opens her arms first, and is almost knocked over when Arabelle rushes in. 

"I want to show you something I've been practicing," Arabelle whispers conspiratorially, "but you'll need to lend me a dagger."

Ezmerelda's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but she obliges the girl after only a moment's contemplation, still crouched down and one arm around her narrow shoulders.

The dagger is one of the smaller ones she usually keeps concealed, but even so it seems far too large in Arabelle's hands. Nevertheless, in a few surprisingly dextrous motions with only a couple of moments of hesitation, she seems to make it disappear - then produces it again as if out of thin air.

"Huh. Impressive. Did your uncle teach you that little trick?"

Arabelle nods, but her pride is palpable. "Papa was so mad! He says that both him and you are a bad influence and I am far too young to be handling blades."

"There's no such thing," Ezmerelda scoffs, but motions for her dagger back and tucks it away safely. "Where is your father? I wanted to speak with him."

"Luvash is busy," another voice cuts in cooly, and Arrigal steps out of the fading, scarce shadows, somehow slipping under her notice even with the bright streams of sunlight all around. "But you can speak with me."

Ezmerelda stands up slowly, and can see him sizing her up.

"Run along now, Arabelle," Arrigal says in a much warmer tone of voice, but without taking his eyes off Ezmerelda for even a moment.

Arabelle gives her one last look as she turns to leave, and Ezmerelda tries to give her a reassuring smile - but then she realises Arabelle doesn't seem concerned or reluctant or... anything at all. She seems supremely calm, and not seven years old at all.

Arrigal steps forward and, even as uncannily quiet as he always is, it startles her back into the moment. Then, he reaches out a hand.

Ezmerelda meets his gaze, steps forward, and takes it. The handshake is firm, and she smirks. "Looks like you backed the losing side, cousin."

The term of address rolls off her tongue with some bite of irony in it. Arrigal inclines his head in acknowledgement. "You can't say it wasn't a fairly sure bet. A matter of survival, of course. We do what we must to keep our people safe. But," and he draws a bit closer, as if letting her in on a secret. "I'm glad he didn't send me after you."

Ezmerelda nods, and decides she isn't in the mood for a debate. "You know, so am I. I would have hated having to kill you. Instead, here you are, in an excellent position for a little introspection, changing your ways... much better this way, isn't it?"

He shakes his head with a grin, and finally lets go of her hand. "You are a menace. But we follow the traditions, and you have a place here. Where are you going?"

"Borca," she says, and pointedly doesn't elaborate further.

Arrigal laughs. "Off to more of your grim business right away! Well, one has to admire your tenacity. You can stay, of course, and leave with us tomorrow. We will share the road at least part of the way."

So Ezmerelda stays, and exchanges news of recent caravan routes and planned Mist-traversal with Luvash. The fire roars to life as the sun sets. Tales are told, and she contributes some of her own.

"Regale us, cousin," Arrigal says, grinning wolf-sharp, arms open wide as if to encompass the entire camp, "with the story of the fall of the devil Strahd." 

Arabelle is a delight, as always. The truce with Arrigal, if it can be called that, is uneasy, but holds. The ring is quiet.

Arabelle insists on riding with her in the morning ("You did fish her out of that lake... brought her back to us," Luvash grumbles. "I suppose there's no harm... I'll have none of that monster-hunting nonsense, though!"). Her delight at the summoned magical horses is palpable, even as she tries to hide it. Ezmerelda gives her the reins until they need to enter the Mists, and is only slightly surprised to see her managing well, with just a few pointers here and there.

The whole way, Arabelle demands stories of her and van Richten's exploits very matter-of-factly - interrogates, almost, at times. Her eyes are large, intent, focused, as Ezmerelda obliges, for hours. 

"I knew you would win," Arabelle says at one point, breaking a rare longer stretch of silence between them. "Uncle didn't want to listen to me, but I knew."

Ezmerelda looks at her, matches her seriousness. "I hope he will learn to listen, one day soon."

-

1.4. Common pitfalls

Ezmerelda inches back to consciousness more than wakes, and hisses as she almost reflexively tries and fails to sit up. She recognises her own bed in the former guest room above the herbalist shop, but the details of how she got there are fuzzy at best, completely absent at worst. She is, however, very aware of a merciless pounding in her head and that she has most certainly just pulled some fresh stitches.

A swirl of colourful ectoplasm greets her when she next opens her eyes, Erasmus' fleeting but always lovely and cheerful greetings hovering above her.

Well. Ezmerelda forces a pained smile at him, knowing that if he is here, his father cannot be far, and--

Ah. Familiar footsteps on the stairs, and the distinct creak of the second one from the top, as Rudolph van Richten enters the room with uncanny timing. 

He doesn't seem to be surprised to see her awake as he gives her a quick look-over, even as concern and frustration clearly war on his face.

"I thought we had reached an agreement," he begins at last, very deliberately calmly.

Ezmerelda doesn't reply.

"I thought," he continues with that same calm tone, "that we had made a plan. That was my distinct impression of our last conversation."

Ezmerelda clenches her teeth, then grinds out, "I couldn't just stand by and let that beast--"

"You could have voiced your disagreements with the plan and brought your concerns to me, instead of running off on your own in the middle of the night," van Richten is clearly struggling to keep his voice level. "You almost died."

"Fine, I am voicing my disagreements. We know it's a wereboar. Just go at it with our silvered weapons, set up an ambush where we found its lair... why wait? Why give it more chances to hurt people?"

"To be absolutely certain we have all the information. That we have looked at it from every angle, that we have not overlooked a crucial detail. Minimise its chances to hurt us."

"But by then it might have mauled half the village to death, or worse!"

Van Richten's gaze on her is sharp. "And if we get ourselves pointlessly killed, are the villagers any safer for our hasty, brash, ill-thought sacrifice?"

"Hasty, brash, and ill-thought. Fine, if that’s how it is, how you think of me," Ezmerelda throws her hands up, and wishes she could march off, slamming a door shut behind her for good measure, as childish as the thought makes her feel.

Van Richten sighs deeply, and pulls up a chair to sit next to her bed. Ezmerelda recognises it as one from downstairs, and feels a small stab of guilt at the thought of him setting up a vigil at her bedside.

"We can't go rushing in on half-checked information," van Richten begins, after a brief silence, looking down at his hands. "We can't, because... because I have done that, in the past. And people - good, brave, dedicated people who chose to stand against evil, people who trusted me - died as a result."

"I have been wrong," he continues, still not looking up. "I have followed faulty sources without the due diligence of thorough enough vetting. I have overlooked things, and I have lost many. I will not and cannot allow that to happen again. We have to be careful, patient, and vigilant, always."

"I'm not advocating for blindly rushing in," Ezmerelda protests, "I'm merely--"

"I won't have you on my soul as well. I have far too many already."

"And I won't have any more innocents on mine! We had all the relevant information two days ago. Four people could have been alive today if we had acted on time. We were right."

"And what about when you aren't, Ezmerelda? What about when you aren't?"

Ezmerelda looks him right in the eyes, steely. "Then I will make sure I am the one who pays the price for my own mistakes."

"Oh," van Richten smiles sadly, "If only that were possible."

---

The letter arrives just as she is preparing, to her great relief, to leave Port-à-Lucine for good. It is hand-delivered by an ostentatiously dressed man in a stylised fox mask, entirely - and Ezmerelda feels her lips curl in annoyance - unassuming and usual for the land of outrageous pretense that is Dementlieu. The way he seems to disappear in the moment it takes for her to glance down at what he has thrust into her hands is also something Ezmerelda finds hard to marvel at anymore.

Overjoyed to be able to return to the relative privacy and safety of her wagon, she tosses away her old harlequin mask in the sincere hopes of never having to put the damn thing on again. Then she throws herself on the bed and focuses on tearing into the sealed envelope, absorbing its mysterious contents.

After she reaches the end of the letter's brief text, she stays very still for a long while.

'Not a name I thought I would see again, if I am to be honest,' van Richten's voice comes slowly, sounding very wary.

Ezmerelda breathes out a frustrated sigh, an unidentifiable jumble of feelings warring in her chest and burning up her throat. She tries to reply several times, then stops, and closes her eyes. Collects herself, at least somewhat, and decides to focus on the practical. "How do we even know this isn't a forgery, or some sort of trap?"

'We don't. But it is a loose end I, for one, am not prepared to simply overlook.'

"She's tried before, but I never... I don't have time for this right now, I--," she throws the letter and the shredded envelope onto the chest at her bedside, and runs an annoyed hand through her hair, again, and again, and again. Thinking, or at least trying to. 

'We have time. You and I both know it's not time that is the problem.'

They are nearing the end of their planned journey, finishing up their business with Alanik Ray and Arthur Sedgwick's latest investigations and bidding farewell to Dementlieu. And then it was supposed to be on to Mordent, to call in at the Mordentshire shop briefly, and afterwards to Darkon - to Rivalis, and the villages surrounding the old Richten estate. Some ghouls to fight off, wraiths to purge, ghosts to lay to rest, to help the villagers out, before... well. They'll come to that when they do.

Ezmerelda can't deny the detour would only be a brief one.

"A 'loose end'," she huffs. "Really."

'I am just trying to help you. Don't waste years of your life like I have, either bitter or wondering or fleeing. Confront your - our - past, at least this part. Lay it to rest, if you can.'

"The past does not lie behind us. It is part of what we are, and part of what we always will be," Ezmerelda recites, then sighs again. "Old Vistani saying."

A moment of silence. 'Make sure it is a good part, then.'

-

Ezmerelda's memory of her mother feels... not fuzzy, but perhaps a bit tweaked and twisted over the years, more by feelings overtaking it than by any fault of recall. The images of what she remembers and what now stands before her don't match, but have a strange, dissonant overlap, leaving visible in the centre a woman Ezmerelda could almost, almost imagine seeing in the mirror. One she hoped to never see again after that night of wordless parting, many years ago. 

Years of imprisonment seem to have been surprisingly kind to Madame Irena Radanavich. She has wormed her way into some kind of favour with someone powerful here, no doubt, as has always been her utterly unscrupulous way. The cell is clearly a formality, more of an office than anything, a parlour for receiving agents and lackeys, as well as bosses. There is even a chair - a worn, old wooden frame with faded red upholstery - placed a little ways away from the bars, facing them. Ezmerelda also gets a distinct impression that the guard standing in the corner is not there for any visitor's safety or protection.

The woman in the cell seems to light up the moment she sets eyes on Ezmerelda strolling into the cell space with a pretense of casualness.

"My, how you've grown! My, and yet-- oh, darling," concern seems to flood her face and voice, and - there, a subtle, wry twist - Ezmerelda thinks she catches a false, even mocking undertone to it. A flash, and it’s gone, and perhaps she merely imagined it, or even wanted it to be there, an ache for some semblance of simplicity to box this woman in. "There's both more and less of you than last time I saw you." 

"Really?" Ezmerelda scoffs, and almost wants to laugh. "All those tales I've heard of your vicious, clever, insidious scheming, and that's the best you can come up with?" She crosses her arms, and clicks her metal heel against the floor loudly. "Not an angle you can use against me, I'm afraid. Try again." 

"You wound me!" A dramatic hand placed over her chest. "Treating your own mother like that, who has never had anything but your best interests at heart. Who you've never even come to visit."

Ezmerelda slips the opened letter through the bars, letting it land on the hewn stone on the other side. Then she moves to sit down on the solitary chair.

"I'm only here because I got your letter."

"Oh! Good. My dearest Ezmerelda, I was--"

"I am here to tell you I want you to leave me alone," Ezmerelda continues, acting as if she hasn't heard a word. "For good. Forget I exist, preferably. I want nothing to do with you, and I never will. And the only thing I might want to do with your plotting and scheming is foiling it, so it is in your best interest to leave me out of it all. And van Richten..." 

The saccharine smile dips down, almost into a scowl. "And here I'd heard you'd finally seen sense and parted ways with that old fool." 

"You hear much, I see," Ezmerelda replies, cooly.

"I have my ways. My sources. People loyal to me, who have yet to abandon me."

Ezmerelda feels the swipe like an airy almost-cut of a dagger that just barely misses. "Well, here's something new for you, then. Something your little web-weaving spiders seem to have missed. You'll be happy to hear he's dead." 

"And right away you come back to me! Time to end your silly games, eh, Ezme? Good, good. A start--" 

"You have no right to call me that," Ezmerelda cuts her off, rapidly losing her will to restrain herself.

"Come now, dear. That's no way to talk to your mother, your own flesh and blood. It's about time we set all this nonsense aside, don't you think? Your family--" 

"You're no family of mine." 

"Please," she scoffs loudly. "You sound like an angry child. And... oh, really, what kind of name is 'd'Avenir' even?"

"My name," Ezmerelda replies, perfectly matter-of-fact, and refuses to even entertain further discussion of the matter.

"I wonder how you'll do," Madame Radanavich smiles, but this time the threatening edge is obvious, pretense briefly abandoned, "all alone. Playing your little games of pretend with your make-believe name. You'll come crawling back to me yet." 

Ezmerelda finds herself thinking of Erasmus, and almost believes she can see him, out of the corner of her eye. Tries not to think of what this confrontation might be bringing back for him. Thinks of the Martikovs welcoming her with open arms and offering shelter even in the darkest and dourest and most dangerous of days; thinks of Ireena with the sunsword and an entire wealth of feeling tangled in a tired, relieved smile somehow brighter than the blazing sunlight itself. Of nights around the fire in the camp outside Vallaki, and little Arabelle pulling on her coat, extorting promises of lessons in both swordfighting and divining. Of Arthur Sedgwick and his honest, caring eyes, and his patient instruction in properly using a flintlock, as his husband gleefully offers detailed scientific explanations of the weapon's workings from the side. She twists the ring on her finger.

"I'm not alone," Ezmerelda says simply, and feels resolute steel pouring back. She stops to consider her next words more carefully.

"I watched your actions and your curse destroy a good man's life. But I want you to know that you wanted to take from him, and in the end you took from me, the daughter you profess to care about so much. And now you crow at me about flesh and blood and expect me to, what? Beg you to let me come back? Back to what? A mouldy cell and as short a leash as the current master feels like giving you?"

"Bold words for one given to following an old wretch around like a sad pup, even as he keeps trying to kick you away," Radanavich sneers, then shifts back to sad pity in the blink of an eye. "Oh, yes, my dear, it's so very tragic... I've heard it all. Look at you - you're wasted on him."

"Oh?" Ezmerelda raises an eyebrow cooly, clamps down on the sting to her pride and the deliberate scrape against old wounds, and almost wanting to scream you are the reason he feared that daring to care about someone would be a death sentence for them. "And what would you prefer to be using me for?"

"How dare you! After all I've done for our family, while you throw your lot in with the man who killed your brother and imprisoned your mother!"

Ezmerelda feels suddenly tired, more than anything. "You know he did no such thing. And I've done very well for myself, despite you." 

"Have you, now? What price have you paid for your... profession? What has it cost you already?" 

"Nothing I wouldn't be ready to pay ten times over if it meant ensuring the safety of an innocent, or beating back those such as you. You still don't understand," Ezmerelda just smiles sadly, allowing only the slightest undercurrent of danger. "I'm neither lost, nor settling for anything, nor desperately grasping at a chance, nor tragically misguided. This is what I want. This-- this cause, this fight, this is exactly what I was meant to do. And I am very, very good at it."

"Oh, Ezmerelda, if excitement and adventure and glory is what you are after, I know of much that you could do! So many causes that your... talents... would be an excellent match for. You do have a certain reputation, and I know several highly influential actors who'd know exactly where to put your skills to use, no matter how they were acquired. You could do so well for yourself! Rise right to the top of the ranks in the blink of an eye, become truly great."

Ezmerelda shakes her head, and sighs, and moves to get up from the sad, solitary seat. 

"Ezmerelda--"

She quickly turns towards the bars and leans in, baring her teeth and grinning widely. "I killed the devil Strahd," Ezmerelda smirks at the look of shock she gets in response. "I think your petty schemes are a little below me, don't you?" 

She turns to leave, not waiting for a response. The guard leans back in his corner as she moves away from the bars, waving him off.

"Oh, do feel free to let your masters know," she tosses over her shoulder nonchalantly as she makes her way out. "Though I have to say I haven't really looked into whose lapdog you are nowadays." 

Ezmerelda hears a frustrated growl behind her as the sickeningly sweet, pleasant mask falls for good. As the door slams shut behind her, she doesn't look back.

She lets the noise of the city drown out her thoughts as she slowly makes her way back to her wagon, more than ready to be on her way elsewhere. Until, after a while, a familiar voice comes swimming up through her mind.

'How do you feel?' 

"I don't know," Ezmerelda murmurs, after a long silence. "Ask me tomorrow."

-

1.5. Notes on useful classification and categorisation

As she finishes rattling off the information she's gathered on a series of apparent annis hag encounters that van Richten asked her for, he looks-- well, 'impressed' is the only word Ezmerelda can think of to describe it.

In the ensuing moment of quiet, he takes off his spectacles, fidgets with them briefly, polishes off a smudge with his handkerchief. Then, he looks her right in the eye. "You, girl, are a veritable sponge."

Ezmerelda flashes him a smug smile, then remembers the other matter she wanted to bring to his attention. She clears her throat, and begins, with uncharacteristic hesitance. "I've also been looking into some... other things. Another way I can contribute, I think." 

The only reply is a raised eyebrow, so Ezmerelda steels herself and decides to go forward with her planned demonstration. She quells the nervous fluttering in her stomach, and instead focuses on the points of her own fingers as they trace well-practiced patterns in the air. With a final flick and a quick mutter of the incantation she's quietly recited so, so many nights in her room when she was supposed to be asleep, the very air around her right hand shimmers with heat. A few tense moments later, a small mote of flame appears in her palm.

Ezmerelda bites back an exclamation of joy at the success, tries to keep her expression fairly neutral, and looks to van Richten expectantly.

His eyebrows are, very amusingly, trying to climb into his hairline. "Where in the world did you learn to do that?"

She lets the little flame dance between her hands, casually skip from one to the other, flickering giddily, and feels an odd sense of relief wash over her.

"I saw it in one of your books. Almost by accident, and it... it just made a lot of sense to me, even just skimming over it. So I thought, why not? If I could get a handle on a few of the spells, I could complement your arsenal quite well. Bring more to the fight."

Van Richten nods, but there is a wary undertone to his words. "As long as you aren't making any ill-advised deals and pacts - which, I'll remind you--"

"-- are all of them. I know. Don't worry. I'm only interested in things I can glean by myself."

"Well, I'm not much of an arcane practitioner, though I am quite familiar with a lot of theory. I'm afraid I won't be able to provide any elaborate training or instruction--"

"That's fine," Ezmerelda rushes to say. "I can continue like this. The research, the books - it's..." 

She trails off, not quite knowing how and what to explain. Arcane magic is fascinating, surprisingly enjoyable, and strikes a deeply satisfying balance between being hard-won and feeling like it comes naturally to her. 

It also feels... hers.

"It's very engaging material," she finishes after a little while. She moves to close her fist and extinguish the tiny fire, but something stops her at the very last moment.

"Indeed," van Richten replies simply, and gets up from his seat. "Well, I do need to go tend to the shop, but rest assured we will discuss the tactical applications of this later today." 

Just as he is out the study door and about to start down the stairs, he pauses, and turns back to look at her, a bright and sincere smile on his face. "Very well done, Ezmerelda."

The flame flickers, ready to fly from her fingers, bursting with potential.

"Thank you," she murmurs long after he is gone.

---

It is deep nighttime when Ezmerelda shakes off the last tendrils of the Mists and sets eyes on the cliffs of Mordentshire. The wagon's wheels clatter over rain-slick cobblestones as she navigates the still-familiar streets of the seemingly unchanging harbour town. The cold sea wind makes her tighten her coat around herself, to very little avail. 

She can't say she's missed the weather.

By the time she spies the sign neatly painted with the words Herbalist - Dr. Rudolph van Richten, she feels soaked through and entirely miserable, and spends only a moment giving the place a quick look-over.

The shop is in fine shape - if she didn't know better, Ezmerelda could easily believe its owner closed it up for the night and left just yesterday. The wolfsbane and garlic in the planters underneath each window are flourishing. She makes a mental note to make her first order of business in the morning calling in on the neighbors and discussing further arrangements with Mrs. Polk, in whose capable hands van Richten has been leaving things for years.

In the meantime, she fervently hopes for dry clothes and a workable fireplace.

A quick rummage between two bushy wolfsbane plants - the second and third one on the right - produces a spare key, and Ezmerelda remembers with mild amusement her shock at this mundane weakness in van Richten's usually impeccable and overthought defenses, years ago.

"Keys," he'd looked at her over the rim of his spectacles, "are hardly a problem for things that truly want to harm me."

The little bell chimes as she opens the door. Catching a glimpse of herself in the very precisely placed full-length mirror just opposite the entrance, she wastes no time before going upstairs. The second stair from the top creaks its old, familiar reassurance.

Ezmerelda enters the room that used to be hers, in between harrowing hunting trips and trying adventures, during her years training with van Richten. It doesn't seem to have changed much - nor does it seem to be in use as anything but spare storage space.

She does her best not to think about how empty and quiet the house is, or how she's never truly been alone in it. Instead, she hangs up her coat, rolls up her shirt sleeves, unpacks some of her things, and, by the time she gets a proper fire going, realises sleep is the very last thing she feels like doing. Her eyes alight on the small desk in the corner, and she instead decides to do something she hasn't in a while.

She sits down to write. 

First, Ezmerelda takes off the ring and sets it aside, muttering a quick good night, Doctor under her breath. Then she takes out some of her collection, observations accumulated over the years - jotted down on everything from thick parchment to old wrapping paper. Combining it with the wealth of van Richten's remaining material and into something eventually coherent will no doubt be a challenge, but a challenge is not something Ezmerelda d'Avenir has ever shied away from.

It is just haphazard, quick notes on anything of consequence that comes to mind at first, carried by an odd nervous energy. A more systematic approach will have to come at some later point.

While knowledge is a key weapon in any hunter's arsenal, honing one's body as well as mind is absolutely necessary, she writes, tapping her foot on the wooden floor in a way that often drove van Richten to distraction. Many of the creatures of the night become, in their cursed states, inhumanly strong, and in such instances one must be particularly careful of engaging them in close quarters, for even the greatest strongman would be at a disadvantage.

However, not all of these encounters need be solved by violence. Many ghosts 

She pauses, pen slowly dripping ink onto the half-filled page before her, and sees Erasmus out of the corner of her eye. She turns her head to face him, and for once in their long and unusual life-and-afterlife-spanning acquaintance, she finds she can't quite read him.

Many ghosts are held in their in-between existence due to unfinished business. Tethered to some regret or incomplete task from their mortal lives, they seek resolution and closure. Many hauntings can thus be resolved by investigation, and what I must term a primarily sympathetic approach. Of course, one must also always be wary and on the lookout for deliberately misguiding spectres who seek to play upon one's pity.

The first signs of dawn creep into the room by the time she has moved on from ghosts to wraiths to trying to sort out her notes about creatures that lurk underwater - old notes that have been, to her chagrin, very appropriately and unsalvageably waterlogged.

Ezmerelda manages to light another candle just before her current one sputters out, and rubs at her tired eyes. Then she pauses, gazing idly at the ink stains on her fingers.

She reaches over for a new page, setting her current work aside. There is something else she wants and needs to write, something other than dry facts or hopefully helpful guidelines. The first few sentences come in fits and starts, but soon enough she finds them flowing out of her pen almost of their own accord.

What I would like to make clear is that this is not an inherently bad place. The lands themselves can be beautiful - wondrous, even. Worth living in, and worth fighting for. And the people who live in them do not deserve to live in fear. I, and many others, could simply leave for some better, tamer prospects, yes - but then what? Nothing is gained if we merely surrender an entire world, a collection of lands so fantastically varied and so full of promise, to a cruel, merciless, hungry night. It can't all be abandoned as collateral damage in a great punishment intended for a horrible few. I can't, and won't, allow this to happen.

Maybe the foes are overwhelming, and the fight endless. But a life saved is a life saved. A victory is a victory. One innocent snatched away from a grim fate, one tendril of darkness beaten back - that is enough. But only if we persist at it, day after day after day. And evil may be impossible to ever completely destroy, but it is far weaker and less widespread than it could and doubtlessly wants to be, in at least some small part thanks to our continued efforts.

A dour prospect? Perhaps, for some. Ezmerelda smirks to herself, and gazes down at her veritable manifesto, and thinks back to that cell in Il Aluk. 

What better life is there to lead? None, for her.

I, for one, don't intend to give up anytime soon. I hope that in you, dear reader, I can find one of like mind. And perhaps one day we shall find ourselves standing together.

She lights another candle, and continues.

-

1.6. Conclusions and remarks on future work

She clenches her hands as she steps into the sitting room that morning, decisions made after a long, sleepless night of contemplation. As if fate is conspiring against her, the first thing she sees is Erasmus, hovering over his father's shoulder. He turns to face her as soon as he notices her, a bright smile he saves just for her on his pale, ghostly face. She knows what a struggle it is for him to manifest this way, how much it takes out of him. The thought of his precious few minutes today being this... 

It takes immense effort to speak up, interrupting van Richten's apparent focus on the post strewn about the table in front of him.

"I think... I think it's time for me to go."

"Go? Where?" He blinks, looking up from his papers.

Ezmerelda swallows, but hesitates only for a moment. "I don't know," she answers, chin tilted up, almost proud. "But I know we can't go on like this. I don't want to go on like this."

They butt heads and scrape against each other constantly. Chafe and grate and, and, and. She can't remember the last time they agreed on even the most cursory thing. It has reached a level where she fears his presence will become intolerable, and anything binding the two of them together become irreparably soured and tainted.

She refuses to allow this to happen.

Erasmus has drawn a coin. Two sides. He indulges in a small, semi-teasing pantomime, pointing at the two of them as his shimmering, ectoplasmic drawings hover briefly before vanishing like so much smoke, and Ezmerelda shakes her head sadly.

"I don't want to come to resent you, that is all. I don't think I could bear it if I did."

"If you think it for the best, by all means," van Richten says simply, and leaves it at that. He never turns to fully look at her. There is an undercurrent to his voice Ezmerelda can't quite place - something deeply tired, and far more complicated than plain sadness.

It rains heavily that morning as she sets off, as if the world itself wants her to rethink this. The muddy road squelches almost threateningly under her horse's hooves as she leads him forward.

Van Richten doesn't come out to see her off.

"I'll miss you," she breathes to herself, and half-hopes it somehow reaches both of the companions she is leaving behind. But she has only the rain and her horse's steady trot on the trail for company. 

It is quiet.

---

Finally, the familiar mists of Darkon, and the countryside of Rivalis, lie before them. The inevitable, at a familiar estate fallen into quite a state of disrepair. 

'No, leave it be,' van Richten said, at her hesitantly presented idea of including returning Richten House to at least some of its former glory on their list of unfinished business and loose ends.

Still, this is where he wanted to come. At the end.

Ezmerelda never saw it in its prime. She was a mere child then, kept well away from her family's machinations. Until she was (inevitably, irrevocably) drawn in, her fate forever entangled with that of the van Richten family. But even now, in all its disrepair, rich traces of what the gardens, the orchard, and the house itself used to be permeate the atmosphere, like ghosts themselves.

She walks across the hills of the grounds, all the way around the mansion to the family cemetery. She slows as she moves up to the two most recent graves, so easy to find, and thinks, briefly, of the body van Richten insisted on being burned before they left Barovia, just in case. 

Just in case, she agreed, knowing all he knew about what foul magic and foul intentions could do to physical remains in the wrong hands, and built him a pyre.

The headstones before her are simple but elegant, as is the tidily engraved lettering on them.

Ingrid van Richten

Erasmus van Richten

'Well, here we are.' For a disembodied voice softly projecting into her mind, almost as through a mild haze or over some great distance, it is one of the heaviest things Ezmerelda has ever heard.

'A few words, if I may,' van Richten's request comes, gentle, and she nods, finding herself oddly wordless.

'I am so proud of you,' he begins, and the ferocity of it almost startles her. 'I hope you know this, always. If I have ever made you doubt this, as I pushed you away - I am sorry. I regret many things in my life, as one does, no matter what I like to say - but most of all I regret that I didn't tell you this sooner. 

You are the best of my life. But more than that, you have grown far beyond me, into a finer person than most could dream of being. And I am sorry I wasn't there for you, that you had to do so much of it on your own. But know that when I see you... I couldn't be happier, or more in awe.' 

There is a very brief pause, and then the voice softens again.

'I love you as my own, and am deeply honoured you would consider me, and that I get to consider you, family.' 

Ezmerelda swallows once, twice, struggles, then finally lets her tears fall freely. 

'Look at you. You don't need me anymore. And I can only hope your legend will far surpass anything I have ever done - there is so much ahead of you! Your light stands so very bright against the darkness. But I am glad, so very glad - selfishly, perhaps - that we were there together, at the end.' 

"So am I," she manages a whisper. "Love you too, old man." 

'Now I suppose it is time for me to go.' 

Erasmus looks at her, bittersweet pouring from him in waves, and he gives a small nod. His form flickers, and then disappears, and Ezmerelda knows she will never see him again.

She knows how the ring works, too. The soul within it can choose to depart whenever it wants to. She knows she doesn't need to do anything - that she couldn't, even if she wanted to. It brings with it a strange sort of peace. 

Ezmerelda inclines her head. "I hope you see them soon." Tell Erasmus I'll miss him, she wishes she could say. 

She spins the now-inert ring around on her finger, a habit she will need to break. She wants to tear it off, and throw it as far away from herself as she can. She wants to never take it off as long as she lives. 

A soft rain starts up, and Ezmerelda feels oddly grateful for the feel of it on her face, even as she knows there is no one here but her.

It is quiet.

---

With gratitude to the notes and tutelage of the esteemed Dr. Rudolph van Richten, whose guidance and wealth of knowledge have proved invaluable on countless occasions, and whose friendship changed the course of my life more than once.

[phantaloon-books]

I was rereading the iconic reunion at baltimore and this came to me and I can't not write it (even though I have a half finished chapter waiting to be written for a fic for a whole different fandom but who cares right)

in which neil regrets realizes that the feds were on to something when they talked about witness protection program. brace yourselves, it's angst time bby. please bear with me, I don't write stuff like this, content and format wise.

so everyone knows what goes down in baltimore. everyone knows that famous college exy striker for the foxes neil josten has been the son of the butcher of baltimore all along, and that smth happened after he was kidnapped and tortured that resulted in the butcher and some associates to be killed. everyone knows that neil walked out alive, injured but alive. so when a few weeks, months later, associates of the butcher start getting raided and taken in custody, everyone knows exactly who opened his little mouth and revealed everything he knows (bc there's literally no one else who could know this stuff and would be willing to share with the fucking feds, no one has a death wish)

It's a slow process. It starts with the feeling of not being safe, which is ridiculous, because he hasn't been quite as safe as he is right now, with the foxes, his family, and most importantly with Andrew. They're on summer break, technically speaking, even if they're at campus for practice because they gotta train the new foxes. They're barely doing anything than hanging out together and training, but still Neil can't shake the feeling that something is wrong, that someone is watching him, but he doesn't say anything, because it doesn't make sense, he's just being paranoid, there's no need to panic.

Neil can swear he's being watched. He feels the dread whenever he's out of the dorm, when he's out running, when they go out to eat something, when they go to the mall, on their way to practice, at Eden's. But when he looks around there's no one looking, it's been weeks and nothing has happened, he hasn't seen anyone.

Neil can tell Andrew is growing suspicious of the way he checks out a place, the way his eyes trace every corner, every exit, because he's starting to fall back in old habits, and he knows Andrew hates it. But Andrew doesn't ask, he knows that Neil will speak when he feels ready, so he lets it go, even if he can't quite let got of the worry clawing at his heart.

But everything keeps going normally, things are fine, everything is fine fine fine. Neil doesn't talk about it, but it's fine really. Until it's not fine at all, but it's also too late to talk now because his head is fuzzy and throbbing, and he feels like he might throw up and he feels pain even if he's not sure where the pain is coming from. But he can't do anything now, he can't tell Andrew how he's been feeling dread for weeks, because a man whose name he doesn't even know but whose face is awfully familiar is standing right in front of him where he lies on the floor, and the situation is also awfully familiar.

Stop being a martyr. Oh Andrew would kill him. If Neil gets out of this alive, Andrew will kill him, because he left again. He didn't want to, he really didn't. He was out on a run while Andrew was in therapy with Bee and Aaron, a couple miles away from fox tower, when a car pulled up right in front of him, two men wearing hoods and sunglasses stepping out and standing in front of him. He came to a halt, trying his best to keep calm because who the hell were these men and what did they want and for fucks sake can this just stop? It would have been smart to turn around and try to get back to the tower but he can't ever keep his mouth shut can he?

"Look I don't know who you are, I don't care what you want, but you're in my way, so move away if you know what's best." He intended to go for more sarcastic, but he was doing his best not to panic, so that had to do.

"You're coming with us, get in the car, or we'll do this the hard way." Their voices said they wouldn't hesitate, but Neil laughed anyway, that smile he knew was the Butcher's resting on his lips. Anything to make the men leave. He opened his mouth and then- "The Minyard twins are at Dr. Dobson's office. Reynolds, Walker, and Wilds are at the mall. Hemmick, Boyd and Day are in the dorms. The newbies are at the dorms as well. Come with us the easy way and we'll let them walk out of their respective places alive, Nathaniel."

And he was fucked. Of course he hadn't been safe, he would never be safe. In fact no one he cared about would ever be safe. He should have known better. But he wasn't going to let the foxes be harmed.

"How do I know you won't kill them anyway?" The snark was gone, the smile vanished. His face was blank and dangerous, because he'd done this before. "I don't even know who you are, you're obviously not the big guys, and I don't remember seeing your faces."

"We don't want to attract unnecessary attention. All we care about is you. If you come, you spare us all the trouble. As for who we are, let's just say someone is pissed at the piece of shit that ruined everything."

"The Butcher's friends then. I can't argue with that, it's a habit of mine to fuck up. Ichirou won't be too happy if something happened." He played his strongest card but fuck it. The Moriyamas owed him protection, Ichirou himself had made a deal with him.

"The moment they turned their backs to the Wesninski and made a deal with Hatford, those Japanese shits mean nothing to us." These were desperate men apparently. If the Moriyamas were nothing, the FBI was even less. "Time is running Nathaniel, decide. You or them?"

Andrew would kill him, but they'd talked about it before. Neil had told Andrew. If it means losing you, then no. He would not put himself first. Hell, he'd told the others before, the Foxes were all he had, he wasn't going to risk them for himself, not for anything. He needed to keep them safe.

So now he's lying on the cold wooden floor of some house or shed or whatever, drowsy from whatever they drugged him with once he got in the car, and in pain after being beaten for the last hour or so. He didn't bother asking the man (who is obviously in charge and sent the two men) for a name, and honestly he still doesn't plan to. What was the point of that anyway? He just looks up at the cold brown eyes of the man standing over him, Neil's face as neutral as he could keep it despite the fear of not making it out alive threatening to pull him under. The man just stares at him, calculative eyes and cruel smile, and Neil can't take it.

"What, so you're just gonna stand there? I have better shit to do." He hears the slur in his voice, wonders if it's just the drugs or something else. A concussion is likely. He's met with silence, so he closes his eyes and lays his head down. Fuck he's tired of these situations. He truly will never be safe, no one will-

"You know, I was expecting so much more from you Nathaniel," the man says with a laugh, "I was told that you'd put up a fight, I thought this would be fun. They said you'd beg for your precious life, but you haven't even made an effort."

Whoever his source was, they definitely do not know Neil, or Nathaniel for that matter. Not only is he not going to risk the men hurting the others, but he isn't going to fight, not against so many of them, not when running would be more likely to get him out alive. He isn't going to let them know that. "First go fuck yourself, and second, this isn't remotely close to entertaining to what I've been through, maybe if it was more interesting."

What does Andrew say? Regret is worthless? It seems right, because he can't find regret in what he said, even if his face is a bloody mess (what's new?) and his body shakes with shivers, after his head is held underwater so many times. No, he doesn't regret it. Instead he finds himself laughing a hollow thing.

"Y'know at least others have had a point, this time it's just for the fun of it, and it's not being much fun." His voice cracks a couple times, hoarse from coughing up water.

"You're right though, it is for fun. You cost me absolutely everything Nathaniel. Did you know the feds and the Moriyamas have been after us for months? Hunting us like we're rabbits, all because you decided to be a dipshit and open your mouth. You should be dead. You should have died ten years ago, back in March, anytime. All your existence caused us is trouble. And ratting us to the feds wasn't enough was it? No you told Ichirou all of the Butcher's men were loose ends, too." The man took a deep breath, composing himself. "So yes Nathaniel, this is for fun. This is payback, you've cost many lives, this is retribution for speaking, and I'm gonna enjoy seeing you have fun for as long as I can."

At some point, after hours, he's left alone in the dark, in the cold. He knows he’s in pain. He’s pretty sure his arm is broken, and so are several ribs. He knows he should be in a lot of pain, but he's just numb. Regret is worthless. Because even if he feels even worse than how he felt last winter at Evermore, he doesn’t regret it. He can’t be sure the guy’s men were truly going to kill the Foxes, but he doesn’t regret coming here to make sure the others don’t suffer more than they already have because of him. He wonders if Andrew will forgive him. He didn’t leave proof that he didn’t want to leave this time. Would Andrew think he left them - him? God, he hopes not. Would Andrew look for Neil or leave it thinking that Neil wanted to leave?

It doesn’t really matter, though. Neil is so tired. This time isn’t like when he was on the run or when he went to Evermore or when Lola took him. While with the Ravens, Kevin knew he was there at least, if anything were to happen, a person would know where to look somehow. At Baltimore, several people knew the most likely place to find him; Uncle Stewart, the Hatfords, Kevin again. He has no idea of where he is, or who took him, and no one knows he’s been taken in the first place. No one will ever find him.

Maybe it’s better that way, he thinks. No one will have to deal with the burden of him or his disappearance or his death, because no one will know. The simple thing would be to assume he ran. He hopes they assume he ran. Maybe they’ll be hurt, but haven’t they been expecting him to run? They won’t make it to championships without him considering Jack is an awful striker, but Kevin will manage. Andrew - Andrew is the one who expects him to run the most, maybe he’ll take it nicely. Neil hopes he takes it nicely. Guilt blossoms among the nothingness in his chest, but he can’t take it back, and he doesn’t want to. It’s better this way. No one will find him, but that’s fine. He wonders what the Moriyamas will do. He doesn’t want to think about that. He thinks of Andrew, the kisses, the care, the love, the nights spent together. Thank you, you were amazing. He wishes he could tell him how much he cares one last time. He feels something wet slip down his face. He can’t tell if it’s water, blood or tears. He sighs. He thinks of Andrew, and his eyes slip close.

[gdcee]

Road to Nowhere

Pairing: Loki/Sigyn - mild, might have to squint to see it.

Summary: Loki and Sigyn talk while she escorts him to Kid Loki's Kingdom.

Warnings: Panic attack.

=================

"You know I'm only going to keep pestering you until I have the answer."

"I wish you luck in your endeavour," Sigyn returned coolly, stepping lightly as she began to climb the massive pile of garbage blocking their path. "Nevertheless, my lips remain sealed."

Loki huffed, a slight quirk at the corner of his lips which was not quite a smirk. He set off after her, determined to be the first to the summit of Rubbish Peak.

He had to admit he was quite intrigued by that tantalising crumb of information this Sigyn (so very like and yet not quite like his own) had dangled before him. Of course he was curious about the identity of the lucky bastard who had won her fidelity.

All he had was a preferred pronoun. That at least eliminated half of his (admittedly rather short to begin with) list of possible lucky bastards.

After he had gone through the list (which did not take long because as stated earlier, it was really quite short), he started throwing out random names to see if any of them got a reaction.

No such luck.

His attempts to tease and fluster the information out of her had been just as ineffective.

Her reaction to his puppy dog eyes routine had been...perplexing. He'd gotten one soft, achingly tender smile before a heavy melancholy had descended upon her. Like the dark shadow of a mourning veil stealing the brightness from her eyes and the colour from her cheeks.

She had not reprimanded him, but he made a note not to pull that trick again anyway. Besides the practical reasons for keeping her goodwill (survival, information, mental stimulation), the simple fact was that she was Sigyn.

He didn't want to be the cause of her unhappiness. Not anymore.

Being a harmless annoyance and pest was still perfectly acceptable though.

He stood atop the great mound of refuse, his hands and face smeared with oil and other liquids of questionable origin, grinning triumphantly down at Sigyn. He vanished the grime he'd accumulated before gallantly holding out his hand to her.

Sigyn huffed a soft little laugh, the barest hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. Without any hesitation, she reached out and allowed him to pull her up.

Loki glanced down to where they had started and noted that it was a long drop. Not nearly enough to kill an Asgardian or a Frost Giant, but enough to hurt.

Trust.

It made him feel as giddy as the first time he'd tasted the enchanted, heady liquid gold that was the mead brewed from honey harvested from the hives of the talking bees that resided near Iðunn's famous apple orchards.

"Ahem."

Loki realised with no small degree of embarrassment that he was still holding Sigyn's hand. He hurriedly worked a spell to remove the dirt under her fingernails and let go. Then to cover up his embarrassment, he resumed pestering.

"I don't understand why the identity of your beau necessitates such secrecy," he sighed with the lightest touch of a pleading whine, "Do you think I would object to your taste? He can't possibly be worse than Theoric."

"I think my life choices are none of your business."

"Exactly! You should forget about my opinion. Shout his name to the world and damn the naysayers and killjoys."

"I would but sadly, Alioth has a sense of hearing."

With that, she picked up a flat sheet of metal lying loose and proceeded to slide down Rubbish Peak on the improvised board. Despite being only at most a quarter Ljósálfar on her mother's side, she moved with their characteristic effortless grace.

Loki peered down, did a couple of quick mental calculations and snapped his fingers. He disappeared from the summit with a flare of green light and reappeared at the bottom no more than a second later in similar fashion.

"Good to see your teleport still works," Sigyn tossed her wind-mussed hair out of her face, "Why didn't you use it earlier to get to the top?"

"Too much debris and no decent eyeline. I didn't want to risk getting stuck under a foot of garbage." He frowned, pondering. "Still works?"

"Not a reference to you personally," she moved forward without looking behind to see if he followed, "Just something I noticed about some of the other Lokis around here."

"Power loss? Nothing to do with you and that coven of other Sigyns whose domain I and the other Lokis are forbidden from entering, I presume?"

"No, I've seen it even in Lokis on their first trepass - if something is limiting their power it's not us. In any case, we would never do anything to permanently disable a Loki's magic. There's just some things you don't do to a fellow mage, you know?"

"You just rough them up a little and kick them off the property?"

"More or less. Except for the kid and alligator."

"Do I want to know how one instance of me ended up as a semi-aquatic Midgardian reptile?"

"You can ask him yourself when we get to the Kid's Kingdom," she paused for a moment, as if she'd just remembered something, "Or maybe not, I think only the old man you knows how to talk to him."

Loki blinked.

"There's an old me?" He asked, disbelieving, "As in a wizened, wrinkled, looks like your grandmother me?"

"Eh, not quite as old as Grandma Hretha. Maybe about 4,000? 5,000?" She shrugged, "Either way, your vanity may rest easy; you look perfectly fine as an old man."

"Thank you for that milquetoast endorsement of my future self's good looks," Loki said dryly, "I was more perturbed about...something else."

Curiouser and curiouser.

How had the aged variant escaped their destined end? How had he managed to grow old before the TVA arrived to arrest him for cheating his final death?

He thought about the tape featuring all the TVA approved highlights of his life.

He thought about that other Loki, the Loki who had played out the role assigned to him and how very young (the same face as his own) and terrified (the same fear as his own) he had looked with the Mad Titan's monstrous hand around his throat.

Loki swallowed thickly and pulled at the collar of his TVA issued office shirt which suddenly seemed far too tight. The tie impeded his work and as he struggled to loosen it he could feel his terror rising up to choke him.

there will be no realm, no barren moon, no crevice where he cannot find you

inevitable

you think you know pain?

Inevitable

HE WILL MAKE YOU LONG FOR SOMETHING AS SWEET AS PAIN

He felt his legs buckle and his knees hit the ground as if it were happening to someone else.

"Loki!" Sigyn's voice was close but he heard it as if a great distance separated them, "Loki, breathe."

"What do you think I'm doing?" He wheezed.

"I am going to remove the tie and unfasten your collar," Sigyn continued as if she had not even noticed his rudeness, "I will need to touch you to do this. Alright?"

Needing help for such a pitifully simple task was galling. But he didn't want Sigyn to leave him. Loki managed a shaky nod. He let her ease his trembling, sweaty hands from his shirt collar. With quick, brisk movements she pulled the tie loose and tossed it somewhere to join the rest of the garbage.

"Follow my breathing now." Her voice was clearer to him now, more present. She was kneeling next to him, so close and warm and oh, her hair did still smell like apple blossoms. He watched the regular rise and fall of her chest and tried to match it. "That's it. Very good. Nice and slow."

Her fingers were at his throat for a mercifully short time. Just long enough to pop the top button loose and push the starched fabric away from his neck.

"Stay with me. You're doing very well. Breathe with me. In. And out. In. And out."

Without really thinking he grabbed her hand and pressed her palm against the centre of his chest. Perhaps he was possessed by some irrational notion that the pressure against his breastbone could keep his thundering heart from beating right out of his chest.

She didn't try to pull away. Her hand was warm, even through the shirt fabric. She moved a little, and one of her dainty fingers slipped into the open gap of his unbuttoned collar and brushed against the dip between his clavicles. His breath caught in his throat for a moment before Sigyn's gentle prompting had him matching her rhythm once more.

"Feel better?" She asked after what seemed an eternity.

"Yes," he breathed, "Yes, much." His chest still felt a little tight but the worst of that dreadful episode was over.

"Good." She lifted her hand from his chest and patted his shoulder firmly - a gesture that he had seen Týr bestow upon struggling Einherjar recruits after they'd passed the final leg of their training. "You did very well."

He didn't feel like he'd done anything worth praising. He'd collapsed like a pack of cards. This wasn't the first time he'd experienced terror but every time before now he had been able to push past it - stamp it down through sheer force of will and that primitive, animal part of his brain that knew that danger was never far away.

Why had he folded now? Now - when he was probably the most at ease he'd been in ages (months? Years? How long had it been since New York?) and the threat of Thanos was no longer an issue-

...a terrible thought suddenly occurred to him.

"Just out of curiosity," Loki tried to sound nonchalant, "Have you ever come across a fellow by the name of Thanos here?"

"Thanos?" Sigyn's brows drew together in a frankly rather adorable expression of pure befuddlement.

Ah. Well, at least he could place whatever nexus event had led to her pruning as occurring before Ragnarok and Thanos's massacre of half the Asgardian survivors.

"Big purple fellow," he explained, "Quite ugly, enormous chin, has rather disturbing ideas about resource management."

"Uh, no, I can't say that I've ever met anyone like that here."

"You're not just saying that to make me feel better?"

She quirked an eyebrow. "I can swear on my magic if that would reassure you."

Sigyn had always been very leery about oaths, especially ones bound with magic. Most mages worth their salt were.

And yet...he couldn't really explain why, but he'd always felt like her issues with them were less about best practices and more about some personal grievance.

That she would offer him such a thing...

Loki felt completely undeserving.

"No," he said hurriedly, "No, no, it's fine. I...I trust you."

Sigyn smiled. It was the first real smile he'd seen so far and it was like watching the sun come out from behind a cloud. He didn't know if it would last - if that melancholy from before would snatch away the sweetness of this moment.

So Loki ruined the moment before it could be stolen from him.

"...even though you refuse to tell me about your paramour."

Sigyn scoffed, all exasperation but it was better than seeing her sad.

"You are insufferable."

"Thank you, I do try."

She snorted and shook her head. "Alright, come on, you goose," she helped him up, and even though his legs were slightly shaky, he stood and did not fall. "Our first rest stop is about 20 feet...thereaboutish-" she waved vaguely in the direction of a mostly empty grassy knoll upon which a gaggle of the oddest creatures scurried. They resembled iridescent headless chickens with little purple spheres hovering over their severed necks.

"I still think we should have taken the car."

"Ugh," Sigyn wrinkled her nose, "Cahrs. Nasty, noisy, smelly things. I swear, Midgard really went downhill after those monstrosities were invented. "

[fukurodaze]

dump shot

pairing: third year!shirabu kenjirou x first year manager!reader (female) genre/s: PURE FLUFF, meet cute type beat! word count: 2.9k taken from this request by anonymous <3: “Shirabu x Manager! reader where reader is Karasuno's manager and she's seen pining over him and later the two end up in an accident outside the gym (before or after the games) where they find themselves locked somewhere”

for reference, this is set when hinata and the first years are in their second year, so ennoshita is karasuno’s captain. shirabu’s also the captain of the shiratorizawa vbc!

lowercase intended!

when shirabu kenjirou throws a dump shot, he is the coolest person in the room. it’s two words that come out of your mouth, groans of frustration coming from your team, and a faint smirk on the almond haired boy. 

“so cool...” you mutter under your breath, watching the practice match between your team and shiratorizawa at their gym. you get goosebumps.

it’s not your first time seeing the third year. you had watched shiratorizawa’s match with karasuno in the prefectural spring high finals, and though your eyes were glued onto the then first-year setter, kageyama, you would, at times, find your eyes stopping at the magenta number 10 jersey. you would later find out his name was shirabu kenjirou, and that you would come to develop an almost baseless crush on him, hopeless at best.

another rally starts, this time with shiratorizawa on match point, an already dragged out 32-31 on the scoreboard. it’s the third set on a friday night, yet the match is already scraping past seven pm and you don’t know if your body can take any more of the anticipation. 

and when the magenta jerseys spike a mean straight shot, your hands ball up with whitened knuckles at the bitter taste of a lost game. you run up to the boys with yachi, handing them drinks and towels, telling the second years “you did well” and the third years “that was a good one.” you glance at the first years, some of your friends, and give them a soft smile, as if telling them that you’re going to have to get used to this feeling, because it will happen. lots.

but loss is as temporary as victory when you see the boys mingle with each other, friendliness growing as the new first years dissolve tensions between teams. you even see kageyama bump into hinata and goshiki’s conversation, the sight of it new and endearing. 

yachi taps you on the shoulder, “i’m going to be picking up the bibs, can you collect the balls and put them in storage?”

shiratorizawa’s storage room looks more like a shed. it’s also much further than you think, and even darker than you knew storage rooms to be. it looks like an entire sports supply factory outlet rather than a high school unit. 

the large basket of volleyballs rolls weirdly on its wheels, knocking left and right as you try to drive it through the doorway. it makes a bit of a fussy sound when you bump into the basket of footballs, and as the footballs begin to fall out of their containers, you close the door in an attempt to keep them inside. 

"here they are,” you hear from the corner of the room, behind shelves upon shelves of equipment. your body freezes up dramatically, as if dreading the awkward interaction with the unknown person. hurriedly, you pick up the scattered soccer balls, attempting to take up to five at once to no avail, only causing more sounds of balls hitting wooden floors. 

“hello?”

you hesitate to answer. you only continue to put back all the footballs in their place and park the basket of volleyballs in some random corner of the shed before reaching for the door, only to find it doesn’t budge.

“aren’t you karasuno’s manager?”

you turn around to find the one person you wouldn’t want to see you like this. like every high school cliché, shirabu kenjirou is standing right behind you when you turn back, a pair of training shoes hanging off of his left hand. you nod and bow slightly, unsure what to do.

“i, uh, wanted to put the balls back here.”

“but why are you here in the shed?” his voice is softer, you notice, probably because he realises he’s talking to a girl, but his words remind you of how he’d talk to his team during the match.

“i just wanted to help clean up and stuff, like, uh, a token... of appreciation for this practice match?” god, your palms sure are getting sweaty. 

“this shed isn’t the place we put our frequently used equipment. we usually put our volleyballs in the room in the gym. it’s the one with the double doors. how come you came so far here?”

you shrug slowly, feeling nice and stupid for not noticing the actual storage room’s large double doors and instead wandering off to carry a basket of volleyballs past three other gyms and a few questioning looks from the shiratorizawa basketball team to this single-doored, large building. 

“i’ll just bring them back to the gym now-” you come back to the basket of volleyballs you had just left against a random wall as shirabu pushes on the door’s nonexistent handle. you think it’s all about to end until a muttered curse falls out of the third year’s lips. you look to him in confusion.

then he curses again, this time stopping himself midway as your gaze meets his, voice getting softer again. “did you close the door?”

“yes...?” 

“it’s not supposed to be closed,” shirabu sighs, “there’s a little metal rod that falls into a hole in the ground on the other side, and it falls in pretty easily if we close the door, so we can’t really get out right now.”

oh shit.

“i’ll just call- oh my god, i forgot my phone.” your tone is fast and apologetic, considering you had closed the door in the first place. “i’m sorry-”

“don’t be, you didn’t know before.” shirabu sits on a pile of thick and colourful gym mats, elbows on knees. the shoes he was holding are now behind him. “this school might be big, but it’s also damn old.”

shirabu has no idea what situation he’s in right now. frankly, he’s kind of panicking. but he tells himself not to panic, especially when karasuno’s new manager is right there (and she’s pretty cute, not gonna lie - is she a second year?). shirabu would probably be shouting and pushing the door by now until his voice ran hoarse, but surely, there is no use for that. 

“so, uh, how are we going to get out?” you shove your hands into your tracksuit jacket, stepping in front of the boy. you’re guessing it’s going to be a bit before you two can get out, so you might as well try to talk to him without a three meter gap in between him and you.

shirabu shrugs, and a look at you tells you that you can sit next to him on the pile of gym mats. “i think we’re just going to have to hope someone notices we’re gone.”

“i think they have to,” you chuckle, “you’re captain. would be kinda crazy if they didn’t notice you were gone.”

the conversation dissolves into awkward silence as the stranger you once pined over is literally right next to you, dried sweat and all, a light laugh leaving his lips.

“what’s your name?” the question is simple, obligatory, even, for introductions, but you swear you feel your heart skip a beat.

“l/n f/n,” you reply, and he says his name in return. you want to say you know, as you’ve already referred to him as captain of the volleyball club, but you settle with silence and a smile. he seems to like it.

“you’re karasuno’s manager, right?” 

“yeah. i’m a first year, but i have a brother in karasuno.”

“oh really? is he in the volleyball team?”

you shake your head, “no. he’s in the basketball team, actually, but he’s friends with some of the third years in the team. he’s the reason i got dragged to the spring high prefectural finals last year, actually.”

you hold your hands together, clasping them to evaporate your nervousness. shit, this is shirabu kenjirou you’re talking to, don’t mess it up!

shirabu leans back on his arms, looking up in reminiscence. he sighs, “spring high, huh? you probably saw my tosses back then.”

you can’t seem to wipe the smile off your face, the excitement of getting to talk to the third year getting to you, “i remember you from that game the most.”

“damn, then you’d probably also remember how my toss was bad enough for even ushijima-san to get blocked-”

“i think you were really cool, actually.”

shirabu stops in his vocal tracks. there’s no way she means that, he thinks.

“you’re just saying that.”

“well, of course i’m saying it. you wouldn’t hear it otherwise.” your feet kick themselves against the soft pile of gym mats, “but trust me, coming from a karasuno student, you were really cool. your entire team was, too, but, you know.”

at this point, you think you’re just embarrassing yourself. what if he thinks you’re some kind of weird fan? a naive first year? some wannabe manager who didn’t quite understand volleyball to its core? it seems like the conversation loves to come back to silence, and you don’t know how to break the ice.

“thanks,” shirabu mentions, tone higher, as he stands up and off of the gym mats. you feel a weight lift beside you, and in your floor-focused eyes, you see his shoes walk to the basket of volleyballs. 

shirabu bounces the ball once, and then once again, before you see his shoes in front of yours. you look up. 

“we have time. wanna toss?”

“i’m not that good at overhead passes...” you resist, knowing all too well from pe classes that your fingers don’t have the same kind of magic shirabu’s or kageyama’s have - or anyone in the men’s volleyball club, really.

shirabu only shrugs, “it’s fine, y/n-san. it’s just me. i don’t think you can even be that bad anyways.”

okay, maybe hearing him say your name was enough to persuade you. but still, the possibility of losing your pride in front of shirabu keeps you glued onto the gym mats. 

you purse your lips, trying to hide the overwhelming grin spreading on your face. you try to say a word, but you can’t seem to make anything out when teeth and raised cheeks do nothing but make you feel like this hopeless crush isn’t so hopeless after all. and so you nod.

he stands a few feet away from you, tossing the ball at what seemed like the perfect angle for your height only for you to miss it every two good tries.

“see? you’re not bad.” you think he’s lying through his teeth at best.

“i drop, like, every toss you give. this is not not bad.” you slouch, catching the ball this time instead of attempting to toss it. 

“well, that’s because you’re just doing it wrong. you hit the ball with the top of your palm every time. of course it’s going to come flying down.”

“okay, captain of the shiratorizawa volleyball club...” you tease, and you think it’s all fun and games until he comes to stand right in front of you, taking the ball. 

“put your hands up.”

you do as he asks.

“they should be about this far from your head,” he puts down the ball to adjust your arms, and then your hands, “it’s supposed to feel like there’s a nice place for the ball to rest in your hands.”

his hands are cold and rough when they lightly press on yours, shaping your hands and your elbows the way he does it on court, “your elbows and hands should make a triangle.”

he lets go of your arms, and you keep your arms the way he left them. he tosses the ball to you, and the only thing you feel is the sturdy feeling of fingertips on fabric.

shirabu catches the ball when you toss it back, “see? not bad.”

he doesn’t miss it when your eyes light up at his praise, and he makes a mental note to himself to not get distracted next time shiratorizawa has a game with karasuno. or maybe he will; who knows - maybe seeing you might make him look at his job with more vigour and passion.

“how do you do it?” you stare, “i mean, not that i haven’t seen, but-”

your words are cut off when he sets the ball onto the wall and back in one quick motion, his hands like cradling the ball with care on every push and touch. maybe it isn’t backed by an ace spiker or a team of five, but there’s a quiet power in what he does.

volleyball might be a team sport, but you’ve only been focused on this one setter all afternoon. even worse, he’s from the opposite team. 

he holds the ball and bounces it as he looks back at you, “when i got into shiratorizawa, you have no idea how much time i spent doing this.”

he exhales, like a weight has been pulled off his chest, feeling quite nice at your visible reactions. he throws the ball at you, exclaiming “toss!” only for you to catch it square above your head. you whine. then he laughs, and you laugh too, because you've never seen him laugh. 

“it paid off, then,” you say, coming to sit back down on the pile of mattresses. he sits next to you again, but closer this time. it’s like your stomach performs a somersault, and you absolutely love it.

"i guess,” he mutters, “maybe next time i’ll show you the dump shot you seemed to like so much.”

you can only bury your face in your hands, remembering the way you exclaimed ‘so cool...’ at his actions about an hour ago. you mumble, “was i too loud?”

he laughs again. you like the sound of it. “no, it was good.”

“it was nice to know one of karasuno’s managers looked at me more than kageyama,” his tone is stagnant, but you can hear him grinning, “that wouldn’t be considered betrayal, would it?”

you take it upon yourself to look him in the eye, and you tell him, with a small voice, “maybe it’s just something about you.”

you hide your face in your hands again, and you hear the setter laugh once more. you wonder if he laughs this much with his teammates. 

just as your embarrassment starts to settle, there’s a knock on the wooden door, “y/n? are you here?”

you recognise it as the second year, yamaguchi’s, voice, and you call back out, “yeah?”

“alright, wait up, i’ll just unlock the door...” his voice turns from muffled to surprise after the door opens, seeing you sitting so close to none other than shiratorizawa’s setter.

“i’m so sorry it took this long for us to realise you were, uh, gone,” yamaguchi scratches the back of his head, “but at least you had some company.”

yamaguchi gives the setter a prompt bow, and shirabu does the same.

“anyways, y/n, the bus is waiting,” the boy motions, and you nod, looking at shirabu. 

you wave at shirabu and start to leave the shed when he grips the sleeve of your tracksuit jacket. 

“are you free on sunday?”

you stop in your tracks, “yeah, i am.”

“i can show you my dump shot then. and there’s also a cute café nearby campus, i heard, so, we can go there after?”

you swear your heart melts at his words, “that sounds good.”

you can feel yamaguchi’s curious stare at both of you, but you don’t mind. “i’ll give you my number, then?”

you search through your pockets for something to take note with, “i don’t have a pen and paper... or my phone...”

shirabu sighs, “me neither, uhm...”

“oh, well. just tell me your number and i’ll memorise it.”

“are you sure?”

“yeah,” you smile, knowing that you’re not that good at memorising things but you know you’d keep his number dialed in your head. as he says out his string of numbers, you make sure to remember it all by the time you get to your bag. 

“see you sunday, then.” he waves once more.

“i’ll text you!” you’re left to ponder what the hell you’re going to wear in two days to your date with shirabu kenjirou. 

first date with shirabu kenjirou. is it a date? maybe you’ll know it on sunday. 

when you step out of the shed, yamaguchi only grins as he walks you back to the bus, amused at witnessing one of his underclassmen set up a date with shiratorizawa’s third year setter and captain. 

“on monday, tell us some of shiratorizawa’s secrets,” yamaguchi jokes as you two walk across campus. you glare at your upperclassman, and he only follows it up with a shake of the head and “no, no, just kidding! just have fun on sunday.”

“thank you,” you say quietly as you two approach the bus, “and thank you for unlocking that door at the shed back there.”

“no problem,” yamaguchi replies.

after announcing a small apology to the rest of the team when you enter the bus, you almost run to yachi when she shouts from the back that she’s already got your bag, with you practically grabbing it to take out your phone.

“woah, y/n! are you alright? do you have your stuff?”

you don’t answer, only putting down the numbers you drilled into your head five minutes ago, naming the contact “dump shot” and sending him a quick hello in text.

yachi asks again, “y/n?”

now you snap out of it, and nod before thanking her for bringing your bag. you can’t stop the uncontrollable smile on your face.

yachi stretches her arms out and smiles back, glad that her underclassman seems enthusiastic about this volleyball thing too. “i’m so ready for the weekend. i’m just going to sleep in and rest all day.”

you nod, slouching lazily into the bus yet with unknown excitement in your veins at the thought of spending a day with the boy you’ve only ever seen from afar until tonight. 

“i’m so ready for this weekend too.”

[bubblesuga]

Oblivious To Adoration (m)

Summary: After an intense night of drunken sex, Jungkook realizes he wants more. When he suggests an idea to you, you were shocked. However, who were you to say no to Mr. Jeon Jungkook?

W/C: 3,106

Next Part

Warnings: smut, cussing, unintentional cuteness, a bit of fluff, friends to lovers AU

“All I’m asking is one summer.” Jungkook spoke, his arms gesturing wildly as he followed you through campus. You adjusted your bag on your shoulder, rolling your eyes at your best friend who also happened to have the most impeccable talent of getting on your nerves lately. 

“What exactly are you implying?” You raise a brow, watching him struggle to keep up with your pace. You were fast, especially when you didn’t want to be late. 

"You know what I’m implying. Then after that we can go back to acting like nothing happened and move on with our lives as far as... that... goes.” Jungkook gave you a small grin, shy yet sure of himself. 

“As far as what goes?” You knew what he was talking about. He knew you knew as well, but you still wanted to hear him say it.

It started off oddly casual. 

Having both celebrated the end of exam season, you got drunk at Yoongi’s and Seokjin’s apartment. It wasn’t a party or anything, just 8 people sat in a circle getting wasted in an attempt to calm the anxiety that you could have failed all of your tests even though it was unlikely. 

Unfortunately for you, you get extra touchy when you’re drunk. Not that Jungkook minded that you clung to his side at every second of the night, he thought you smelled nice and he enjoyed the feeling of you beside him. Then before you could realize what you were doing or the consequences that could follow, you were leading him to a separate room and having sex. 

To say it wasn’t good would be a lie. It was, from what you could remember, the best sex you had ever had in your entire life. All the way down to the way his fingertips grazed across your tits softly, the already impeccably sensitive nubs responding to his every touch. 

When you woke up the next day, you pretended not to remember any of it. Only gripping your temples and watching him pull himself out of bed to grab you some water and Tylenol. You remembered enough to know that if you continued this path, it could be both detrimental to your friendship and your mind. One time thing, you repeatedly told yourself. 

“Sex, between you and I.” Jungkook said a touch bit too loudly for your liking, causing a few fellow students to turn their head in wonder. He looked around with a blush, “I mean- I’d still want to be friends afterward and all that but we could just think of it as practice.” 

You finally stop your incessant speed-walking, turning to look at him, “You think I need practice?” 

“What? N- no! That’s not what I- ah, sheesh,” He tilts his head in embarrassment and covers his face, rubbing it in frustration, “harmless fun! It’d be some harmless fun for the summer.” 

The truth was, Jungkook couldn’t get you off of his mind after that night. Especially the next morning, watching you stretch in bed and the white sheets slipped off of your torso while you searched around for your bra. He couldn’t wipe the shock from his face at the memories from the previous night racing through his head. It’s not like he hadn’t ever thought about seeing you naked before, or pressing his tongue flat against your burning heat as you writhed beneath him. He just never thought he’d be in a position to actually do so. 

Gnawing at your bottom lip, you slip your bag off your shoulder and roll your neck as you went over the pros and cons in your head. 

Pros- Jungkook is really good with his mouth, he has a huge dick but doesn’t rely solely on his size to pleasure you, and if you were completely honest with yourself you wouldn’t necessarily mind having a friends with benefits situation with him even if it’s temporarily. 

Cons- Jungkook is your friend, your best friend. He was there when you went through your first break up, and you were there when he had to change majors. There hadn’t been a day that passed where you didn’t talk to him, hug him, thought of him. You had a good thing going with him and you definitely hated the trope of best friends ruining their friendship because of personal needs or wants. 

Jungkook looked down into your eyes, a sense of dread filling him at your silence. He wasn’t sure why he let Jimin talk him into asking you. He knew that there was consequences but Jimin just kept saying “you’re only in your early 20s once!” and “what’s the worst that could happen?” 

Rejection. An ended friendship. Dying of embarrassment. 

The list goes on. 

“End of the summer, we go back to friends minus the benefits,” You spoke up finally, crossing your arms over your chest, “and we don’t tell anyone we’re doing this. This is only for pleasure, right? We don’t need to add the drama of other people’s opinions.” 

Jungkook’s excitement bubbled to the surface, wiping away his previous fear of rejection. You rose an eyebrow at the way he jumped up and down, his back pack bouncing along with his movements. He resisted the urge to pull you in for a kiss, opting instead for a hug. 

“I’ll text you later and we’ll go over logistics,” Jungkook cleared his throat, “I’m excited.” 

“Yeah,” you smile tightly, “me too.” 

~*~*~

The day went by too quickly for your liking. 

It’s not like you weren’t excited for the idea, you were just... scared. Scared of what could happen, scared of how both of you would handle ending it, scared of falling for him. 

Of course you had a crush on him, but it was so small that you swallowed your feelings and opted for being friends with him instead. Besides, it’s not like he’d want to settle down in college anyway. Especially after having seen the way he his door was pretty much revolving with gorgeous women. 

To: (Y/N) From: Kookie Come to my apartment, Tae is out of town. 

You didn’t respond, instead pulling you out of your bed and preparing an overnight bag quickly. You have spent the night with him before, just never with the implication of sex being the main reason. 

Suddenly you were unsure of what to wear. Before you never had to deal with the stress of looking ‘sexy’. You’d show up in your sweats and a T-shirt, beer in one hand and snacks in another. It was completely platonic, even if your mind wandered when Jungkook opened the door in matching grey sweats and no shirt on his torso. 

Deciding it best to dress in some lace lingerie underneath your clothes, you’d leave it hidden for a while until Jungkook was ready for you. Covering your lingerie in a black shirt and black leggings, you grabbed your keys and drove silently to Jungkook’s apartment. 

On the other side of town, Jungkook was burning himself with matches. 

“It’s for the ambiance,” Jungkook spoke, holding the phone between his shoulder and ear, “just to make it sexy. Not romantic.” 

Jimin snorted on the other end, “Whatever you say, man. I’m just saying, candles makes it seem like you’re trying to marry her.” 

“What?” Panic freezes the blood in Jungkook’s veins, “n- no! I’m trying to seduce her, not marry her!” 

Staring at his bed, six candles are lit in various places in the room. Peppered suede, a scent that Google says is number 4 on the list of most erotic and relaxing candles to use to get your girl into the mood. He began to think about how stupid it was until Jimin spoke again, breaking him out of his thoughts. 

“Alright, I respect the attempt.”

“Remember you can’t say anything to her about this-- she doesn’t know it was your idea and doesn’t want anyone knowing.” Jungkook explained hurriedly, wafting the scent of the candles into his nose. 

Jimin chuckled, “Of course, Kookie. My lips are sealed.” 

With that, Jungkook heard a knock at his door and hung up quickly with a quiet goodbye. He rushed towards the front door and quickly adjusts his clothes so he can look somewhat presentable. His hair was still wet from his earlier shower, but he wanted to make sure that he was perfect for you, in every sense of the way. 

With the door swinging open, he took in your appearance carefully. Now that he had seen you- all of you -he wasn’t able to see anything else. He was growing hard just at the thought of seeing you like that again. 

“Hi,” you said, suddenly fully aware of the circumstances. A shy blush spreads across both of your faces as Jungkook’s eyes scanned up and down your body. 

Jokingly, you step inside and spin around, giggling softly as you did so. He grabbed your hand, pulling you close to him, “Did you dress up just for me?” 

“Dress up, huh? Is that what you call this?” You tease, remembering that this was just Jungkook. He was your best friend, there was no need to be so shy about anything especially since you both established boundaries that you know you’ll be sure to follow. 

He didn’t respond, instead locking his lips with yours. 

Jungkook just couldn’t help himself, your lips were so inviting and unbelievably plump. Sucking softly on your bottom lip, he moved his hands down your back and brought them to rest at the base of your spine. Clutching the hem of your shirt in his hands, you allowed yourself to be fully immersed in all things Jungkook. 

Feeling his body slowly guiding you back towards his bedroom, you allowed him to undress you along the way. In the hallway, he drops to his knees in front of you and pulls your leggings down quickly. 

Looking up, he took in your lingerie, the navy blue color complimenting your flushed skin deliciously. He couldn’t help but grin, leaning forward and swiping his tongue on your exposed pelvic bone. You immediately jumped at the contact, your hands flying to his hair and tugging at the roots. He moved down further, inhaling your scent through your underwear, causing a rush of lust and desire to shoot through your body as he did so. 

“P- please.” you stutter, watching Jungkook pull away with concern lacing his features. 

“What do you want, babygirl?” His voice was much deeper than usually, the way he looked up at you had you dripping almost instantly. 

“More.” It felt like your tongue was broken, resulting in any noise leaving your mouth being a moan. You wondered if you could cum untouched, because Jungkook’s hands on your hips had you reeling. 

Jungkook’s heart hammered against his ribcage, and he preyed you couldn’t hear it as he stood once again, “I’ll give you more. I’ll give you whatever you want.” 

Grinning, you lean up and capture his lips hungrily, all anxiety diminished. 

Finally, you reached Jungkook’s room, a trial of clothing and underwear on the way. The last item separating you two was his briefs, which he was straining against. Your mouth watered at the sight, your fingers dancing across his hardening cock. Pushing him back onto the bed, you couldn’t help but tug his boxers down quickly. 

The cool air against Jungkook’s aching member caused him to gasp, his eyes not leaving your body as you moved up the bed and straddled his leg. He let out a hiss as you wrap your hand around his shaft, freezing in place. 

Thinking he had suddenly changed his mind, you go to pull away but you are stopped by Jungkook’s hand gripping your wrist, “No, keep going.” 

Smiling, you feel his hand guide yours up and down until he feels you have a good enough rhythm. Then, he throws his head back and scrunches his eyes closed at the feeling of heat washing over his body. Beads of precum drip from Jungkook’s cock, your mouth watering at the sight. Without thinking much about it, you lick a long stripe from the base of his cock to the tip, swirling your tongue around to collect all the precum. 

Jungkook groans loudly, his hands flying to your hair and collecting it from around your face in a makeshift ponytail. His hips instinctively stuttered up, his jaw fully agape as he watched his cock disappear between your lips. He always knew you would look so pretty with a cock in your mouth, the amount of times he dreamed about this was beyond countable. 

Eventually his hips twitched, driving him deeper into your mouth. “Sorry,” he flushed, feeling you gag as he reached the base of your throat. 

“No need to be.” You respond, hearing him moan when you move, bobbing your head up and down his shaft. “Oh my god,” Jungkook attempts to bite his lip to silence his moans but he just couldn’t help himself. 

Panic begins to flood his mind when he felt his balls tighten, “S- stop! Don’t wanna- ah-” 

Sensing his panic, you pull off of him with a pop and sit back on your heels, looking up at him obediently. 

Taking a moment to catch his breath, his chest heaves while you wait patiently. You enjoyed having this sort of control over him. It was nice knowing that he could be writhing beneath you in seconds, because outside of the bedroom it wasn’t like that, it was the complete opposite in fact. 

Thinking back to a time where you hid behind Jungkook as he helped you confront a professor on a bad grade you didn’t deserve, you couldn’t help but smirk at the role reversal. 

“I want to feel you.” Jungkook finally whispered, and that was all the reassurance you needed to pounce. 

The kiss was all teeth and need, an indescribable feeling taking over both of you. Quickly and without warning, you straddled Jungkook’s thighs and sunk down on him. 

“Oh, fuck,” Jungkook didn’t swear often, but he just couldn’t help himself with you. It brought no complaints from you though, because the words sent jolts of electricity though you. “You’re so soaked, how are you this tight?” 

A throaty giggle left your mouth, but was quickly replaced by a gasp as Jungkook lifted you up and slammed you back down onto his cock. His arms loop beneath your knees, his hands holding your waist while he continued to life you up and down. You knew he was strong but, fuck, you didn’t expect him to be using you like his own personal pocket pus- 

“Right there! Fuck, more!” You fling yourself forward, pushing his face against your chest and feeling his lips latch around your nipple and bit down. Feeling Jungkook reach a place that had never been touched before, you felt your wetness dripping down your legs and landing on Jungkook’s thighs. Your arousal was unbelievable, and Jungkook was determined to make sure you came harder than you ever had before. 

That power you felt earlier was now gone, and you were a puddle in on top of him. Vulnerability took over you, trusting Jungkook with your whole being. Trusting that he would take care of you, trusting that he meant no harm with this whole situation, trusting him. 

“Kook, I think I’m gonna come.” You moan, feeling him nip at your collarbone. Another gasp falls from your lips as Jungkook throws you onto the bed, his cock not leaving inside you. 

His stilled inside you, kissing you harshly before pulling back, “You’re gonna come on my cock like a good girl, aren’t you?” 

You nod enthusiastically, inhaling your excitement as Jungkook held your hips into the bed and pulled nearly all the way out of you, before slamming back into you punishingly. You cry out, your hand moving down to your clit and rubbing quick circles while you rode out your high. 

"Yes, baby girl, come for me. Squeeze my cock.” Jungkook groaned, biting his lip and letting you ride out your high. White hot pleasure coursed through your veins, your back arching off of his bed. 

Unable to take the squeeze of you anymore, he pulls out much to your dismay and begins to stroke himself above you. Still reeling from your orgasm, you watch in awe while Jungkook strokes himself to completion, spurting white strings of his release across your stomach. 

His cum begins to dribble down your stomach and onto his bed. Then he collapses beside you in a panting heap. 

You two lay like that for a while, sighing in contempt while your mind fell blank of any and all negative thoughts. Eventually the stickiness on your stomach made you feel uneasy, so you went to move to the bathroom but was stopped quickly by Jungkook. 

He walks to the bathroom, collecting your bag on the way and wetting a washcloth with warm water. When he reentered the room, you were laying with your hands behind your head and your legs crossed tightly. He grinned at the sight, you still spent with his orgasm spread across your body. He liked the way you looked in general, but he could almost feel himself twitching yet again at the sight of you now. 

“I’m gonna clean you up, okay?” Jungkook, now shy again, tentatively wiped your torso clean. You watched him go eye level with your pelvis, pressing a soft kiss to your hip bone as he cleaned you up. 

It was such a small move, but you felt your stomach flutter. Especially at the way he looked up at you through his eyelashes. When you were finally clean, he pulls himself up and laces his legs through yours, pressing a small kiss to your forehead. 

“Do you still think I need some practice?” You joke, hearing him snort from above you, “because I’m pretty sure you don’t need it.” 

“Well if I say you don’t, then we won’t do this again. But if I say you do, then you’ll get mad and we won’t do this again,” Jungkook shrugged, “so I’m going to keep quiet on the subject.” 

“Master of deceit,” you smack his chest, “I already agreed until the end of the summer.” 

Jungkook felt a slight twinge in his chest at the way you smacked him, his heart fluttering at the gesture despite you having done it many times prior to you two sleeping together. 

“Right,” he responded, pressing another kiss to your temple, “until the end of the summer.” 

[t-lostinworlds]

Monthlies (Tom Holland)

A/N: Hi, it’s me, with a fic. Wrote this on a whim so bare with me asdfghjkl. I’m trying to be all mysterious with the summary but I think the title gives it away aha. Anyways, here’s some sweet boyfriend Tom for your enjoyment! Hope you like it <3

Pairing: Tom Holland x Fem!Reader

Summary: You tend to disappear for a week every month and Tom goes to find out why.

Warnings: None but my usual typos

Word Count: 3.4k+

Masterlist in Bio

-:-:-:-:-

Your relationship was fairly new, four months in to be exact, and Tom can't help but be curious of a certain thing you do every month.

Right after you've made it official, you've asked Tom about giving you some space during a certain week of each month. Not thinking much of it, he obliged, unable to find any harm on you wanting some time alone.

However, as months moved pass, he can't help but ask as to why exactly you needed to be away.

He just wants you to be open with him is all, want you to know that whatever it is, maybe he can help you with it, regardless of how you prefer his help. But each time he brings it up, you just shrugged it off and tell him it wasn't worrisome, that there wasn't any harm done during the duration of the disappearance.

Tom trusts you with every fiber of his being, so he didn't find the need to press you further, knowing that you'll tell him whenever you're ready.

Although the thing with curiosity, it grows no matter how hard you try for it not to, and Tom wasn't any different.

He can't deny that there was something odd about it, particularly when you don't speak to him during said week until the last two days.

It was planting an unsettling feeling in him for sure, his brain creating scenarios as to why exactly you shut him out constantly, same duration each time.

Does it have to do something with him? Is being with him putting you under too much stress and pressure that you needed to get out of it and give yourself room to breathe monthly? Or is there something going on with you and that you're hiding something deeper than you make it seem?

"I don't know man, I trust her so much, and she hasn't given me any reason not to whenever we're together, but when she does these monthly disappearances I can't help but think otherwise you know?" Tom sighed, a bottle of beer cold against his fingertips as he sat beside Harrison on their living room couch. The television was playing some random show that Tom couldn't even pay any attention to as his mind was somewhere else, on someone to be exact.

"You tried talking to her about it?" His best mate pointed out the obvious, brows furrowed as he gave Tom a curious glance.

"Yeah, but she doesn't give me any specific answer. She keeps saying it's not a big deal but you only say that if it is, don't you?" Tom's whole face was covered in nothing but worry, frown all evident as his thoughts run wild as to what could be this hidden secret you're so keen on keeping.

"Maybe it's time you just find out by yourself. You do know we're she lives right?" Harrison stated, seemingly unamused because Tom could've just done it months ago if it bothered him that much.

But Tom wasn't bothered by it really, not that much anyway. He was mainly just curious, concerned. What if you're going through something and he wasn't there to help you with it? What kind of a boyfriend is he then?

Sure he could've found out for himself all those months ago, but you asked him it as a favor, and he gave you his word, why would he break that and then cause unwanted problems between you two?

With a light scoff, Tom crossed his arms over his chest. "Of course I know where she lives, she's my girlfriend."

"And when does this month's MIA week start?"

At Harrison's question, Tom checks the date on his phone, a deep sigh coming out of him when he realized when it will be. "I think it starts tomorrow?"

"Then pay her a visit tomorrow."

"I don't think that's a good idea." Tom says reluctantly but couldn't help but entertain the idea of it anyway.

If he does it, this could really go wrong either way. It's either you'd be hurt because it would look like Tom doesn't truly trust you or, he'd find something that he would've been better off without. 

"Come on mate, how bad can it be?"

***

Tom was consumed by nerves the moment he stood in front of your door the next day. His hands were turning clammy as he shifts the key you've given him from one finger to the other.

He wasn't one to show up without texting first, completely uninvited especially at the time of month you specifically asked him to leave you be.

But it was eating him up from the inside out, his patience growing thin to the point that he was close to being desperate for answers.

Two sides of himself were at war, but Harrison's words won't seem to stop echoing inside his head.

How bad can it be?

Taking in a deep breath, Tom pushed the key in and unlocked the door, that one click bouncing off the walls a little too loudly for his liking. Slowly, cautiously, he lets himself in, gently closing the door behind him as his heart beats rapidly against his chest.

"Y/N? Are you home?" Tom was met by silence, your place seeming untouched but it was warm nonetheless. Plus, it was early in the morning; you couldn't have gone out yet. Tom knows what time you usually wake up, and judging by the clock just by the doorway, you're most likely to still be asleep. You definitely were here somewhere.

Moving further down your space, Tom heard a silent whimper, his ears perking up at the sound that was coming from your bedroom. His brain was straight to jump into conclusions and he hates himself for it.

You're a sweet and kind girl, heart so pure that you couldn't possibly do anything that would purposely hurt him. But when you're an over-thinker, any rational thought seems to get pushed back, replaced by this nagging whisper, like a tiny devil on his shoulder.

Beads of sweat were starting to form on his forehead as he threaded down the hall, heartbeat ringing in his ears until he reached your bedroom door, all opened wide for him to easily see what's inside.

All he saw was a form on the bed hidden under thick covers, hair — to which he assumed was yours — going astray over the pillows. Tom felt his heart calm down a little, silently scolding himself for thinking the worst when you were literally lying still and alone in bed.

A louder groan, one laced with pure pain followed by a soft yet broken sob bounced on your bedroom walls, the sheer sound of discomfort making Tom rush to your side immediately.

Dread covered his face once he took in your state, agony written all over your features as you hugged your knees to your chest, whole body curled up into a ball.

"Love what's going on? Are you okay?" Panic coated Tom's voice as he sat himself on the edge of the bed beside you, hand coming up to push a stray hair away from your face.

You willed your eyes to open at the sound of a familiar voice, pure surprise crossing you features at the feeling of his touch before it was quick to be replaced by worry and embarrassment.

"T—Tom? Why are you here? I don't want you to see me like this. I'm aah—" You winced loudly, Tom's concern only growing because the look on your face showed nothing but absolute torture, eyes squeezed shut as your teeth sunk into your bottom lip. The sight was crushing his heart, just seeing you in so much pain, it was unbearable.

"Angel, please tell me what's going on? I can't help if you don't tell me." Tom was close to begging, fingers brushing your hair softly, comfortingly as the other hand gave your arm a gentle squeeze, too afraid to move you even in the slightest in fear that he might hurt you more.

He wants nothing more than to take your pain away, whatever the cause may be, but that's just it, he doesn't know why your hurt so he has no clue what to do.

Turning your head a little to meet his eyes, you frowned at him, and Tom can see than you were hesitating, doubting if you should tell him or not. But when another sharp pang coursed through your body, an excruciating stab just below your abdomen, you finally spoke, voice frail and small as you tried to suppress sob.

"Cramps."

It took three seconds, no, four when everything finally clicked. Tom could feel his cheek heat up as realization dawned on him, piece by piece falling into place, the situation at hand finally looking clear as day in his head.

"Oh."

A week every month... monthly periods.

That makes the absolute sense. Tom felt so stupid not having figured it out sooner, the facts already laid out for him but then again, how could he possibly narrow it down to that?

This was something new to him, past girlfriends not turning this serious, or simply just not finding it important at all for them to talk about periods and such.

Although, Tom can't help but question as to why exactly are you hiding away from him during his time of the month? Why were you so keen on being away from him whenever you get your period?

He didn't get the chance to ask you yet though; another heartrending groan from you was enough for him to stay focused at the task at hand: help get rid of your pain to the best of his abilities and well, the best of his knowledge too. "Okay, uhm, what do you need love?"

All you could manage to do was point weakly at your bedside table, Tom's eyes landing on an empty glass of water and some painkillers.

Tom turned back to you, a sympathetic smile playing on his lips before leaning down to give you a soft peck on the forehead. With voice soft and sweet, he hums against your skin. "I'll get you some water darling, I'll be right back."

Rushing out of you room, Tom quickly fished his phone out of his pocket, aimlessly walking towards the kitchen as he clicks on the name on his screen. He definitely needs some help with all this.

"Hey mum, uh, are you busy?" Tom sighs in relief the moment she answered. He was refilling your cup of water with a small frown, driven by nothing else but his pure concern about you.

"Not really no, I'm on my way to do some grocery shopping. Why hun? Is there a problem?"

Perfect timing.

"No, no, I just need a little favor? Uhm I was going to ask Harrison to do it but I'm pretty sure he's as clueless as I am with this stuff but uh, Y/N is on her period and she's got cramps and I'm too worried to leave her alone and—" Tom was cut off by his mother's joyful laugh, his cheeks turning a shade of red as she gushed about how adorable he is.

"You want me to buy some stuff for her?"

"Basically, yeah, and some food too." Tom chuckled shyly, hand coming up to rub his shoulder. He was thinking about doing it himself but he was sure he'd end up lost and confused down the aisle, then it would just take too long. This new experience was slightly stressing him out, just a little bit, because when it's you looking to be in so much pain, his worry just comes in tenfold.

"Of course honey. Just text me her address and any other thing that you might need."

Tom blushed as his brain, by default, goes straight to a certain thing, shaking his head quickly to rid of the thought. Never in a million years would he ask his mum to buy condoms. Plus, there are more pressing matters at hand.

"Okay mum. Oh, and one last thing, does tea help with the cramps? Should I make her some tea?"

"You go ahead and do that Tom. Hot compress helps too."

"Okay, thank you so much mum, you're a life saver. Yeah, bye, I love you."

Placing the phone back in his pocket, Tom went back to your room with the glass full, not wasting any second to be by your side, ready to tend to his princess.

Once the glass was safely placed on the nightstand, he wrapped an arm over your shoulder to help you sit up, a soft sorry coming out his lips once you whimpered ever so quietly.

"How many of these?" He asks, pointing at the medication. You held two fingers up at him, Tom handing you the painkillers and then offering you the water. "Thank you." You smiled at him shyly once he took the glass from you.

Tom smiled, hand cupping your face gently as he leaned down to give you a sweet peck on the lips. "No worries darling. Now, get some rest."

***

After sorting out the bag of goodies and necessities that his mother kindly bought — chuckling at his own stupidity once he saw that you've already stocked up beforehand on female products and he just didn't check but hey, the more the merrier right? — Tom went back to check up on you.

You've been fast asleep for almost an hour now, Tom leaving you be for the time being, not having the courage to disturb you when you looked all peaceful and serene in your sleep.

But once he reached your room, you were already sat up in bed, facing the door with a deep frown. Your eyes grew wide at the sight of him, evidently shock to see him still around. "I thought you already left."

There was something about your tone that made Tom even more curious about this whole ordeal, a small frown adoring his own lips as he went over and sat across you. "My girlfriend needs me, why would I leave?"

You looked away at that, Tom feeling his heart drop a little because you're making it seem that you don't want his company.

"Y/N, tell me honestly, why don't you want me around during this time of month?"

You sighed worriedly, still unable to meet his gaze, knowing that there was nowhere to hide anymore. "It's not that I don't want you around. I just, I don't want to drive you away."

Tom furrowed his brows at your words, everything still a jumbled mess in his head. "Why would you being on you period drive me away?"

There was a pregnant pause after that. Your eyes darting about as you tried to piece your words inside your head. Tom was patiently waiting for you to speak again, but when your fingers started to fidget nervously, he moved closer, taking your hands in his to give it a reassuring squeeze.

"Love, you know you can tell me anything right?"

You nodded, teeth nibbling at your bottom lip before lifting your head up to look at those chocolate orbs you've grown to adore, to trust.

"It's because I'm at my worse during this time. I cry over nothing and I'm always emotional. I have mood swings, I'm bloated and I look like utter shot. I'm in too much pain the first few days to the point that I couldn't get out of bed easily, couldn't even move as you've seen. I'm just... a completely mess Tom." Your voice trailed off at the end of your sentence, eyes dropping to see nothing else but your's and Tom's intertwined fingers.

The young man titled his head to side to try and catch your eyes. But when you tried your best to avoid them, he took it upon himself to let go of your hand to place a finger under your chin, gently pushing your head back up to meet his gaze.

"You really think I'd care about that darling?" Tom said, tone sweet and reassuring.

With a shrugged of your shoulders, you willed yourself not to get teary. A task nonetheless because during this time of month, you truly don't have any control of your emotions whatsoever.

"Well the past guy did, he told me I'm a handful and that I always get so pissy. He said I was too much with the mood swings and constant whining and he doesn't want to be around me when it's that time of the month. And he was right; I am too much on my period. I just don't want to put you through it too. You don't deserve it because you've been so good to me. I don't want push you away because of it. I just don't want you to leave me because of it." Tom felt his heart break at the utter sound of hurt in your voice, followed by anger and annoyance at the guy who made you think this way.

Tom scooted closer over to you, taking your arms and slinging it over his shoulder while his own took home on your waist, running his thumb lovingly on the swell of your belly. As if that simple gesture wasn't sweet enough, he moved even closer, just to nudge the tip of his nose on yours, a proud smile erupting on Tom's face at the sound of your soft giggle.

He pulled away slightly just to see your eyes, and for you to see in his the sincerity of what he was about to say.

"Sweetheart, I'm not him. I don't care if you're bloated, you still look gorgeous to me darling. If you feel like crying then so be it, let it all out, whatever you're feeling is valid no matter the reason. I'll put up with your mood swings and your attitude, because I want to be with you despite it. I want to be with you through your downs, your worst moments. I want to see all your flaws because those things make you even more beautiful to me. I'll be here with you through it all. And those moments, your imperfections, those won't change how I feel for you. Because I really, really feel so strongly for you Y/N, and it will always be above anything else."

Tom was itching to just say it, just being filled of it from head to toe, the L word that hasn't been spoken beforehand unless used as a term of endearment, but he was worried he might scare you away or it not being the right time, especially with so many emotions already swimming inside you, by the simple looks of it in your eyes. You gorgeous, beautiful eyes all glossed up with a trembling bottom lip to match.

"But I don't want to be a burden." You croaked out, a single tear escaping free, down the skin of your cheek.

"Darling, you are not a burden. It's natural what you're going through, and that fucking guy who shamed you for experiencing something you have no control over is a fucking dickhead, a complete asshole and God if I could get my hands on him I'd let him fucking have it." Tom's voice turned into a low growl at the end of his sentence, all fired up at just the thought of some stupid twat hurting such an amazing woman like you. He just can't comprehend how much of an idiot could a person be to shame a woman for being on her period. God, it just makes his blood boil just thinking about it.

"I want to be here for you, I want to be with you, all of you, always. You understand?" You nodded with a tiny sniffle, your heart growing, filling with warmth, with pure gratitude at Tom's words, with nothing but absolute...

"I love you." You whispered, Tom's heart stopping and then beating again but twice the pace as a wide and bright grin grew on his face, the words sounding oh so enchanting coming out of your lips.

Those gorgeous lips that he didn't hesitate to capture in his own, a pure sigh of content coming out of his as he whispered against the kiss,

"And I love you darling, oh so much."

Pulling away to catch some air, Tom was staring at you with so much joy, so much love, wide grin hard to wipe off as he quirked one messy brow at you.

"No more monthly disappearances?"

You nodded with a sweet laugh. "No more."

Turns out, paying you a visit was the right call. Things didn't turn out as bad as he thought it would, but Tom's not telling Harrison that.

-:-:-:-:-

Like, Reblog & Leave a Comment if you enjoyed! Let me know what you think! <3

[ghostly-cabbage]

Frigid (Chapter 5)

Genre: Horror, Angst, Enemies to Friends (to maybe more??? ohoho) 

Chapter Rating: T (Language, Canon Typical Violence, Brief Mention of Underage Drug Use) 

Word Count: 6,554

AO3 FFN

<<Previous | Next>>

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The black and white dashed pavement was all Wes saw. It moved underneath his clumsy feet in slow motion. 

Someone was holding his hand; he could feel the heat of their palm enveloping his. His hand was small in theirs. His shoulders were heavy, weighed down by a backpack. 

He wrung the padded red strap with his free hand. The person leading him tugged him along after them, insistent, but not unkind. When he looked up, he couldn’t see who it was. The sun was too bright, glinting in his eyes and allowing nothing but the dark impression of a silhouette. 

He had to get home, Wes remembered faintly. They had to get home or they’d be in trouble. An odd feeling crept up his legs, and he stumbled over an untied shoelace. The person with him made sure he didn’t fall, pulling up on his arm. 

“Silly Wesley, I thought you said you knew how to tie your shoes?” The person said. Their voice sounded muffled, like he was underwater. It sounded… familiar. Somehow. Like Wes should recognize it. 

They kept walking across the street, the far side growing no closer.

Wes swallowed, his throat dry. 

“Something’s wrong,” he said. His tongue felt clumsy in his mouth. He tried to look up at the person guiding him. They weren’t looking at him, and the sun drove his gaze away again. He looked back at the road, then over his shoulder where the blurry shape of school became more distant with every step.

 “Please listen to me this time, something isn’t right,” he tried again. His voice was small in his throat. His chaperone ignored him, or maybe they just couldn’t hear him. 

Cold panic seeped into him and he tried to resist against the person guiding him. He dug his heels into the rough hot pavement. He twisted and pulled at his hand, gripping the person's wrist in hopes he could slow them down. 

“It’s okay, Wessie! Your friends will be there when you come back,” came the voice, happy and completely oblivious. “I know it’s sad, but you’ll see your friends again, you’ll see.” 

“No,” he protested, the fear condensing into a lump in his throat. “No, we can’t keep going.” He didn’t know why. He just knew they had to stop. 

They had to stop before it happened. 

It ached deep in his bones, the dread and the sirens. His vision swirled and he blinked furiously against the tears. 

“Please,” he pleaded. “Please, stop, you have to.” He yanked on them, but they showed no sign of being inconvenienced. A wail rose in his throat. 

Why were they not listening?

“Maybe your Mom will let us have some fruit snacks when we get there, how’s that sound?” 

And then it was too late. 

His guardian gasped, and yanked him back. It sent a painful jolt through his arm. He stumbled backwards and hit the ground so hard it rattled his brain. 

The sound he could never push from his memories filled the world. The squeal of tires and a wet crunch. A squeal: high pitched and girlish. The solid thunk and crack of a body hitting the pavement, skidding and rolling and breaking and—

Wes sat bolt upright, strangling back a scream. 

Panic tingled over his skin and he clutched at his chest, fingers curling into the cotton of his nightshirt. His breath came in rapid gulps and his eyes darted around his room. Like he was expecting to see— 

He screwed his eyes shut and bit into his bottom lip until he tasted blood. God… He hadn’t had one that bad— that vivid in a long time. He focused on the beat of his heart for several long seconds, forcing his breathing to slow. 

God. He hated nightmares. 

He opened his eyes, taking in the dimly illuminated shapes of his dresser, desk and footboard. His curtains were drawn, and the weak light of morning tried in vain to worm it’s way into the room from behind the fabric. 

Wes reached for his phone on his bedside table. He unplugged it from the charger and winced against the light of the screen, 6:31 a.m. Friday. 

They’d had the last two days off from school due to damages to the plumbing system, but apparently it was all fixed up because school hadn’t been cancelled today. 

After that, going back to sleep was a lost cause. 

He shook his head and peeled his covers back. Might as well get an early start on getting ready for school. With a yawn he opened his door and glanced down the hall. 

Kyle’s door wasn’t open yet, which wasn’t surprising. Kyle was late most mornings; he liked sleeping in about as much as he liked weed… he slept in so much because of the weed more specifically. 

The house was chilly and quiet. 

That was until Wes heard footsteps and the sounds of drawers opening and closing in the kitchen. 

His right hand slid along the guide rail, the polished wood still smelling of lemon. Reaching the bottom of the stairs he poked his head around the corner of the wall and into the kitchen. He blinked. 

It was his dad. He was standing at the toaster, a butter knife held in his hand. Neatly ironed suit already on. 

Wes walked in without announcing himself and went to the cupboard. His dad jumped, catching a glimpse of him over his shoulder. 

“Oh, Wesley.” He cleared his throat and shifted towards him. “You’re up early.” 

“Yep.” 

He got a box of cereal and closed the cupboard. He turned his back to his father to get a clean bowl. 

“Right. Uhm. Did you… want toast?”

Wes nudged the cupboard door closed with an elbow. 

“No, I don’t want toast.” He put his bowl on the dining table and filled it with cereal. His dad watched him. 

“There’s eggs in the fridge too if you—” 

“Dad, it’s fine.” Wes didn’t look at him, and put the cereal box away. He got the jug of milk from the fridge and poured it over the sugary monstrosity that had the audacity to call itself a balanced breakfast. Other than the sound of the milk glugging, the kitchen was tense and silent. Wes screwed the cap back on the milk and put it back in the fridge, getting a spoon next from the silverware drawer. 

The toaster popped, and his Dad startled. 

Under different circumstances Wes might have laughed. 

He pulled out a seat at the table, its legs scraping over the hardwood floor. He sank down into the cold chair and started eating. He pulled his phone out from his sweatpant pocket and scrolled without really paying attention to the images and text that slid past. 

“Aren’t you late for work or something?” he said. His dad stopped scraping the butter on his toast. 

“Now that I’m finally settled into the office a bit more I don’t have to be in till seven.” 

Wes clicked his tongue. “Oh. Joy.” He shoveled another spoonful of cereal into his mouth. His dad sighed, and he could see his shoulders slump out of the corner of his eye. 

“Your uh, tryouts are today, right?” 

“Why’s it matter? Not like you ever have time to come to my games anyway.” He said it hoping it would hurt. It was childish, Wes knew it was, but he just wanted his dad to get it for once.

“Wesley, kiddo... I know this has been hard on you and your brother—” Wes snorted. His Dad pressed on. “But this job was an amazing opportunity, I really think it could do a lot of good for us.” 

“We were fine with the job you had.”

“I thought a change of environment would help after everything that happened. I’m only doing what’s best for the two of you. For all of us, as a family.”

Wes laughed. It was empty and brittle. 

“Well, that’s news to me. We’re hardly even a family anymore.” 

“Wesley,” his dad’s voice took on a stern edge. 

“You didn’t care about us, if you did you would have asked what we wanted.” 

“And this is exactly why I didn’t.” His Dad gestured jerkily towards him with the butter knife.

“What’s that mean?” Wes slapped his phone down and glared up at his dad.

“It’s clear that you’re still too immature to deal with this like an adult. I’m doing this with your futures in mind, Wesley.” 

“By ripping us away from home? From all our friends? From Grandma and Grandpa? Uncle Ronnie?” Wes’ heart was thumping in his ears and he wanted to scream, flip the table over, something to make the pressure in his chest go away. 

His dad scoffed. 

“Don’t raise your voice at me. I told you when we moved that we would visit for the holidays.” 

“That just makes it all better. Doesn’t it?” he pushed through grit teeth. He squeezed the handle of his spoon in his fist, the cool metal pressing indentions into his skin. 

“The world doesn’t revolve around you and what you want. It’s no one's fault but your own that you’re choosing to learn it the hard way.” 

“You’re such a fucking hypocrite.” 

“Wesley!” his dad snapped. “One thing you won’t do is speak to me like that under my roof, you understand me?”

Wes held his dad’s gaze, not backing down.

“After tryouts you come right home and stay here for the weekend.” 

“What? Seriously?!” 

“Yes, seriously.”

Rage whirled in his throat and he bit down on his tongue. He stood up, his chair skidding backwards. Fucking bullshit. It was fucking bullshit. 

He threw his spoon down onto the table. It clattered and bounced off the side of his bowl. He snatched his phone and stormed away from the table and back up to his room. He slammed his door behind him and stood there seething, his hands balled into fists. 

He stood there as the seconds ticked by, eyes roaming over his room for something he wouldn’t mind breaking. The buzz of his phone distracted him, and he looked down, turning on the screen.

If it was from Dad he was gonna—

Alien Fucker: ? 

Oh. Right. 

It made sense that he’d probably woken up Kyle. He typed a message back into their chat. 

Basketball Freak: Nothing

Alien Fucker: Didn’t sound like nothing 

Basketball Freak: Dad grounded me again 

...

it’s whatever at this point  

Alien Fucker: F in the chat

…

want me to talk to him?  

Basketball Freak: no, its fine 

Alien Fucker: K just lemme know 

Kyle always felt like he had to be the mediator. In the year leading up to the divorce he was the middle man between Mom and Dad, despite Wes telling him that it was ridiculous. Their parents were grown-ass adults. They shouldn’t have fucking needed their seventeen-year-old-son to deliver messages back and forth because they couldn’t stand to talk to each other. And Dad called him immature. 

Kyle hated the tension, he took on the peacekeeper role like a job, trying to hold them all together in vain as the family crumbled around him. Wes probably hadn’t helped any, looking back. 

He picked fights with Dad like it was his job. 

And Mom… He still didn’t talk to Mom. 

He tried to get where Kyle was coming from, he really did. But pretending that shit wasn't fucked wasn’t going to unfuck it. 

Their parents deserved to know what they'd done was wrong. And if hating them was what it took, then goddamnit, Wes was going to do it.  

Wes tossed his phone onto his bed and started getting dressed for school. 

***

The school day passed by uneventful. Mia had the scoop about some couple that had broken up over the two day break that Wes hardly paid attention to. He helped her set her shutter speed and they took pictures of fast moving objects outside. 

At lunch he sat with Kyle and his stoner friends. 

In chemistry, Wes got there after Danny. He set his stuff down, scooting his stool away from him. They ignored each other the best they could as people got settled for class. 

 Wes bounced his leg on the stool’s rung and kept an eye on the clock. Two more classes until tryouts. 

Mrs. Merriweather erased the notes on the board from last class and once the bell rang her iron gaze flicked over the class to make sure everyone was where they were supposed to be. 

“Once I take roll, you’ll work on writing your findings from the last lab in a short essay.” An unenthused murmur filtered through the class. Wes glanced sideways to see Danny grimacing. 

Hah. Served him right. 

“Mr. Fenton. You can make up for your absence last class in an hour's detention after school today.”

Some of their classmates turned to look at Danny, half smiles and shared glances. Nothing was more unifying in a classroom than someone who wasn't you getting in trouble. 

Danny hunched his shoulders and sighed.

“Yes, Mrs. Merriweather,” he said.     

Sucked for him, but really, what did he expect? Skipping class was a risk he decided to take. 

Wes used his notes from the lab he’d done by himself, and started writing his short essay. The class quieted and the only sound was the occasional whisper and the shuffle of papers. 

Danny was quiet, fiddling with a pencil and looking at his phone under the table when Mrs. Merriweather wasn’t watching. Wes couldn’t tell who Danny was messaging, but if he had to guess it’d be the other two-thirds of his friend group. Eventually, Danny pulled out papers from a beat up binder and started working on it. From the corner of his eye he’d guess it was history homework.  

All Wes cared about was that Danny didn’t bother him. He wrote his essay with his mind half on the words and half on the growing excitement of hitting the court. Finally, finally he’d be able to do one of the only things he was good at. The minutes dragged past and around the fiftieth time he’d glanced up at the clock Danny shifted next to him. 

“Dude, chill out, you’re making me nervous,” he said quietly. He didn’t even look up from his homework when he said it. 

Wes lifted his head from his partially done essay and narrowed his eyes. 

“Mind your own business, Fenton.” 

Fenton rolled his eyes but said no more. 

Class wrapped up twenty minutes later, Wes turned in his sloppily written essay and bolted out of the room. The hallways swelled with students as they poured from their classrooms. Econ was all that stood between Wes and tryouts. He swung by his locker, grabbing his books. 

He was about to turn to leave when he bumped into someone. They both stumbled back and Wes recognized the pungent smell coming off the other person. 

“Whoa man, sorry ‘bout that.” Said a guy with blond hair and a beanie slouched over his head. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Wes said, trying to get around him. 

“Hey wait, you’re Wesley, right? Kyle’s lil bro.” 

Well, that explained the smell. 

“Uh, yeah that’s me. Sorry, but I’ve gotta—” 

“Dude, sweet. Name’s Robbie, I’m pretty chill with your brother,” he said. 

“That’s nice. Well, nice to meet you and stuff.” Wes stepped around the stoner and headed towards his class. 

“Yeah, totally! I wasn’t here for lunch but Kyle said you hung out with the group today—” Robbie said, following after Wes. 

He pushed a breath between his teeth. Great, guess this was happening now. 

“—but like Kyle’s told me a lot about you, man.” 

“Cool?” Seriously, why was this guy talking to him? 

“Yeah, I just wanted to say the group’s mega on your side.” 

“Uh-huh. Cool.” 

Wait. 

“On my side about what?” Wes slowed his pace.

“The ghosts, bro!” 

“What about them?” 

“Pf, bruh. We’ve lived in Amity Park for like, ever? We’re trying to convince him that this ghost stuff is legit.” 

Wes scoffed. “Good luck with that. I’ve been trying since I was like six.” 

Robbie shook his head. “I know what’cha mean, bro. Dude’s like a steel trap... or however that saying goes.” Robbie shrugged. 

Wes chuckled. “Let me know if you guys make any progress with him,” he said. He’d meant it as a joke, but Robbie nodded seriously. 

“Hell yeah, dude, that’s what’s up. You can count on me.” He held out a closed fist to Wes. 

He rolled his eyes but didn’t hide his grin. He fist bumped Robbie. 

“Okay, well… I’m going to class now.” 

Robbie held up his hands. “Oh, yeah, totes. I should probably do that too, now that I think about it.”

“Probably.” 

Robbie turned and walked away in the opposite direction, a single textbook swinging in his grasp. Kyle’s friends were always friendly. Even if they were a bit annoying. 

Wes was almost late for Econ, thanks to the fact the class was on the other side of the building. He slipped into the room and sat down, letting out a breath when the last bell rang thirty seconds later. 

Mr. Brown took his place at the front of the class, voice as monotonous as ever. His button-up was wrinkled around his midsection, and he ran his hands over it like that would help.

“Alright class, we’re going to start talking about the stock market today,” he said, pulling up Google on the projector.    

Wes hardly absorbed a word from Mr. Brown’s lecture, which was a total snooze-fest. The stock market wasn’t exactly riveting stuff. He bounced his leg under his desk, watching the clock.

Mr. Brown was in the middle of describing the homework: picking three stocks and tracking their ups and downs through-out the weekend, when the bell rang. Wes had been about ready to start pulling his hair out. 

He shot up from his seat and was first out the door.  

Wes made a beeline for his locker. Or at least he tried. He got stuck behind kids walking at a snail's pace three times. He got a few dirty looks for pushing past people loitering in their groups. 

Eventually, he made it to his locker and fumbled with the lock. Once open, he stuffed his books and notes anywhere they’d fit. Papers crumpled and his notebook creaseed down the center. He pulled his bag from the hook and slung it over his shoulder. He headed to the locker rooms at a jog, back to bobbing and weaving around people in the halls.  

“Mr. Weston, no running in the halls!” He heard Mr. Lancer call after him as he went past the English room. He slowed down to a power walk, not caring that he looked stupid. 

He got to the locker room and got his gym clothes out. He changed quickly, ripping his shirt off and almost tripping over his jeans. 

There were other guys in the room, some he recognized and others he didn’t. Before he put his phone away he checked it, the screen lighting up. At the very top of the lock screen was a message notification. 

Mom: How was the first week of school?

His fingers tightened around his phone, pushing the blood away from his fingertips and leaving them pale. He stared at it until the screen dimmed. 

He didn’t want to think about it, not now—not at all. He tossed his phone into his bag and zipped it up. 

Out of sight out of mind. 

He locked up the rest of his stuff and left the locker room. He followed a few other guys into the gym. 

The overhead lights reflected in bright streaks on the polished wood floor. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the smell of cleaners and old set in sweat. He scuffed the toe of his sneaker on the floor. The high pitched sound echoed around the room; it felt like home. 

Mrs. Tetslaff was standing by the bleachers, writing something on a clipboard. A few students that looked like freshmen were wheeling out a wire cart heaped with basketballs. 

Wes walked towards Tetslaff, coming to stop a ways away. He shifted from foot to foot in anticipation. Within a minute or two there was a loose ring of guys waiting around. A majority were talking amongst themselves, joking around. Clearly they were last year’s team, bonded by hours of blood, sweat, and tears. Wes was on the outside. He felt a sour twinge in his stomach watching them. He wondered how his old team was doing… None of them had messaged him since he left. Not even Cole or Adam.

“Ay, new kid!” 

Wes turned to see a guy with short black hair and olive brown skin. The guy was a bit taller than him. He came up and clapped Wes on the back so hard it stung his skin. He stumbled forward a bit before catching himself. 

“I hear you played point in Cali.” 

Wes tapped the toe of his shoe against the ground a few times. “Yeah?” 

The guy smiled, dark eyes sparkling. He had a nicely structured face, the stubble on his chin making it a reasonable guess that he was a senior. 

“I’m José. Wesley, right? ” He crossed his arms over his chest. Wes didn’t know if he was intending to show off his biceps or not, but it certainly seemed like he was. “I was point-guard last year, and ain’t no way in hell some lanky California kid is gonna yoink my spot.” 

Wes carefully gaged for any hostility, but there was none. José was all smiles. A friendly challenge? 

“I guess we’ll just see about that, won’t we?” He smirked back. 

Somehow José’s smile got bigger. He laughed, his posture breaking into something more casual. 

“I like you already, Wesley.” He stuck out his hand for a handshake. Wes obliged. José grabbed his hand without mercy and shook so vigorously Wes thought he’d lose his arm.

“Just ‘Wes’ is fine,” he said with a wince. José released his hand. “Ow,” he muttered, shaking his hand out. 

“C’mon, you can hang with us, save you the embarrassment of mingling with the Freshmen.” José slung an arm around his shoulders and steered him into the inner circle of guys. He followed, mostly because he didn’t have much of a choice. As they got close the group looked up, varying levels of welcoming. 

“Wes, this is Mark,” he pointed to the dude the farthest from them. He was shorter than Wes, long brown hair tied behind his head. 

“‘Sup.” 

“Next we got Joseph.” José motioned to a guy with terrible posture, it made it hard to tell how tall he was. He looked familiar and it took a few seconds for the light bulb to come on. It clicked and Wes remembered he had Homeroom with him. “We just call him Jo or Joey though.” The guy in question threw up a peace sign. He had light grey hair, obviously the product of a good chunk of money and some bleach. 

Now that Wes thought of it, living in Amity Park, it was weird how many people didn’t have crazy bleached or dyed hair. Maybe it was more of a west coast thing? Or Amity was just behind on the times. Probably both.  

“This is Anthony,” José moved to the next guy. He was about Wes’ height and he had neatly cut and styled almond brown hair. He looked like he belonged in a boy band. His eyes were hazel green, and he looked Wes up and down. 

“Hey,” was all he said. Wes tried not to stare too long as José moved on. 

“Last but not least we got our boy Isaac.” He had black hair, shaved on the sides and longer on top with loose curls. He had dark skin like José. Isaac pointed finger guns at him. 

“Yo, man, pleasure to meet ya,” he said. He had more of a detectable latin accent than José.   

José broke away from Wes to clap hands with Isaac and pull him into a one armed hug. 

“This here our inner circle, Joey and Mark are Juniors like you, but the rest of us ’re Seniors.” 

“It’s nice to meet all you guys, God, you don’t know how long it feels like I’ve waited for today,” he said. He rubbed his upper arm.  

“I just hope you ain’t rusty. I heard you got game.” Isaac said.

Wes shrugged a shoulder. “I mean…” 

“Humble,” José nodded. “I like that about you, Wes. I’m ‘bouta smoke you, make sure you stay that way.” 

The rest of the group let out a chorus of “oh”s. The gauntlet had officially been thrown down in front of witnesses. Wes didn’t fight his smile as he sank into the familiar feeling. 

“Cool, dude. Just don’t cry when I dunk on your ass, okay?” 

The group oh’d louder this time. 

“Dammnn, new kid! You got spunk, never would have guessed from class,” Joseph laughed. “Seriously, in Homeroom he never talks to anyone,” he told the rest of the group. 

“Hey, no judgment, Anthony’s been needing another introvert to keep him company.” Mark grabbed Anthony by the shoulders and gave him a rattle. 

Anthony waved him off. “Shut up.” 

The sound of a whistle pierced through the gym. They all cringed and turned to look at the source of the noise.

Mrs. Testlaff had her hands on her hips. 

“What’re you all waiting around for? You know the drill, warm-ups first.” She clapped a palm against the back of her clipboard. Her voice boomed through the gym.  “Two laps around the gym, go!” 

***

The amount of drills they did had to be criminal. Wes’ muscles burned and his hair was spiked with sweat and water from the fountain down the hall. He’d forgotten his water bottle at home, which he wholeheartedly blamed on his dad.  

It took a while, shaking off the rust and sinking back into his comfort zone. It felt like the court snapped into focus and all that mattered was the squeak of shoes and the fleeting touch of the ball against the curve of his palm. His body moved the exact way he wanted it to. He spun and dodged, nailed three point shots more often than not, felt like he was riding a high.

They practiced individual skills before they moved onto mock games. José was no joke. He moved like he could read the offence’s mind. It was frustrating and exhilarating at the same time. 

The group’s synchronicity of their plays made their history together obvious. 

The practice games were intense and competitive. For every layup and three pointer Wes scored, José would score the same. The others weren’t pushovers either. Isaac would shut him out with a shit-eating grin and Anthony was way faster than he looked. 

José blew past his sophomore defender and jumped, slamming the ball through the basket and holding onto the rim for a few seconds before he dropped. He bounced into a jog, whooping in triumph. Isaac and Mark high-fived him while Joseph and Anthony, who were on Wes’s side, groaned.

Mrs. Tetslaff blew the whistle and everyone stopped, turning towards her. 

“Alright, gentlemen, good job today. Take a five minute break. Go get some water and then we’ll move into cool downs.” 

Wes sighed, his shoulders sagging. Admittedly, he was tired, but he didn’t want to stop. His new friend group walked towards the corner of the gym to a bench where they had water bottles and towels. Wes, who had neither, just went for the company. Issac grabbed his shoulder as he neared. 

“Shit, man, you can actually play,” he said, giving him a shake.

“So can you guys,” he breathed. Wes grabbed the hem of his shirt and used it to wipe the sweat off his face. “You didn’t take it easy on me that’s for sure.” 

“Mrs. Tetslaff was impressed, I could tell,” Joseph said, sprawling out on one of the benches. 

“You think so?” Wes glanced back at the stern woman who was in the middle of yelling at a pair of Freshmen across the gym.

“For sure, bro. The way you played you might jus’ make varsity,” José said, smacking the cap of his water bottle closed. 

“‘Might’?” Wes quirked a brow. 

“Homie, yer gonna have to get past us to make varsity,” Isaac pointed out, gesturing to the rest of the guys. Wes blinked, looking at the five of them. 

“Damn, guess you’re right.” 

“It’s okay, you can take Joey’s spot, he won’t miss it,” Mark said, snapping his hand towel at Joseph. He squawked and rolled off the bench onto the floor with a thud. 

“Asshole! And what the hell d’you mean I wouldn’t miss it?” He pushed himself up to glare up at Mark. 

“Bruh, all last season you cared more about flirting with Tiff than showing up to practice on time.” 

Joseph’s cheeks flushed pink. 

“So? I still got better stats than you did. Plus who doesn’t lose track of time when flirting with a cute girl?”

“I dunno, man. Sounds like a straight problem,” Anthony said from Wes’ other side. Wes looked over at him, a little surprised. 

Joseph pushed himself up. “Shut up, Anthony, as if you haven’t been late because you’re flirting with some guy.” 

Anthony snorted. “At this school? Gimme a break.” 

“Whatever, dude, at least I don’t wanna fuck a ghost.” 

That managed to get a reaction out of Anthony. He stiffened, cheeks tinting red. His gaze darted around the ground before his expression hardened.

“If I remember right, Joseph, you retweeted Dash’s ‘Its not gay if he’s dead’ tweet just like everybody else,” he shot back, lifting his chin.

Joseph’s eyes widened. 

Isaac, Mark and José spluttered from behind Joseph. Anthony smirked and crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Because it was funny! It was a meme, dude!”

“No need to get defensive now, it’s okay. You can admit that Phantom made you have a gay awakening.” Anthony had an evil twinkle in his eye, like a shark that’d caught the scent of blood.

“What? Dude, no I— Guys come on, help me out here.” 

Isaac stepped up next to Joseph and threw an arm around him, pulling him closer by his neck. 

“Homie, no cap, I wasn’t bi till I moved here. That probably ain’t no coincidence, know wha’m’sayin’?  

Joseph looked stricken, like he could feel himself losing the argument. 

“Oh come on—what about you, newbie?” 

All eyes turned to Wes and he swallowed. Oh, God. Why were people in Amity so goddamn weird? Attracted? To a ghost? 

“Uhm… I mean. Uh. I’ve only seen him once…” He twisted the toe of his shoe against the ground. “Also he’s technically dead, right? Isn’t that like, messed up?” 

Everyone who wasn’t Joseph just rolled their eyes or puffed out a breath. 

“He’s new, give him a while, he’ll come around,” Isaac said, sharing glances with the guys in support of literally thinking a ghost was hot. Wes tried to hide his bewilderment. He seriously doubted he’d “come around”. What was wrong with these people? 

Joseph shoved himself away from Isaac’s grip and interlocked his arm with Wes’. 

“Fuck you guys, Wes is my new bestfriend now.” 

“Boy, you literally out here with silver hair, who’da fuck you think you foolin?” José said, jabbing a flat hand towards him.

“...Elliot said it’d help me get girls’ numbers,” he said softly, lifting his hands to tend it with a frown.  

“You actually listened to that clown?” Anthony grimaced. 

“Bro, I thought you said you liked it?” 

Anthony rolled his eyes. “Whatever.” 

“Oof, Anthony hit his word limit, guys.” Mark said. The guys broke into laughter. For the first time since moving to Amity Park, Wes actually didn’t hate being there. 

But because it was in-fact Amity Park, of course that’s when shit went sideways. 

There was an explosion from above them. Wes flinched, whipping around towards the source of the sound. The overhead lights flickered, and debris rained down on the center of the court. There was a gaping hole in the ceiling of the gym, sunlight streaming through. A huge shape flew down through the hole, stopping to float thirty feet up. The being glowed unnaturally and had what looked like a mohawk of green flames. The thing looked around, and then flew straight towards Wes and the group. Wes stumbled back into Isaac, his brain short circuiting.

“What the hell—” 

“Ghost!” someone screamed, and that’s all it took for the gym to descend into chaos. People scattered, fleeting through the nearest exits. 

But Wes and his new friends had nowhere to go. They all backed up, pushed against each other in the corner.

“Oh shit,” José said, voice hushed. “It’s Skulker.” 

“What? Who?” Wes whispered back. 

“Dude, shut up! He’s coming closer,” Joseph hissed, slapping a hand over Wes’ mouth. He didn’t even have time to be pissed about it before the ghost was right on top of them.

It grinned. The air felt heavy and Wes’ heart kicked in his chest. Its body was grey and sleek like metal. Out of all the ghosts that they could have, of course Amity had a fucking cyborg ghost. 

The ghost loomed over them. “Have any of you feeble little humans seen the Ghost Child recently?” Its voice was gruff and low, echoing horribly against Wes’ ears. Its eyes were disks of solid green burning into them as it stared. It was still smiling, jagged metal teeth gleaming in the dim reflected light. 

Wes wanted to say “no”, maybe that would make it leave, but Joey’s hand was still firmly over his mouth. The ghost leaned closer, its glare narrowing. 

“Well? Speak, you sniveling humans,” it growled. 

There was a moment’s silence, then: “recently? No.” 

Wes, along with the rest of the group’s attention snapped over in dismay to Anthony. He looked nonchalant, or would have if not for the rigidness of his arms and the tension in his brow. Their gaze slowly craned back over to the ghost, terrified of its reaction.

But the ghost leaned back, demeanor doing a complete one-eighty. “Huh, you haven’t?” Its eyes went cartoonishly big. He looked at a panel that appeared on the back of his wrist. “My scanners say he’s in the area.” The ghost tapped in the scanner a few times, before he gave up and shrugged. 

“No matter.” The cruel smile spread over its face again. “All I have to do is stir up a bit more trouble and my prey will surely appear.” 

Wes watched in horror as long wicked green blades extended out from the ghost’s arms. It closed the small gap between them, a chuckle building up from its throat—or whatever ghosts had. 

“Why hasn’t someone hit the Ghost Alarm?” Mark whispered. 

“Shh,” José snapped. 

Wes swallowed, his mouth going dry and his knees shaking. 

Yeah, he absolutely hated it here again. 

The ghost lifted a blade, resting its tip just above his collarbone. Holy shit, holy shit, holy—

Wes caught the sight of movement from behind the ghost: a flash of black and white. 

“Skulker, leave them alone,” came another echoing voice. Instead of feeling hot and stuffy a chill spread over Wes’ skin as the temperature of the gym dropped. 

The metal ghost spun around, its absence opening up the group's line of sight enough to see none other than Phantom. He was floating some ten feet away, arms crossed over his chest. He paid them no attention, his eyes fully locked on the hulking metal ghost. 

“Oh thank fuck,” Joseph breathed, relaxing enough to release Wes. 

“There you are, Ghost Child,” the cyborg said, sounding pleased. “I was wondering when you’d decide to—” Phantom became a blur. The next thing Wes knew, the huge ghost was sent flying, crashing into a wall on the right side of the gym. 

Phantom was now occupying the space the cyborg ghost had just been. He shook out his hand before curling it back into a fist. “Seriously, how many times do I have to tell you not to drag people into our shit, Skulker?” There was a beat, and Phantom looked over at them, like he’d just remembered they were there in the first place. His eyes flicked over all of them, and Wes couldn’t suppress his shiver when the ghost looked at him. 

“Oh, ‘sup. You guys might wanna, ya’know...” He jerked his head towards the closest exit. And then Phantom was gone, reappearing across the gym. The group didn’t need to be told twice, the next second they were moving. They scrambled out of the corner, practically tripping over one another. 

Wes felt like he was frozen in place. He stared dumbly at where Phantom and the metal ghost were now locked in battle. 

“Dude, what’re you waiting for? Let’s go!” José said, grabbing Wes by the arm and hauling him towards the doors. 

“Wait—” he objected weakly. His legs felt like jelly as he moved. He wanted to see the fight, see Phantom. He didn’t know why, but something in the back of his mind was screaming at him. 

He had questions.

But his new friends didn’t stop until they’d dragged him out through the metal swinging doors of the gym and into the hallway. The door slowly swung back closed, and Wes caught a glimpse of green bolts streaking like comets through the air and Phantom colliding with the ground.  

[pvremichigan]

Consequences. [Hell Arc Drabble - Aftermath]

TW: Blood, hallucinations, screaming in agony, burning, delusion, blindness, body horror

(Warning: Long drabble)

@yesfxckyxu @smokes-and-bullets

"There's no helping this... This is my consequence to face... All this, all this shit was on me and me alone... Sometimes you just can't do a thing about it. I'll be okay..."

Francis had come to visit while Mich had been healing. It had only been half a week, thank goodness she was able to talk somewhat...

Letting out a long sigh at this, the blond nodded. "Alright.. But if you ever need anything from me.. If I can help just.. say something. Call me. Hell we can just.. I don't watch a movie or play poker. Something." He knew Jack was there and helping her, but Francis didn't want her to be alone or think she had to recover alone. Even if  he came just to keep her company he would. "I know you'll be okay but it doesn't mean you have to deal with it on your own."

"I know... Having to deal with this and h-"

She stopped, still recalling what had happened last time. ... For now, she won't say it. Insults can wait.

"Having to deal with this is enough. You can do me one favor though..."

She couldn't choke back the struggled grunt as she slowly pushed herself up enough to try her best at sitting up on her own. It was slow, painful, and very difficult to do... But after a moment, she managed enough for the moment.

"Can you hand me that newspaper?"

Tilting his head from where he sat beside the couch, watching her speak before reaching over as she tried to get up. Not so much to assist, knowing she might want to do this alone, but in case she fell back. Once up he nodded and look around for the newspaper. Seeing it on a table he got up and  walked over. Assumed she wanted to check the date, see what happened while she was away. Returning to the couch, he handed it to her. "It has todays date."

"Even better..."

Before she took it, she rolled her shoulders and neck, trying to loosen the stiff muscles so she could... Read... Properly. It took a good minute or two to unstiffen, and she knew damn well this would take nearly all her energy too... But she reluctantly took the newspaper... Took a look at the date, though vision remained blurry a bit... And began to roll it up. And now, she was smacking him in the head with it.

"THIS. IS. A. SECOND. HOME. You ever chicken out... Again... And I will drag you back here by... Your damn ear... I allowed you in, you're not allowed... To be a stranger anymore... I won't STOP dragging you back... Until you get that... Through... Your skull..."

No, she wasn't mad. Irritated, but not mad at all to the point where this was making her look at him any different. Dropping the newspaper, it was then again time to get lightheaded and flop back down to her pillow, panting from the exhaustion of that exertion she just forced herself to endure...

Once he handed her the newspaper he sat back down beside the couch. Leaning against it but watching, she seemed to be doing better as she looked up the newspaper. What he didn't expect though was her rolling it up. Unsure what she was doing before.. She started smacking him with it out of no where. Crawling away in shock at the hits, Francis faced her with a look that was a mixture of shock and confusion by this action. Gray blue hue wide he reached hand over his head despite having crawled away from the couch. Away from her reach. "I.. Wha.." He was in shock and at a loss for words. At this point simply staring at Mich wide eyed. She wanted her here then? Allowed him in, allowed and intended for him to stay? Hell the woman even said she'd drag him back. All of this coupled with the fact she smacked him. Both were a shock.

"My... H-Home... Is home... To wh-whoever I say it is..." Her arm hung over the edge of the couch, now limp from the fatigue.

"And I refuse... To let anyone... Run away from home..." "There's no reason to... Unless I truly give one..."

He wasn't sure what to say at this, how to respond. Shuffling forward, closer as her arm fell, hang from the bed. Reaching over to gently lift her hand back up and against herself. He had no words for what she said, though he took it to heart. Couldn't shake how out of place he was here, it may have been a home he was allowed in but for himself it wasn't quite that yet. He looked sad, almost torn for a moment at this before his usual smile returned rather quickly. Despite his own feelings and the fact he felt he didn't quite belong, was thankful she meant for him to stay. That this was a place he could always come to. "Thank you.."

"Don't... Thank me... When you earned it... All by yourself..."

He's so confused. "I didn't.. do anything."

"If that's what you believe... Then think harder..."

She won't push, but... Everything he showed in the hangouts... All the potential and hope he held in that sparkle in his eye. His repressed but glowing urge for a better future for himself... He never failed her. He's not going to let her or himself down.

He stares at her confused by all this and unaware of what he has done or said that allowed this. Allowed him to earn this. Sighing he shrugged looking defeated but let it be. Took her words and the smack his head received from her to heart. Couldn't figure out why but she was allowed him welcome here. "Either way.. thank you.."

"What did I just say..."

She's just letting it go. It's whatever. She really doesn't mind anymore, let him thank her. He has before. But now... It doesn't mean as much as it used to, not until he figures out why he deserved it. It'll take him a while but as of now... She's got all the time in the world...

Sighing softly he nodded in response, looked somewhat nervous but let it be. "Yeah.." She seemed weak, tired. That smacking must have taken most if not all of the energy out of her. "You rest. Was it worth it?" It wasn't easy for him to accept what she said yet deep down it made him happy.

"It'll be worth it... In the end..." She used very few words as to not use up all her energy...

Nodding he leaned back against the couch. "Sleep then, rest. That whacking must have taken it out of you." He wasn't sure if he was going to be there when she woke. Stay as long as he felt comfortable anyway. Despite her welcome in this being his home as well, it wasn't. Not yet.

"M'fine... The only way... I'm getting any sleep... Is if I pass the hell out..."

And she's fighting to keep conscious as they speak.

"Maybe... If you didn't bolt like a hostage... I wouldn't have had to whack you like that..."

He could tell she was struggling to stay awake. Watching from where he sat as she spoke before laughing softly at what was said. "I'll try not to bolt like a hostage again." No promises, if he was alone or wasn't familiar with anyone there, he would leave. It was awkward being here with those he barely knew. If Mich were awake he didn't mind so much. "You pack quite a punch, that and took me by surprise." Even in her current state.

"It was... Fucking newspaper... Don't be a pussy..."

Heat flashes began to start up again, but she did her best to keep her calm and not give in to her body collapsing yet again.

"It was... R-Right after I b-lacked out... Gh-"

She can't even finish her sentence, her skin started to feel like it was being scorched by flame... It truly stung and burned like real flame. Despite her skin not looking like it, the feeling was far too real to ignore.

"Th... Moment I p-pass out... Y-ou'll... Bolt..."

Oh how her teeth wanted to crack under the pressure of her closed jaw, speaking gritted through clenched teeth.

"You rolled it up and I'm a weak old man." He was teasing somewhat, hoped to get some chuckle out of her. Right, he left after she passed out last time. "I know.." She sounded weak, and he was getting worried. "Are you alright.. Hey.. If you need to sleep don't let me stop you.. I won't bolt.. I'll wait for as long as I can okay.. I'll wait.." Sitting up he got on his knees to face her as he spoke. Worried for her and unsure what to do. "I'll be here.." He wasn't sure how long he'll be able to stay before his own panic sets in to leave, but he would try and stay as long as he could until she woke again.

She didn't need this, not now... She didn't need to burn yet again... There was barely hellfire when she was there but every attack from those beasts felt like she was being seared alive... Her vision kept flickering from her being able to see to just pure blinding white flooding her vision. Looking down at her arms, she began to see them bubbling... Slowly tearing themselves apart as the skin grew blacker with 3rd degree burns and worse. Even her muscles were growing large grotesque bubbles of fat and flesh, this was a horrific sight to witness on her own body. She was hallucinating. Mich did her best not to react, trying to keep from scaring Fran... But for a split moment, her brain was convinced this was real. The pain was dreadful, but she had to refrain from screaming out in agony. The woman had to bite down on her tongue just to stop, but unfortunately that caused her mouth to begin filling a bit with blood. Now she couldn't even speak. The woman did her best to try to look at Fran with sympathy in her eyes, giving him a warm look to assure him that she would somewhat be fine... But she pointed at the door. Not kicking him out because she wanted to, that's not it at all. Instead... She had to do it so he didn't have to witness any of this, much less witness HER like this. She would try to apologize later if need be... But she had a feeling this was only the tip of this ice burg for this hallucination. It was about to get ugly... And she didn't need to worry Fran with this.

Something was wrong, something was very wrong and he couldn't pin point what but her expression, the sudden silence. Watching as she pointed at the door still in silence before facing her with much confusion. "You want me to leave?" This was confusing him so much. One moment she wanted him to stay, now she was asking him to leave. He didn't want to leave her, wasn't sure what was happening. The expression she gave him wasn't angry, so he couldn't have done anything wrong to warrant her wanting him out. Looking down at her, Francis was torn and it showed on his pained expression. Confused and unsure what to do. Do as she said and leave, or stay and help with whatever it was that was happening. He hated this. Knew if he left it wouldn't settle well with him. Felt so wrong, but what would happened if he stayed. What repercussion would come from that. "I.. I'll go.. But.." Should he get Jack first? This felt so wrong, leaving her like this.

She didn't mean to expose him to this, this wasn't fair for him to witness but it was too late. Her mouth filled too quickly, and she quite nearly bit half of her tongue off. Physical healing took way longer than normal for her, so that... Was going to be a pain. It'll heal in about a day or two, yet normally it would take BARELY seconds. Her body turned to throw herself towards the edge of the couch enough to be able to release all of the blood in her mouth, which wasn't stopping either... It wasn't like she could run out of blood... Yet another bloodstain on the carpet, another reminder of everything that had gone wrong. Her mouth was agape, a bit stiff as she held back all the cries of pain her body was trying to force out of her.

She was boiling alive... Through her flickering vision, her arm was still practically melting off the bone and boiling to a disturbing extent. The pain slowly began to spread through her whole body, causing her to feel like she had been thrown in a pit of fire. These delusions were ruining her so terribly... She felt like the room was gone. It felt like a monotone void, all alone with only echoes of any sound that was made. Reality seemed to slip away as she strained and recoiled, falling off the couch as she let out the agonized scream-like cries from the physical and mental torture she was enduring at the moment. Nothing real was around her in her mind anymore, she was yet again alone, screaming in misery and pain with only herself to hear... While in Fran's eyes, it was all the same apart from her being away in a void and her skin boiling and melting. Still, the strain and tension in her body could tell anyone how bad it was what she was going through...

Scrambling back in horror as she dumped the blood from her lips onto the floor from where she lay. His gaze wide in shock and horrified by what he was seeing. The blood was from her tongue. "Shit.. Shit Mich!" Scrambling back to the couch at her scream, it was heart wrenching and painful to hear. Watching her writhe in pain. What could he do, what can he do. Wait it out? Watch her and let her ride it out? That felt so wrong, seeing someone suffer and not do something about it. Frantic he looked around the room, for anyone to help. Jack probably knew better how to deal with this. Facing back down at Mich as she screamed, she was in such agony and he couldn't do shit about it. Would touching her help? Would it make it worse? Biting his lip he stood from the couch and looked around. Was he seriously alone with her in this house. "What do I do.. What can I do.. " Her screaming, her pain was hard to bare. Leaning back down before her on the couch he reached for her hand. "You're at home.. You're safe at home." Squeezing her hand with both his, he felt a knot in his chest and throat. Nothing would help, as Jack said nothing here they could do. "You're on your couch.. at home.." He talked, just talked. Named the colors of her home, the couch she was on, the kitchen and television. He was rambling but he couldn't just sit by and watch her wait this out. The blood, the screaming, all of this was too much. Talking about the area her house was in, where she lived. What state she was in. Kept her hand in his. She was in pain, how would any of this help, she was hurting, scared and this was all he could do.

IJ had only been away for a moment, having had trust that Francis wouldn't do any harm to Mich while he was away. Jack had decided to do some minor cleaning - picking up some stuff that he had left out for awhile. Picking up papers that had dealt with the new warding, putting away books to ease any distaste for what she had to go through to get to Hell... That, and, he happened to get distracted with the cleaning that he had started to pick up his room. Within that moment, something caught his attention.

His senses... told him to go back downstairs. Something was wrong.

Without much hesitation, Jack did that, worry already painting his features as he got closer - those senses screaming at him that Mich was in pain. Which she was. He felt the heat. The scorching of fires blazing on his skin, to his bones, seering his nerves...

Gulping, he heard Francis talking - stating everything he could to bring Mich back to her home - to her reality, that she wasn't in Hell anymore. This also left Jack in a state of 'what to do', bringing a hand to his neck with his free hand placed on his hip... dealing with the pain Mich was dealing and... He closed his eyes trying to focus on how to help and what he could do - but he knew there wasn't anything other than to support her. Placing both hands on his sides, he walks over to her before placing those same hands on her shoulders, forehead to her forehead as he gently talked - not with worry in his tone and not with stress as he knew that would probably make things worse... but he talked of all the times they had playfully bantered, about how the dogs would be there and how Riley will bonk his head on anything even if it wasn't in his way. Adding jokes about she, herself, would be a pain just cause she can. Telling her that this pain, these fears, they will never take her down. She will only get stronger. That she will be more herself than she ever will be because she fought for her soul.

Everything will be okay in the end.

She tried, she really did. To hear anything, to hear the hum of voices. In her head, like before, she didn’t feel home no matter how much they tried to prove it to her. The burning grew worse and worse, her hand instinctively grabbing her arm, unsure why. Little did she realize during the screams, her grip tightened... She was digging her nails and nearly her fingers right into her arm, writhing in pain on the ground as more blood began to fill her mouth. The crimson leaked out the sides of her mouth, only released and spilled when she was able to turn over once in a while. The pain was so overbearing that Fran grabbing her hand wasn’t felt. It was numb, cancelled out with the amount of pain surging through her. Her eyes were tightly shut, but if she were to open them, she’d be watching her body practically boil and melt right before her very eyes. Slowly she began to believe that this wasn’t a hallucination. This felt too real... It was terrifying. There was a numb pressure against her forehead, but she was still unable to open her eyes. Her nerves kept them shut from the intensity of the pain. The hum of voice felt familiar... This one was deeper than the other. She knew Fran was there, probably the first one to speak when she was no longer able to comprehend the surroundings, but this one... Ah... Who was it...

Hearing Riley’s name, hearing... Very small situations that no one else would really know. No one else was around...

Of course...

Jack.

She had no time to be mad, the pain was only increasing... Her limbs began trembling, shaking as they were almost paralyzed with the tension of her muscles locking up. Her body forced quite a bit of blood out of her throat in the form of a cough as a fear response. Along with the blood that was pooling in her mouth, quite a bit was coughed right onto Jack as if it were a full cup that had been thrown on him. What a bitch to clean... But that’s not the concern right now.

The hum of the bass in his voice was fading in and out as she couldn’t help but gives panicked sounds before crying out in misery. How awful that must’ve been for Jack who was barely inches away from her. She was doing her best to come out of this but the burning would not stop. It wouldn’t, even when trying to imagine being home... It just kept going. There was an unbelievable amount of blood for a hallucination episode. Her fingers were still digging into her arm, blood pooling around the tips and trickling down more and more until the spot on the floor grew larger. Unsurprisingly, it was far too much to handle at the moment, tears only now starting to flood the mess of the situation. The bass kept getting louder, enough to bring her down a bit for her to open her eyes. As if she had gone blind, her eyes were clouded with a muted color, temporary but concerning in nature.  It was true, however, she couldn’t see a thing. Her eyes searched a bit in front of her, still unable to regain her vision. Terrified and panicked panting replaced the screams when they faded out, the trembling growing worse as her muscles stopped being as tense as before. There was no more strength and courage in her thoughts, it was genuine fear and worry.

”I can’t... I-I can’t see... I can’t... I-I...”

Her voice was quite faded, but she wasn’t shouting anymore. The panic was soft but frantic...

Seeing Jack rush over, Francis faced the man in both horror and an expression that was begging for help. Begging for him to do something, anything that could help her. Help ease whatever she was experiencing and the pain she was in. The screaming was heart wrenching and all he could do was hold her hand and talk. He hoped that Jack could do something more to bring her back. Anything. Watching the young man lean down, hands on her shoulders, head to head. He knew her better, lived with her. Maybe he could do something about this, do something to help. Silent now as Jack spoke though he kept hold of Mich's hand into his. Francis wasn't sure what good he was here. What else could he do but sit beside the red head and wait. Hold her hand and wait. As he hoped it seemed Jack managed to bring her back to some reality. Seeing her like this, screaming, blood oozing from her lips and writhing in pain, it was difficult to watch and bare. At least she had someone who could help, who was able to do something about it. Pull her out even a little. Watching Jack, his gaze on the other male then down at Mich as she spoke softly. She was scared, she was frightened. It wasn't much but it was something and she was talking, realized someone was there. That Jack was there. "Keep talking.." It seemed to help her, whatever Jack was doing it had some affect, even a little. This was good, right? Francis still didn't quite understand it all, only knew what he saw, the pain she was in and the fact he lacked much knowledge and knowing to this entire matter.

Francis was of no concern to Jack - as he had already blocked out those concerns before he could even feel them radiate off the man. Jack would rather focus more on Mich than to ease both of them at the same time. Besides, the immortal already knew what Francis wanted. It would be pointless to address the man's fears when those fears were aimed at Mich's state of being. The blood, the screaming... the sensation of melting flesh. Jack could only handle so much before a flicker of pain also spread across his features before he attempted to keep his composure again.

This was not the time to fall behind and give Mich the idea that there was something wrong on the outside world... as he could see the dimming of color in her eyes - the sign of blindness. He assumed this came from the response of her fear, her body reacting on it's own due to try to protect itself despite that if she was truly in a dire situation it would only do the opposite... Thankfully she was with people she trusted, well... At least with Francis.

"Mich, don't focus on trying to see..."

The man says slowly, cupping her cheeks... Despite the blood that had gone onto him, he paid no mind. Even if his ears ringed slightly from those screams prior... Her body was losing energy, and despite her panic still going strong - he had to focus on keeping that strong image for her.

"Focus on the idea that this won't last... the pain. Everything you've experienced in Hell... You're home. You've made it out. This pain is temporary. This healing process won't hold you down, because you've faced the biggest battle and you came out alive. Focus on that. Focus on the truth - no matter how the lies are treating you right now. Focus on my words. You're a survivor. You're a soldier. You have not fallen, and facing this... I doubt anything will take you down."

While speaking those words, he was stern but also soft. Having cupped his hands upon her cheeks, still having his forehead pressed against hers... He kept his energy stable. Keeping what he could, as if he was her rock. And he meant every bit of it.

Hearing the voice is all she could do to visualize him since her sight was still gone. The panicked breathing only quickened when, in her mind, the visual of Jack standing there was drawing closer. It was uncomfortable seeing him slide closer without moving a muscle, but his words were repeated in her head with the visual of Jack saying them as well. However... The voice nearly fuzzed out towards the end until the word soldier was blasted through her entire mind. That was painful in itself, but the worst was the flames that slowly started to spark on Jack. Within moments notice, the hallucination of him erupted in flames, his whole body giving into the heat as it began to melt and burst just as hers did. The flames reached his shoes, which would most likely cause it to not spread as much if it's just him.

Wrong call...

The fire raced towards Mich in her mind, quickly engulfing her in those same flames that sped up the agony of the burns... As if her nerves were never going to give in and accept defeat, the pain was never past the point of getting used to it. Over and over her body felt the same exact intensity of pain as when it first started, and catching on fire didn't make anything better. She screamed out yet again, trying to shove Jack away as if she were attempting to escape the flame again. That moment of calm when she grew blind barely lasted a minute before the worst of it all began for her. These screams were a mix of pain and panic, worse panic than before. Similar to those screams from the hug that one night, but these ones were worse. These signaled that she believed she was in legitimate peril... The words he spoke were heard barely but the focus on them left quite a while ago when the flames started. She could feel her muscles and organs begin searing from the inside, her heart in the process of being scorched. It felt like a heart attack on steroids, this was the worst thing she's ever been through in her entire life...

The flames reached for her brain and her soul, everything growing more intense and louder by the second. This was it... Was this the day she dies? There hadn't come a day in so long where she believed that she would not make it through. In her mind, this truly seemed like the end... The fire had reached her head. Her brain, slowly but surely, began to burn and collapse. But just like falling in a dream... Right before death... It stopped. The hallucination ended abruptly, the only thing left behind was the warm sensation of the delusional fire slowly fading by the moment.

Her vision was still practically gone, but she was able to make out shapes and figures just a tad. Not too easily... Her eyes were still fairly clouded over, though not as bad as before. The screams stopped. All that was left was frightened and exhausted panting, absolutely drained from that one... If that's not even the worst one, she's terrified to go through whatever's yet to come... Mich was still. Panting heavily, but still. Any movement of the jaw would grow uncomfortable as the dried and clotting blood began to harden around her mouth. As if something was pulling on her skin... It's over... But it wasn't something she'd be able to forget for a long time.

She hopes she never has to go through it again.

She doesn't believe she'd be able to endure it again at all without losing the battle...

It seemed for a moment Jacks words and actions were helping, she was calm, for a moment. Jolting as Mich suddenly screamed again, feeling that agony and shrill to his core. His gaze going from Mich to Jack, horrified. What happened, she seemed to be doing well but suddenly got worse again. What went wrong? Silent, almost afraid to speak. Afraid he would say something wrong, make this worse than it already was. The man was scared, genuinely scared for her and unsure what was happening and what could be done to help her. Ease Mich's pain. Then suddenly it seemed to end. Out of no where, he screams, her agony and writhing in pain. It stopped. Aside from her heavy breathing, her panting. Whatever happened, whatever it was that had been causing her such pain seemed to vanish. Francis didn't understand this, couldn't grasp it aside from knowing her pain was real. The damage to her mind and body, it was all real. Voice shaking, like a child afraid to speak in fear of some punishment, the blond faced Jack. "Her lips.. the blood.." Clean the blood from her lips, perhaps a cold wet rag over her head. "Cold rag over her head, it could help.. try and soothe her." Hated this, hated all of this and hoped that it was over. That she could rest now, not in pain, not in the agony she was in. His hands were still holding hers and wasn't aware he was shaking at all this. "Is it over.." Would whatever caused her body such pain suddenly return again?

Jack wasn't sure what could have caused this reaction. Feeling the scorching intensify - feeling the wave of heat under his skin - he felt as if he was starting to sweat. Though, he wasn't. As she tried to push him away, he didn't move - not because he felt it would make things worse - but also because he physically wasn't able to. The sensation she was experiencing now entered his own world of agony. Watching her and feeling the burns - he has now come to dissociate in a way that prevented him to move. He's never experienced this amount of agony from another living thing before. The screaming she was letting out has now embalmed itself into his mind. Leaving with the sensation that everything that has come up to this point has been a dream turned nightmare - literally.

Meeting her. Living with her. Bantering with her. Getting to know her. Seeing her lose her memories. Going to Hell... This has all been one long dream. One long nightmare. And when he wakes up... He'll be somewhere that isn't here... He doesn't know where. He doesn't know...

Finally, everything stops. Causing him to drift back into reality in his own way. The blood on the edges of her mouth, the panicked residue of the atmosphere, the exhausted panting of Mich...  Everything slowly starts clicking back into place. The feeling of the burns residing as he slowly, and carefully gets up. And with gentle ease, lifts Mich back onto the couch before slowly nodding to Fran. Granted, he didn't hear Fran say a thing. He's just going by instinct...

He isn't sure if he can hear anything for a moment... everything is buzzing. A low droning hum... He feels a bit dizzy. Though, he does what he can think of at the moment. Going into the kitchen, taking a wash rag and running it under cold water before allowing the excess water go down the sink as he twists it mildly. Keeping the needed water locked in. Going to Mich to wipe her face of the blood... before going back to the kitchen sink. Rinsing off the rag. Running it under cold water. Twists it. Returning back to Mich to fold the rag neatly over her forehead.

These movements came without thought. And before the immortal knew it, Jack had collapsed on the other couch.

[justauthoring]

No Reason To (38/50)

Prompt: “And I guess… when it comes down to it, I trust you.”

A/N: AND HERE WE GO! The final part to season five!

Also, longest chapter to date check.

Send me a little comment in the ask section or leave it below on what you thought of this chapter. As usual, I hope you all enjoyed!

AGAIN, remember if you’d like me to continue this series, just leave a little comment or an ask letting me know. I will NOT continue the series if no one wants me to.

Please don’t plagiarize my work!

Pairing: Stiles x McCall!Reader

Based off of: Teen Wolf 05x17, 05x18, 05x19 & 05x20!

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Y/N.”

“But like... absolutely positive?”

Letting out a heavy sigh, Lydia turns from her vanity, facing you with a roll of her eyes. “Yes,” she emphasizes the word, shaking her head at you in exasperation. “My mom even said she was cool with me coming back, and that’s... well, that’s a feat on it’s own.”

Biting your lower lip, you shrug from where you’re sat on the edge of her bed, wrapping your arms around your knees and tugging them closer against your chest. “I’m just not sure it’s such a good idea,” you mumble, voice a whisper despite the fact that Lydia can hear you perfectly. “With everything that happened and--”

“I’m fine, Y/N.” Lydia sighs, a frown marring her features. You don’t miss the concern that starts to bleed into her expression, her frown deepening as her voice softens. “What’s got you so hesitant?”

Maybe the fact that your powers are out of control. Maybe the fact that, for once, you just want to be a normal teenager girl. Maybe the fact that you absolutely do not want to see Stiles, especially if Lydia is there (as wrong as that sounds). You don’t want the possibility of running into Theo. You don’t want to even really function as a human being anymore because everything’s so messed up and scary.

“I just think we could have a fun girl’s day.”

Lydia lets out a light chuckle; “we’ve missed enough school, Y/N.” Pushing back round to her vanity, she grabs her brush back from where she’d left it, dusting the last little bit of blush to her cheek before pushing herself to her feet. “Besides, Scott still needs our help.”

Well, i’m sure I won’t be much help anyways.

You choose to remain silent. Simply following Lydia round with your eyes as she wanders over to her closet to grab a sweater. As she moves towards you, intent on grabbing her bag that’s resting next to you, you let your gaze fall to your lap, pulling your sleeves over your palms to hide the marks you’ve created there, inhaling deeply.

“Y/N,” Lydia calls softly, causing your eyes to flicker upwards onto her own. You pause at the deep frown marring her lips. “Are you okay?”

“I’m good,” you assure, forcing a bright smile onto your lips that you pray is believable. “Just tired.”

She leans a little closer, as if inspecting you. “You do look tired,” then, leaning back, she bites her lower lip. “You’re sure that’s it?”

It’s not-- “Yeah, of course.”

Ignoring her still wandering gaze, you push yourself up to your feet, nodding to yourself before smiling over at Lydia. “Let’s go,” you urge, heading for her bedroom door. “We don’t want to be late.”

Lydia rolls her eyes; “two minutes ago you didn’t even want to go!”

-

“Mason says it’s not just a transmitted frequency. It’s high powered. Like it has to be a really strong signal.”

“And that’s causing it to shift?”

“No, I don’t think it’s just that,” Scott shakes his head, “last night Argent said that it’s getting smaller. What if the Dread Doctors are trying to make the Beast grow faster?”

Furrowing his brows, Stiles speaks up; “with frequencies?”

“No, by shifting.” Scott clarifies, “the frequency is just the trigger. The important part is when it shifts into the werewolf.”

Pausing a moment, your eyes widen; “like Peter,” you offer, meeting your brother’s gaze. He’s eager to nod in response.

“Right,” he smiles briefly, “when Peter was an alpha, he got stronger every full moon. Eventually, the burns healed and he was back to normal.”

“So, the Dread Doctors don’t want to wait for the full moon,” Liam concludes, pulling your eyes on him, nodding lightly.

“They want the Beast to be as strong as possible as fast as possible.”

“Because of Parrish.”

“So,” Lydia speaks up, “if this is happening tonight, what are we going to do?”

“Uh,” Stiles mumbles, raising his hand and pointing his pointer finger, “we got one clue to go on.” Moving to his bag, he opens it, searching through for a moment before pulling out a selection of photos, setting it in the middle of the table. “Those came from the hospital,” he explains, as you and the rest lean forward to get a better look at the photo of a footprint. “Whoever’s lurking inside the Beast is wearing a size ten of indeterminate make.”

Scrunching your face in confusion, you turn to Stiles, “indeterminate?”

“Means it’s a partial print,” he explains, “basically, it was all we were able to get considering all the fire, blood and carnage.”

“How many size ten’s are there?”

“Only one with Parrish’s blood on the sole,” Stiles offers lightly.

“So are we going to try to get the game cancelled?”

Nodding at Liam, you quirk a brow; “good question.”

“No, we’re going to play,” Stiles answers bluntly, “but we’re just going to hope really hard that it doesn’t turn into a blood-soaked massacre.”

Your face is pretty similar to the ones on Lydia and Liam’s.

“Okay, um,” Liam begins, taking a moment to pause, “but, aren’t we kind of missing out on a chance to catch this thing? We don’t have the ‘who’, but we have the ‘where’ and ‘when’.”

Turning to Scott, you shrug; you have to admit, Liam’s not wrong.

Wincing, Scott sighs; “there’s too many people,” he reminds.

“And,” Lydia begins, “we still don’t actually know if it’s going to happen. It just might end up being a regular lacrosse game. It’s possible, right?”

“Oh, it’s absolutely possible,” Stiles nods.

Sighing, you set your head in your hands; “just not very likely.”

“So, we’re still getting the game cancelled,” Liam concludes.

“We’re getting the game cancelled.”

-

“Mason, you know your part...?”

“Corey and I break into the Devenford Bus and search their shoes.” Mason relays back with ease, nodding his head at Scott.

Malia steps forward in the next second, “I take out the TV vans.”

“And,” Stiles moves to finish off, “right before the whistle, coach forfeits the game.”

“The rest of us are looking for a size ten with a bloody sole.”

Shrugging your shoulders, you swallow thickly; “simple enough.” Well, if all goes to plan. But, you don’t add that part, simply nodding back at Scott when he turns to you with a smile.

“Just out of curiosity,” Malia speaks up, “what if it doesn’t work?”

Well, you can’t really blame her for asking.

“What if we have to go up against this thing? I mean, I hate to bring up bad memories, but Scott’s still healing from what Theo did to him.”

“No.” Kira whispers, pulling all eyes on her, “he’s not.”

Brows furrowing, you turn to your brother in surprise. He simply smiles back at you, “she’s right.” He assures, and then, at the still questioning gazes sent his way, he slowly rises up his jersey, showing off the fact that, indeed, no wound is left.

Touching your own stomach, you purse your lips; “that’s why it didn’t hurt anymore.”

Snorting at your comment, Scott lowers his jersey; “it happened the night we got Lydia out of Eichen,” he explains, eyes drifting across everyone briefly. “I healed. When were all together again,” he puts emphasis at glancing over at you, “when we were a pack.”

Liam smiles; “the Beast doesn’t have a pack.”

“Not like us,” Scott nods, “we can do this, guys. No one dies tonight.”

-

Your eyes widen when the Coach blows his whistle. However, it’s not to forfeit the game.

Pushing yourself off from where you’re sat, you rush forward, squeezing past people, just barely, and making your way to Scott within record time. You grab onto his arm tightly before he can run off into the field. “Scott,” you whisper lowly, glancing around quickly before meeting his gaze. “What’s going on?”

Shrugging his shoulders helplessly at you, Scott’s eyes widen; “I don’t know.” He swallows thickly, trying to appear calm but you can blatantly see the panic in his eyes. “Just... Just stay here, okay? It’ll be fine.”

He’s pulling himself from your grasp before you can say anything more. Lips parting as he runs off into the field, meeting up with Liam along the way, you let out a huff, spinning in the spot.

“Y/N.”

Blinking at the sound of your name, you just meet Stiles’ gaze as his hand slips around your arm, lightly tugging you with him. You don’t fight his grip, scrambling to catch your footing as he weaves you amongst and through people. The second your eyes catch sight of a police car, you start to follow him more easily, flickering your eyes up to the figure stood by the car.

Stiles’ dad.

Stilinski turns at the sight of his son, nodding at you briefly as Stiles’ hand finally falls from your arm. “Coach won’t forfeit,” Stiles explains plainly, slightly out of breath.

Nodding his head, Noah crosses his arms; “I can see that.”

“What if we call in a bomb threat?”

Turning to Stiles with wide eyes, you shake your head; “that’s not a good idea.”

He turns to you in disbelief; “why not?”

“Stiles,” Noah calls, pulling his son’s eyes on him, “you remember the bomb threat at the airport three weeks ago?”

“Yeah, of course I do. It was all over the news.”

Quirking a brow at Stiles, you wait for him to get it.

To be fair, it only takes him a moment longer.

“I see your point.”

-

“Woah.”

Blinking, you feel your body tip, your legs turning to jelly beneath you.

Having been behind the bleachers, searching for bloody shoes, size ten as Scott requested, no one sees you. And for that, you’re glad. Your hand instantly rises, gripping onto the edge of the bleacher tightly, your knuckles turning white from the force of which you hold on with. Your vision turns hazy and blurry, and the familiar pang begins in the back of your head.

Just like that, your stomach twists and tightens with fear, knowing that without a doubt, it has to do with your powers.

“Not now,” you growl, teeth clenching together in frustration as you try to fight it. But you can’t. You never have been able to before. And they’re happening quicker, more frequently. Having read Anne’s diary you know why; it’s getting worse. Your powers are getting stronger and because of it, you’re getting weaker. Letting out a small cry of distress, you shake your head. “This is really not a good time.”

You force your gaze upwards, holding yourself up as you try to peer through narrowed eyes and feet for the familiar sight of Scott’s jersey. You’re not sure why. It’s not like he can just leave his game, not realistically at least. But maybe, maybe he can feel what’s happening and maybe he can come and help. Maybe he’ll sense something’s wrong, because you don’t want to do this alone. You’re tired of doing it alone.

But you can’t find him. No where in the crowd of people do you find the familiar number eleven, and your heart sinks with the realization. You don’t know where he is. You don’t remember seeing him having run off, mainly because you’d been so focused trying to find the person.

“Come on, Scott...” You whisper, voice shaky, faint. “Where are you...?”

A muffled cry leaves your lips in the next second, pressing your palm firmly against your lips to avoid alerting attention from anyone around you. It’s then you realize how different this feels. It’s not the familiar ache, and while you’ve always built a sweat when having an episode, it feels different this time. You’re not just clammy but it feels like a pit of fire is growing in your stomach, spreading throughout your entire body and touching every inch of you.

Your skin feels as if it’s burning. From the inside out.

Pushing off of the bleachers, you only make it a few, measly steps before you crash to the floor. Your knees scrape across the grass painful, creating a light burn sensation but amongst everything else, you don’t really feel it at all.

You force your eyes open, eyes lowering to your hands which you hold up towards yourself shakily, There’s an glow of purple around you, in response to your powers, and it’s growing deeper and more pressing by the second. A sob breaks past your lips, your nails digging into your palms in response, touching the already marked injuries and digging deeper. But, the pain help soothes. Helps distract you from everything else.

Helps you distract from the inevitable. From what you can’t stop.

You can’t lose control here. Not here. There’s hundreds of innocent kids around you, your friends are here. Your power had been strong enough to knock down trees and rumble the earth, and that had been when no one else was around. You had no idea what you’d be capable of surrounded by many.

You were meant to be protecting them, and suddenly, with a simple blink of the eye, you’ve turned into the monster threatening their lives.

You feel as if you might break your jaw, clenching so hard, forcing the pit of fire in you to go away; or at least, stay put. You will yourself with every inch of what you’ve got not to lose control. To not become what you’re so afraid of becoming. You try to ignore the deep terror that settles in you, try to ignore the biting panic and focus on controlling yourself.

It has to be possible. It just has to be.

Just because a few things are similar doesn’t mean you’re her!

Scott was right. It didn’t. Your great grandmother was who she was, and you’re who you are.

It isn’t fate. It doesn’t have to be your fate. You... You can change it.

You’re not her, Y/N. You could never be.

Listening to the words, letting them echo in your own mind, your eyes clench shut tightly, your entire body tensing.

You could never hurt someone...

You know what it feels like...

That’s why you never could hurt someone...

But you have. You’ve hurt people.

You hurt Stiles that day when, even for just a second, you doubted him.

You barely even hear the choked sob that breaks past your lips. Your mind feels as if it’s in pieces. There are multiple things being screamed at you all at once and you don’t know what to believe. You don’t know what to listen to. But you just want peace, you want clarity. You want to understand. More then anything.

“Y/N?”

You don’t hear him. You don’t hear the voice. Curled into yourself, you’re too lost in your own mind to hear anything else but the wandering, piercing thoughts.

But you feel the hand. Even if the touch is feathery light, you don’t miss the hand that lightly falls onto your shoulder. It startles you, a cry of surprise leaving your lips as your powers instinctively react. Whoever touched you is sent flying back, a cry of surprise leaving their lips that is luckily not heard over the cheers of the lacrosse game.

And you’re sure you would’ve carried on, sure your powers would’ve continued to have a hold over you if you hadn’t caught sight of the red jersey. If you hadn’t seen the familiar number of twenty-four. If you hadn’t seen, even if just for a second, the warm brown eyes of the boy you loved.

It’s him that snaps you out of it.

Snapping out of it, your powers dim, the fire fleeting as you watch Stiles slam to the ground, his head bouncing off one of the pillars. Your lips part in worry, pushing yourself up to your feet without a second of hesitation, rushing over to him and skidding to your knees in front of him. “Stiles?” You cry, pulling him into your lap gently. You gently tilt his head forward, checking for any blood or anything worse. You let out a breath of relief when there’s just a light bump.

It’ll probably get worse. But... there’s no blood.

“Stiles?” You call softly, eyes flickering to his own as he blinks rapidly, trying to gather his bearing. “Stiles, are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t--”

“I’m good, i’m good,” Stiles gently cuts in, blinking up at you. “I’m good.”

You shake your head, shuffling back and keeping your hands firmly on his own as you help him to his feet. He wobbles lightly, but with your help, stays upright, your hands falling on his waist to keep him steady before leaning back enough to meet his gaze. “Are you sure?” You ask, a deep frown marring your lips. “You hit your head really hard--”

“I’m okay,” Stiles whispers, touching the back of his head lightly before setting his hand on your arm, “I promise.”

Letting out a light huff, you pull your hands back to yourself, cheeks warming slightly in response as you glance down at your feet with a deep frown.

“Y/N,” Stiles calls lightly, and your eyes fall shut, knowing he’d seen it. At least, some of it. “Y/N, it’s gotten worse, hasn’t it?”

Swallowing thickly, you shake your head; “I don’t really think now’s a good time to--”

“Now’s as good a time as any,” Stiles cuts in sharply, pulling your eyes on him with a blink. “Given I found you convulsing on the ground not a minute ago.”

Pursing your lips, you grab onto your left arm with your right hand, squeezing. “I didn’t mean to hurt you...” You whisper lightly, refusing to meet his eyes. “I really didn’t.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Stiles says without hesitation. “I know that. Y/N--” He stops abruptly, causing you to blink up at him eventually in confusion. Your eyes narrow and brows furrow when his gaze seems stuck on something, something on you, lowered slightly, eyes pointed towards your stomach. But that makes no sense cause--

“Your hands,” Stiles mumbles, voice a echoed whisper.

Eyes flickering lower, your eyes widen when, as if for the first time, you see the bruising, red and infected cuts you’d inflicted on yourself. Your palm is bleeding lightly, from what you assumed just happened, but you hadn’t truly noticed the cuts were getting that bad. The habit had just suddenly picked up and got worse progressively over time; you hadn’t known you’d been doing that much damage.

Moving to hide your hands, you shake your head; “i’m fine--”

But Stiles is quicker. He grabs your wrist before you can pull away, pulling your left hand closer and turning it upwards so the palm is facing him. You watch with a frown as his lips part, his other hand coming to lightly ghost over the cuts, before his eyes flicker up to your own. “Y/N....”

“I’m fine,” you lie, “really... They’re not that bad--”

“Not that bad! Y/N, you’re bleeding!”

“It’s...”

But you don’t have an excuse.

And it seems Stiles isn’t sure how to reply either. For a moment, both of you are silent, eerily so. Stiles hasn’t let go of your hand, and instead, he watches you carefully as you desperately try to avoid his gaze, frowning heavily.

Then, and it happens with a blink of the eye, he takes a step forward, lips parting; “Y/N, i’m--”

But he’s cut off by a piercing screech. His hands leave your own as you both of you press your palms against your ears, trying to block out the high-pitched screech as you glance around for some sort of answer.

Then, suddenly, it just stops.

“What was...--”

“Stiles,” you call, head turned towards the news vans. There’s a faint growl, and your heart sinks with realization at what it is. “It’s here.”

Stiles’ eyes flicker from you to past you, catching sight of the Beast just as it appears. Your lips part in panic when you notice a figure running towards it; the figure unmistakably being Liam.

“Liam!” You cry, rushing forward only for Stiles to grab a hold of you, pulling you back. “Liam, wait!”

-

“In here, in here!”

Rushing forward, you pull open the door for Hayden and Stiles, glancing over your shoulder briefly just in case as you pull it completely open. Once they’re both through with Liam, you shut the door behind you, locking it just as Stiles calls out; “the desk, the desk!”

A cry from Liam’s lips snaps your gaze round, watching Stiles hastily shove off whatever had been on the desk to make room for the former. You rush forward to help him and Hayden pull Liam on top of the desk, wincing as he lets out another loud cry of pain. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” you soothe softly, rounding the desk to get to the other side and get a closer look at the injury. “It’s okay.”

Liam lets out a grunt.

“Liam?” Hayden whispers, voice pitched in panic.

“I’m okay,”  he groans, jaw clenching as you and Stiles hastily work to pull back the torn shreds of his jersey due to the Beast. It’s merely because your mother is a nurse and some of the horror stories she’s told you that doesn’t have you gasping and gagging like the other two. And, because you know it probably doesn’t help reassure Liam.

“What?” He pants at them, “what, is it bad?”

“No,” Hayden tries to call in reassurance but of course;

“Very.”

“Stiles,” you hiss, sending him a glare.

Lips parted, he simply glances back at you with a wince.

“Okay, okay,” Hayden swallows thickly, “what do you guys usually do when this happens?”

“Oh, I usually pass out.”

Huffing, you sigh; “it’s true.”

“Still might do that.”

“You are not passing out on me,” you growl, sending a narrowed look his way. “Not this time.” Lowering your gaze, you pull back more of his jersey, catching the tail end of Stiles’ eyes rolling and him wobbling on his legs.

“Stiles!”

“Okay, okay.” Inhaling sharply, he nods. “Scott did this with pain. You can trigger it. Pain makes you human.”

“He’s already in pain.”

“No, no, that could work,” you nod, “maybe adding more can take away a little.”

Liam suddenly lets out a cry, sitting out as he pants heavily.

“Okay,” Hayden whispers, shifting lightly. “Take away his pain... take away his pain.” 

Before you know it, she’s leaning forward, grasping Liam lightly by the cheeks as she presses her lips against his. You blink in response, shuffling on your feet, before, instinctively really, your eyes flicker towards Stiles’. Your cheeks warm when his are already on you, quickly adverting your eyes back to the two, focusing on paying attention if the action is helping Liam; even if only a little.

At the black veins that appear across Hayden’s cheeks, you figure it is.

Slowly pulling back, Liam falls back against the desk, letting out heavy, but calm pants.

“Okay,” Stiles whispers, “next time, i’ll kiss him.”

Letting out a snort, you swallow thickly, meeting Stiles’ gaze briefly before glancing down at your hands.

You don’t notice the way his gaze lingers.

-

“Just wait--!”

“I can’t--”

“Liam’s almost healed up, just wait until--”

“It’s Scott, Stiles,” you remind, turning your head over your shoulder to meet his gaze. Frowning, you inhale sharply, deeply. “It’s Scott. I can’t wait.”

Stiles purses his lips, the frown never wavering as he shakes his head at you. You know he doesn’t like the idea, but you can’t wait. Now that Liam’s healing, you can’t just stand around here and wait. The Beast was somewhere out there and so was Scott; and you knew your brother. He was probably out there trying to help kids and save lives. And he’d need help to do it.

Swallowing thickly, Stiles’ grip on you never loosens. Instead, his fingers tighten around your wrist, not painfully, but in a way that begs you to stay. You don’t realize it, but the reason why he’s so desperate for you not to leave is because the last time you ran off like this, you got stabbed and nearly died.

“What about your powers?” Stiles asks gently, voice a whisper. “You still don’t--”

Swallowing thickly, you pry your wrist from his grasp, meeting his eyes firmly; “Scott needs my help.” Then, at his silence, you take a step back, moving towards the door. “Lock the door behind me. Wait until Liam’s good to go before you open it.”

Taking a step forward, Stiles’ shakes his head; “Y/N, just--!”

But you don’t listen.

You’re out the door, shutting it behind you and sending Stiles one last brief glance through the small window. You feel slightly guilty at the panic that floods his eyes, but you know Liam won’t be far behind you. And even if you were terrified and had been the one to ask Scott not to make you use your powers, you could sense he needed you now. And you weren’t going to fail him this time. Not again.

It doesn’t take you long to find him. You follow the sound of growling and roaring and before you know it, you find yourself at the library. You slam the doors open and instantly your eyes zone in on that of the Beast, missing the teenagers hidden in the upstairs section of the library, between shelves and anything else, zoning in on the sight of Scott being tossed back and slammed into the stairs.

His name leaves your lips in a cry, catching the attention of the Beast. You freeze, for just a second, as the Beast’s sharp and cold blue eyes turn to you, focusing in on you. He completely blocks the sight of Scott but you can hear him cry out for you, voice muffled with groans and grunts of pain.

But he can’t help you. That’s what you came here for; to help him. So, you just gotta... do it.

“Okay, Y/N,” you whisper to yourself, shuffling on your feet slightly, swallowing thickly. “You got this.”

Swiping your hands upwards, a small grunt leaves your lips as you feel your powers surge forwards. It floods through your arms, from your shoulders to your fingertips, stopping the Beast just as it takes a lunging steps towards you. The purple aura hits it directly in the chest, sending it flying back into the stairs and just missing Scott who’d scrambled to get out of the way.

With wide eyes, you glance down at your hands. “I can’t believe that worked.”

“Y/N!”

Blinking at Scott’s bellow, your eyes widen when you see the Beast suddenly lunging towards you. How’d it even get up that fast? Your feet scramble beneath you, rushing backwards to avoid it’s hit, watching as it’s claws get closer and closer to you and the panic settles deep within you.

Then, another growl echoes, and the distant cry of duck echoes. You don’’t hesitate to listen, eyes watching as Liam lunges on top of you, his fists slamming into the Beasts head directly, sending it stumbling back.

In the next second, a shotgun firing echoes.

Glancing behind yourself, your eyes widen with relief at the sight of Braeden and Malia, the latter letting out a growl as her eyes glow blue, taking steps forward. The bullets that hit the Beast does more damage then you would’ve expected and, as the two fall next to you, you stand up, meeting Malia’s eyes briefly before flinging your hands before yourself, pushing your powers out of you.

You force the Beast to stay put for as long as you can, it writhing in response to your restraint held on him and the bullets ricochet off of him relentlessly. A scream begins to build at the back of your throat, your face turn red and strained from the force of your powers and keeping them directed. You’re careful not to lose control, now knowing the many teenagers around you.

You’re not like her.

And you’re not. You’re not like Anne. You don’t have to be. You can be different, you can get control of yourself. You just have to focus, Be less afraid. Believe in yourself.

You’re not a monster.

You help protect. Like your brother. Like Malia, Lydia and Liam. Like Stiles. You protect.

Feeling your muscles contract painful, you let out a huff, “I can’t hold on!”

“It’s fine!” Braden calls in response, “it’s hurt!”

Heeding to your words, you pull back, the Beast finally being able to jump up from it’s spot. For a second, you’re afraid it’ll retaliate, but it’s leaping out of the window in the next second, glass shattering loudly, before a light thump echoes as it hits the ground.

Without a second thought, you’re rushing over to Scott.

“You didn’t seriously think you were going to have a chance against that thing, did you?” Braeden bellows, shaking her at Scott who slowly limps over to her.

Panting, Scott shakes his head; “no.” Then, he shifts, and his expression hardens with determination as he glances at the shattered window. “But, I got it’s scent.”

-

With a nod from Kira, you step back, letting the door shut softly behind you.

However, you don’t notice the figures stood at the end of all. At least, not until you move to turn, a small yelp of surprise leaving your lips at the sight. Setting a hand against your chest, you let your eyes drift across the three figures, from Stiles on the far left, to Malia and then Braeden, lips pursing at the looks they’re sending you.

“What?” You whisper, stepping forward and making your way over to them. “What happened?”

Stiles turns to look at Malia who, avoiding his eyes, turns to Braeden.

Brows furrowing, you shake your head; “hello?”

“Tell her,” Braeden speaks up, nodding at Malia and gesturing towards you.

Turning to Malia, you quirk a brow.

“You know how my mother wants to kill me?” You nod, “I think she might want to kill you too.”

Lips parting, you pause; “well,” eyes drifting over to Stiles, you frown. “That’s concerning.”

Stepping forward, Stiles raises his hand; “I should probably have a gun.”

“What?” You exclaim without hesitance, eyes narrowing in absolute bafflement at Stiles. “Why should you have a gun?”

“To protect you,” he says simply.

Scoffing, you shake your head; “i’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

All he sends you is a pointed look.

“I wouldn’t give him a gun anyways,” Braeden says bluntly, crossing her arms over her chest as she turns to look at Stiles sharply.

His eyes bulge; “you have a gun,” his word slightly stammer, obviously coming up with some sort of excuse on why he should on the spot. “The Desert Wolf is trying to kill Y/N,” he gestures to you, to which you blink at him, “and i’d like to be able to protect her.”

“Stiles--”

“Braeden,” Malia cuts in, nodding over at her.

“What?” You mumble to yourself, arms coming up in exasperation.

With a huff, Braeden complies to Stiles wish, mainly because of Malia. But her face makes it clear she’s about to prove her point. Pulling out a handgun from her back pocket, she pulls to bullets out, gesturing the gun over to Stiles. He blinks with realization, hands hovering upwards slightly in preparation.

He doesn’t catch the gun when thrown to him. Instead, he makes a fool of himself, tossing it around a couple of times before it clatters to the ground loudly.

Letting out a sigh, you let your head fall into your hands.

“I probably shouldn’t have a gun.”

-

“My dad’s got an APB out...”

“For a five-eight sixteen-year-old?” You question lightly, turning your body towards Stiles.

“I recommended nine-foot tall rampaging werewolf,” Stiles replies, causing you to let out a snort, shaking your head.

“It still might not be him.”

Your smile fades at that, frowning over at Liam who glances down at his hands, wringing them together. Upon the many eyes that fall on him, he slowly glances up, catching your gaze first. Smiling softly and pitifully down at him, you purse your lips, sending him a knowing look.

Sighing, Liam’s shoulders drop; “but, Hayden’s at the school looking.”

Malia nods; “I can keep checking the woods.”

“My mom can check all the hospitals in the county.”

Blinking at the sound of Scott’s voice, you instantly straighten up in alarm at the sight of him walking into the kitchen. Your eyes drift across his figure in worry, looking for any sign of the injury he’d got last night. You settle, just a little, when you don’t see any.

Smiling, he nods at all of you; “we can find him.”

“What happens then?” Liam asks, not wasting a second.

“We figure out a way to save him,” you assure, smiling at him reassuringly.

“Okay,” Lydia nods, “where else can we look.”

Shuffling on his feet, Scott tilts his head; “we can ask Corey.” Your eyes narrow in confusion but in the next second, Scott’s reaching beside him, grabbing a hold of something, rather someone, and tugging him forward. You blink in surprise when Corey materializes, everyone flinching back in response as his eyes widen and he’s quick and desperate to explain himself;

“Wait, wait! It’s not my fault! They took him and I couldn’t do anything--”

“Who?”

“The Dread Doctors.”

-

“If you’re trusting Theo, i’m coming with.”

“Y/N--”

“It’s just a given,” you cut off, turning to meet Scott’s gaze with a nod. “We said we had each other’s back, remember? So,” you tilt your head for emphasis, “i’m coming with.”

Stopping you from walking further, Scott gently grasps your wrist in his hand, stepping in front of you. He steps close, causing you to crane your head upwards to properly meet his gaze, blinking up at him in surprise. It’s then, as you get a proper look, you see the concern in his gaze. The panic. It causes you to falter, just slightly, frowning.

“Are you sure?” He questions softly, nodding down at you, desperate for you to see just how serious he really is. “Because don’t feel like you have to do this. That anyone’s expecting you to. It’s okay if you can’t,” and then, he pauses, swallowing thickly. “I’d understand if you can’t.”

“It’s getting better, Scott,” you whisper, a light smile curling onto your lips. “It’s gotten better.”

His brows raise in surprise at that, lips parting; “it has?”

“Yeah,” you smile, nodding your head. “At the game, I had another episode. I tried to find you, but couldn’t. And it was bad. it was like this burning fire inside my stomach and I was so scared, terrified, that I was going to hurt someone. But then...” You pause a moment, lowering your gaze to your feet, licking your lips. “Stiles came. I ended up throwing him back but... but he snapped me out of it.”

Scott blinks, “Stiles did?”

“Yeah, but not just him,” you shake your head. “I think, similar to how you couldn’t heal until we were all together, I needed things to be better. I needed you back, and the rest of the pack. And... even if Stiles and I are... well, you know, we’re better. I think. But, it’s helping. It really is. It helped enough that I was able to hold off the Beast, even for just a bit, and help you without spiraling out of control.”

Lips parted slightly, Scott nods slowly, his grip easing as his gaze softens.

“And I can’t let Theo tear us all apart again.”

“He won’t,” Scott assures, not wasting a second to do so. “He won’t ever again.”

“I know,” you say softly, smiling up at Scott. “But, I need to be there. I need to go with you and Liam. Keep you safe.”

And then, Scott’s smile falters, even if only a little. Running a hand through his hair, brushing it back and out his face, he sighs. “Maybe it’s my turn to keep you safe...”

“You keep me safe all time,” you say simply, shrugging your shoulders up at Scott with a flicker of confusion at his comment. It didn’t make sense to you. How could he say that and not realize that his entire life, he’s been keeping you safe? That you feel safe every time he’s around and that while Stiles and the rest of the pack helped, it was him who held you together when you were falling part.

And it was him only.

“Just by having you by my side, I feel safer.”

Eyes widening in surprise, Scott pulls back; “really?”

“Yeah,” you say with ease, letting out a light chuckle at his surprise. “Of course.”

His shoulders fall, settling and his entire body relaxes. Scott’s lips curve upwards to mimic your smile and taking a small step back, he nods down at you. “Okay,” he whispers, “let’s do this then. Let’s find Mason.”

-

“They called him Der Soldat. That’s German for ‘The Soldier’.”

Inhaling deeply, you follow two steps behind your brother and Liam, already feeling the sour taste in your mouth develop at the sight of Theo. Every time you see him, you think; I can’t possibly hate him more than I do now. You’re wrong every time.

“I’m pretty sure he fought in World War Two.” Theo continues, spinning around to face the three of you.

“And he was a Nazi,” Scott adds, nodding.

“And an alpha werewolf.”

Pursing your lips, your brows furrow.

“The Dread Doctors were using him to prolong their lives,” Theo explains, “they’ve been doing it for decades. Actually, probably longer.” 

Concern bleeds into Liam’s expression and with a shake of his head, he sighs; “how old are these guys?”

“Who knows,” Theo shrugs, “but wherever they go, he goes, too.”

Inhaling sharply, you step forward, falling next to your brother and sending Theo a pointed look. “So, where do we find him?”

Theo’s eyes flicker over to your own, slowly and carefully, and you ignore the bit of fear, the way your body tenses in response, pushing the feeling to the back of your mind. The key was to fight the fear, not let it consume you like you had. And that became ten times harder when dealing with Theo. But you were determined to hold strong; you were getting better and you were not going to let yourself fall again.

“Keeping him alive requires a pretty unique set of conditions,” he frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. “There’s got to be a power source. It has to be underground...--”

“And on a telluric current.” Scott finishes for Theo, reaching into the pocket of his jean jacket and pulling out a folded slip of paper; the telluric map. With hesitance, he holds it towards Theo, and you watch him take it was a careful eye.

Pulling it open, the edges of his lips curl upwards; “looks like we’re going for a hike.”

-

“Where is he?”

“I thought we were looking for him.”

“You know who i’m talking about.”

Meeting Liam’s eyes briefly, you sigh.

“Deucalion?” Theo quirks a brow.

Scott shakes his head adamantly, “you shouldn’t trust him.”

Tilting his head, Theo is careful to remind Scott of the fact; “and you’re the one who let him live.”

Scoffing, you huff; “we’re not murderers.”

“You still think you’re gonna get through all this without killing anyone?”

Scott glances back at you, meeting your eyes carefully, before his hisses out; “no one said that.”

It’s then, out of the corner of your eye, you notice Liam slow. With a faint call of Scott’s name, you pull both his and Theo’s attention on Liam, watching him carefully as his eyes remains lowered, pausing in thought. Then, after a moment, he nods; “we’re close.”

“You get his scent?”

Meeting Scott’s eyes, he nods.

“Okay,” Theo says slowly, “which way?”

Liam doesn’t respond. He’s careful to avoid Theo’s gaze, turning to Scott, his alpha, the expression in his eyes saying it all. He doesn’t want to tell Theo and he definitely doesn’t want to bring Theo along.

Letting out a light chuckle, Theo paces on his feet; “you think you’re gonna leave me behind?”

Quirking a brow, you smirk over at Theo; “it would be preferable.”

Rolling his eyes at you, Theo takes a step towards you; “trust me, princess, you need me.”

Your eyes narrow at his pet name, jawing clenching. You can feel your anger swell, a long line of it given everything Theo’s done, but, the second you take a step towards him, Scott calls out sharply; “Liam.” And at the look on his face, it’s clear there’s no room left for argument.

Scoffing, you shake your head.

“Look,” Liam calls, still hesitant, “he wants to kill him.”

“I just want his power,” Theo says simply. “You want to fight someone that actually wants to kill Mason? Go fight Parrish.”

“Who’d you see when you put on the mask?”

“I already told you,” Theo huffs, “it wasn’t Mason.”

“Who was it?”

Turning to Scott, Theo sighs; “I saw a man dying in the snow,” he shrugs. “He was impaled on a spear.”

Scott’s eyes widen with realization; “it’s called a pike. Lydia told us the story.”

Nodding to yourself, you hum; “I remember.”

“Then you all know what it means.” Theo reminds, “time’s running out. Where is he, Liam? What direction?”

Liam’s clearly reluctant. But however, despite how much you might hate it, you can’t argue that right now, you do need Theo. So, with a small shuffle forward, you set your hand on Liam’s shoulder, pulling his eyes on you with a surprised blink. Sighing, you just nod, your expression clearly showing your distaste. But, in that moment, you can tell Liam understands just as much as you and Scott do.

There is no other option.

Stepping forward, Liam huffs; “this way.”

You follow Liam for a few more minutes, not that long, before you catch sight of some hut looking thing. Liam’s pace considerably quickens and he’s racing towards the door without second thought, reaching out to open it, desperate to get to Mason.

However, Scott stops him before he can. Grabbing hold of his wrist, Scott turns to Liam; “listen,” he guides.

You can’t hear, not as well as them. But if the widened expression on Liam’s face and the hope that bleeds into his gaze is anything to go by, you figure it has to be good. At least, as good as it can be.

“It’s him.”

He’s pulling open the door then, practically swinging it open. Scott sets his hand gently on your back, making sure you go in before him before following after you, Theo on the tail end. Rushing down the steps right behind Liam, you hesitate, slowing a little as you reach the bottom of the stairs. You duck, trying to peer through as best you can.

“Mason?” Liam whispers, making his way down the rest of the steps.

At one last turn, your eyes widen at the sight of Mason.

You all rush forward, Liam in the front, not hesitating a moment before he crouches down before Mason. You crouch down on the opposite side of him, Scott and Theo still stood, as your eyes drift across Mason for sight of any injuries. There aren’t really any, except for the giant needle sticking out of the back of his head that connects to a tube of what you can only guess someone who was once human.

Glancing back at Scott with wide eyes, you frown; “it’s connected to him.”

-

“What is this thing?”

Narrowing your eyes at Theo, you expect him to have an answer.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles, causing you to sigh as he shuffles on his feet. For a brief moment you take notice of the fact that he actually seems surprise. That he actually seems bewildered by the sight as much as you, Scott and Liam do. For once, he almost looks as if he doesn’t know everything.

“Liam,” Mason cries, voice weak, raspy. “I can feel it,” he gasps, “it’s in my skull.”

Mason movement causes the machine to whir, whatever that means. But, you assume it isn’t anything good.

“Don’t move,” Liam warns, voice desperate.

“Be careful.”

Spinning his head round towards Theo, Liam cries out; “what’re they doing to him?”

“I don’t know.”

Scoffing, you shake your head. “You’re supposed to.”

Theo’s eyes widen in response to your comment, and, still stood back, he huffs. “I’ve never--”

“Guys,” Scott cuts in, sending you a sharp look. “Let’s focus. Mason, we’re gonna get you out of here.” Mason doesn’t respond, and you don’t blame him. Instead, Scott directs his attention on you and Liam, nodding at you specifically. “Hold him still,” he warns and you’re quick to listen. Shifting forward like Liam, you grab hold of Mason’s arm and shoulder while Liam holds onto him by his waist.

“Okay,” Scott inhales sharply, “all right. I’m going to try to pull it out.”

Breathless, Mason nods.

“Let me know if it hurts...”

The second Scott grabs hold of the needle, Mason lets out a piercing scream. His body tenses beneath your touch and he’s moving to fight you. Scott’s quick to let go, hands falling by his side helplessly.

“It hurts!” Mason groans. “It definitely hurts.”

Turning to you and Liam, Scott swallows thickly; “I barely moved it.”

There’s a moment of silence, your eyes on Scott. The second you notice his eyes widen in alarm, falling on something past Liam, your own narrow in concern. But it’s then, as you turn to follow his gaze, you hear the familiar clicking. And, as you turn to look, your fears of what that noise is is only confirmed when you find a Dread Doctor stood directly behind Theo.

But the clicking continues, and your eyes widen as it gets louder. Glancing around, you swallow thickly at the sight of two more.

Scott pushes himself up to his feet, pacing to the middle as Theo follows his lead. “They wanted us here,” Theo mumbles, glancing around.

“Liam, Y/N,” you blink at the sound of your voice, “try to get that thing out of Mason’s neck.”

Meeting Liam’s gaze, you nod, shuffling forward. You grip onto Mason as Liam’s attention falls on the needle, his hands hovering around it, hesitant.

You flinch at the feeling of a thumping footstep, one of the Dread Doctors moving. “Theo,” it calls through it’s static-sounding voice. “Theo Raeken.”

“He’s coming with us.” 

“Failure,” it continues, ignoring Theo. “Theo Raeken.”

Brows furrowed, you tilt your head, enough to see his face. You take note of the fact that at the Dread Doctor’s words, he seems to falter, his face hardening, becoming distressed as he stammers; “i’m not... i’m not a failure.”

“Liam,” Mason gasps, grabbing a hold of his friend. “Get out of here. Just go....”

“Not a complete failure,” the Dread Doctor compromises, “we learned from you.”

“Theo,” your brother calls softly, “he’s trying to get to you. This is what they want, don’t give it to them. We can’t beat them.”

“The mark of a true failure. Repeating the same mistake again and again.”

“We’re taking Mason,” Theo growls, turning towards Scott with a tilt of his head. Your lips part when you notice, faintly, the glow of his eyes, not missing the growl in his voice as he continues. “Then i’m taking what’s mine.”

Pushing yourself up to your feet, you tense as the Dread Doctor comes to a complete stop in front of Theo.

“Let him go.”

“You have the entitlement and narcissism typical of your generation. In that, you are a profound success..

“Liam,” you hiss, “try it again.”

He listens, surprisingly, his hand gripping the needle reluctantly. However, one tug and Mason’s letting out a painful cry once again, instantly halting Liam’s actions. With wide and panicked eyes, he turns to your brother. “Scott, I can’t get it out. I... I don’t know what to do.”

Scott races towards Mason, crouching before him.

“But,” the Dread Doctor speaks up, “your failure taught us one thing. The banality of evil. That you were and would always be an ordinary evil.”

“You think i’m ordinary?” Theo growls.

“We believed that to resurrect the perfect killer we had to start with the perfect evil. From you we learned true evil only comes by corrupting something truly good.”

Inhaling sharply, you shake your head, turning to your brother and Liam. “Not something.”

“Someone,” Liam finishes, glancing over at Mason.

Theo lunges at the surgeon before him. And against your better judgement, you find yourself jumping to your feet when all he manages to do is slam his clawed fist against metal. You hear, distantly, Scott cry out for you in panic, but you don’t listen, ducking a nearly successful hit across the head. Raising your hand, you turn to the Dread Doctor directly in front of you, halting it’s movements for enough time to kick your leg out at it.

“Okay,” you wince, stumbling back, “not a good idea.” 

Ignoring the pain that radiates through your leg, you stumble back at the approaching surgeon, trying to gain your balance before a figure jumps past you. You blink in realization at the sight of Liam, knocking the Dread Doctor that had been after you, back.

“Y/N!”

Spinning round at Scott calling your name, you meet his eyes, understanding his meaning when he takes a step forward the last and final Dread Doctor. Kicking your leg back, you push your focus into holding the Dread Doctor in place, giving Scott enough time to run and lunge at it. His his practically does nothing.

Liam is tossed past you, distracting you when the surgeon steps towards you, allowing the other Dread Doctor to easily toss Scott aside.

Swallowing thickly, you glance around, whilst stumbling back, trying to find something. Your eyes zone in on the first thing, some sort of barrel, flickering your eyes towards the Dread Doctor and sending the object directly into it. You freeze when it does nothing.

“Well, shit,” you sigh, shuffling back.

“Y/N!” Scott cries, just as the Dread Doctor latches it’s hand around your throat, easily picking you up off your feet and into the air.

Gasping for breath, you claw at the hand, staring into the black eyes that stare back at you, kicking your feet wildly beneath you. You can’t tell, but Scott nor Liam can’t get to you because of the other Dread Doctor, and it’s clear Theo had already been preoccupied by the one that had been taunting him. Which means, you’re on your own.

Trying to calm your racing heart, the sound of Mason bellowing barely reaches your own ears as you let your eyes fall shut, forcing yourself to ignore the shortness of breath and the desperation for air. You put all your focus, just for a moment, into yourself, feeling that similar fire as the night of the game bubble deep inside of you. However, this time, you have control. This time, it’s you forcing it out.

Letting out a cry, your eyes flicker open, glowing purple as a heat of red floods you and the Dread Doctor. Your own flames don’t touch you, but the definitely touch the monster blocking off your air. However, despite the progress, despite the amount of controlled power that had just left you, the flames don’t do anything. It barely even effects the Dread Doctor.

That’s when the panic settles back in.

You can feel your face grow hot, feel yourself begging for air but not being able to get any. Your nails dig into the metal of the Dread Doctor, feet kicking wildly beneath you, trying to break away.

And just as you see black bleed into the corners of your eyes, the tightness around your throat eases.

You fall to your knees with a thud, a loud gasp breaking past your lips as your hand falls against your neck, skin sweaty as you inhale deeply and sharply. A body hovers next to you in seconds, and you glance up to meet Scott’s worried gaze, before turning to look behind you. Your eyes widen in surprise at the sight of Mason stood up, dropping the needle that had been stuck in him, breathless.

This cannot be good.

“Transformation,” one of the Dread Doctors begins, “transformation without frequency.”

Your lips part as a cloud of black smoke forms around Mason’s feet, slowly crawling up his body. But nothing beats the way his eyes begin to glow blue and the faint sound of him growling echoes. He’s turning into the Beast.

“Mason!” Liam cries.

“That is not my name.” Mason growls, but it’s not him. His voice is distorted, deep, unrecognizable. It isn’t Mason. “My name...”

And before your very eyes, he turns into the Beast,

One by one, the Beast takes out the Dread Doctors until there’s only one left. Scott is quick to pull you to your feet and into a corner, tucked with Liam, as you watch the Beast stomp it’s way over to the last one and in turn Theo. However, his attention doesn’t seem to be focused on Theo at all, easily knocking him aside and zoning in on the last surgeon.

The last thing the surgeon says is “success” before the Beast is digging it’s claws into the surgeons stomach, piercing the metal and causing the Dread Doctor to bellow over in pain. Clinging onto Scott, you press your back firmly against the wall behind you, watching in bewilderment as the Beast tosses the last Dread Doctor aside, it’s body limp, and drags it with him.

With Scott’s help, you pull yourself up to your feet, Liam with the two of you, rushing out of the room and out back into the forest. You blink at the sight of Parrish, or rather, the Hell Hound, lunging on to the Beast just as it drops the last Dread Doctor.

This was something you clearly didn’t understand. The only thing you did was that the Hell Hound meant to kill the Beast, but the Beast was also Mason.

Gun shots fire and you don’t have to even glance to know it’s Chris Argent, however, your eyes narrow at the sight of Gerard following closely behind him. Scott had told you what Chris had done, but, this is the first time you’ve seen Gerard in person.

The Beast cries out in pain, obviously feeling cornered, until eventually Chris stops. Your eyes narrow, trying to get a good look as the Beast somehow disappears, transforming into something else; something human. But, it’s not Mason.

“La Bete du Gevaudan!” Gerard cries aloud causing you to blink in bafflement. “I know your name. Do you remember mine?”

The man, this... La Bete du Gevaudan only hesitates a moment before spitting out, with clear hatred, the name; “Argent.”

In the next second, he’s running off and Parrish is quick to follow after him.

Stopping next to Chris and Gerard, Scott huffs; “who the hell is that?”

“You’ve seen the Beast of Gevaudan. That was the Man.” Gerard nods.

Turning to Chris, your lips part as he sighs.

“Sebastian Valet.”

-

“Can you keep him alive?”

“I’m not sure he technically is alive.”

“Screw keeping him alive,” Liam scoffs, “how do we get him to talk?”

“Personally, I don’t think we utilize torture nearly enough.”

“For once,” you sigh, meeting Stiles gaze, “I agree.”

Scott just shakes his head.

Then, Liam suddenly asks; “do you hear that?”

And you pause, halting just for a second to see if you do hear anything. But, of course, you don’t. You don’t hear anything and you’re left to glance over at Stiles questioningly as Liam and Scott glance around, faces furrowing in confusion and bewilderment.

In the next second, the Dread Doctor springs upwards and you let out a cry, your hands falling to your ears and pressing hard in response to the loud piercing screech. You stumble back on your feet, the entire floor beneath you rumbling as you wince, a light groan leaving your lips, desperate for the noise to ease, to disappear.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the Dread Doctor standing up on it’s feet, moving to leave.

Hands fall on you, tucking you into another. It takes you a second to realize it’s Stiles, but you don’t hesitate to curl into him, muscles straining as you try to block out the noise.

“Liam!” Scott cries, and somehow you hear it amongst all else. “Wait!”

Shifting in Stiles’ grasp, your eyes widen in alarm as Liam lunges towards the Doctor only to be sent flying back by some sort of force. It almost appears as if some sort of blue aura, it pulsating around Liam and sending him crashing into the wall of the clinic, clattering to the ground with a cry of pain.

The Dread Doctor escapes, and the piercing eases.

Slowly pulling your hands from your face, Stiles pulling back from you, you glance around in confusion, only for a second later for all of the examining tables to shake violently. You flinch back back, slamming into Stiles as all the tables slam into the adjacent wall, hard, before falling to the ground.

Liam is up on his feet, racing forward, in the next second and Scott moves to follow him.

“Wait!” Deaton bellows, his hand reaching out before him, racing forward. 

The two stop, electricity sparking.

“It’s electrified.”

Brows furrowing, your shoulders fall.

Silence follows for a moment, before Scott calls out; “the cane.”

And you’re confused for only a moment, before, you realize they’re listening in on whatever conversation is happening outside the clinic.

“But they took it,” Liam adds, “they took the cane.”

-

“Maybe there’s something in here. Something about how he was a Genetic Chimera?”

“Mason had a vanishing twin.”

“Now we’ve got a vanishing Mason,” Stiles sighs, and you roll your eyes at his poorly placed attempt at a joke. Or... something.

“What does that have to do with him turning into a two-hundred-and-a-fifty-year-old French guy?” Liam stammers, “how does that even happen?”

“Hold on,” Deaton eases, “Scott might have something. Mason’s twin wasn’t entirely gone. That’s what made him a Genetic Chimera.”

“Okay,” you say slowly, licking your lips in thought. “The DNA was still there.”

“Metaphorically speaking,” Deaton nods, “the DNA of Mason could still be inside Sebastien as well.”

Lips parting, Stiles’ brows furrow; “how?”

“Life is energy,” Deaton begins, gesturing his hands around in explanation, “energy doesn’t just disappear. The Dread Doctors may have found a way to break the rules of the Supernatural world but there are some rules that simply won’t break.”

“So,” Liam starts, hopeful, “Mason can’t just be gone?”

“Somewhere in Sebastien he has to still exist in some form.”

Out of the corner of your eye you notice Stiles slowly pick up the helmet of the Dread Doctor you’d picked up from outside, glancing down at it in deep thought.

“A spark of energy,” Deaton continues, “a flicker of memory.”

“Hang on...” Stiles calls, confirming your previously thought thoughts. “Liam, you said Mason said something right before he turned.”

“He said, ‘that’s not my name’.”

Your eyes widen with realization. “He finally remembered his name.”

“Damnatio Memoriae.”

That’s right. Stiles had explained it early, a while back. That’s...

“That’s what they wanted.” Liam exclaims, nodding. “They wanted Sebastien to remember his name.”

“Scott, you know the myth of what happens when you call a werewolf by it’s given name?”

Scott’s eyes ease with recognition; “it turns back to human.”

Letting out a puff of air, you shake your head; “what does that mean?” Meeting Scott’s gaze, you push; “someone can just walk up to the Beast, yell Mason’s name and turn him back?”

"Not someone.”

“Lydia.”

-

“Lydia, this is gonna have to stay just between us since I can get fired for it.”

Fair enough.

“It’s a cortisone shot,” Scott explains lightly, smiling reassuringly down at her. “It’s gonna bring the inflammation down.”

Weakly, Lydia nods, eyes hazed.

Pulling the cap off the needle, Melissa nods at Lydia, who, in response, pulls her arm out, palm facing upwards. Instantly, Melissa winces, shaking her head. “Not there.” And you tense when you realize she means the needle’s gonna have to go in her neck, directly where she’d been hurt.

“Oh, yeah, okay,” Stiles gasps from beside you, “I’m gonna need to leave.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Melissa says simply, eyes still focused on her task. “You’re going to hold her hand.”

You falter, just for a moment. Just briefly. A flash of jealousy bleeding into your senses before you realize, this isn’t about you. There is more pressing things at hand. So, swallowing thickly, you take a step back as Stiles takes a step forward, huffing, “okay, fine. I’m not leaving, but I still might faint.”

You force yourself not to focus on the sight of his hand slipping into her own.

You’re being stupid, you hiss at yourself. Stop being so childish.

“Okay,” Melissa says softly, “here we go.”

In the next second, Liam’s body thuds to the ground. Blinking down at him, you roll your eyes.

As Scott steps forward to check on him, you replace his place, falling next to Lydia and setting your hand softly in her lap, meeting her gaze briefly with a reassuring nod. You know it won’t help the pain or really, anything else. But, you hope it makes her feel better. Even if only a little.

“Okay, Lydia, this is gonna hurt like a bitch.”

-

“Stiles, just slow--!”

He doesn’t listen, swinging open the door to your house without a moment of hesitance. However, he doesn’t make it even a step farther before a gun is pointed directly at his chest.

Eyes widening, your heart begins to pound madly against your chest.

“Oh, damn...”

You hadn’t noticed Malia. Not at first at least. But you’re glad she’s there because in the next second she’s lunging forward, grabbing Stiles’ by the arms and tossing him out of the way before turning to her mother and blocking you from her line of shot. As they scramble and fight against each other, you squeeze past, rushing over to Stiles.

“Stiles?” You call softly, pulling him up and towards yourself. “Hey, Stiles?” 

He groans out in response but a tiny puff of relief leaves your lips when you realize he’s at least okay. He looks a little shaken and definitely dazed, but...

“Okay, okay, here.” Helping him up, you notice a second too late the figure of Malia’s mom, Malia this time completely out of sight, you and Stiles both glancing up at her slowly.

In the next second, Stiles is lunging to his feet, hopping over the couch with the intent to attack her. However, he doesn’t make it far, Malia’s mother grabbing Stiles and flipping him over, letting him slam into the cracked and broken glass table, stomach first.

Your eyes widen, unable to hide the cry of panic that leaves your voice as you bellow out; “Stiles?”

He spins round at the sound of your voice, rolling to his back, which then reveals the rather large shard of glass pierce directly into his shoulder. Your breath halts, getting choked at the back of your throat at the sight, the blood coating the clear glass. Slowly, Stiles’ eyes flicker up to your own, holding your gaze as his own lulls and rolls to the back of his head.

“Stiles!”

A cry of anger leaves your lips, directed only at Malia’s mother. It forces her back, slamming her aside and into the adjacent wall as you easily climb over the couch, ignoring the faint pain that radiates through your knees as you crouch next to Stiles, hands hovering over the shard.

“Jesus!” Stiles bellows, eyes bulging in pain.

“Okay, okay,” you gasp, “okay, i’m gonna pull it out, okay? I’m gonna...”

“Is that the right thing to do?” Stiles cries, wide eyes falling on your own amongst the pain.

“I don’t know!” You exclaim, shaking your head. “I think!”

“Y/N!”

“Trust me!”

He falls silent at that, and you ignore, just for the moment, as gun shots bellow. You try to act quickly, knowing Malia needs your help, but selfishly, Stiles comes first. He’ll... he’ll always come first.

“Okay, it’s gonna hurt. I’ll count to three.” Stiles just groans, face turning white as he withers in the spot. “One, two... three!” You rip it out, wincing as Stiles cries out in pain, his hand instantly falling to his shoulder and gripping on tightly. Swallowing thickly, you hastily brush back your hair, ripping off a strand of your shirt and moving Stiles’ arm, carefully, to wrap the clothe around, tying it tightly.

“It’ll help,” you explain numbly, nodding down at the look Stiles sends you.

Shifting, he moves to sit up, groaning slightly. You move to ask him if he’s alright before another gun shot rings and the familiar cry of Malia echoes.

Turning to you, Stiles’ eyes widen; “plan A.”

Nodding, you pull his backpack off of him, hastily searching through for the jar Scott had given him. Once you find it, you don’t waste any time, pushing yourself up to your feet, and turning, moving to the edge of the hallway adjacent to Malia. “Malia!” You bellow, “here!”

She catches the jar, recognizing it and you watch in anticipation as her mother continues to rush forward, stabbing her claws directly into Malia in the next second. Your body tenses in response, swallowing thickly as the jar falls to the ground, shattering.

There’s a moment of wonder, of panic, as her mother growls; “I want my power back,” but then, Malia’s eyes glow and, mimicking her mothers actions, she stabs her claws into her, her mother’s eyes instantly widening in fear of realization.

“I want my family back.”

Plan A works. You can sense and see Malia getting stronger as her mother gets weaker, stumbling back as a gasp of pain leaves her lips, her hands falling to her stomach.

She doesn’t make it very far, however, before Braeden appears, knocking her out.

You let out a sigh of relief, nodding at Malia when she meets your gaze.

“Okay,” you breathe after a moment, pulling everyone’s eyes on you. “Is everyone okay?”

“I,” Stiles calls, raising his hand (his good arm), “for one, could be better.”

-

Y/N...

With a soft groan, you shift at the noise, eyes flickering open momentarily.

Y/N, help me.

Your eyes snap open at that, the voice familiar. Strangely familiar. You knew it, but in that moment couldn’t place it. Couldn’t place a face to the voice or understand why when you heard it, it made your body freeze and your chest tighten and everything feel cold.

Nor could you understand why you were hearing the voice in the first place.

Help me... please.

“Theo...”

That’s why you knew the voice. That’s why it scared you to hear it.

It was... Theo. But that didn’t make sense. Scott had told you that Theo had been taken by his sister, where? You weren’t exactly sure. But he’d been dragged viciously through a hole in the earth. You remembered the relief that had flooded you at the news; even if you hadn’t been there to actually see his demise nor had you had any part in it, to know Theo was gone and ended up where he rightfully deserved had left you feeling at peace.

Even if only a little.

So why were you hearing him?

You’re the only one I can reach. Talk to.

Bringing your knees up to your chest, you press your chin against your knees, your hands falling to your ears as your eyes scrunch shut. You try to block out the noise, try to ignore the voice. Because it wasn’t possible. Theo shouldn’t be able to talk to you; he was... he was gone.

And you don’t want to hear him. You thought, finally, you’d gotten rid of him from your life. Even if you’d known the effects of what he’d done wouldn’t just disappear like him, you’d felt some relief at the thought that you wouldn’t have to face him everyday at school. Especially in your final year. That maybe, finally, things would just go smoothly.

So why?

We had a connection. You know it. You felt it.

“Shut up,” you whisper, shaking your head. “Just shut up.”

You can’t block me out. I’m in your head. And I won’t leave until you help me.

“No,” you mumble, words spilling past your lips rapidly and without rational thought. It barely occurs to you in that moment that you’re home, in your bed, and it’s the middle of the night. That Scott can probably hear you, and maybe even Melissa if you’re speaking louder then you think you are. But you can’t focus on that.

You want Theo gone.

“No, leave me alone. I-I won’t help you.”

Please, Y/N...

“No.” You argue, forcing emphasis on the word.

The fact that he even thinks, after all he’s done, that you would actually help him...

“Get out of my head. Get out.”

We had a connection, Y/N. We both know we did--

“No,” you hiss, “we didn’t.”

Yes, we did.

“Shut up. Just shut up.”

Help me, Y/N. Please. It’s... It’s hell down here.

“Good. It’s what you deserve.”

Y/N...

He won’t stop. He continues. Relentlessly. You feel yourself slipping with every time he speaks, turning inconsolable as you try to force him out. You can’t handle it, can’t imagine hearing him speaking into your own head for a moment longer.

And it hurts, aches, every time he speaks. You grow more and more irritated every time you hear his voice begging for your help. The audacity he has to even do so after how much he’d fucked everything up...

You’re surprised it takes you as long as it does to lose control.

“Get out!”

It’s a scream. It tears past your lips, shocking you. But as you pull your hands away from your ears, your chest rising and falling rapidly, your shoulder ease with realization that he’s gone. Theo’s gone. You can’t hear him.

A light knock on your door pulls you from your thoughts. “Y/N?”

It’s Scott.

“I’m fine!” You call quickly, maybe a little too quickly, shaking your head. “I’m okay. I’m... I’m okay. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

Scott pauses, “you were screaming--”

“A nightmare.” Then you cringe. “But just a plain old nightmare. It’s fine. I’m fine, don’t worry about it.”

There’s an echo of silence, your heart pounding against your chest. But then, your eyes fall on your door knob, watching as it turns and Scott slowly steps in. There’s a deep frown on his lips and he looks concerned. “We promised we weren’t going to hide things from each other anymore, remember?”

Sighing, you frown, he’s right. You did promise that.

“I can’t explain it,” you shrug, meeting his eyes. “I just woke up and... Theo was talking to me?”

“Theo?” Scott questions, brows furrowed in bafflement. “But his sister--”

“I know and he was still with his sister, somewhere... He was...” Shaking your head, you swallow thickly. “He was asking me to help him. He said we had a connection and that he wasn’t going to stop until I got him out. But I got him out. I just... forced him out.” At the look on Scott’s face, you sigh; “I don’t understand it either.”

“But...” And Scott hesitates, frowning deeply. “You’re okay?”

You smile softly at that, nodding. “I’m okay, Scott. I promise.”

“Okay,” he nods and then he takes a step back, as if to leave. “If you need anything--”

Your smile brightens; “you’ll be the first one I go to.”

Satisfied with that, Scott bids you goodnight and leaves, shutting your door softly behind him. You watch him, waiting until you’re sure he’s far enough before letting out a shaky breath.

You might not hear Theo now, but that didn’t mean he still couldn’t come back.

Nor did you know why you could hear him in the first place.

-

With a small smile, you set your hand on Scott’s shoulder, pulling his gaze on you, tilted slightly.

“You okay?” You question softly, flickering your eyes faintly towards the shelf, where your signatures from the beginning of the year still laid. But most importantly, where Scott had also signed Allison’s initials.

Scott smile mimics your own and turning towards you completely, he nods. “Yeah,” he assures, “just... thinking.”

“You know,” you start lightly, “I think she’d be really proud of you, Scott.”

His eyes flood with hope, with this certain desperation and his lips part; “really?”

“Yeah,” you nod, quickly and firmly. “You’ve really become a hero, Scott. Someone worth following.” And then, pausing a moment, you shrug your shoulders. “I know i’m proud of you.”

Scott sets his hand over your own, squeezing it as you pull it from his shoulder. His gaze holds your steadily, smiling brightly at you. “Couldn’t have done it without you, Y/N. Any of it.”

Cheeks warming slightly, you lower your gaze, eyes falling on your feet briefly, before you laugh up at Scott. “Stiles and Lydia are waiting for us,” you explain gently, “you ready?”

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

And you do. The both of you easily make your way down the steps, quickly catching sight of Lydia and Stiles just entering the library. They turn to you both as you make your way over, multiple greetings passing between the four of you as Scott takes a seat next to Stiles and you take one next to Lydia, directly in front of Stiles.

Time passes, conversation passing between all of you as you all idly work on your school work. But, amongst the conversation, you drift off, unable to stop yourself from glancing in front of yourself, directly at Stiles. And your cheeks warm when you realize he’d already been glancing at you, distant from the conversation too.

There’s a knowing look in both of your eyes. But one you don’t understand.

You can’t ignore the way your heart races when you meet his eyes, or the way your lips instinctively curl upwards in response. And you can’t ignore the way his eyes gaze back at your own, with what you can only describe as warm, or that his entire body seems to ease when he recognizes you looking back at him too. And it just seems to make sense then, the two of you off in your own little world.

But then Lydia’s calling for you and the moment is broken, and as you turn to answer her question, you fight the warmth that threatens to grow on your cheeks, for some reason embarrassed.

When you chance a glance back at Stiles, his attention is on Scott and your heart falls a little at the realization that whatever could’ve come from that moment; it’s gone now.

-

Part 39?

Tag List: @potterheadbbc - @sunsetblake - @mythicalamphitrite - @loverofwaytoomanythings618 - @minuteandahalf - @mnk - @gazebros - @colie87 - @quilliamfears - @quellum - @pessimisticbullshit - @kaylinfayezink - @maiabiovillage - @tr1chst3r - @arkcangel - @quirkytwinkles - @thegirlwhoimagined - @noones-girl1980 - @illumminated - @fairchild345 - @all-will-be-well-love - @animemes-trash - @starryrevelations - @literallyhelpme - @theskytraveler - @jinandtion1c - @ilovemymoose - @bibliophilesquared - @stilessarcasmqueen - @mersuperwholocked-lowlife - @newtsshelbys - @wyattgoleft - @pancakefancake - @saturno-in-the-night - @pizzamelon7384 - @riskregretting - @mdgrdians - @ravenclawnerdfromnarnia - @franchisefan14 - @lovingpeterparker - @audreysduvxl - @kararanae23 - @alioop3818 - @a-gir1-has-n0-name - @andyl394 - @sclestial - @jayymocha - @2ptonpt - @itsfangirlmendes- @deafeningmusicdetective - @alex–awesome–22 - @nicholerodz  - @kellbell44- @serrahruby - @agentmarvel13 - @egg-in-a-spork - @nickigv - @vxidnik - @marvelousgab - @emmaleighrose- @danielag1969 - @digicharr - @shantayok - @cherry3bombshell - @thatprofessionalfangirl - @itsjaynebird - @grippleback-galaxy - @dafukbish - @randomfanfictiontime - @unicorn-sparkles123 - @sammyrenae68 - @myfanficlibrarium - @liveforthenight130318- @booknymph02 - @smileyouresopretty - @fionnthebandersnacc- @voidsarahh - @kal-pal - @darlingimmafangirl - @burningmusicmarchi - @celacaveremo - @maolhy71706 - @supernatural-kinda-girl - @wherever-life-takes-us - @natalien-92 - @letmebeyoursforever - @lonelyforeverlina - @parkerschurros - @seninjakitey - @runway-to-my-aid - @weirdowithnobeardo​ - @missleahlin - @your-typical-giggle​ - @wandascarlett​ - @multifandxm353​

[bnhablessings]

okay how about a bakugou angst scenario where his s/o gets hurt in training. he’s either very angry (more than usual) or just quiet because of how distraught he is. could you even write the reaction of him visiting his s/o at the hospital?

I may have cried writing this. I was in such a downer mood that it played perfectly into my writing. This definitely turned into a one-shot btw. I hope you enjoy this, Lovely!

I totally was thinking of Avatar the last air bender when I thought of what quirk she could have btw

Bakugou Katsuki x Female!Reader

Warnings: Angst (so much angst- like grab a tub of ice-cream, but I am a baby so idk), fluffy ending, mentions of blood/violence, talks of death, grammar mistakes probably

Words: 2,440

 Everyone knew that you trained frequently with Todoroki and Midoriya. It was how you became stronger and Todoroki didn’t mind helping you out (after Izuku talked him into it). You were grateful for every opportunity you had to train with them. It worked well as Midoriya always managed to help you work on your quirk.

Your quirk was a rather simple one. It was Earth Manipulation. It’s just as the quirk name suggests, you can manipulate the Earth. The only condition was that your feet had to be bare in order to feel the Earth under you.

It made it a challenge for the two who constantly trained with you and vice versa. The only downside was your boyfriend, Bakugou, who hated the idea of you training with them. Of course, he couldn’t stop you.

Which eventually leads to a dreadful night that will forever be etched into his brain.

~*~

For once, Bakugou can’t go to sleep no matter how hard he tried. He can’t figure out why. His hand rests against his phone and his body starts to fill with anxiety and anger since he has no idea why he’s feeling like this.

Eventually, it hits him. He checks his phone and to his very strong annoyance, it’s past 9:30. He should be asleep right now and you usually would’ve given him one of your annoying (but lovely) goodnight texts. That’s why he couldn’t sleep. You didn’t say goodnight.

Could you possibly still be training?

The thought made him angrier. He told you numerous amounts of times that sleep is important (his sleep). It pissed him off that you were spending so much time with Icy-Hot and fucking Deku. Just the idea of them with you right now is sending his blood boiling, more than usual, anyway.

He’ll have to give you a piece of his mind later is what he is thinking. Anything to get rid of the annoying worry that seems to bubble up in the pit of his stomach.

He makes it close to the training grounds. It feels rather cold but he brushes it off, feeling even more concerned for you now. When he is near, he is surprised to not hear any sounds of fighting. His ears instead pick up concerned hushed voices.

As soon as he steps foot in the training ground his whole body freezes at what he sees. The scene before him sends his heart racing in the worst way possible. His blood feels like it froze, at his anger almost dissipates.

Why are you on the ground?

Why is Recovery Girl here?

Everything feels like it’s going in slow-motion as he tries to make his suddenly heavy feet move. Aizawa is the first person to notice his presence. He is quick to make the two boys who were training with you go to him.

The last thing he needs is for Bakugou to see you in such a… state like this.

“Kaachan- I- She-“ Midoriya is cut off from Bakugou’s harsh glare as he suddenly tries to look past his two classmates.

“What the fuck happened?!” He shouts.

The concern is so obvious in his voice and it almost makes Midoriya want to cry.  He tries to explain again after taking a deep breath.

“(Name), had a serious accident-“

Midoriya is pushed out of the way as soon as those words leave his lips. Todoroki is quick to try and stop him from venturing further but it was futile once the ash-blond heard your name and accident. Midoriya and Todoroki trail after the angry boy in hopes they’ll stop him but it’s too late.

He sees your body on the ground. Your eyes are closed. Blood is oozing out of the back of your head. Your whole body is limp. Recovery Girl looks saddened. It feels like he can’t breathe. Why? What happened? Why are you like that?

“Bakugou, Todoroki, Midoriya, head back to the dorms,” Aizawa demands.

“Fuck that- Like I’m going back. Tell me what happened right now! Why aren’t you helping her?!” Bakugou is shouting at this point.

Before Aizawa can explain or command him yet again to leave. A new voice filled with sympathy speaks.

“Young Bakugou, now is not the time to be shouting. I’m escorting Young (Name) to the hospital with Recovery Girl. Listen to Aizawa. We’ll keep you and your class updated as needed,” All Might says.

He and Aizawa don’t allow Bakugou to think about it. They are quick to make sure you are securely in All Might’s arms with Recovery Girl. Just like that, he was gone.

Bakugou’s mind goes blank before the anger hits him out of nowhere. He turns around and glares at your training comrades. Aizawa, thankfully, predicted this would happen and ends up subduing the poor angry boy.

~*~

The first day without your presence makes everyone wary. The whole atmosphere is tense and fragile. The wrong word or action feels like it could make the one who is causing the tension explode. Class 1-A is at a loss on how to approach him.

It’s obvious that since your… incident… last evening, that he has not been in a great mood. Scratch that, it is obvious that he is in the worst mood possible. It even has Aizawa and the other teachers more concerned than usual. The class has no idea what happened. All they do know is that you simply went to your usual training session with Todoroki and Midoriya. They decide to keep their distance and give him time the first day.

The second day has everyone on edge. Bakugou hasn’t said a single word but the distinct popping sounds from his quirk are heard every now and then throughout the day.

The third day someone finally speaks to him. It was a simple question but one that made the popping sounds grow and Bakugou’s expression to become mixed.

“Bakubro, what happened with (Name)?” It was Kirishima who asked.

Of course, fucking Deku and Icy-Hot explained to him what happened and god… Just imagining what happened the way they described it is killing him. The crackling noises from his palms cease to be and he says absolutely nothing.

He focuses his stare as he thinks about you. Allowing what he did not witness to fill his head. That is until he hears Midoriya and Todoroki speak up in what they call a “whisper”. He almost scoffs but he doesn’t. He doesn’t have the energy to. Instead, the images in his head become more vivid from their words.

“We were training but (Name) wanted to go a little longer than usual, which was odd,” Todoroki murmurs.

Midoriya nods and continues, “We can tell she was getting tired but she kept pushing and begging so we continued. Aizawa, of course, was there ready to kick us out when she unleashed one of her new moves.”

“It appeared it didn’t go to plan. One of the huge boulders she produced from the Earth didn’t go the way she wanted- And well, (Name) started to panic,” Todoroki states his eyes falling down as he recalls the memory.

Midoriya nods his head and frowns. “I- Uh, I don’t know exactly what happened but within her panic, she lost control of her quirk? There were rubble and stone everywhere coming from the ground but… Then we just saw her on the ground. A large piece of stone seemed to land on her… We should’ve stopped her. Told her to wait until she had enough strength to try that move,” Midoriya says his voice cracking a few times from the guilt.

Bakugou stands abruptly. The desk is pushed away and the chair fell to the ground. His breathing is heavy but he says absolutely nothing as he walks out of the room. He knows it’s not their fault. He knows this but it’s so hard not to blame them. Not to blame you.

He wishes he could just yell at you. Call you a dumbass and see your embarrassed expression from that or hear a snarky retort back. Just anything. He didn’t think he can love someone as much as he does you but it is certainly hitting him hard right now.

“Young Bakugou, I- You have been granted permission to see Young (Name). Would you like to come with Mr. Aizawa and myself?” All Might asks.

What a dumb fucking question Bakugou thinks to himself.

~*~

“I have to warn you. The doctor-“ Bakugou doesn’t allow All Might to speak as he opens the door.

It slams against the wall and immediately Aizawa is glaring at the male. However, it softens upon seeing Bakugou trying to fight any emotions on his face. The only give-away to Bakugou’s grief is the small tremble of his lip.

He goes to take a seat beside your laying figure. His hand immediately reaching for your rather limp one. It feels slightly cold to him and that bothers him greatly.

“Young Bakugou, as I was saying before. This may be terrible to look at since it appears she is sleeping but as I explained in the car she is in a coma. The doctor said they managed to get the swelling from the brain trauma down but because she is in a coma there is a chance that she may not wake up,” All Might finally says what he’s been meaning to.

Bakugou’s hand grips yours even tighter but in a firm voice he states, “She’s going to wake up.”

If you don’t, he won’t know what to do.

~*~

Day by day got harder as you showed no signs of waking up. He kept to himself as always but his shouting has been to a low minimum. Only glares, small growls, and the popping sound of his quirk indicate his low mood, which happened to be all the time now.

Each day he would get with one of the teachers to visit you at the hospital. They allowed him a small time to have some privacy with you and every time he would allow his strong façade to drop. Only in front of your unmoving body as he begs you to wake up or keep staying strong.

The one day he nearly had a heart attack visiting you was the day he caught Midoriya and Todorki visiting you. They had flowers and a card with them and looked dressed up but that seemed to piss him off more. He ignored every logical thought in his head as he hurled towards the two before they can dare open the door to your room.

Aizawa who escorted Bakugou this time got lucky he reacted just as fast and erased Bakugou’s quirk as his hand neared the boys’ faces.

When nothing happened, the two look surprised and glance at their teacher.

“Bakugou, if you are going to act like that you will no longer be allowed to visit (Last Name).”

Just the thought kills him. He bites his tongue as he glares at the two who figured out why he is so angry. Why he finally broke and nearly exploded their faces off. However, none of them had time to bring it up as a loud and fast beeping sound comes from your room.

A few nurses push through to the room and a doctor comes inside and Aizawa knowing the drill forces all of the boys to leave to the waiting room.

Bakugou hates the waiting as his heart beats incredibly fast.

“We do feel guilty but we aren’t the ones that caused her harm. It was an accident from her pushing too hard,” Todoroki broke the silence.

Midoriya can only nod.

That was the only day he couldn’t see you do to the fact you stopped breathing for a few minutes.

~*~

“(Name), it’s been a whole month without you. You gotta wake up soon. I don’t know how much longer I can fucking handle this shit,” Bakugou whispers into the skin of your forehead before placing a kiss on it.

He continues to vent to you as this has been his only outlet.

“I know I don’t say it a lot. I know I can be a complete dick but I do love you. This hurts and you’re the only one I can truly rely on. The other idiots can never take your place. I need my dumbass.”

He stops talking to take in much needed shaky breath before placing another kiss on your forehead.

The door opens and All Might and Aizawa walk in. “Ready to go Young Bakugou?”

No. He’s really not. He never wants to leave. It’s been an absolute nightmare. His heart aches whenever he sees you in this damn bed but he doesn’t voice it to anyone. He hates it when his lip trembles but it always seems to when he tries to show how he’s not feeling about you.

He stands up being careful with your hand, ready to place it at your side, and just as he’s ready to let go of it, you squeeze it. Bakugou stops. It was the lightest squeeze ever but it was the first time you have done it.

The teachers notice the sudden change in him and watch with alertness. Bakugou stares down at you and sits back down as soon as your eyes open.

“I’m going to get the doctor,” All Might quickly states as Aizawa goes to your other side.

You are staring straight up and trying to speak when Aizawa shushes you. The doctor comes in just in time to say, “Miss (Last Name), try not to worry-“

Bakugou blocks it out as he can no longer fight the tears. You’re awake.

~*~

This time Bakugou heads towards the hospital without a scowl. A teacher should already be there helping with physical therapy and such but by the time he gets there, you should be done.

He’s on time as Midnight helps you gently lay down on the bed. She nods at Bakugou before leaving to give you both a few minutes of privacy.

Ever since you woke up, Bakugou has been more affectionate. It’s odd but you can sense the constant worry he has for you. A smile appears on your face and without thinking you say, “I love you too.”

He pauses and looks puzzled.

“I don’t remember much but I heard you. I heard you constantly telling me that I will wake up, that you love me, that I’m your dumbass,” You say gently.

His lips tremble once more and all he can manage to say is, “I need you more than you know, Dumbass.”

[alexiessan]

Never alone - Chapter Eleven - Soulmate AU

AO3

Previous - Here - Next

Master List

Tumblr must hate me or something ‘cause it seems to love deleting my chapters and other posts from the tags. You may have missed Chapter Ten, so don’t hesitate to go read it and give me your opinion.

In other news, my back has seized and I’m hurting so much... I swear I’m going to have back problems like old people... Anyway, here is Chapter Eleven!

Marinette smiled as she hung up from her call with Robin. Summer vacations have been very busy for her. She has done commissions for Jagged: an outfit, a poster and the cover of his new album. Marinette was not a professional, so it took her more time to do, but Jagged was very satisfied in the end.

But that meant that Robin’s outfit has been delayed since her trip to Gotham. She managed to send it to a safe address he gave her only last week and he showed her the result during their video call — it was so weird for Marinette to see him in a regular outfit, even if he had his mask on.

During the summer, she also made a lot of plans with her friends: several outings with Alya and Nino — and Adrien when he was allowed and in town. She also watched Kitty Section repeat at least once a week and would go get ice cream with them. She would take Kagami out to get out of her home and her mother’s influence as much as possible.

That summer where she got to see all her friends almost made her forget that their class would change when they would go back to school in September, the very next week.

Max and Adrien would be in Première S, in a class with a science specialty. Rose, Juleka, Nathaniel, Mylène, and Ivan would be in Première L, in a class with literature specialty. The rest of the class all chose to go in Première ES, in a class with economics as a specialty. But even with this same speciality, there was no way to know if they would be in the same class.

She could do without Lila, Chloé, and Sabrina, but she would like to stay in the same class as the others.

For once, the Eurasian girl was organized, and all her things were ready for their first day in class. She just had to pray that no one would get akumatized again. Hawkmoth had a habit to take advantage of someone’s feelings about going back to school, and it was not good for her record to miss an hour or two on the very first day of school.

Luckily, Marinette got the people she wanted in her class. Unfortunately, Chloé and Sabrina were still in her class, but Lila was in the other ES class.

So for this year, she would be in a class with Alya, Nino, Alix, Kim, Chloé, and Sabrina. Aurore Beauréal, Mireille Caquet, and Jean Duparc from Mrs. Mendeleiev’s class were also in her class along with three other students that she didn’t know: Claude, Allan, and Allegra.

It was a small class of thirteen students but Marinette preferred it that way. The professor could help their students better when there was a small number of them in the first place.

Like usual, Marinette brought macarons from her parent’s bakery and shared them with all her classmates. She got to get to know them and had a feeling that they would all get along well.

As for Chloé, well… She still had hope that the girl would start to be kinder.

She was Queen Bee once, so she had the potential to be a good person/ She just had to put the effort into it.

The Akuma didn’t strike during class, but at the end of the day. A kid that didn’t get to be in the same class as his best friend. Chat and Ladybug did a quick job in defeating him and got to talk a little about their first day in class.

Chat was sad as he only got one of his friends in his class. All his other friends were scattered in other specialties and his close group of friends was in the same class.

He told her that he was scared that they would grow apart from him since he wasn’t with them all day anymore.

Ladybug tried to reassure him that if they were really friends, that wouldn’t happen. After all, she thought, she would never allow Adrien to drift apart from them, and she will do everything in her power to maintain her friendships.

A month passed and Marinette was once again elected as the class representative. Except, this time, Alya wasn’t her deputy, but Aurore was.

Aurore was the former class president from Mrs. Mendeleiev’s class and did a very good job, so the fashion designer was confident that they would both work well together.

October was also the month where her parents took a week off from work to travel a little. This year, they would spend a week in Ireland.

Marinette was a bit envious, but she was happy that they could take a little time off for themselves now that she was old and mature enough to stay at home by herself for a week. Her parents made sure she had enough stock of everything to last her for a week so that she didn’t have to buy groceries. They left her some money for emergencies too, but the bluenette knew that she wouldn’t need it.

She hugged her parents tightly and waved them goodbye.

Damian’s new school year, so far, has been pretty good. His new classmates were still idiots, but they were tolerable. He talked to some of them, but he wouldn’t call them friends. At least, they knew that him calling them by their last name meant that he held some respect for them, and they didn’t look for more.

So, yeah, it was good, contrary to his former class where they were always trying to befriend him and would take offense every time he opened his mouth.

Calling Marinette every week made it more tolerable too, as she told him that he didn’t have to be friends with them if he didn’t want to, but should still refrain from insulting them when they didn’t do anything that would deserve such words.

It took a bit of work, but he eventually managed to not insult the people that tried to talk to him.

In September, his best friend, Jon — he would never say that to him, the youngest Kent would never leave him alone if he knew that — found out about him finding his soulmate. He asked questions, a lot of questions, and Damian reluctantly answered. The bespectacled boy wouldn’t shut up until he got answers, so he gave him just that.

He didn’t want to think about the similarities between Jon and Marinette.

Those two should never meet, he promised himself. It would be his end if they did.

Damian came back from school, thinking about Marinette. He wanted to call her after dinner. He knew her parents were gone for a week, so she probably won’t be sleeping until the early hour of the morning back in France.

He didn’t expect to find his family reunited at the dinner table, all looking solemn and worried.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Todd looked at him, handing him his phone. The youngest Wayne took it, seeing a video from the Ladyblog — the blog from Césaire, Marinette’s best friend.

“Take a seat and look at that.”

He really didn’t like the look on his brother’s face so he did just that. As he looked at the phone, the video waiting to be played, Damian suddenly got a bad feeling. He could feel knots in his guts and he looked up at his family once again.

Marinette has “met” Red Hood a few times on their video call. Todd thought it would be funny to crash his video call with his soulmate and to Damian’s misery, the two got along very well and were now thick as thieves.

Like her getting along with Drake wasn’t enough, she had to get along with Todd too.

He knew that Jason liked her a lot, and his face right now made him worry more than he would like.

He finally pressed play.

The video began like any others from the Ladyblog. Césaire explained the situation: a boy from their high school has been akumatized because he got bullied for his love of mangas and animes. The Akuma was named Animechara and his costume looked like this character from Naruto, the one with black hair and red eyes with a sword.

Damian watched, satisfied as Ladybug fought him. She took his advice to heart and took martial art classes. She was fairing very well and he couldn’t help but wonder how much she had progressed since the last time they sparred.

He watched as the Akuma took notice of Césaire.

He watched with dread as Ladybug and Chat Noir noticed that the Akuma’s attention shifted.

He watched as the cat-themed hero tried to distract Hawkmoth’s victim, only to get knocked a few feet away.

He watched with widened eyes as the Akuma threw the sword towards Césaire.

He gasped when Ladybug pushed her friend out of the way and she screamed from the pain as the sword impaled her.

Screams from Chat Noir, from Césaire and from the witnesses could be heard. There were a few more seconds of video, showing Ladybug on the ground, a pool of blood slowly appearing under her as Chat Noir tried to get a response out of her.

Then, the video stopped.

He was silent for a few moments before he looked at his family.

“Do-” he cleared his throat, trying to get his voice under control, trying to not show how worried, how scared he was. “Do we know if she’s ok?”

Todd shook his head and Damian didn’t wait for a verbal answer before he took his phone out, calling Marinette.

The dial tones seemed to last for hours for Damian, until, finally it stopped.

“Marinette! Are you-”

“Salut ! Vous êtes bien sur le répondeur de Marinette Dupain-Cheng ! Je ne suis malheureusement pas disponible pour le moment, mais laissez-moi un message et je vous rappellerai !” (Hi! You've reached Marinette Dupain-Cheng's voicemail! Unfortunately I'm not available at the moment, but leave me a message and I'll call you back!)

Dread settled in Damian and his stomach was in knots. He hung up, not leaving a message.

“I got her voicemail, she’s not answering.”

He tried to call her a second time but to no avail.

“Why- Why is she not answering?!”

He had to calm down. He could not panic. Marinette was probably fine, the Miraculous Cure healed every injury. She must not be near her phone, that must be it. She’s alive and healthy, and probably sketching in her room.

A hand to his shoulder almost made him jump, and he turned to see his father’s hard face.

“Go change into your costume. Take the Zeta tubes and go see her.”

“But, the zeta-”

“I know that we can’t use them just like that, but it’s an emergency. Go.”

He didn’t wait for his father to tell him a second time.

Marinette was in her bed, agonizing. The Miraculous Cure healed her after Chat ended the fight in record time and handed her the akumatized object, but as usual, the pain was still there.

The sword has impaled her right between her breast. Without her suit, she would have been dead in less than five minutes, but the miraculous’ magic kept her alive enough for her to purify the akuma and to cast the cure.

She didn’t tell Chat how much pain she was in. She told him goodbye after telling him to have a talk with Alya about her safety and went back home.

Thankfully, he didn’t try to get her to stay.

So, here she was, two hours after the fight, feeling like her chest was burning from the inside. She took painkillers an hour ago, but it didn’t work at all.

She was glad her parents weren’t home, she didn’t know how she could explain that to them without revealing her identity.

But, maybe she should. She would have to talk about it with Tikki first, and she knew that she wouldn’t approve at all, but the girl was the new Guardian, so she could set new rules if she wanted, right?

But it was a discussion for another time, she thoughts as she couldn’t hold back tears of pain. Right now, she wanted the pain to stop.

She felt guilty about the two phone calls she received. Her phone was on her desk, and the blue-eyed girl was in too much pain to move and answer it.

As she closed her eyes trying to sleep when she knew it wouldn’t come, she heard three knocks. Groaning, thinking it was Chat Noir, she opened her eyes, ready to tell him to go away.

But it wasn’t Chat Noir.

It was her soulmate.

“Robin?”

She could feel tears in her eyes once again. Both from her pain and from the happiness to finally see her boyfriend after five months apart.

Tikki flew up to open the skylight. With her tiny body, she only managed to open it a few inches, but it was enough for Robin to slip his finger in and lift it.

In a few seconds, he was by her side, his hand stroking her cheek. She could see the worry in his eyes.

“I saw the video on the Ladyblog. How are you feeling?”

She gave him a small, strained smile. Taking his hand in hers, she kissed his palm.

“The Miraculous Cure healed me but the pain is still there. It hurts so much.”

“Did you take something for the pain?”

She nodded. “It didn’t work.”

She saw him looking around.

“Do you have a heating pad or something? It won’t make the pain go away, but heat can appease it a little.”

She pointed at a dog plush at the end of her bed.

“It’s actually a… a bouillotte. You can put it in the microwaves.”

He frowned, trying to remember what a bouillotte was.

“Oh! A heat-storing cushion! But as a plush.” he smiled at her. “It’s cute.” He kissed her on the forehead and stroked her hair. “I’ll be right back.”

Robin came back from the kitchen after heating the plush. He handed her the dog plush and lied beside her, bringing her closer to him and resting his hand on her hip. He watched as she sighed when she put the plush on her chest. He could see she was still in great pain, but at least the heat appeased it a little.

She looked at him with eyes full of happiness, and he couldn’t understand how she could be so happy and in so much pain at the same time.

“Hey.” she stroked his cheek and kissed him on the lips. “I’m so happy to see you.”

His only answer was to kiss her again, longer this time. He hoped that she knew it meant he was happy to see her too.

“I wish it was in other circumstances, though.” he said after breaking the kiss.

“Yeah.”

He looked around, taking in her room.

She laughed.

“I know, it’s a lot of pink.”

“Yeah, but that’s totally you. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

She yawned.

He kissed her temple. Then, her jaw, her nose, her neck, and finally her lips.

“You should get some sleep.”

She nodded, grasping his cape, as if not wanting him to go.

He took the hand grasping the clothe in his, kissing the top of her head.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

He felt more than saw her nod and took her in his arms when she tried to get closer to him. he waited until the pattern of her breathing changed and he was sure that she was asleep before he closed his eyes too, taking in her scent.

He fell asleep five minutes after she did.

Tag List:

@bigpicklebananatree @animegirlweeb @crazylittlemunchkin @northernbluetongue @cutechip @justafanwarrior @iloontjeboontje @resignedcatservant @maribat-is-lifeblood @i-like-fairytail-and-stuff @toodaloo-kangaroo @mikantsume @dast218 @amayakans @zestyzealot @lunarwolfspn @corabeth11​ @marinettepotterandplagg​

[abusedsanderssides]

“You look delicious tonight”

Trigger/content warnings: Abuse, unsympathetic/abusive Remus, rape, cursing, eating-out, whips mention, injuries, kidnapping, chains, not a happy ending, hickeys, skinning and cannibalism mention. Let me know if I should add any more.

Ship(s): Background platonic Analogical (if you wanna make it that, it’s kinda up for interpretation.)

Characters: Virgil, Remus, mentions of Logan and Patton.

2644 words

Prompt: "You look delicious tonight."

Not requested

- 5/19/21

Virgil shivered on the cold floor, in nothing but a thin, oversized, and torn-up t-shirt and a pair of boxers. He curled in on himself, desperately searching for warmth on the freezing concrete.

Every inch of his body ached. Bruises, cuts, bandages, and dried blood scattered his skin. His hair was thinning and falling out, skin dry and cracked, eyes bloodshot. He was sure that some of his bones were broken, not being able to heal without proper care. Virgil looked like he was insane, and he was starting to question if he was.

He hadn't slept in who knows how long. Days, weeks, it was all just a blur. He had no way of telling time so he didn't know what the date was or what time of day it was. After all, he was locked in a basement with no windows, pitch black except for the small amount of light that came from under the door to go upstairs.

Virgil often heard things. Something scurrying across the floor, water dripping, hissing, and he couldn't tell what was real or what his mind made up, playing games with him. Of course, he could hear faint yells, thuds, crashes, and manic laughter coming from upstairs occasionally. Virgil could also hear when the door opened, the whips that would land on him, chains attached to his body, skin slapping skin, and deep breathing when he came to visit Virgil.

The door handle twisted and opened the door, shining a bright light down on Virgil for a second. He squinted his eyes at the light so he didn't have a chance to look around or behind the door. The stairs creaked as a person stomped down them with heavy footsteps. The footsteps were heading towards Virgil, getting closer until he could faintly see shoes in front of his face.

"Hello, Virgil," It was Remus, he could tell by the voice. Virgil flinched when he spoke, as it disrupts the silence he had been sitting in for a long time. His breathing started to slowly speed up and he tried his best to crawl away from the very intimidating man standing over him. Remus crouched down and Virgil tried to get farther away from him, but Remus interrupted, "Hey," Remus grabbed Virgil's arm tightly, causing him to whimper, pulling Virgil back towards him before continuing, "Get back here."

Remus sat down cross-legged and pulled Virgil to him, hugging him tightly, Virgil's back against Remus' chest. Remus leaned down and started sucking hickeys into Virgil's neck, biting down and drawing blood. Remus grabbed Virgil's bruised and damaged wrists, conjured rope, and tightly tied his wrists together. Virgil whimpered quietly at the pain in both his neck and wrists, wanted nothing more than to disappear.

Virgil hated Remus and what he did to him. He liked the dark, cold, empty, loneliness of him being stuck in the basement more than he liked when Remus would come down. Why couldn't someone come to save him? Janus has to know about this, he lives upstairs with Remus. But Virgil knew no one would save him. No one cared, loved, or even liked Virgil. That's what Remus told him. They probably didn't even notice that he'd been kidnapped. He just had to accept that he was going to die here, wishing that it would happen soon so he didn't have to feel this pain anymore.

Once Remus had covered Virgil's entire right side of his neck with hickeys and bite marks, blood slowly spilling from some of them, he was satisfied. Virgil let out an inaudible sigh of relief, hoping that Remus was done, but he knew better. Remus leaned down and whispered creepily into Virgil's right ear, "You look delicious tonight, sweetheart," then bit his earlobe. Virgil shivered at his words and quietness. "I could just skin you, chop off your limbs, and eat you right now."

Virgil's mind was running a mile a minute. Was he actually going to do that? Was he going to eat him? Then Virgil thought about eating food. When was the last time he ate? Virgil cursed his mind as his stomach rumbled.

Remus laughed his evil manic laugh and asked, "Do you like that idea?" Virgil's eyes widened as he tried to turn around in Remus' hold on him.

Virgil stuttered out before Remus could do anything to him, "N-no I was j-just thinking about f-food! I d-don't want you to eat m-me!" Remus laughed again, turning Virgil around so he was facing him, putting his face inches apart from Virgil's. Virgil's eyes were wide and full of fear, mouth slightly agape as he anxiously waited for Remus' response.

With a huge insane smile on his face, Remus replied, "How about we compromise?" Virgil stayed still and silent and when Remus didn't continue Virgil realized that he wanted an answer. Panicking, Virgil nodded his head, feeling immense amounts of dread immediately as he questioned what he just answered.

Remus huffed out a laugh, smile still plastered on his face and he raved, "Okay, so, I won't eat you, but I'm gonna eat you out!" Virgil's eyes grew wide and he stilled, like a deer in headlights, before shaking his head 'no' violently. Remus cackled, gaining Virgil's full attention before he threatened, "You agreed to this, pretty boy! No getting out now!" He paused, standing up before he continued, "Besides, even if you said no to the compromise, which you can't say no, I would've done it anyway!"

Virgil struggled to scramble away from Remus in the dark like a crab because his hands were bound, but Remus easily picked him up. Virgil screamed, wailed, pleaded, squirmed, struggled, but Remus had a tight grip. He brought him to the other side of the basement where there was an operating table, and when Virgil saw that he only struggled more, screaming and crying.

"Remus, please, no! Don't do this! Please! I'll do anything!" Remus ignored his protests, throwing him down on the table, growling at him to shut up as he tied his limbs down to the table.

"You're only going to make this worse for yourself if you keep squirming and FUCKING SCREAMING!" Remus yelled in his face, causing Virgil to flinch and try to curl in on himself, but found it impossible with the restraints. Virgil was sobbing uncontrollably, having an idea of what was to come, and he knew it'd be Remus, probably cumming multiple times.

When Virgil showed no signs of calming down, Remus went over to the wall covered in sex toys, whips, and weapons. Virgil saw him do this and tried to hopelessly silence his cries and growing panic attack. Remus returned, dagger in hand, and climbed on top of the table and over Virgil. He sat down harshly on the panicking boy's thighs, receiving a cry of pain from him.

"Maybe if I cut off your limbs this wouldn't be so hard!" Remus maniacally laughed, Virgil, shaking his head 'no' violently while sobbing. Virgil watched with wide eyes as Remus sliced down the center of his shirt, successfully cutting it in half and ruining the only source of warmth and covering that Virgil had. Silent tears ran down Virgil's face and Remus noticed how Virgil stopped moving, scared of getting cut, and Remus smiled wider.

Remus repeated this action with Virgil's boxers, ripping them off of his body. Virgil cried harder at the loss of his only comfort items and warmth in the freezing basement. Virgil shivered and closed his eyes as he felt Remus get off of him and stand up to strip himself of his own clothes.

"Please, Remus! I love you! Please don't this! I'm sorry!" Virgil weakly pleaded but he felt Remus climb up on the table and on top of him.

Remus scoffed, "Oh please, your begs just motivate me even more. Plus, if you love me so much you would want this so bad." Remus dragged out the word 'so', starting to untie the binds on Virgil's ankles. Virgil knew that Remus wasn't letting him go and just untying him so he could fuck him relentlessly.

But still, after Virgil's legs were free he helplessly tried to kick at Remus, being blinded by his tears and his legs failing on him. That resulted in Remus punching him in the stomach and spitting out with clenched teeth, "Stop moving." Remus picked up Virgil's legs and threw them over his shoulders. "You're only going to end up hurting yourself more."

Virgil gave up. His body was already tired and he couldn't go far, powerless against Remus. He felt Remus' dick prod at his entrance and start to push in. Virgil threw his head back and opened his mouth in a silent scream in agonizing pain. The stretch of Remus' cock burned, especially without lube.

Once Remus' hips were flush with Virgil's ass he pulled out and pushed in, giving Virgil no time to adjust as he started thrusting at a brutal pace. Tears never stopped falling from Virgil's eyes, his face screwed up in pain, and every muscle hurting.

"God, I wish I could eat you and still keep you alive," Remus growled in Virgil's ear, making him whimper in fear. Remus laughed at that, continuing with his thrusting. Virgil bit his lip in an attempt to silence his cries of pain, biting down so hard that he drew blood.

Remus noticed this, leaning down and grabbing Virgil by the throat. He forced Virgil into a messy and heated kiss, Virgil trying to escape. Remus pressed the tip of the dagger into Virgil's stomach, drawing a tiny bit of blood.

Virgil's eyes flew open, complying and kissing Remus back. He didn't want to get even more hurt, so he felt relieved when the dagger was removed from his skin.

Remus released his hold on Virgil's face and his head fell against the table, causing a big 'thud.' Remus's thrusts were getting sloppier as he neared his orgasm, pushing in harder and deeper. Virgil cried out in pain, feeling pleasure that he didn't want when Remus hit his prostate.

"Fuck," Remus whispered under his breath, thrusting into Virgil harder than he had been. Virgil screamed a cry when he felt Remus release inside of him, continuing with his thrusts until he was finished.

Virgil couldn't think straight. He couldn't really think at all. His mind was foggy and he was so overwhelmed. His anxiety didn't give a break either, thoughts running through his head. He hated this. He hated everything about his life.

This was why Remus never killed him. Remus knew how much pain and suffering he caused Virgil, and that was just entertainment for him. He also got to act upon his intrusive thoughts, and abusing Virgil became a coping mechanism for that. Remus didn't want Virgil to die, no matter how many times Remus caused Virgil to be minutes away from death. He needed him to stay. He couldn't lose Virgil. Remus knew he would get attached, and he was perfectly fine with that. Plus, a few more months and Virgil will realize that he's not getting out of this, and he'll give up.

Virgil had blanked out for a few minutes, snapping back to reality when he felt something warm and wet licking his hole. He sobbed at the realization of what was happening, and Remus found that amusing.

A tongue pushed into Virgil, licking his walls, Remus tasting his own cum. Virgil tried to bite his hand to silence himself but his wrist was still firmly tied to the table.

Maybe being alone in the dark and freezing basement isn't so bad. It's sure better than when Remus comes down.

Virgil just wanted this to stop. He didn't want to feel a tongue in his ass and a mustache pricking around his hole. He didn't want to feel strong hands on him and bruising his skin. He didn't want to be tied to this uncomfortable and cold-ass table. So Virgil did the only thing he knew would most likely work to get Remus to stop.

Virgil pushed his hips back, wincing when he felt Remus' tongue slide further into him. Remus chuckled, scooping out the last bits of his own cum out of Virgil's ass and then sitting up.

"Damn," Remus whispered, "you sure are delicious." Virgil squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to look at the grin on the man's face who was towering over him. Technically, and Logan would comment on this too if he were here, Remus' statement was wrong. He wasn't tasting Virgil, rather, tasting himself as it was his own cum.

Virgil tried to think of Logan. To think of all the fun they had. All the debates and deep conversations they would get into. All Logan's random facts and how he would ramble on about them that Virgil loved listening to. He really missed Logan. Virgil missed everyone. Hell, he even missed Janus, and he hated Janus. He wished he would just come down to the basement and save him from this torture that he was living in.

Hands were on him, Virgil's eyes opening wide to see that the binds on his wrists had been undone and Remus was picking him up, carrying him to where his ankle chain was. Remus lightly chuckled to himself before dropping Virgil on the ground, reviving a yelp and cry in pain from the smaller side.

Virgil's chain was quickly and swiftly locked onto his ankle, giving Virgil no time to escape. Virgil didn't even have the energy to try to escape right now. He just wanted to sleep. Preferably in clothes, but his clothes were on the other side of the basement and Virgil couldn't reach with his chain, and they also weren't very functional.

"See you later, cutie pie," Remus teased, heading for the stairs. 'Wait,' Virgil thought, thinking over and over again of how much he wanted new clothes. He gained up the courage to ask Remus, impulsively doing so.

"Wait!" Virgil called, wincing when he noticed he seemed controlling. Remus stopped in his tracks, slowly turning on one heel to face Virgil. "C-can I-I m-mayb-be h-hav-"

Remus cut him off, rolling his eyes and scoffing. "Quit with the stuttering, Anxiety. Just spit it out!"

Virgil took a deep breath, continuing and trying his hardest not to stutter. "Can I maybe h-have," Shit. "some new clothes?" Virgil asked slowly before quickly rambling, "I don't need them I just, y-you cut my other ones and I don't have any and!-" Virgil looked up at Remus, seeing a bored look on his face.

Remus thought about it before answering, "Hmm, I'll think about it. I'll think about it even harder if you're good. Got it?" Virgil quickly nodded his head, Remus skipping steps as he jumped up the stairs. He unlocked the door and opened it quickly, the bright light blinded Virgil, who shielded his eyes with his hand.

The door closed and locked, leaving Virgil naked and bleeding on the cold concrete floor. He felt like crying, but he had no tears left to cry.

Virgil was fine. He accepted the fact that this is just how it is now. This will be his life. There's no way out of this one. He'll die here. But still, Virgil found himself sobbing, wanting his old life back so bad. He didn't care if people were mean, he didn't care if he had to deal with Patton calling him cute and a kid, he didn't care about anything that had upset him. He just wanted this to stop. To change back to how it was, or die as soon as possible. And he had no chance at the first, so now he had to come up with a plan that would make him meet his demise and fast.

oh my fucking god this took so long to finish and post, but i really enjoyed writing it when i had the motivation to! i still have a few more wips but i'm still up for requests!! =P

[kiruuuuu]

Doc/Lion oneshot in which Lion suffers from the consequences of being tortured. (Rating M, hella angst + some comfort, ~3.3k words) - written for @renegad3spectre​! Thank you a ton for commissioning me, I really really enjoyed this prompt, just took it and ran with it. It was a pleasure, all the love to you 🧡🧡🧡

.

Horrifically, it’s his grandfather delivering the blows.

He’s got fond memories of him, of sweets smuggled into his pocket, repeated stories ever-changing from one retelling to the next, quiet banter loud enough for him to hear but muffled enough that he suppressed his own laughter. He smelled of books and wood and old people, and that must’ve been it – the building had held a heavy, stale air which probably triggered the association, unwanted as it is.

So now the creature in his head, the remnant, the ghost haunting his mind wears his grandpa’s face like it owned it, like it had absolutely any right. It hurts more this way. It hurts to be called a disgrace, worthless, useless. It hurts to be disowned, it hurts to hear I have no grandson and it hurts to be accused of killing them, you killed them, your hand held the scalpel and this particular voice coming from his grandfather’s mouth is even more disturbing.

Who do you work for, he yells, unforgiving, merciless, and now his features shift, skin discolouring and eyes sinking into their holes to make way for nothing but darkness, and soon it’s the familiar sight of a brutal, faceless monster, concealed by a mask, surrounded by others looking exactly like him, supported by clones. Where are they, they scream at him in unison, who else. And he wants to answer, wants so desperately to reply to make it stop, is willing to give up anything, everything, if only it means this unbearable noise in his head quiets down. But his thoughts are made of tar, spread slowly and directionless, impossible to wade through. Words elude him, fade like smoke whenever he attempts to grasp them, endeavours to put this horrendous suffering into a single sentence.

Not like any expression he knows would be sufficient to describe this torture.

He doesn’t know what’s real. At times, he’s losing himself in a loud beat and a steaming crowd, coloured lights sweeping overhead and music seeping into his bones, and he knows he needs to reunite with his friends to keep partying, keep the night alive. It’s convincing enough he can taste the cheap drinks in his throat and feels naked, sweaty arms brush over his own on the dance floor – and the next second a blinding light pierces his skull and there are too many people around him he doesn’t know. They sound alarmed, eyes wide, and it sparks an instant, shrieking panic: something is wrong and he has no idea what it is. The strangers refuse to let him go, hold him down, and he tries to explain while the sterile stench they exude causes his stomach to churn and turn.

.

Most of the time, his ears are filled with accusations. The source is constantly evolving but what stays is the nauseating sense of dread. His heart races against the rest of his bodily functions and easily wins every time since his senses are sluggish, his perception unreliable and his thoughts wrapped in cotton. Grimaces of fury are persistent companions, and though he can’t put a name to all of them, their familiarity cuts deep. His mother, his former friends, his father, his sister. Alexis. Claire. The guy he met in Marseille who pretended to be his friend. Doc. Thatcher. An abomination from that cursed city Lion tries so hard to forget. Doc. The masked entity, omniscient, omnipotent, terrifying. Alexis. Doc.

He understands.

Why people would betray their loved ones, their country, their morals – he understands now, and the realisation is as chilling as the experience. He begged to be able to tell them. Begged for his life, begged for his life to be taken. Begged for peace as opposed to the chaos inside him, and he knows now most people have no idea what chaos really means. They humanise it, award it positive or negative qualities yet Lion would tell them it’s neither malevolent nor merciful. It just is. Against it, he is nothing, smaller than a speck of dust, utterly inconsequential and unimportant: in the face of true chaos, he’s meaningless. All he can do is hope he survives it.

.

The room is empty, his eyes tell him, and his ears tell him the same, but his brain is convinced of someone’s presence, just out of sight. Pitiful noises fill the barren, bleak chamber and they come from him, but at least they summon another human. A human with Doc’s face, and then with a mask, and then it’s Doc’s face again. Lion buries his fingernails so deep into his arm he tastes copper on his lips and pleads for him to stay. He sounds like a broken record, this voice isn’t his, the syllables barely intelligible among the dry heaving and the sobs. Music starts playing, a loud riff reminiscent of his teenager years, signifying rebellion and freedom and the worst fucking period of his entire life, and Doc says your hand held the scalpel and he’s gone again.

More, he implored as if anything he said would sway them, yes, please. And he looked at the needle and hated it, despised himself for craving it like this, abhorred the ones who turned him into this, and simultaneously he needed. He needed it so much. Without it, he was broken.

His throat is hoarse from screaming, so the visions morphed from atrocious to tragic until he had no more tears left to cry, and then they went for the very core of him. And this, too, he understands now: why anyone would go above God and decide existence isn’t worth it anymore. If he’s being tested, he’ll gladly fail as long as it means silence. If he’s being punished, he’s ready to receive eternal punishment for it can’t be any worse than this.

.

Someone is calling his name. The man – the men – knew it because he told them, it was one of the many things he told them, so he fights tooth and nail to continue drifting in this vegetative state, but it grows ever more insistent and strips away the layers of mud obstructing his consciousness, leaving him no choice. He can’t remember what it’s like, to have a choice, to choose.

Long words are being thrown at him. He deciphers none and yet an image forms below his eyelids, less blurry with every new description. The professional tone of voice pushes him gently back to his days of studying, a time filled with diligence and the hope to make a difference, and his despairing brain latches on to the information like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood.

Delirium, the familiar voice lists, agitation, seizures, anxiety, hallucinations. Too many syllables to fully absorb, and still he deconstructs them halfway. The mask wouldn’t know them. And if it did, it wouldn’t use them around him.

He’s safe.

He must be, it’s the only valid conclusion, but why does his existence still hurt this much? Why is the world shaking, why is he slowly drifting away from everything he ever held dear, from his life, this earth, himself?

.

They have Alexis. The realisation jolts through him like an electric shock. He needs to rescue him somehow, together with the people by his side, yet he can’t shoot at the maniacally cackling crowd running away from him because he’s not sure which one of them has him, and he can’t risk hitting his own son. Risk harming his most important footprint on this world. The masked grimace tells him he’ll be too late, and besides, it was his own fault anyway: Lion willingly told them about Alexis’ whereabouts in exchange for his next fix.

And he did do that. He did that. These are the consequences of his own actions, his punishment for complying with minimal resistance instead of staying strong, remembering his training. He sacrificed his son for something this trivial. Offered him up in exchange for complacency. Put himself first.

People are screaming, Claire, his colleagues, his family, and he knows he must interfere if his life is meant to be worth anything anymore, and there’s a small voice inside his head, an old companion. Full of vitriol, pulling at threads to make him come undone, scratching at scabs to cause scars, widening holes so he’s incomplete. It suggests a scenario and with petrifying speed, he’s there to live it.

He has a choice. On the one side is his son, gagged, tears in his eyes, struggling against his restraints. On the other side is –

There’s a –

.

It’s a syringe.

.

“-s alright. You’re alright. Take a breath, Flament. You’re safe, you have nothing to worry about. Do you need to throw up?”

Paying no attention to the words, Lion is flailing, sitting up abruptly and touching his legs to check whether they’re still there, touches his face and feels blind panic flare up the moment he spots the object in the crook of his arm. He’s narrowly stopped from ripping it out by an iron grip against which he struggles wildly, demanding to be let go, knocking something over and shattering it.

The vice-like grip never once wavers, and gradually his surroundings begin to sink in. He’s in a hospital, it seems, and the person by his side is none other than Doc, trusty (your hand held the scalpel) Doc who’d never let a patient suffer more than absolutely necessary. Bleeding heart Doc. Doc with his stoic face which barely contains the rage undoubtedly roaring in his chest (and is it directed at Lion?).

From one second to the next, Lion deflates and sinks back into the pillows, thoroughly fatigued. His adrenaline wears off quickly and makes way for uncomfortable nausea and the sensation of itching limbs. He needs to move, needs to shake off this horrible feeling of having slept a decade, but he doesn’t trust his body. The hand finally lets go of his wrist and leaves behind a print even lighter than Lion’s skin already is.

“Alexis is safe, too”, Doc assures him.

Lion jumps at this. How does he know? His throat closes and opens, produces a dry rasp and forces him to cough. Next to him, Doc is waiting patiently. “Where is he?”, Lion eventually gets out.

“At home. He never left.” He sounds composed despite the storm clouds visible in his expression, so Lion isn’t the intended recipient of his cold fury. “You kept calling for him, so I figured you must be worried. But there’s no need for concern.”

“What happened?”

Doc pauses for a few seconds. “We apprehended the ones responsible. Fortunately, we intercepted their outgoing messages, so what little information you gave them never reached anyone else.”

If this was true, Lion could exonerate himself. He also takes note of how Doc is silent about the before. He must guess Lion remembers being captured, remembers what they did to him. Bruises on his body are evidence for some of it, and the hellish trip tells the rest of the story. “How much did I say?”

“Doesn’t matter. We caught it.”

“How much?”

“You shouldn’t worry about -”

“Gustave!”, Lion roars, desperate to be either condemned or redeemed. He needs to know, must know so he can better assess his own mental strength. So he knows what to confess. So he can pray for forgiveness.

Doc’s lips are a thin line. “I don’t know. Grace and Mark had an agreement with Harry not to disclose any details. He says it’s standard procedure to prevent potential animosity.”

Not good enough. He’ll never be able to look Alexis in the eyes again if it turns out he did mention him. How much of his memories are real, how much were part of his nightmares? “What about my son?”, he whispers and Doc just shakes his head.

“As I said: I don’t know. Try to get some rest, Flament.”

Just as he exits the room, Lion spots the deep scratches on Doc’s forearm. Please stay, just please, he yells at Doc in his head, unable to bend his lips around the words. Don’t leave me alone. Don’t leave me.

He starts crying again.

So weak is he that the tears won’t stop, can’t stop, a broken silhouette in the shape of a man. Fragmented, just like his thoughts. He can’t remember ever feeling this terrible, hasn’t felt this frail and fragile in forever. His body doesn’t feel like home.

No time that night is spent sleeping. Restless, he crawls out of bed, explores the room that isn’t his while dragging his IV stand along, lets his eyes wander over pages not belonging to him, books left on his nightstand on accident probably, and doesn’t absorb a single word.

.

Once his thoughts are his own again, he utilises them with newfound fervour. He requests his phone and types until his thumbs hurt, types and deletes, corrects, amends, reinvents.

This is a theme in his life, an endlessly repeating circle: arrogance begets punishment. A boastful adolescent loses his innocence by nearly terminating an unborn life, by indulging vices too great for him to understand. A reformed young man deeming himself competent is burdened with death and riddled with blame (your hand held the scalpel).

A man, feeling invincible, having repaired bridges, full of empathy, is beaten bloody and broken.

He hasn’t updated his will in years – a symptom of a much more dangerous cause. Rainbow instilled a delusion of grandeur in him, promised him a future, coloured his life vibrantly and provided a new motto. Not me. He won’t be killed in the line of duty, not with these people by his side. He’ll be fine. Whatever happens, he’ll be fine.

This was a close call. Targeted and much more efficient than Six anticipated, or else Lion never would’ve been captured in the first place. If this is a sign, it couldn’t be any clearer: he’s not only not invincible, he’s delicate. This was just one weakness they could’ve exploited, Alexis obviously being another, his family as well. He won’t be as cocky when embarking on a mission from now on, and he’ll try to convey to the others how easy it is not to return.

It’s an earth-shattering wakeup call.

And so he types until the letters blur before his eyes, and says things which needed saying years ago. And he vows that this change in perspective will be a permanent one – he’ll never open himself up like this anymore. He’ll stay alert. He’ll fend off complacency.

.

And then Montagne is by his side and says a thing too chilling to be true. He’s gone, it drips from his lips like poison, and Lion knows with absolute certainty that it’s the truth. Doc accompanied him on the mission, Lion failed him, only he was saved. Endless protest is shushed by a sad shake of the head, a head with a face so ashen Lion can tell he’s not the only one filled with sorrow at the news.

There’s so much left unsaid between them, so much admiration and respect bottled up in order to show no weakness, and now he knows it’s useless to suppress emotion due to pride. Neither of them had managed to move on and now that Lion was willing to offer introspection and the admittance of possible mistakes in the shape of good intentions and the only course of action he saw, Doc would never be able to accept any of it.

Doc would never tell him he did a good job again. He’d never show him this grim smile again, the one he wore whenever he was satisfied with Lion’s work despite the outcome, laced with pride almost – or maybe this is wishful thinking, because after all they’ve lived through, a part of Lion still craves his approval so desperately that every positive word makes him glow from the inside, only he’s gone now, and Lion will never tell him –

.

“Olivier.”

Drenched in sweat, a pounding headache and with trembling limbs, he wakes up. Still in the hospital, still with Doc by his side. Of course: his demons have been depriving him of all things positive in his life, so why not him too? Nightmares know no bounds and refuse to accept Doc is sacred.

The other man is flushed slightly, dressed immaculately as always, but most importantly: alive. His gaze is turned downward to where Lion is gripping his wrist so tightly his knuckles are white. “I’m here”, Doc says gently. “You can let go. I’m here.”

Lion considers complying, though when it registers that Doc called him by first name, all he does is loosen his grip. “I dreamt you died”, he admits, staring up at the irregular patterns on the ceiling. He couldn’t ever convey this emotionless void Doc’s death caused in him, the utter emptiness – somehow, it was as if he’d lost his life’s goal. Which is insane, because his aim is to better the world. Not win Doc over.

“I could tell”, says Doc.

He must’ve been distraught, calling out in his sleep, reaching for his colleague. A question occurs to him which he should’ve asked sooner: “Is everyone else alright?”

“Yes.” Hesitation. “Ying has a black eye. When we came, they were currently depriving you.”

Lion figured as much. “I need to apologise to her.”

“You weren’t yourself.” Doc’s eyes meet his. “That wasn’t you.”

His relief must be palpable. Hearing it from Doc’s mouth doesn’t make it true, but it drowns out that malicious voice which never fucking shuts up. Giving up their secrets, thirsting for a meritless high, attacking blindly – even himself: he’s more than that, and knowing Doc is fully aware of this causes him to fight back tears of gratitude. “No. It wasn’t.”

After a moment of silence, Doc’s arm twists around and offers his hand, which Lion immediately accepts. For now, there’s no second-guessing motives, no long deliberation as to whether Doc is helping a co-worker, a friend, someone more than that, whether he’s volunteering support or understanding or something else entirely. All he knows is: the hand is warm, so warm it spreads a soft calmness all throughout him.

“I brought you music.” Doc indicates an old iPod on the bedside table next to the stack of books (which has grown), a vase with flowers and a few cards. Lion either failed to notice them before or they’re a recent addition. “Dominic helped with the selection.”

This is good news. Lion hopes for unfamiliar bands – he’s not sure what kind of reaction the ones from his youth might trigger in this state.

“And I spoke with Harry.” The segue is too casual. Lion has become proficient at reading between the lines with Doc, and he translates it as I gave him a stern talking to. “He said to tell you the information you gave was deemed ‘insignificant’.”

The wording doesn’t escape him: there’s no certainty in what -

“And you didn’t even mention Alexis.”

Lion takes a deep breath.

Between the constant pressure against his temples, the rolling stomach and nauseating dizziness, he’s felt better, but trusting Doc’s words to be true settles something inside him. Doc wouldn’t lie about this. “Thank you”, Lion replies and hopes his earnest gratitude is audible.

There’s so much to say between them his thoughts are going haywire considering just a fraction of it. All their arguments are ultimately the same as Lion’s treason: insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Something invisible connects them and it should be time to drag it to the surface, but not now. Not when he’s barely begun to heal from his outside and inside wounds.

Instead, he asks: “Will you stay a little longer?”

This time, Doc nods and remains where he is, a bastion of calm. And when Lion squeezes his hand, Doc returns the gesture and it’s all he needs for the moment.

It’s enough.